I have problems remembering that my idealistic view of the world is not quite reality so that when someone does something that is entirely in their character but below what I expect from them I feel hurt, a little betrayed, and miserable. I know it's all my fault. I look at the world from a perspective that many people would call naive.
Because I am naive, in a way, really. I believe that everyone has in them the potential to be good. That everyone is inherently a good person but that societal expectations and personal grievances often overcome their good nature. I believe that everyone battles between wanting to be good and the easier ability to be bad. So when I interact with people I expect them to be good. I honestly believe they are. I feel they are capable of so very much and that they are trying to be a better person. I have hope in every single person that I meet and some that I never do.
This expectation- this faith in the people I know- has hurt me so much. I have spent so many days being miserable, being hurt, feeling betrayed by the people I love and the people I have hopes for and I will spend many more the same way. I wouldn't trade one miserable, forlorn day for an instant of expecting people to be less than they are capable of. I feel such a natural capacity for love and I don't want to dampen it, to let it wither away. I want to keep believing in people, in second chances, having faith in humanity, in my loved ones.
People make mistakes, they stumble, falter, fall, trip up, get upset, do things they know they shouldn't... I know they do. I do it to. I get terrified by things that most people spend their life chasing, I am scared so much, paranoid so often, hurt so habitually... My life has not been easy. At all. My life has been a stew of rot, mold, lies, treachery, betrayal, negligence, and a constant state of lacking. I have seen the worst in humanity. Raised by a murderer, birthed by a prostitute, left with a pederast, abandoned, starved, beaten, ignored, and betrayed repeatedly. My body is littered with the scars of a difficult life, my mind is a mass of them. I am so scared all the time. Afraid to have my back to doors, afraid to sleep in the open, afraid to speak too loud or too much, afraid to ask for what I want, terrified to depend on someone.
The majority of my friends are at least five years older than me. This isn't something I've done on purpose but a natural sort of gravity. I have always been old for my age. I get along better with older people. People my age just always seem so young, so free, so unburdened, so inexperienced and it bothers me. They bother me. Make me ache with an age I haven't earned, make me burn with this sort of jealousy for the easy life they have had. Sometimes they just frustrate me. I find these people my age who have gone through things like mine, maybe not so much or so severe or maybe they just had it hard in different ways and they're still so young, so free, so their age. Sometimes it has nothing to do with their maturity and more to do with their intelligence.
I am smart. I am. This isn't some egotistical statement brought about by a self-delusion but a conclusion arrived at by assessment of various factors. I am intelligent. There are people out there leagues beyond me and people out there at the same level as me that simply hold more general knowledge. I prefer to feel a bit stupid when I am in a group of people. I don't like to be the smartest person in the room. I like it when others know more than me. Now here is a distinction I draw: there are people out there who have had years and years more education than I, who have spent their lives in a higher socio-economic spectrum than me and thus have more knowledge- this does not make them more intelligent than me. More knowledgable, yes, and I appreciate that, but not more intelligent.
There are people out there who think that age and knowledge equate with a type of better-ness. This is not true. No one is my better. We humans are all equals. No one is better than another. I may not be their peer but I am always their equal. I always deserve the same level of respect. I always deserve to be treated like the equal I am. Any less than that and I cannot respect you as much as I once had. There is no better way to turn me off of you than to condescend to me, than to underestimate me because I am poor, because I am young, because I am not as educated. Especially if you know me. Strangers can be forgotten, they do not know better even though they should. But loved ones who do this hurt the most.
I have spent my life living under an enforced divide because of people who love me and as such believe it is ok to withhold things from me or to treat me different. Because I am female is no reason to treat me any differently. Because I am young is no reason to withhold things from me. Because I have not yet obtained a "proper" education is no reason to condescend to me.
I promise you that I have been torn up inside and out to such a degree that many people would not have survived. I have grown up in hell and I deserve the respect and regard that I should receive. I may be a woman. I may be young. I may be small and blond and bubbly and naive. But I can promise you that I am tougher than you think and I am stronger than you could believe. I have always survived and I will continue to do so. If you treat me like I am fragile, like I will break, like I can't handle things, then I can guarantee you that the only thing that will break is our relationship.
I can promise you something else, though: if you try, if you want to do better, if you recognize your mistakes and apologize for your wrong-doings then I will forgive. It may take me a while to trust again but if you come to me and try then I will try as well. I am human. I make mistakes. There are things I wish that I had done differently, people I have hurt that I wish I could mend, mistakes I have made that I desire strongly to correct. I understand what it's like to battle with those dark things inside and to lose. I know what it's like to give in to fears and insecurities when I know I shouldn't. So much of my life I spend afraid and fighting.
So yeah, maybe I am a fool. Maybe I am naive and maybe I let my hopes get too high but damn it, it's worth it. It's worth it to believe in the utter goodness of people. It's worth it to hope for the best. It's worth it to cling to some "idealistic" perspective. To me it's like loving. It's always worth it to love. Sometimes you get hurt. Sometimes you get broken. Sometimes love leaves you in a landfill of despair but it's always worth it. The pain is worth the trust, the warmth, the respect, the learning, the companionship.
Sometimes when you leap from tree branches you hit the ground (and every branch on the way down) but always when you leap you fly. Maybe briefly, maybe for a while, and sometimes if you're very lucky you leap and you just keep on soaring.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
My Parents Were A Series Of Young Adult Books
My parents didn't teach me to be a good person. In reality, when it came down to where I learned the importance of truth, where I found the fibers to build my moral from, it was not my parents who gave me these tools. The people who raised me up to be the good (according to everyone who isn't me) and honest (according to most people who aren't me) person that I am were authors. J.K. Rowling taught me the importance of friendships and misrepresentation that people can build of others. Shakespeare taught me about the mercurial dangers of infatuation, what happens when you are dishonest when honesty would solve your problems, and the downfalls of doubting yourself too much. Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child taught me that being unusual was nothing bad and that my skills, however odd and derided they were, could be the most valuable asset I have. I could go on, really, for quite some time.
The thing I'm trying to say is that it wasn't my parents who raised me but the books I read, the movies I watched, the t.v. shows I followed, and the music I listened to. My friends, that is the ones who take enough time to observe me, realize I have an uncanny understanding of people and a force of mind that startles many. My critical thinking and creativity has usually far outstripped most people my age and this isn't because of my parents but because of what I've learned through reading, writing, listening, and observing the fiction of my culture.
From my parents I learned habits: laughing when I'm nervous, never making my bed, the way I stand, my constant checking of exits, and my inability to comfortable stand with my back to doors and large groups of people. From books (and other media) I learned that poor communication is the downfall of basically all relationships, the truth is usually a better option, everyone needs moderate social skills, what social skills are, how to stand up for myself, and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with not being like everybody else.
I have lived my whole life in the fictional world and I do not think that I would have been better off outside of it.
The thing I'm trying to say is that it wasn't my parents who raised me but the books I read, the movies I watched, the t.v. shows I followed, and the music I listened to. My friends, that is the ones who take enough time to observe me, realize I have an uncanny understanding of people and a force of mind that startles many. My critical thinking and creativity has usually far outstripped most people my age and this isn't because of my parents but because of what I've learned through reading, writing, listening, and observing the fiction of my culture.
From my parents I learned habits: laughing when I'm nervous, never making my bed, the way I stand, my constant checking of exits, and my inability to comfortable stand with my back to doors and large groups of people. From books (and other media) I learned that poor communication is the downfall of basically all relationships, the truth is usually a better option, everyone needs moderate social skills, what social skills are, how to stand up for myself, and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with not being like everybody else.
I have lived my whole life in the fictional world and I do not think that I would have been better off outside of it.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
My Hair- At one point
Everyone compliments my hair. It always happens and no one is immune to it. I have that kind of hair that almost everyone appreciates. It is long, a sort of goldy blond, and lightly curly. As well as soft and shiny. The thing is that my hair isn't just my fashion choice but a silent reminder to myself every day I look in the mirror.
It is a reminder of the years I spent feeling ashamed of how I looked because I didn't want to be girly, because I didn't want to just be a mother or a wife or wear skirts and play with dolls. My father expected certain actions and certain ideals out of me and I could never deliver. He wanted me to be quiet, meek, speak when spoken to, sing well, wear dresses and make up and never desire to go fishing or camping or play in the mud. My dad would make my brother take out the trash and I would do the dishes and clean the floors. But it wasn't just him. If it were, I might have been able to ignore it but it was everyone around me telling me that I wasn't enough of a "girl". I was too fat, too wide, too boyish, too tough, too dirty, too introverted.
There were times, yes, where I felt the need to be girly or to act feminine but I shunned those moments, felt ashamed of them because I was tom-boy and I didn't give a half fuck about what "they" wanted me to do. I killed the feminine half of myself because I felt, more than anything, that "they" were all so very wrong about who I had to be. I'd always cut my hair short and wear hoodies and trousers and I hated being called beautiful (I still do; I'm not beautiful I'm handsome and very fucking proud of that.) Looking back now I know that this was my self-hatred shining through. Because I couldn't be just masculine or just feminine. Because I was both and I was ashamed of both halves but I found the feminine side of me weak and I couldn't bare showing it.
So I put up with the tauntings (dyke-shehulk-butch-bitch) and I sliced that bit of me that was feminine off and I lived feeling like some half-Jack beast unfit for the term "she."
But when I grew into myself and out of this idea that I had to be what everyone said I realized that there was nothing wrong in wanting some days to be masculine and other days to be feminine. There was nothing wrong with me but I wasn't free to be who I wanted to be. My family wouldn't accept me and in some cases would not allow me to be who I really felt I was if they knew the entirety of who I identified as. I was dependent on them and my survival rested in their monstrous hands.
When I realized this- that I could never be who I felt I was around them- I took a pair of scissors to my hair. I cut my hair and after I sat there and I stared at the strands scattered all around me and I hated them. I hated my hair and I hated what it stood for. Girls can dress like boys or have short hair like boys but if you do then be prepared for everyone to treat you like some halfling hunchback and not the Disney one with the gargoyle friends and the gypsy darling.
I gathered up my locks of hair, pale blond crescents that I hated so so so very much, and I promised myself. I promised myself that I would not cut my hair again until I was free; until I could sit down and cut it how I liked and not have someone impose their own standards and ideals on my living. That is, I would not cut my hair until I cut my ties and could live independent of anyone else's support.
It's been two years since I left my family's house. It's been three years since I cut my hair. And every day I look into the mirror and I see how society will hate me for being different. They will hate me for not being heterosexual, for not being one or the other, for not being consistent with their ideals, for not being a woman with a vagina but for being a human with a body. It hasn't gone away. It's still here. Because of my masculine way of dressing most days, my unlady-like behavior, and other parts of me that are not specifically feminine I am still assumed to be a butch lesbian. And while I find there is nothing wrong with being butch or being lesbian it's the fact that people decide this from looking at me that I hate.
It has served another purpose as well, however. It has gotten me to see the good qualities in my body. My hair is very beautiful. I will never deny it. It shines like goldy sheets of silk and curls just softly enough that it reminds me of pictures of the ocean's waves. I love my hair. It's beautiful and through it I have learned that I am not an ugly leper. I may not be the current standard of beauty but my handsomeness is more than enough for me. I love my wide shoulders and my broad chest, my shapely legs and my wide hips. I love my plump ass and my curves. I love the body I have. All of it. Even the hair in my arm pits and the pubes on my groin. And it is thanks to my hair that I love how I am.
But even still, it is that reminder that I am still not free; that I am still dependent upon people who would hate me if they knew me. I want my escape. I want my freedom but I am not yet able to reach it. But I know that when that day comes I will stand at the thresh hold with a pair of scissors and cut the binds that weigh me down. I will walk, lightened, into my own and I will be both happy and sad to see my beautiful locks go.
It is a reminder of the years I spent feeling ashamed of how I looked because I didn't want to be girly, because I didn't want to just be a mother or a wife or wear skirts and play with dolls. My father expected certain actions and certain ideals out of me and I could never deliver. He wanted me to be quiet, meek, speak when spoken to, sing well, wear dresses and make up and never desire to go fishing or camping or play in the mud. My dad would make my brother take out the trash and I would do the dishes and clean the floors. But it wasn't just him. If it were, I might have been able to ignore it but it was everyone around me telling me that I wasn't enough of a "girl". I was too fat, too wide, too boyish, too tough, too dirty, too introverted.
There were times, yes, where I felt the need to be girly or to act feminine but I shunned those moments, felt ashamed of them because I was tom-boy and I didn't give a half fuck about what "they" wanted me to do. I killed the feminine half of myself because I felt, more than anything, that "they" were all so very wrong about who I had to be. I'd always cut my hair short and wear hoodies and trousers and I hated being called beautiful (I still do; I'm not beautiful I'm handsome and very fucking proud of that.) Looking back now I know that this was my self-hatred shining through. Because I couldn't be just masculine or just feminine. Because I was both and I was ashamed of both halves but I found the feminine side of me weak and I couldn't bare showing it.
So I put up with the tauntings (dyke-shehulk-butch-bitch) and I sliced that bit of me that was feminine off and I lived feeling like some half-Jack beast unfit for the term "she."
But when I grew into myself and out of this idea that I had to be what everyone said I realized that there was nothing wrong in wanting some days to be masculine and other days to be feminine. There was nothing wrong with me but I wasn't free to be who I wanted to be. My family wouldn't accept me and in some cases would not allow me to be who I really felt I was if they knew the entirety of who I identified as. I was dependent on them and my survival rested in their monstrous hands.
When I realized this- that I could never be who I felt I was around them- I took a pair of scissors to my hair. I cut my hair and after I sat there and I stared at the strands scattered all around me and I hated them. I hated my hair and I hated what it stood for. Girls can dress like boys or have short hair like boys but if you do then be prepared for everyone to treat you like some halfling hunchback and not the Disney one with the gargoyle friends and the gypsy darling.
I gathered up my locks of hair, pale blond crescents that I hated so so so very much, and I promised myself. I promised myself that I would not cut my hair again until I was free; until I could sit down and cut it how I liked and not have someone impose their own standards and ideals on my living. That is, I would not cut my hair until I cut my ties and could live independent of anyone else's support.
It's been two years since I left my family's house. It's been three years since I cut my hair. And every day I look into the mirror and I see how society will hate me for being different. They will hate me for not being heterosexual, for not being one or the other, for not being consistent with their ideals, for not being a woman with a vagina but for being a human with a body. It hasn't gone away. It's still here. Because of my masculine way of dressing most days, my unlady-like behavior, and other parts of me that are not specifically feminine I am still assumed to be a butch lesbian. And while I find there is nothing wrong with being butch or being lesbian it's the fact that people decide this from looking at me that I hate.
It has served another purpose as well, however. It has gotten me to see the good qualities in my body. My hair is very beautiful. I will never deny it. It shines like goldy sheets of silk and curls just softly enough that it reminds me of pictures of the ocean's waves. I love my hair. It's beautiful and through it I have learned that I am not an ugly leper. I may not be the current standard of beauty but my handsomeness is more than enough for me. I love my wide shoulders and my broad chest, my shapely legs and my wide hips. I love my plump ass and my curves. I love the body I have. All of it. Even the hair in my arm pits and the pubes on my groin. And it is thanks to my hair that I love how I am.
But even still, it is that reminder that I am still not free; that I am still dependent upon people who would hate me if they knew me. I want my escape. I want my freedom but I am not yet able to reach it. But I know that when that day comes I will stand at the thresh hold with a pair of scissors and cut the binds that weigh me down. I will walk, lightened, into my own and I will be both happy and sad to see my beautiful locks go.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
DIANA WROTE THE BEST FUCKING STORY ON THE FUCKING PLANET
So you're laying down in your bed. It's dark, quiet, but you can still here the quiet muffled sound of ppl chatting from the living room, it's just about that time when everybody is off to bed. You're laying there, tired, you've had a long day. You're still a little bit tense but it's slowly starting to drift away as you realize you have no plans for tomorrow and you have this night to relax and let go of everything. And then it starts.
That sudden feeling that you're not alone, that someone is there with you. You look around the dark room. No one. But you know someone is there. There is a window across the room, and you can see the bright moonlight coming through the blinds. The slender and crooked sillueute of a tree branch stretched out across it, slightly moving from the wind outside.
And then it goes dark. Something has suddenly blocked all light coming in, but you can't make out what or whom. Suddenly it's as if a giant dark curtain had fallen down. There's no moonlight anymore, just a black mass behind the blinds.
And then it's gone. It's moved off to the right, and the moonlight is back, with just the tree branch shadow against the blinds. Only now it's not moving anymore.
It's silent now. There's no more muffled sounds from the living room. You look around the room. Nothing. Just the moonlight. It's dead quiet. You're snuggled up in bed with the blanket around you, and so you close your eyes. But then the dark feeling comes back, and you realize closing your eyes was a mistake. You open them again...
...only to realize you are now staring at a face, just a few inches away from your own. You can feel their warm breath flowing onto your own face.
You realize they're wearing a mask, a black mask with only there eyes and mouth showing, holding a stern look. You're frozen in place, suddenly very aware of just how close they are. But to your relief the face pulls back, and the figure stands up above you. You can still see their eyes, almost like two bright white slits shining out from the mask, which leads way into a cape and a dark suit. You can't make it out right away, but then you see it. Bat ears.
Before you have time to comprehend it all, a voice breaks the silence, it's loud but strained, almost in a gruffled like manner. You don't catch what is said right away. "what?", you say. It repeats.
"your cat. I accidently hit your cat outside." then you sit up in bed, and are suddenly fully alert. "WTF" you say. The figure speaks again. "Im sorry, but your cat ran in front of me, and I hit it." you blink. "omg you're batman" he seems to suddenly slump slightly, and lower his head. "yes, but I'm just trying to apologize for hitting your cat". You're stunned, but come back. "I-I don't have a cat." the dark figure looks up, "oh." it's silent, but now a different atmosphere has settled in. Awkwardness.
The air suddenly felt heavy, you stare ahead but are avoiding looking at the figure directly. He seems stern, but now is wavering, as if trying to find something to day. Even the branch behind the blinds shifts uncomfortably. A few moments of nothing. And then he straightens up. "nevermind. Go back to sleep" he starts to turn. "wait" you utter. He turns back, says nothing. "I....I won't say anything." you say. He wavers again. "thanks," and then he hurridly turns around, awkwardly turns the doorknob, and rushes out the room. The door shuts, a carefully slow shut. You then sit there staring at the door. No more noises are heard, no shuffling. As if he'd stepped out of existence. Your eye catches a brief shadow again passing by the window. You turn your head in time to see the last flicker of a black mass disappear. Then, back to nothing.
You lay back, suddenly aware of you're own body, your own tiredness. But your eyes are fixed back to the window. The branch and the moonlight, saying nothing. Your mind is silent for awhile. "batman uses door knobs" you hear yourself say. The end.
That sudden feeling that you're not alone, that someone is there with you. You look around the dark room. No one. But you know someone is there. There is a window across the room, and you can see the bright moonlight coming through the blinds. The slender and crooked sillueute of a tree branch stretched out across it, slightly moving from the wind outside.
And then it goes dark. Something has suddenly blocked all light coming in, but you can't make out what or whom. Suddenly it's as if a giant dark curtain had fallen down. There's no moonlight anymore, just a black mass behind the blinds.
And then it's gone. It's moved off to the right, and the moonlight is back, with just the tree branch shadow against the blinds. Only now it's not moving anymore.
It's silent now. There's no more muffled sounds from the living room. You look around the room. Nothing. Just the moonlight. It's dead quiet. You're snuggled up in bed with the blanket around you, and so you close your eyes. But then the dark feeling comes back, and you realize closing your eyes was a mistake. You open them again...
...only to realize you are now staring at a face, just a few inches away from your own. You can feel their warm breath flowing onto your own face.
You realize they're wearing a mask, a black mask with only there eyes and mouth showing, holding a stern look. You're frozen in place, suddenly very aware of just how close they are. But to your relief the face pulls back, and the figure stands up above you. You can still see their eyes, almost like two bright white slits shining out from the mask, which leads way into a cape and a dark suit. You can't make it out right away, but then you see it. Bat ears.
Before you have time to comprehend it all, a voice breaks the silence, it's loud but strained, almost in a gruffled like manner. You don't catch what is said right away. "what?", you say. It repeats.
"your cat. I accidently hit your cat outside." then you sit up in bed, and are suddenly fully alert. "WTF" you say. The figure speaks again. "Im sorry, but your cat ran in front of me, and I hit it." you blink. "omg you're batman" he seems to suddenly slump slightly, and lower his head. "yes, but I'm just trying to apologize for hitting your cat". You're stunned, but come back. "I-I don't have a cat." the dark figure looks up, "oh." it's silent, but now a different atmosphere has settled in. Awkwardness.
The air suddenly felt heavy, you stare ahead but are avoiding looking at the figure directly. He seems stern, but now is wavering, as if trying to find something to day. Even the branch behind the blinds shifts uncomfortably. A few moments of nothing. And then he straightens up. "nevermind. Go back to sleep" he starts to turn. "wait" you utter. He turns back, says nothing. "I....I won't say anything." you say. He wavers again. "thanks," and then he hurridly turns around, awkwardly turns the doorknob, and rushes out the room. The door shuts, a carefully slow shut. You then sit there staring at the door. No more noises are heard, no shuffling. As if he'd stepped out of existence. Your eye catches a brief shadow again passing by the window. You turn your head in time to see the last flicker of a black mass disappear. Then, back to nothing.
You lay back, suddenly aware of you're own body, your own tiredness. But your eyes are fixed back to the window. The branch and the moonlight, saying nothing. Your mind is silent for awhile. "batman uses door knobs" you hear yourself say. The end.
Friday, August 12, 2011
And Something Gray Like Muddy Cement
My tea is gray.
Like muddy wet cement,
Thursday after chemistry,
Soggy jean ends and heavy packs.
The grass is seeping on the sidewalk,
Faded green and second hand,
Gray encased in green,
Ceramic with little white dots.
January storms with crisp clouds,
Winter cool but not cold,
And I wish for a moment,
Standing,
Sitting,
near a friend I never thought to have.
“I wish it were snowing,”
Chilled crisp air with little white dots,
Sloshy gray snow on the side of the road,
tires turning but car immobile,
Thursday after work.
It’s August but it’s Thursday,
So I can pretend with,
A White Polar bear on my tea mug,
Hot drink and hot air,
Crisp warm Blueberries,
And cicadas in the air.
That
It’s gray outside like my tea,
With little white dots in the air,
And rain on the ground.
My pants are in the dryer,
Because the ends were wet and,
My winter coat is out on the hook,
And not hidden in a coat closet,
That’s somewhere I’ll never look.
It’s something I can always hope,
That my life will return to these,
Little mundane moments with,
Matching details and a circular pattern.
Because they,
More than any huge event in my life,
Have defined who I really am.
So, hot one August night, I,
Close my eyes and pretend it’s,
A Thursday in January and,
I’m somewhere I don’t want to be,
With a friend I’d never thought to have,
Finding my jean ends wet,
And something gray like muddy cement.
Like muddy wet cement,
Thursday after chemistry,
Soggy jean ends and heavy packs.
The grass is seeping on the sidewalk,
Faded green and second hand,
Gray encased in green,
Ceramic with little white dots.
January storms with crisp clouds,
Winter cool but not cold,
And I wish for a moment,
Standing,
Sitting,
near a friend I never thought to have.
“I wish it were snowing,”
Chilled crisp air with little white dots,
Sloshy gray snow on the side of the road,
tires turning but car immobile,
Thursday after work.
It’s August but it’s Thursday,
So I can pretend with,
A White Polar bear on my tea mug,
Hot drink and hot air,
Crisp warm Blueberries,
And cicadas in the air.
That
It’s gray outside like my tea,
With little white dots in the air,
And rain on the ground.
My pants are in the dryer,
Because the ends were wet and,
My winter coat is out on the hook,
And not hidden in a coat closet,
That’s somewhere I’ll never look.
It’s something I can always hope,
That my life will return to these,
Little mundane moments with,
Matching details and a circular pattern.
Because they,
More than any huge event in my life,
Have defined who I really am.
So, hot one August night, I,
Close my eyes and pretend it’s,
A Thursday in January and,
I’m somewhere I don’t want to be,
With a friend I’d never thought to have,
Finding my jean ends wet,
And something gray like muddy cement.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
I Have Insomnia
And I don’t mean it’s-hard-for-me-to-fall-asleep-sometimes-when-I’m-stressed but full out there-are-days-where-I-just-don’t-sleep-at-all and no matter how exhausted I am I just don’t get sleepy. In the past week I’ve had about fifteen hours of sleep— in seven days.
People are supposed to get about fifty four to sixty hours of sleep. My max a week is usually forty hours. My average is twenty four hours.
That’s three and a half hours of sleep a night on average at twenty four hours of sleep a week.
I know all of this because when I lay awake at night trying to sleep I do this in my head. I keep a close track on the hours of sleep I get a night because every one of them is important.
It’s four fifteen in the morning and I haven’t slept a restful night since the beginning of July.
I’m not saying this for pity or for sympathy. I’m saying this because when I get this tired I can’t stop myself. I honestly would rather not be writing this and I most definitely don’t want to post it but I will anyway because at this level of exhaustion I am compelled to make confessions about the things that I keep to myself.
People are supposed to get about fifty four to sixty hours of sleep. My max a week is usually forty hours. My average is twenty four hours.
That’s three and a half hours of sleep a night on average at twenty four hours of sleep a week.
I know all of this because when I lay awake at night trying to sleep I do this in my head. I keep a close track on the hours of sleep I get a night because every one of them is important.
It’s four fifteen in the morning and I haven’t slept a restful night since the beginning of July.
I’m not saying this for pity or for sympathy. I’m saying this because when I get this tired I can’t stop myself. I honestly would rather not be writing this and I most definitely don’t want to post it but I will anyway because at this level of exhaustion I am compelled to make confessions about the things that I keep to myself.
From a Tumblr Meme
14) A turn on:
Graceful intelligence and a certain self-confidence of spirit usually get me highly interested in someone but all in all I’d say the best way to turn my head is sheer unapologetic nerdiness.
15) An embarrassing story:
I can’t say “converted it”. Seriously, I can’t. Every time I do I stutter and it’s really embarrassing to me. So one day we were doing conversions in Chemistry and I was working on some homework after class on it and hanging out with my friend, Sam. I apparently told her I had difficulty saying “converted it” and she conned me into saying it like forty times in a row because she found it hilarious. I was really embarrassed about it because she kept laughing at me and I had a squish on her. I know she was making me say it because she found it entertaining and adorable but I felt really embarrassed because I couldn’t just say no and stop doing it because it was making her laugh and she was asking and I’m one of those silly fools who will make themselves look like an idiot because of a crush/squish.
20) A fact about my personality:
It’s really hard for me to reach out to people and try to make friends with them. I always worry that I’m coming on too strong or they don’t want to be my friend or that they’re just humoring me until I go away. I really hate it when people do that, though. Like just pretend to be nice cause that’s polite. I really find it much more polite to tell someone to go away when you don’t want to be around them. I hate not knowing if I’m wanted or not because society says it’s rude to share your feelings if they might upset someone.
Graceful intelligence and a certain self-confidence of spirit usually get me highly interested in someone but all in all I’d say the best way to turn my head is sheer unapologetic nerdiness.
15) An embarrassing story:
I can’t say “converted it”. Seriously, I can’t. Every time I do I stutter and it’s really embarrassing to me. So one day we were doing conversions in Chemistry and I was working on some homework after class on it and hanging out with my friend, Sam. I apparently told her I had difficulty saying “converted it” and she conned me into saying it like forty times in a row because she found it hilarious. I was really embarrassed about it because she kept laughing at me and I had a squish on her. I know she was making me say it because she found it entertaining and adorable but I felt really embarrassed because I couldn’t just say no and stop doing it because it was making her laugh and she was asking and I’m one of those silly fools who will make themselves look like an idiot because of a crush/squish.
20) A fact about my personality:
It’s really hard for me to reach out to people and try to make friends with them. I always worry that I’m coming on too strong or they don’t want to be my friend or that they’re just humoring me until I go away. I really hate it when people do that, though. Like just pretend to be nice cause that’s polite. I really find it much more polite to tell someone to go away when you don’t want to be around them. I hate not knowing if I’m wanted or not because society says it’s rude to share your feelings if they might upset someone.
I'm Secretly Jealous of People Who Can Tan
Because I can’t. No, I don’t mean like oh woe is me I don’t have time to lay in the sun or put on fake tan.
I mean that my skin doesn’t really tan at all so I’m always this pasty white all the time. I grew up in California and I was pretty much always the palest kid even though I spent hours out doors every day and never wore sunscreen (I do now because I’m not so reckless and one second degree sun burn on my face is enough for a life time).
The only way you can tell how much sun I’ve been gettings is by how light my hair is. If I’m not outside much or it’s winter then my hair is dirty blond; if it’s summer and I’ve spent every day posible outside then it’s light blond.
I know it’s such a petty little insignificant thing to complain about but really it’s my only real insecurity about myself. I’m not ashamed of my extra weight or my scars or even my broad build but I hate it when people go: Oh you’re so pale! Because I hate being pale all the time.
I don’t want to be like old leather tanned but I’d like a bit of browning in my skin. I think it would be beautiful. I hate complaining about stuff like this because it really doesn’t matter but I really needed to share as well.
I mean that my skin doesn’t really tan at all so I’m always this pasty white all the time. I grew up in California and I was pretty much always the palest kid even though I spent hours out doors every day and never wore sunscreen (I do now because I’m not so reckless and one second degree sun burn on my face is enough for a life time).
The only way you can tell how much sun I’ve been gettings is by how light my hair is. If I’m not outside much or it’s winter then my hair is dirty blond; if it’s summer and I’ve spent every day posible outside then it’s light blond.
I know it’s such a petty little insignificant thing to complain about but really it’s my only real insecurity about myself. I’m not ashamed of my extra weight or my scars or even my broad build but I hate it when people go: Oh you’re so pale! Because I hate being pale all the time.
I don’t want to be like old leather tanned but I’d like a bit of browning in my skin. I think it would be beautiful. I hate complaining about stuff like this because it really doesn’t matter but I really needed to share as well.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 14
14. Tell us about a time you met another asexual, whether in real life or online.
I said Howdy and they said hello and then we had sex. Why the fuck are these questions so ridiculous?
I said Howdy and they said hello and then we had sex. Why the fuck are these questions so ridiculous?
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 13
13. Your favorite asexual website.
Am I going to have to copy/paste number 12?
However, the only site I go on specifically named after and made for asexuals is asexuality.org. I even have an account and buddies there.
Am I going to have to copy/paste number 12?
However, the only site I go on specifically named after and made for asexuals is asexuality.org. I even have an account and buddies there.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 12
12. Your favorite asexual Tumblr site.
I don't have a favorite asexual Tumblr site. Kinda don't sort them into sexual and asexual. But I do have an extreme fondness for my fellow, Tyki, who does have a Tumblr. She posts some weird things but she's pretty awesome. Monte, or Holmesiandeduction, also posts a lot of things I rather adore and he is ace. But what someone's or some Tumblr's sexuality is doesn't really figure in to whether or not I like them. Orientation and gender are inconsequential.
I don't have a favorite asexual Tumblr site. Kinda don't sort them into sexual and asexual. But I do have an extreme fondness for my fellow, Tyki, who does have a Tumblr. She posts some weird things but she's pretty awesome. Monte, or Holmesiandeduction, also posts a lot of things I rather adore and he is ace. But what someone's or some Tumblr's sexuality is doesn't really figure in to whether or not I like them. Orientation and gender are inconsequential.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 11
11. If you’re out, talk about the most accepting person you’ve come out to. If you’re not out, talk about what you would hope a coming out experience would be like.
I think having to "come out" is a bit b.s. I am who I am and whether or not someone accepts it is sort of unneeded. If someone refuses to believe me then that's their problem. It doesn't change who I am. Aside from that my sexuality is just that, mine. Not everyone and their mother's.
I think having to "come out" is a bit b.s. I am who I am and whether or not someone accepts it is sort of unneeded. If someone refuses to believe me then that's their problem. It doesn't change who I am. Aside from that my sexuality is just that, mine. Not everyone and their mother's.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 10
10. What have other people said about your asexuality?
Nothing. What is there to say? I mean I've only recently discovered the term and it's such a little known area of sexuality(or nonsexuality) that very few people know of it.
Nothing. What is there to say? I mean I've only recently discovered the term and it's such a little known area of sexuality(or nonsexuality) that very few people know of it.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 9
OVERVIEW
An asexual is someone who does not experience sexual attraction. Unlike celibacy, which people choose, asexuality is an intrinsic part of who we are. Asexuality does not make our lives any worse or any better, we just face a different set of challenges than most sexual people. There is considerable diversity among the asexual community; each asexual person experiences things like relationships, attraction, and arousal somewhat differently. Asexuality is just beginning to be the subject of scientific research.
Relationships
Asexual people have the same emotional needs as anyone else, and like in the sexual community we vary widely in how we fulfill those needs. Some asexual people are happier on their own, others are happiest with a group of close friends. Other asexual people have a desire to form more intimate romantic relationships, and will date and seek long-term partnerships. Asexual people are just as likely to date sexual people as we are to date each other.
Sexual or nonsexual, all relationships are made up of the same basic stuff. Communication, closeness, fun, humor, excitement and trust all happen just as much in sexual relationships as in nonsexual ones. Unlike sexual people, asexual people are given few expectations about the way that our intimate relationships will work. Figuring out how to flirt, to be intimate, or to be monogamous in a nonsexual relationships can be challenging, but free of sexual expectations we can form relationships in ways that are grounded in our individual needs and desires.
Attraction
Many asexual people experience attraction, but we feel no need to act out that attraction sexually. Instead we feel a desire to get to know someone, to get close to them in whatever way works best for us. Asexual people who experience attraction will often be attracted to a particular gender, and will identify as lesbian, gay, bi, or straight.
Arousal
For some sexual arousal is a fairly regular occurrence, though it is not associated with a desire to find a sexual partner or partners. Some will occasionally masturbate, but feel no desire for partnered sexuality. Other asexual people experience little or no arousal. Because we don’t care about sex, asexual people generally do not see a lack of sexual arousal as a problem to be corrected, and focus their energy on enjoying other types of arousal and pleasure.
Note: People do not need sexual arousal to be healthy, but in a minority of cases a lack of arousal can be the symptom of a more serious medical condition. If you do not experience sexual arousal or if you suddenly lose interest in sex you should probably check with a doctor just to be safe.
Identity
Most people on AVEN have been asexual for our entire lives. Just as people will rarely and unexpectedly go from being straight to gay, asexual people will rarely and unexpectedly become sexual or vice versa. Another small minority will think of themselves as asexual for a brief period of time while exploring and questioning their own sexuality.
There is no litmus test to determine if someone is asexual. Asexuality is like any other identity- at its core, it’s just a word that people use to help figure themselves out. If at any point someone finds the word asexual useful to describe themselves, we encourage them to use it for as long as it makes sense to do so.
http://www.asexuality.org/home/overview.html
An asexual is someone who does not experience sexual attraction. Unlike celibacy, which people choose, asexuality is an intrinsic part of who we are. Asexuality does not make our lives any worse or any better, we just face a different set of challenges than most sexual people. There is considerable diversity among the asexual community; each asexual person experiences things like relationships, attraction, and arousal somewhat differently. Asexuality is just beginning to be the subject of scientific research.
Relationships
Asexual people have the same emotional needs as anyone else, and like in the sexual community we vary widely in how we fulfill those needs. Some asexual people are happier on their own, others are happiest with a group of close friends. Other asexual people have a desire to form more intimate romantic relationships, and will date and seek long-term partnerships. Asexual people are just as likely to date sexual people as we are to date each other.
Sexual or nonsexual, all relationships are made up of the same basic stuff. Communication, closeness, fun, humor, excitement and trust all happen just as much in sexual relationships as in nonsexual ones. Unlike sexual people, asexual people are given few expectations about the way that our intimate relationships will work. Figuring out how to flirt, to be intimate, or to be monogamous in a nonsexual relationships can be challenging, but free of sexual expectations we can form relationships in ways that are grounded in our individual needs and desires.
Attraction
Many asexual people experience attraction, but we feel no need to act out that attraction sexually. Instead we feel a desire to get to know someone, to get close to them in whatever way works best for us. Asexual people who experience attraction will often be attracted to a particular gender, and will identify as lesbian, gay, bi, or straight.
Arousal
For some sexual arousal is a fairly regular occurrence, though it is not associated with a desire to find a sexual partner or partners. Some will occasionally masturbate, but feel no desire for partnered sexuality. Other asexual people experience little or no arousal. Because we don’t care about sex, asexual people generally do not see a lack of sexual arousal as a problem to be corrected, and focus their energy on enjoying other types of arousal and pleasure.
Note: People do not need sexual arousal to be healthy, but in a minority of cases a lack of arousal can be the symptom of a more serious medical condition. If you do not experience sexual arousal or if you suddenly lose interest in sex you should probably check with a doctor just to be safe.
Identity
Most people on AVEN have been asexual for our entire lives. Just as people will rarely and unexpectedly go from being straight to gay, asexual people will rarely and unexpectedly become sexual or vice versa. Another small minority will think of themselves as asexual for a brief period of time while exploring and questioning their own sexuality.
There is no litmus test to determine if someone is asexual. Asexuality is like any other identity- at its core, it’s just a word that people use to help figure themselves out. If at any point someone finds the word asexual useful to describe themselves, we encourage them to use it for as long as it makes sense to do so.
http://www.asexuality.org/home/overview.html
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 7
7. Who’s your favorite Doctor? (Or, do you have a favorite asexual character?)
My favorite Doctor? You might as well ask which of my fingers I could do without.
I have a special sentiment for the 9th, whom I love because he was my first Doctor and will always be My Doctor.
I love the 10th because he was something extraordinary and because I could relate to the loneliness that was characterized throughout his erra.
But the 11th Doctor is so ecstatically me. He is the personification of what makes my generation magnificent and I love that. He isn't anything at all like any of the other Doctors while being precisely who they were. I love him because he is me in a way.
However, my favorite asexual character would probably have to be Sherlock Holmes.
First of all it's because of him that I even looked up what asexual meant in the first place. I have to play favorites with the character who helped me find out that I wasn't some broken freaky thing. Aside from that I feel I can relate to him. If, by some weird alien magic, Holmes and the 11th Doctor were to be mixed together into one character then that character might as well be me. The 11th Doctor my immature and full of shenanigans self and Sherlock Holmes the serious and observant scholar that I am. (I feel unendingly pretentious just saying that but oh well).
They are two of very few characters that I can relate to the most.
My favorite Doctor? You might as well ask which of my fingers I could do without.
I have a special sentiment for the 9th, whom I love because he was my first Doctor and will always be My Doctor.
I love the 10th because he was something extraordinary and because I could relate to the loneliness that was characterized throughout his erra.
But the 11th Doctor is so ecstatically me. He is the personification of what makes my generation magnificent and I love that. He isn't anything at all like any of the other Doctors while being precisely who they were. I love him because he is me in a way.
However, my favorite asexual character would probably have to be Sherlock Holmes.
First of all it's because of him that I even looked up what asexual meant in the first place. I have to play favorites with the character who helped me find out that I wasn't some broken freaky thing. Aside from that I feel I can relate to him. If, by some weird alien magic, Holmes and the 11th Doctor were to be mixed together into one character then that character might as well be me. The 11th Doctor my immature and full of shenanigans self and Sherlock Holmes the serious and observant scholar that I am. (I feel unendingly pretentious just saying that but oh well).
They are two of very few characters that I can relate to the most.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 8
8. Do you believe there should be asexual pride? What do you imagine it being like?
I think everyone should have pride in who they are no matter what they are. I don't think that I should put one aspect of myself on a pedestal to be praised and used as the focal point of who I am, though. My asexuality doesn't make me and I am not defined by my sexuality.
I think everyone should have pride in who they are no matter what they are. I don't think that I should put one aspect of myself on a pedestal to be praised and used as the focal point of who I am, though. My asexuality doesn't make me and I am not defined by my sexuality.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 6
6. Have you faced oppression because of your asexuality, whether institutional or societal?
What? No, not personally. I'm not happy with how the LGBT* is treating aces or how a lot of people seem to be hating on us even though it really doesn't affect them and it isn't exactly a crime. But I have never personally been "oppressed" because of my sexuality or lack thereof.
What? No, not personally. I'm not happy with how the LGBT* is treating aces or how a lot of people seem to be hating on us even though it really doesn't affect them and it isn't exactly a crime. But I have never personally been "oppressed" because of my sexuality or lack thereof.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 5
5. Tell the story of the first person you came out to.
Coming out requires being in. The only person that ever needed being told about me being asexual was me.
However, when I was seventeen or so I told my mum I had a crush on a girl. She didn't care about the gender, she just wanted me to dish about it. I think she liked having a "queer" daughter. I've never told my dad, though. That's more for my safety than anything else. He once told me he thought all queers should be round up and shot. After a statement like that it's no wonder I didn't go ahead and blurt out that I was one of those people he thinks should be dead.
Coming out requires being in. The only person that ever needed being told about me being asexual was me.
However, when I was seventeen or so I told my mum I had a crush on a girl. She didn't care about the gender, she just wanted me to dish about it. I think she liked having a "queer" daughter. I've never told my dad, though. That's more for my safety than anything else. He once told me he thought all queers should be round up and shot. After a statement like that it's no wonder I didn't go ahead and blurt out that I was one of those people he thinks should be dead.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 4
4. Do you identify as a part of the queer community? What communities do you identify with?
To be honest I don't identify with pretty much any community of anything. I am myself and I have friends like me and friends who aren't like me. The point is, at least to me, no to surround myself with those who are the same as me but with those who can enrich my life for the better.
To be honest I don't identify with pretty much any community of anything. I am myself and I have friends like me and friends who aren't like me. The point is, at least to me, no to surround myself with those who are the same as me but with those who can enrich my life for the better.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 3
3. How old were you when you realized you were asexual? What made you realize it?
This many.
I've always known on some level but I was in denial for a very long time. I just assumed that I was some weird-o freak and that none of my relationships would ever work out because we'd always be wanting different things. To be honest I just thought that my childhood broke something in me and that it was never going to be fixed.
But the first time I ever had a word for what I was was not very long ago. Sometime this year, I know. This summer. You could probably guess about the time I found out from my blog since I did post a thing about it when I did find out. So there give or take a few days.
For a while I thought that I couldn't possibly be ace because I didn't fit every singe criteria on the info page but it felt so right and perfect that I just sort of knew that that's what I was. I don't think I have language enough to describe the relief I felt at finally being able to put a word to what I was and know that there were others out there like me.
This many.
I've always known on some level but I was in denial for a very long time. I just assumed that I was some weird-o freak and that none of my relationships would ever work out because we'd always be wanting different things. To be honest I just thought that my childhood broke something in me and that it was never going to be fixed.
But the first time I ever had a word for what I was was not very long ago. Sometime this year, I know. This summer. You could probably guess about the time I found out from my blog since I did post a thing about it when I did find out. So there give or take a few days.
For a while I thought that I couldn't possibly be ace because I didn't fit every singe criteria on the info page but it felt so right and perfect that I just sort of knew that that's what I was. I don't think I have language enough to describe the relief I felt at finally being able to put a word to what I was and know that there were others out there like me.
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 2
2. Are you out? To whom?
I don't like the phrase "out". It implies that every sexuality that isn't straight is at some point in one's life shameful and I am not ashamed or embarrassed to be who I am. On that same note, however, I'm not going to go around shouting HEY GUESS WHAT PEOPLE?! I'M ASEXUAL! I don't see the point in it. If someone asks I'll tell them. If they don't ask I see no reason to tell them. I obviously am not doing anything to hide the fact that I'm ace (exhibit a: this blog) but that doesn't mean I'm going to go around putting it on business cards or anything. It's just one part of who I am. It's not even all that important. It doesn't dictate how I interact with others or how others treat me so it doesn't really matter much.
I don't like the phrase "out". It implies that every sexuality that isn't straight is at some point in one's life shameful and I am not ashamed or embarrassed to be who I am. On that same note, however, I'm not going to go around shouting HEY GUESS WHAT PEOPLE?! I'M ASEXUAL! I don't see the point in it. If someone asks I'll tell them. If they don't ask I see no reason to tell them. I obviously am not doing anything to hide the fact that I'm ace (exhibit a: this blog) but that doesn't mean I'm going to go around putting it on business cards or anything. It's just one part of who I am. It's not even all that important. It doesn't dictate how I interact with others or how others treat me so it doesn't really matter much.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
30 Day Ace Meme- Day 1
1. What is your romantic/sexual orientation?
Panromantic asexual is what I go by.
But in the way I think of it gender doesn't matter at all. It's not what someone is that interests me but who someone is. I am far more interested in people's minds than their bodies and that's why I consider myself an equal opportunity employer. As far as sex I'm one of those aces who is largely indifferent to sex. If someone I love wants it and I've got time and don't want to do anything else then sure but otherwise I'm entirely uninterested in it.
Panromantic asexual is what I go by.
But in the way I think of it gender doesn't matter at all. It's not what someone is that interests me but who someone is. I am far more interested in people's minds than their bodies and that's why I consider myself an equal opportunity employer. As far as sex I'm one of those aces who is largely indifferent to sex. If someone I love wants it and I've got time and don't want to do anything else then sure but otherwise I'm entirely uninterested in it.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Frank Sinatra (via funiculi-funicula)
There are things about organized religion which I resent. Christ is revered as the Prince of Peace, but more blood has been shed in His name than any other figure in history. You show me one step forward in the name of religion and I’ll show you a hundred retrogressions. Remember, they were men of God who destroyed the educational treasures at Alexandria, who perpetrated the Inquisition in Spain, who burned the witches at Salem. Over 25,000 organized religions flourish on this planet, but the followers of each think all the others are miserably misguided and probably evil as well.
Friday, July 29, 2011
I know this is long but please bear with me Facebook conversation.
Tesk: I am happy. I just realized. I mean really happy, not the yay! pie! happy but the full to the brim of love and productiveness. Yeah, I've got some troubles now and some coming but I know I'll come out better than I go in because I have confidence in myself and love for myself.
Michael: Good work, nigger broheem.
Tesk: That is just not alright, Michael. Don't use that word.
Michael: I won't use the 'B' word again, sorry, Niggz.
Tesk: Seriously, man. Don't say it in any form. It's offensive.
Michael: I don't see anything offensive about it. If someone called me 'cracker', I'd be fine with it, because it's just a skin color. Nothing more. I think you're just light-hearted.
Tesk: I think it's a word that represents generations of oppression and senseless hatred. I think that It's a word that is more disgusting than any other in any language I have heard before because it represents the worst humanity has in itself. I think you just don't fucking joke about how terrible it is to be hated just because of the way you were born.
Cracker doesn't compare. It's not the same. It's not even on the same league as that word. Cracker still wears a bib and scoots around on its diapered ass. That word is inconceivably awful and it's impossible to fully empathize with how it can make the person it's directed at feel.
Michael: I stand by my argument that racial slurs are only offensive if one makes it offensive.
Same with any kind of discriminative word. 'Faggot' for example. I don't see the point of any of these words being taken offensively, they're just words. Racism means nothing, because skin colour means nothing. So, black people were taken into slavery a while back. So what? If anything, it's white people who should get offended by such a word for their massive ignorance and greed.
Tesk: I've run out of words for the stupid in that sentence. Is this a sticks and stones argument? Words will never hurt you but sticks and stones will? I suppose that lynching disproves that, hm? That's sticks, stones, and names! Wow, gee. What a dealy, yo?
Michael: *waits*
Tesk: If you honestly think you're on the level about what it's like to be discriminated against, to be the victim of prejudice, or to feel the full brunt of someone's irrational hatred then you are far too ignorant to function properly. If you think you have even remotely "trumped" me then you are far more a fool than I thought you were. Get off your fucking horse and look around. Racism isn't gone. It's alive and ugly and no little boy talking about words he knows the definition of but has no comprehension of the meaning behind them can ever think to so much as come close.
Michael: I know what it's like to be discriminated against and I know what it's like the be the victim of prejudice. No, I never, ever used the word out of irrational hatred. There is no reason for hatred. If black people can so freely use a word that is so discriminative of themselves, why do they do it? Because they don't actually care. The word was never offensive and never will be offensive, unless heard by stuck up prudes like yourself. People need to learn that if a word is used as a fun loving greeting or title, it's not meant to offend and it shouldn't. No matter what the word. Don't take life so serious, niggz.
Tesk: You really will never get it. Just as much as I won't. You just refuse to understand that there's a difference.
They don't use the word because they don't care. Some of them use it to make it hurt less; to make the sting of it less harsh when others say it. The word is offensive and has always been offensive and no matter what you do it won't make it any different. Because that word is a scar across society. Now, a scar. Think of it as a barely closed wound, still red and swollen and hurting because it is.
I am not stuck up and I am not a prude; I just have respect for the people I love. And I can see it in faces I pass and in situations that come up that it is in no way a fun loving word or title.
What you're doing it sterilizing it in the most crass and offensive way possible. What you are trying to do will make the word lose meaning and make people forget and that's not what needs to be done.
We should never forget what happened to those people. We should never paint over the pain and oppression they suffered just to make ourselves feel better. It was there and it happened and now what we have left is hatred personified in that word. Racism isn't over. It isn't even nearly there. That word you say should be used in a fun way is still used in a derogatory way.
This isn't some long past word that's no longer used is a slur but a still present and living beast that strikes out at others.
And it is never, ever oh-fucking-kay to use it.
Michael: It's pretty hilarious sometimes.
Tesk: This isn't a joke at all. Not even a little bit. And I want you to think about how un-funny it is. You've never tried to console a teenage girl, sobbing her eyes out because of that word before. You've never seen a woman stand to the side and watch a black girl get arrested and laugh like it's the rightest thing in the world. You've never seen what sort of destruction that word and its sentiment can bring.
Michael: Yes, but people are assholes.
Tesk: And you're definitely a people right now.
Michael: You know it.
Tesk: Indeed. I'm de-friending you now. This idiocy is not something I want to associate with.
Michael: Good work, nigger broheem.
Tesk: That is just not alright, Michael. Don't use that word.
Michael: I won't use the 'B' word again, sorry, Niggz.
Tesk: Seriously, man. Don't say it in any form. It's offensive.
Michael: I don't see anything offensive about it. If someone called me 'cracker', I'd be fine with it, because it's just a skin color. Nothing more. I think you're just light-hearted.
Tesk: I think it's a word that represents generations of oppression and senseless hatred. I think that It's a word that is more disgusting than any other in any language I have heard before because it represents the worst humanity has in itself. I think you just don't fucking joke about how terrible it is to be hated just because of the way you were born.
Cracker doesn't compare. It's not the same. It's not even on the same league as that word. Cracker still wears a bib and scoots around on its diapered ass. That word is inconceivably awful and it's impossible to fully empathize with how it can make the person it's directed at feel.
Michael: I stand by my argument that racial slurs are only offensive if one makes it offensive.
Same with any kind of discriminative word. 'Faggot' for example. I don't see the point of any of these words being taken offensively, they're just words. Racism means nothing, because skin colour means nothing. So, black people were taken into slavery a while back. So what? If anything, it's white people who should get offended by such a word for their massive ignorance and greed.
Tesk: I've run out of words for the stupid in that sentence. Is this a sticks and stones argument? Words will never hurt you but sticks and stones will? I suppose that lynching disproves that, hm? That's sticks, stones, and names! Wow, gee. What a dealy, yo?
Michael: *waits*
Tesk: If you honestly think you're on the level about what it's like to be discriminated against, to be the victim of prejudice, or to feel the full brunt of someone's irrational hatred then you are far too ignorant to function properly. If you think you have even remotely "trumped" me then you are far more a fool than I thought you were. Get off your fucking horse and look around. Racism isn't gone. It's alive and ugly and no little boy talking about words he knows the definition of but has no comprehension of the meaning behind them can ever think to so much as come close.
Michael: I know what it's like to be discriminated against and I know what it's like the be the victim of prejudice. No, I never, ever used the word out of irrational hatred. There is no reason for hatred. If black people can so freely use a word that is so discriminative of themselves, why do they do it? Because they don't actually care. The word was never offensive and never will be offensive, unless heard by stuck up prudes like yourself. People need to learn that if a word is used as a fun loving greeting or title, it's not meant to offend and it shouldn't. No matter what the word. Don't take life so serious, niggz.
Tesk: You really will never get it. Just as much as I won't. You just refuse to understand that there's a difference.
They don't use the word because they don't care. Some of them use it to make it hurt less; to make the sting of it less harsh when others say it. The word is offensive and has always been offensive and no matter what you do it won't make it any different. Because that word is a scar across society. Now, a scar. Think of it as a barely closed wound, still red and swollen and hurting because it is.
I am not stuck up and I am not a prude; I just have respect for the people I love. And I can see it in faces I pass and in situations that come up that it is in no way a fun loving word or title.
What you're doing it sterilizing it in the most crass and offensive way possible. What you are trying to do will make the word lose meaning and make people forget and that's not what needs to be done.
We should never forget what happened to those people. We should never paint over the pain and oppression they suffered just to make ourselves feel better. It was there and it happened and now what we have left is hatred personified in that word. Racism isn't over. It isn't even nearly there. That word you say should be used in a fun way is still used in a derogatory way.
This isn't some long past word that's no longer used is a slur but a still present and living beast that strikes out at others.
And it is never, ever oh-fucking-kay to use it.
Michael: It's pretty hilarious sometimes.
Tesk: This isn't a joke at all. Not even a little bit. And I want you to think about how un-funny it is. You've never tried to console a teenage girl, sobbing her eyes out because of that word before. You've never seen a woman stand to the side and watch a black girl get arrested and laugh like it's the rightest thing in the world. You've never seen what sort of destruction that word and its sentiment can bring.
Michael: Yes, but people are assholes.
Tesk: And you're definitely a people right now.
Michael: You know it.
Tesk: Indeed. I'm de-friending you now. This idiocy is not something I want to associate with.
There's a reason I keep my opinions to only about fictional characters
It has to do with the fact that what one sees in the media about a fictional character is what there is to a character and what one sees in the media about an actor or artist is what the media wants us to believe about that particular person.
I’m putting in a page-break because I doubt anyone wants to see me up on my soap box. I’m hoping that at least a few people will take a moment to at least skim through a paragraph or two.
A lot of people like to pretend or are possibly ignorant to the fact that “celebrities” (for lack of a better word) are defenseless to the slander painted against them no matter what Congress has to say to that. Just because these people’s professions put them in the lime light does not mean they asked to be called a slut or anorexic or an addict. It seems to me as if people forget that Lohan, Winehouse, Bush, Parker, even Stewart are people. They have (or had in the recently deceased Winehouse’s case) feelings and lives, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and other people they care for. All of these stories about slutting around town, shooting up, raging incompetence, and lack of a soul are hurtful.
I honestly can’t believe in an age where we en mass cry out against cyber bullying and rage against terrorists that we can support or condone what the current day media do. I just wished that once people would really, really put themselves in those “infamous” celebrities positions and actually think about how it would feel to be nominated for “Villain of the Year” and win “Worst Dressed Performer” or third worst dressed British Woman. I want people to take a moment and think of how they would feel, honestly feel to be ranked number two on Richard Blackwell’s 48th annual “Ten Worst Dressed Women” list.
Take a moment and think about how your parents, siblings, grandparents, or whomever you call your loved ones would feel about hearing stories of you doing smack from People Magazine or having an affair from the evening news. Imagine everyone who you care what they think of you finding out about a completely fictitious evil that you purportedly did and never looking at you the same way. Imagine the stress and shame at not being able to defend yourself, lest you turn into another “Charlie Sheen” or “Bill Clinton”.
Take a moment to think about people using your name as a slang way to refer to the most horrifically embarrassing and stressful moment in your life so far.
How fun does that sound?
Do you think you asked for it?
Do you think you deserve it for being a smacked out anorexic whore?
How much do you think these perfectly normal and privacy wanting people deserve it?
And on to a lower level of this gigantic one woman soap box comes something else I wonder rather a lot. I always sort of feel hot under my cheeks and embarrassed when I look up in the grocery store and am greeted with somebody else’s private life that it makes me wonder how people can enjoy prying into someone else’s life like that. It makes me wonder how someone can read about Pitt and Jolie and not feel ashamed at being entertained by someone else’s traumatic love life. I’m wondering how many people would truly revel in knowing that out there are people snickering and pointing at their picture and talking about how their relationships are falling apart.
Maybe this stems from my utter lack of curiosity about a celebrity’s private life. To me all that matters is their professional front. I want to know what movies they’ve been in, where they studied their art, what awards they’ve won… Things pertaining to their career. I don’t care who they marry or how much they weigh or what they do at clubs because that’s their business and not mine, thanks.
Which brings me back to my original point. I’ll talk all day and night long about fictional characters. I’ll holler about Sherlock’s asexuality or Blake’s whorishness because they’re not real. At the end of it I can point to passages or scripts and point and define and explicate from there because that material has been put down so that I could. I can point out out-of-characterness if someone says Sherlock would tip tap in pink dance shoes and lay a smooch on Moriarty’s naughty bits because I have diction and history and that entire character laid out before me. Fictional characters are there to be dissected and fought over. They are there so that I can. I can’t hurt their feelings or make their mama’s cry because their mamas are made of paper and ink and a suspension in disbelief.
Actors are mediums to a fictional character; they give shape and sound to a nebulous idea and create a solid organ that we can conceive but they are not ours to dissect or deconstruct. Actors are people who are generous enough to lend us their bodies and skill so that we can distill our imaginations. Yes, some are better than others at it and some of them don’t have their life all that well together but that doesn’t give us the right to turn our noses up at our fellow humans and ignore the fact that they feel and that they can see our disgust.
That’s the difference between a character and an actor, really, right there. Characters don’t know we exist. They can’t. They’re not real. Some creative man or woman or many men and women sat down and dreamt them up. They are fake; make-believe. But actors aren’t. They are flesh and heart and dreams and hopes and families and histories and laughs and hands that reach out into the night to hold our empty palms because they are human also and because they know; they understand and want to give us a brief reprieve from the isolation that is so intrinsic to the human condition. And to touch us and give us this break from reality they put on ways and means and wigs and make up and stand under lights and call out words that aren’t theirs and pretend with all their might to be this make-believe person so that we can pretend to know this make-believe person and find company in their stories.
So how can we hate them for lies and gossip when they do so much for us? How can we not thank them (of course, from a healthy distance) for all that they do for us? How can we not respect their humanity and give them the respect and privacy that we find such a self-evident right?
I’m putting in a page-break because I doubt anyone wants to see me up on my soap box. I’m hoping that at least a few people will take a moment to at least skim through a paragraph or two.
A lot of people like to pretend or are possibly ignorant to the fact that “celebrities” (for lack of a better word) are defenseless to the slander painted against them no matter what Congress has to say to that. Just because these people’s professions put them in the lime light does not mean they asked to be called a slut or anorexic or an addict. It seems to me as if people forget that Lohan, Winehouse, Bush, Parker, even Stewart are people. They have (or had in the recently deceased Winehouse’s case) feelings and lives, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and other people they care for. All of these stories about slutting around town, shooting up, raging incompetence, and lack of a soul are hurtful.
I honestly can’t believe in an age where we en mass cry out against cyber bullying and rage against terrorists that we can support or condone what the current day media do. I just wished that once people would really, really put themselves in those “infamous” celebrities positions and actually think about how it would feel to be nominated for “Villain of the Year” and win “Worst Dressed Performer” or third worst dressed British Woman. I want people to take a moment and think of how they would feel, honestly feel to be ranked number two on Richard Blackwell’s 48th annual “Ten Worst Dressed Women” list.
Take a moment and think about how your parents, siblings, grandparents, or whomever you call your loved ones would feel about hearing stories of you doing smack from People Magazine or having an affair from the evening news. Imagine everyone who you care what they think of you finding out about a completely fictitious evil that you purportedly did and never looking at you the same way. Imagine the stress and shame at not being able to defend yourself, lest you turn into another “Charlie Sheen” or “Bill Clinton”.
Take a moment to think about people using your name as a slang way to refer to the most horrifically embarrassing and stressful moment in your life so far.
How fun does that sound?
Do you think you asked for it?
Do you think you deserve it for being a smacked out anorexic whore?
How much do you think these perfectly normal and privacy wanting people deserve it?
And on to a lower level of this gigantic one woman soap box comes something else I wonder rather a lot. I always sort of feel hot under my cheeks and embarrassed when I look up in the grocery store and am greeted with somebody else’s private life that it makes me wonder how people can enjoy prying into someone else’s life like that. It makes me wonder how someone can read about Pitt and Jolie and not feel ashamed at being entertained by someone else’s traumatic love life. I’m wondering how many people would truly revel in knowing that out there are people snickering and pointing at their picture and talking about how their relationships are falling apart.
Maybe this stems from my utter lack of curiosity about a celebrity’s private life. To me all that matters is their professional front. I want to know what movies they’ve been in, where they studied their art, what awards they’ve won… Things pertaining to their career. I don’t care who they marry or how much they weigh or what they do at clubs because that’s their business and not mine, thanks.
Which brings me back to my original point. I’ll talk all day and night long about fictional characters. I’ll holler about Sherlock’s asexuality or Blake’s whorishness because they’re not real. At the end of it I can point to passages or scripts and point and define and explicate from there because that material has been put down so that I could. I can point out out-of-characterness if someone says Sherlock would tip tap in pink dance shoes and lay a smooch on Moriarty’s naughty bits because I have diction and history and that entire character laid out before me. Fictional characters are there to be dissected and fought over. They are there so that I can. I can’t hurt their feelings or make their mama’s cry because their mamas are made of paper and ink and a suspension in disbelief.
Actors are mediums to a fictional character; they give shape and sound to a nebulous idea and create a solid organ that we can conceive but they are not ours to dissect or deconstruct. Actors are people who are generous enough to lend us their bodies and skill so that we can distill our imaginations. Yes, some are better than others at it and some of them don’t have their life all that well together but that doesn’t give us the right to turn our noses up at our fellow humans and ignore the fact that they feel and that they can see our disgust.
That’s the difference between a character and an actor, really, right there. Characters don’t know we exist. They can’t. They’re not real. Some creative man or woman or many men and women sat down and dreamt them up. They are fake; make-believe. But actors aren’t. They are flesh and heart and dreams and hopes and families and histories and laughs and hands that reach out into the night to hold our empty palms because they are human also and because they know; they understand and want to give us a brief reprieve from the isolation that is so intrinsic to the human condition. And to touch us and give us this break from reality they put on ways and means and wigs and make up and stand under lights and call out words that aren’t theirs and pretend with all their might to be this make-believe person so that we can pretend to know this make-believe person and find company in their stories.
So how can we hate them for lies and gossip when they do so much for us? How can we not thank them (of course, from a healthy distance) for all that they do for us? How can we not respect their humanity and give them the respect and privacy that we find such a self-evident right?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
ORS: Otherwise May be Referred to as A Summer Night, Contemplating the Powerlessness of Youth and the Natural Strength Therein
There's the rush; the feel of air so solid and free rushing through hair. Then the pacifier; the calm and tingling cold that stays the place of air. A total feeling of inebriating freedom as bare legs are whipped by the tall brown grass that has dried up to hibernate through summer. Come the first good rain and the field would be alive and moist with green leaves and brown grass life. Then the feeling of dry dirt and uneven trails under old sneakers. The ground still whispers at the heat of the day, lightly hinting at stale hot and petrifying light. It's the quiet that happens in a full house of sleeping people. The noise of a city turning over in its sleeping and sighing out in wait of the coming day.
Pale eyes look up and up to the stars, swirling and still and stiff as a statue of a famous dancer. There's no motion but the memory of a great dance in the sky. Messy hair drifts out and settles for tip tapping little brushes against shoulders and neck. Still on Earth. Still living. There's the air again but not from running. It isn't the fast rush and desperation of moving just so it feels like the oppression is suddenly leagues behind instead of three blocks to the left and one block down. It's the slow and gentle touch of displaced atmosphere running through hair to remind but not push.
Long, strong palms stretching into bony tapered fingers wrap around a shaft of grass and grip loosely, pulling steadily and carefully until the plant is uprooted and hanging like the death of thousands off the youthful hand. The plant is lifted to young frown lined face and examined under the brilliant and nebulous lunar light.
Indifferent fingers grip tighter for a moment as elbow extends and wrist flicks then palm unfurls and the plant is flung off and out of sight.
Round, childish legs pick dodge carefully through the grass back to the small black and uneven bike path. An old soul sits on the asphalt and leans back on strong arms with elbows flexed back.
Pale eyes don't see the stars nor the moon; they settle on black cuts on air and brown pikes in earth and follow the lines of power out of sight but never out of mind.
Pale eyes look up and up to the stars, swirling and still and stiff as a statue of a famous dancer. There's no motion but the memory of a great dance in the sky. Messy hair drifts out and settles for tip tapping little brushes against shoulders and neck. Still on Earth. Still living. There's the air again but not from running. It isn't the fast rush and desperation of moving just so it feels like the oppression is suddenly leagues behind instead of three blocks to the left and one block down. It's the slow and gentle touch of displaced atmosphere running through hair to remind but not push.
Long, strong palms stretching into bony tapered fingers wrap around a shaft of grass and grip loosely, pulling steadily and carefully until the plant is uprooted and hanging like the death of thousands off the youthful hand. The plant is lifted to young frown lined face and examined under the brilliant and nebulous lunar light.
Indifferent fingers grip tighter for a moment as elbow extends and wrist flicks then palm unfurls and the plant is flung off and out of sight.
Round, childish legs pick dodge carefully through the grass back to the small black and uneven bike path. An old soul sits on the asphalt and leans back on strong arms with elbows flexed back.
Pale eyes don't see the stars nor the moon; they settle on black cuts on air and brown pikes in earth and follow the lines of power out of sight but never out of mind.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
THe Rest of That 30 Day Challenge I Forgot To Post
Day 03 – Your favorite series
1. Harry Potter
2. Vladimir Todd
3. Pendergast
4. Pendragon
5. Artemis Fowl*
*I read it as a kid and I liked it well enough but I never finished it.
Day 04 – Favorite book of your favorite series
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Otherwise known as: When shit really starts getting complicated and where Snape is no longer a two dimensional character.
Day 05 – A book that makes you happy
Hamlet—I love that his inaction has more dire consequences than his actions ever could. I love how he toys with madness to get leverage. I love the moralistic issues present in the book and I love the humor the book has.
Day 06 – A book that makes you sad
Atlas Shrugged—It just does.
Day 07 – Most underrated book
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
So what if most of it takes place somewhere that isn’t Hogwarts? That doesn’t mean the plot didn’t happen. What happens at Hogwarts does not stay at Hogwarts.
Day 08 – Most overrated book
Macbeth—I know, I know, technically a play but whatever. It was terrible. The entirety of it. The only part of it that made it worth reading was ONE quote: (“Out damn spot, out!”)
Day 09— A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving
Hamlet—I thought it was just going to be another shit Shakespeare book with fun language and a bunch of sex jokes but nothing else of merit and it really wasn’t. It was such a great read and I loved every word of it.
But a book I thought I’d absolutely hate but instead absolutely love is Pride & Prejudice. It was so fucking entertaining and silly. It was basically just a ye old rom com and everyone loves a good rom com. I love how painfully shy Darcy is and how much of a dick he was. I love how Lizzy is just as flawed as everybody else. I love how there wasn’t a single perfect character in the book and that they acted realistically given the situations. I found the character’s interactions to be fun to watch and Lizzy’s thoughts to be amazingly relatable. I loved the tone of the narration and I especially adored how ridiculously Lizzy and Darcy acted with each other.
Day 10 – Favorite classic book
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It was fucking brill. Like seriously one of the best books I’ve read to come out of a non-modern era. It was so rich and complex but simple at the same time. It was an amazing book to read and kept me entertained throughout.
Day 11 – A book you hated
Bullet by L.k.Hamilton—I used to love her series but they went so down hill after she divorced her first husband that they’ve become sort of novel length PWPs instead of stories. I used to really look up to her. It wasn’t often I came across a female author as a kid and when I did their stories wouldn’t be about the struggle between preternatural and man. Sure, it would be there. “Oh no I’m being haunted,” but the plot’s main focus would always be romance. I hated that—still hate that. I just get so sick of reading romantic stories or stories where women can’t be strong without men or where a man doesn’t have a healthy life without a lady by his side and that’s just BORING. But LKH’s books weren’t like that. Anita was a strong, snarky and independent woman who was perfectly fine that way, thank you very much. She didn’t have a “sweety” and that was no sweat off her hot ass. She was good at what she did and a bit quirky. She wasn’t perfect, no, but she wasn’t meant to be. And I loved that. I looked up to that. When I was a teenager LKH was my hero. And I guess that’s why I feel so betrayed by her works now. They are everything I absolutely hated about other female author’s books except exponentially magnified.
/rant
Day 12 – A book you used to love but don’t anymore
Again, just sort of see day 11. I used to love her books but now they’re all tainted by disappointment and betrayal.
Day 13 – Your favorite writer
Neil Gaiman—Hands down one of the most creative and amazing authors that I have ever read. Ever. He is just so damn fabulous. His prose are original, insightful, and fun.
Day 14 – Favorite book of your favorite writer
My favorite book of Neil Gaiman’s is Good Omens—A fantastical witty novel about the coming of apocalypse and how it’s stopped by an angel with a book fetish, a demon with a car fetish, and a small gang of children lead by the antichrist. Yeah, it’s pretty damn amazing.
Day 15 – Favorite male character
Favorite male book character has got to be Aloysius Pendergast. He rocks like rocks rock. Followed by Sherlock Holmes. Because he is also amazing. Batman is not on this list because he is not from a novel.
Day 16 – Favorite female character
Hermione Granger. Because she knows how important it is to study, is loyal to the point of risking everything, has a head on her shoulders the likes of which most can not compare. Because she is a badass motherfucking witch and you best check yourself before she destroys you.
Day 17 – Favorite quote(s) from your favorite book(s)
Oh fuck no. Oh fuck fuck fuuuuck no. This would be a project not some witty short reply. Fucking no.
Day 18 – A book that disappointed you
Every book after Narcissus in Chains By LKH. (See book 11.)
Day 19 – Favorite book turned into a movie
Fight Club—Because everyone needs to learn that what you have is not what you have to lose. ‘You must lose everything before you can gain anything.’ Because we have to embrace our baseness, our savagery before we can truly become civilized instead of shaved monkeys in clothes. Because we all have two sides and we need to learn to give in to that other side sometimes and because we need to learn when not to give in to it. Because the ending scene in Fight Club is the most romantic fucking scene I have e’er clasped my eyes on. And HBC is fucking rad.
Day 20 – Favorite romance book
Pride & Prejudice—Because they had to overcome their pride and their prejudice. Because the relationship was realistic and organic. Because it grew slowly over time through talking and watching. Because Darcy is adorable and because Lizzy isn’t perfect.
Day 21 – Favorite book from your childhood
I don’t remember its name but my grade five teacher read to us this book about a ship of people (pirates?) whose captain dies and they have a woman take over and she comes so fully into the role that they flourish under her hand. But when she gets back to her home country she is forced back into the shackles that are skirts and bodices and she is so trapped. Then she breaks free and returns to her crew to sail the sees in freedom.
Day 22 – Favorite book you own
I only own books I have yet to read and am interested in or books that are favorites of mine. So… sort of all of them.
Day 23 – A book you wanted to read for a long time but still haven’t
The Art of Possessing Joy by Alice Walker. My BFF reaeaeaeally wants me to read it and I love AW’s other book, The Color Purple so I don’t think I can really resist. I will once I get it.
Day 24 – A book that you wish more people would’ve read
Anything. I don’t care what people read or when they read or even how they read so much as they pick up a book and read it. I really don’t give a flying fuck on a hog in a tutu what people read, that’s up to them, I just want them to read regularly and like it.
Day 25 – A character who you can relate to the most
Sophie from Howl’s Moving Castle—because she thinks she’s cursed to an average and uneventful life because of who she was born as but in the end she ends up happy and successful and special and so do all of her siblings but it’s still a struggle and it’s still hard and she’s still not perfect and that is fantastic.
The Troll/Jack from Troll Bridge ( a short by Neil Gaiman)—because he has spent so long underneath that bridge and he wants to live a life and Jack’s imperfect life is exactly what he wants but he’s still afraid of it. And Jack because he spends his whole life stuck in the past and his regrets, forever on that bridge between the future and the past and he keeps choosing the past until he ends up the troll under the bridge, eating away jack’s life.
Day 26 – A book that changed your opinion about something
Fight Club—refer to day 19.
Day 27 – The most surprising plot twist or ending
Howl’s Moving Castle—because like woah, where that portal leads. Really? Holy shit… Because that isn’t a fetish of mine. Haha.
Day 28 – Favorite title
Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.
Day 29 – A book everyone hated but you liked
Their Eyes Were Watching God. Because it was a good book. Catcher in the Rye. Because the protagonist is my generation. The Giver. Because freedom, choice, and diversity are what make life so worth living and if you remove them then we might as well be dead.
Day 30 – Your favorite book of all time
Hamlet, Fight Club, Please Don’t Kill the Freshmen, Howl’s Moving Castle, Good Omens, The Color Purple, Harry Potter, Sherlock Holmes, Pride & Prejudice, The Picture of Dorian Gray… I really could go on.
1. Harry Potter
2. Vladimir Todd
3. Pendergast
4. Pendragon
5. Artemis Fowl*
*I read it as a kid and I liked it well enough but I never finished it.
Day 04 – Favorite book of your favorite series
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Otherwise known as: When shit really starts getting complicated and where Snape is no longer a two dimensional character.
Day 05 – A book that makes you happy
Hamlet—I love that his inaction has more dire consequences than his actions ever could. I love how he toys with madness to get leverage. I love the moralistic issues present in the book and I love the humor the book has.
Day 06 – A book that makes you sad
Atlas Shrugged—It just does.
Day 07 – Most underrated book
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
So what if most of it takes place somewhere that isn’t Hogwarts? That doesn’t mean the plot didn’t happen. What happens at Hogwarts does not stay at Hogwarts.
Day 08 – Most overrated book
Macbeth—I know, I know, technically a play but whatever. It was terrible. The entirety of it. The only part of it that made it worth reading was ONE quote: (“Out damn spot, out!”)
Day 09— A book you thought you wouldn’t like but ended up loving
Hamlet—I thought it was just going to be another shit Shakespeare book with fun language and a bunch of sex jokes but nothing else of merit and it really wasn’t. It was such a great read and I loved every word of it.
But a book I thought I’d absolutely hate but instead absolutely love is Pride & Prejudice. It was so fucking entertaining and silly. It was basically just a ye old rom com and everyone loves a good rom com. I love how painfully shy Darcy is and how much of a dick he was. I love how Lizzy is just as flawed as everybody else. I love how there wasn’t a single perfect character in the book and that they acted realistically given the situations. I found the character’s interactions to be fun to watch and Lizzy’s thoughts to be amazingly relatable. I loved the tone of the narration and I especially adored how ridiculously Lizzy and Darcy acted with each other.
Day 10 – Favorite classic book
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. It was fucking brill. Like seriously one of the best books I’ve read to come out of a non-modern era. It was so rich and complex but simple at the same time. It was an amazing book to read and kept me entertained throughout.
Day 11 – A book you hated
Bullet by L.k.Hamilton—I used to love her series but they went so down hill after she divorced her first husband that they’ve become sort of novel length PWPs instead of stories. I used to really look up to her. It wasn’t often I came across a female author as a kid and when I did their stories wouldn’t be about the struggle between preternatural and man. Sure, it would be there. “Oh no I’m being haunted,” but the plot’s main focus would always be romance. I hated that—still hate that. I just get so sick of reading romantic stories or stories where women can’t be strong without men or where a man doesn’t have a healthy life without a lady by his side and that’s just BORING. But LKH’s books weren’t like that. Anita was a strong, snarky and independent woman who was perfectly fine that way, thank you very much. She didn’t have a “sweety” and that was no sweat off her hot ass. She was good at what she did and a bit quirky. She wasn’t perfect, no, but she wasn’t meant to be. And I loved that. I looked up to that. When I was a teenager LKH was my hero. And I guess that’s why I feel so betrayed by her works now. They are everything I absolutely hated about other female author’s books except exponentially magnified.
/rant
Day 12 – A book you used to love but don’t anymore
Again, just sort of see day 11. I used to love her books but now they’re all tainted by disappointment and betrayal.
Day 13 – Your favorite writer
Neil Gaiman—Hands down one of the most creative and amazing authors that I have ever read. Ever. He is just so damn fabulous. His prose are original, insightful, and fun.
Day 14 – Favorite book of your favorite writer
My favorite book of Neil Gaiman’s is Good Omens—A fantastical witty novel about the coming of apocalypse and how it’s stopped by an angel with a book fetish, a demon with a car fetish, and a small gang of children lead by the antichrist. Yeah, it’s pretty damn amazing.
Day 15 – Favorite male character
Favorite male book character has got to be Aloysius Pendergast. He rocks like rocks rock. Followed by Sherlock Holmes. Because he is also amazing. Batman is not on this list because he is not from a novel.
Day 16 – Favorite female character
Hermione Granger. Because she knows how important it is to study, is loyal to the point of risking everything, has a head on her shoulders the likes of which most can not compare. Because she is a badass motherfucking witch and you best check yourself before she destroys you.
Day 17 – Favorite quote(s) from your favorite book(s)
Oh fuck no. Oh fuck fuck fuuuuck no. This would be a project not some witty short reply. Fucking no.
Day 18 – A book that disappointed you
Every book after Narcissus in Chains By LKH. (See book 11.)
Day 19 – Favorite book turned into a movie
Fight Club—Because everyone needs to learn that what you have is not what you have to lose. ‘You must lose everything before you can gain anything.’ Because we have to embrace our baseness, our savagery before we can truly become civilized instead of shaved monkeys in clothes. Because we all have two sides and we need to learn to give in to that other side sometimes and because we need to learn when not to give in to it. Because the ending scene in Fight Club is the most romantic fucking scene I have e’er clasped my eyes on. And HBC is fucking rad.
Day 20 – Favorite romance book
Pride & Prejudice—Because they had to overcome their pride and their prejudice. Because the relationship was realistic and organic. Because it grew slowly over time through talking and watching. Because Darcy is adorable and because Lizzy isn’t perfect.
Day 21 – Favorite book from your childhood
I don’t remember its name but my grade five teacher read to us this book about a ship of people (pirates?) whose captain dies and they have a woman take over and she comes so fully into the role that they flourish under her hand. But when she gets back to her home country she is forced back into the shackles that are skirts and bodices and she is so trapped. Then she breaks free and returns to her crew to sail the sees in freedom.
Day 22 – Favorite book you own
I only own books I have yet to read and am interested in or books that are favorites of mine. So… sort of all of them.
Day 23 – A book you wanted to read for a long time but still haven’t
The Art of Possessing Joy by Alice Walker. My BFF reaeaeaeally wants me to read it and I love AW’s other book, The Color Purple so I don’t think I can really resist. I will once I get it.
Day 24 – A book that you wish more people would’ve read
Anything. I don’t care what people read or when they read or even how they read so much as they pick up a book and read it. I really don’t give a flying fuck on a hog in a tutu what people read, that’s up to them, I just want them to read regularly and like it.
Day 25 – A character who you can relate to the most
Sophie from Howl’s Moving Castle—because she thinks she’s cursed to an average and uneventful life because of who she was born as but in the end she ends up happy and successful and special and so do all of her siblings but it’s still a struggle and it’s still hard and she’s still not perfect and that is fantastic.
The Troll/Jack from Troll Bridge ( a short by Neil Gaiman)—because he has spent so long underneath that bridge and he wants to live a life and Jack’s imperfect life is exactly what he wants but he’s still afraid of it. And Jack because he spends his whole life stuck in the past and his regrets, forever on that bridge between the future and the past and he keeps choosing the past until he ends up the troll under the bridge, eating away jack’s life.
Day 26 – A book that changed your opinion about something
Fight Club—refer to day 19.
Day 27 – The most surprising plot twist or ending
Howl’s Moving Castle—because like woah, where that portal leads. Really? Holy shit… Because that isn’t a fetish of mine. Haha.
Day 28 – Favorite title
Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.
Day 29 – A book everyone hated but you liked
Their Eyes Were Watching God. Because it was a good book. Catcher in the Rye. Because the protagonist is my generation. The Giver. Because freedom, choice, and diversity are what make life so worth living and if you remove them then we might as well be dead.
Day 30 – Your favorite book of all time
Hamlet, Fight Club, Please Don’t Kill the Freshmen, Howl’s Moving Castle, Good Omens, The Color Purple, Harry Potter, Sherlock Holmes, Pride & Prejudice, The Picture of Dorian Gray… I really could go on.
In which I try to find what has been troubling me lately
I don't know what I'm going to write about so I'll just sort of... let go and write.
I haven't been able to pay attention recently. Like more so than I'm known for. Like I don't know what it is but something has taken up a lot of space in my brain and I can't figure out what it is. I've been extra spacey, especially at work. I've misread like three names a day and that NEVER happens to me. Respondents usually like me because I always say names correctly but I've been saying Mike instead of Mark, Bill instead of Will... and while they are close to the original name the point is that this never used to happen to me.
I'm actually feeling a bit unsafe because my driving tonight was really outrageously dangerous and not on purpose. I just wasn't noticing the things I should be. I want to figure out what is going on and get it to stop.
I feel like I'm paralyzed and unable to do anything productive and it's making me even more distracted by being stressed over being so distracted. I hate the fact that my attention span never stays no matter how much I want it to. I don't like the fact that I space out so much all the time (and now I'm talking about my normal space cadetting and not my superspacing that I've taken to recently).
I want to be able to sit in a room with my friend and not have my mind wander while they're talking. I hate that it takes so much energy for me to concentrate on anything at all. I... I want to be able to focus. I think I know why it's going on but I still just wish it would stop.
I mean... yeah, I do have this huge fear of being insane because it's possible and that terrifies me. I don't want my capability to make good judgement calls to be impaired. I don't want to not have the ability to make the right choice when it comes down to it and I know I've been stressing more and more recently that there is a possibility that I might be schizophrenic, however remote it may be.
It's just... I know the symptoms and I know the signs and I know that I'm about that age when it makes its first showing but at the same time I am sort of terrified that it will happen. I've become so hyper aware of the symptoms of it that I sit there and worry every day what if this means it's going to happen what if that means it? But at the same time I'm going: Tesk, don't be daft. You don't have it. You're fine; safe. Everything will be all right. But I can't stop being afraid.
I am consumed by a fear of losing my mind. But at the same time I am terrified of finding out there is something wrong with me and I can't conquer this fear. I am too afraid of finding out I am, in fact, crazy, than I want relief in a clear bill of mental health that a therapist could give.
At the end of the day the only thing that is of any comfort is the fact that I am completely terrified of being insane and that I can say to myself: Self, you're over-reacting. There is nothing wrong with your brain.
Because that scares me. I could live with arthritis, asthma, anemia, diabetes, or one of the other multitudes of illnesses that are possible but I am paralyzed by a fear of something being wrong with my brain. My body is my vehicle but the brain is who I am and I don't want to lose who I am. Especially not to my brain. I don't want to be the thing that destroys me.
I haven't been able to pay attention recently. Like more so than I'm known for. Like I don't know what it is but something has taken up a lot of space in my brain and I can't figure out what it is. I've been extra spacey, especially at work. I've misread like three names a day and that NEVER happens to me. Respondents usually like me because I always say names correctly but I've been saying Mike instead of Mark, Bill instead of Will... and while they are close to the original name the point is that this never used to happen to me.
I'm actually feeling a bit unsafe because my driving tonight was really outrageously dangerous and not on purpose. I just wasn't noticing the things I should be. I want to figure out what is going on and get it to stop.
I feel like I'm paralyzed and unable to do anything productive and it's making me even more distracted by being stressed over being so distracted. I hate the fact that my attention span never stays no matter how much I want it to. I don't like the fact that I space out so much all the time (and now I'm talking about my normal space cadetting and not my superspacing that I've taken to recently).
I want to be able to sit in a room with my friend and not have my mind wander while they're talking. I hate that it takes so much energy for me to concentrate on anything at all. I... I want to be able to focus. I think I know why it's going on but I still just wish it would stop.
I mean... yeah, I do have this huge fear of being insane because it's possible and that terrifies me. I don't want my capability to make good judgement calls to be impaired. I don't want to not have the ability to make the right choice when it comes down to it and I know I've been stressing more and more recently that there is a possibility that I might be schizophrenic, however remote it may be.
It's just... I know the symptoms and I know the signs and I know that I'm about that age when it makes its first showing but at the same time I am sort of terrified that it will happen. I've become so hyper aware of the symptoms of it that I sit there and worry every day what if this means it's going to happen what if that means it? But at the same time I'm going: Tesk, don't be daft. You don't have it. You're fine; safe. Everything will be all right. But I can't stop being afraid.
I am consumed by a fear of losing my mind. But at the same time I am terrified of finding out there is something wrong with me and I can't conquer this fear. I am too afraid of finding out I am, in fact, crazy, than I want relief in a clear bill of mental health that a therapist could give.
At the end of the day the only thing that is of any comfort is the fact that I am completely terrified of being insane and that I can say to myself: Self, you're over-reacting. There is nothing wrong with your brain.
Because that scares me. I could live with arthritis, asthma, anemia, diabetes, or one of the other multitudes of illnesses that are possible but I am paralyzed by a fear of something being wrong with my brain. My body is my vehicle but the brain is who I am and I don't want to lose who I am. Especially not to my brain. I don't want to be the thing that destroys me.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Shot music
I love listening to music. Especially through headphones. Headphones make it so much easier to seperate myself from the world around me and just focus on the one thing. Just the music and that's it. It's so hard for me to think about just one thing that it feels wonderful to slow down and let the notes consume me.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Strep
Updates to friend about it:
Downing my morning at the urgent care. My tonsils are bleeding. How the fuck am I going to afford this?
I have strep. My wisdom tooth needs to be taken out because it's more than probably infected (don't even start) and my meds were free. I didn't pay any money this morning for this shit. Slagathor even drove me there and waited at the pharm when it took half an hour for the script to be filled.
Nic bought me apple juice and my tonsils stopped bleeding. In hindsight they were probably bleeding all night (off and on or not I don't know) because every once in a while I would taste some blood but I thought it was just the tooth.
But because the tonsils are at the back of the throat they bled directly into my throat so I didn't taste or feel it really and only actually noticed because I was checking on my tooth and my spit was like brown-red.
I had a stomach ache all night and I wasn't hungry at all even though I only eat at night (since that's when I'm up). My tonsils are swollen, veiny, my mouth has bruising and yellowing. They're bleeding off and on. There's white stuff that I'm refusing to refer to as anything but white stuff in my tonsils.(Tonsil stones actually)
Oh and there is what appears to be a sore (though it's possibly a cyst) on my wisdom tooth that is more than likely infected. Fuck it. It is infected. It is displaying all the classic signs of infection. Swelling tenderness of jaw, part of neck, and tooth and surrounding area, mild bleeding, sore/cyst, redness, and clear discharge (possibly that could also be the tonsils).
I'm on antibiotics for the next ten days and as soon as I'm off them I'm going to the dentist and getting these fuckers removed.
The wisdom teeth. I'd like to wait until I have health insurance before I ask if getting my tonsils taken out would be covered. I think they have been the route of all of my illnesses since that one really big infection I got in high school that my mother never filled my antibiotics script for.
So that is your update on the Tesk's Body Fucks Her Over When It's Bored or There's Nothing on Cable Show.
I don't think I would have made it through this as calmly as I did without my sister supporting me along the way. (Update on that when I don't see two screens when there's only one laptop open).
Downing my morning at the urgent care. My tonsils are bleeding. How the fuck am I going to afford this?
I have strep. My wisdom tooth needs to be taken out because it's more than probably infected (don't even start) and my meds were free. I didn't pay any money this morning for this shit. Slagathor even drove me there and waited at the pharm when it took half an hour for the script to be filled.
Nic bought me apple juice and my tonsils stopped bleeding. In hindsight they were probably bleeding all night (off and on or not I don't know) because every once in a while I would taste some blood but I thought it was just the tooth.
But because the tonsils are at the back of the throat they bled directly into my throat so I didn't taste or feel it really and only actually noticed because I was checking on my tooth and my spit was like brown-red.
I had a stomach ache all night and I wasn't hungry at all even though I only eat at night (since that's when I'm up). My tonsils are swollen, veiny, my mouth has bruising and yellowing. They're bleeding off and on. There's white stuff that I'm refusing to refer to as anything but white stuff in my tonsils.(
Oh and there is what appears to be a sore (though it's possibly a cyst) on my wisdom tooth that is more than likely infected. Fuck it. It is infected. It is displaying all the classic signs of infection. Swelling tenderness of jaw, part of neck, and tooth and surrounding area, mild bleeding, sore/cyst, redness, and clear discharge (possibly that could also be the tonsils).
I'm on antibiotics for the next ten days and as soon as I'm off them I'm going to the dentist and getting these fuckers removed.
The wisdom teeth. I'd like to wait until I have health insurance before I ask if getting my tonsils taken out would be covered. I think they have been the route of all of my illnesses since that one really big infection I got in high school that my mother never filled my antibiotics script for.
So that is your update on the Tesk's Body Fucks Her Over When It's Bored or There's Nothing on Cable Show.
I don't think I would have made it through this as calmly as I did without my sister supporting me along the way. (Update on that when I don't see two screens when there's only one laptop open).
Day 02 – A book that you’ve read more than 3 times
I don’t think I’ve ever actually read a book more than once. I honestly don’t see the purpose. I have an excellent recall when it comes to literature so it’s not like I really need it to remember the details. I do, however, reference certain books on occasion and even research further material from them. Particularly Harry Potter. I did do extra reading and research for Harry Potter. I am a big geek when it comes to HP. Those books spanned the entirety of me growing up, pretty much. I started them in grade four and I haven’t really stopped them. But I don’t ever really re-read books. I’ve attempted to read books more than once but I always get distracted or find a new book to read instead.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Day 01 – The best book you read last year
Last year I spent a sleepless night reading Howl’s Moving Castle and I did not live to regret it. It is the only book that I have ever actually read through in one day (graphic novels notwithstanding). From start to finish I was enthralled in this rather mundane narration that took me on this far grasping whimsical tale. It incorporated so many myths and legends and fairy tales that I just could not and would not get over it. The world was rich and captured my imagination so thoroughly that when I finished I felt, not that I had gone through Sophie’s adventure myself, but rested and ready for the world as if refreshed from seven leagues of dejection and imminent failure. I fell in love with Sophie. I felt her heartbreaks and her insecurities. I felt her triumphs and her love. It was Sophie and Howl that carried me through this story. I felt along with Sophie throughout and I fell in love with the person Howl really is… when he’s not chasing after pretty girls.
Rec 1
"Delicate as a machine gun, soft as a metal table, weak as a silver coin that lives in his pocket."
I have this dirty habit of reading fanfiction. X-men first class. Centered around Eric and Charles.
I have this dirty habit of reading fanfiction. X-men first class. Centered around Eric and Charles.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
"Tepid". I'm awake for some stupid reason.
I just. Fuck. I don't know what the fuck. I have no idea why I'm up right now. SO MUCH SHIT TO DO! Hahahahaha. Anyway. Have this short weird... thing I just wrote.
I don't even know what the fuck this is. It's just like mouth vomit. I don't know. I really don't.
I don't even know what the fuck this is. It's just like mouth vomit. I don't know. I really don't.
It’s hot and tepid at the same time. It creates as they war together. Bodies rocking, biting, clawing, kissing, feeling, careful, harsh, gently rough. There’s breathing and life and suffocation and the beginning of death. He doesn’t know if he can take it anymore. If he’s willing to feel split and sewn up. Healed and hurt at the same time. It’s so much warring within himself for something beyond him. Sober and humorless and inherently funny and humiliating and—No, not another day.
It burns, the sweat, as it drops on him from above. Wet, panting breath and spit covered lips and it’s so vulgar and dirty and just a bit of a lot of a lie. The body is soft and yielding and warm and the breeze from the open window makes everything so cold and quivering. In flashes of lunar and car light he sees her. Curves and straights. Bends and narrows. Rising and falling. Falling so hard and unforgiving and here he is still. Unyielding as the day he said hello.
In the morning he lays facing the window, opening his eyes to the golden light cascading over the paradise of concrete and steel. Glorious. He lies there, sheet resting over his shoulder, back and thighs and just exalts in the feeling of beauty and life. He feels her stirring on the bed and settles in for more of what has always happened.
She rolls over and touches his back, traces patterns or shadows. He stays still because he doesn’t not want her touch but he doesn’t want it either. Her lips are soft and implore on his shoulder. She pushes with small hands and he allows his body to fall on its back. He looks at her slowly and she smiles mischievously. He blinks. She frowns. His face stays impassive. She runs a hand through her hair in irritation. Or rather, tries to run a hand through her hair and encounters too many tangles and loses her hand to her morning jungle.
He doesn't know particularly what to do but he knows what he wants. He wanted to love her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted a normal life. He wanted so much but it's just not there. Just not possible. He hates this.
"You should leave."
"We were meant to be."
"No."
"Why can't you see what I see?"
"Because it's not there."
"Yes, it is!"
"Maybe you feel something but I don't."
"Why are you so cruel?"
"Would you rather a loveless marriage and a passionless life?"
"With you anything would be bearable."
"You're still so much of a child."
"And what does that make you?"
"Tired of the lies."
"What lies? I'm not lying to you."
"We're both lying. You that you're happy. Me that I care for you."
"You do..."
"No. Leave. It's better if you do."
"I will never give up on you."
"There was never anything to hold out on in the first place."
Friday, June 24, 2011
I
I hate my family. And I don't mean the idle "hate" that teens have for their parents because "they don't understand" or "they're so uncool." It's the sort of hatred one has for people who have wronged them. I hate sounding petty or whiny but they destroyed whatever good I had in me. I love them, I do. Really. They are my blood, I have to love them. But... I hate them. I hate what they did to me, either actively or passively. They've hurt me. So much. All of them except one and that one doesn't count because he wasn't there for the entirety of my life.
But it always hurts to realize that they really don't regard me on equal grounds with the rest of them. It hurts when they blame me for things that I didn't do or cannot control. I don't want to be the bigger man, as it's put. I really don't. I just want to leave them all behind. Delete them from my contacts list, de-friend them on facebook and forget their faces. I want to stop having nightmares about the things that happened to me and to stop feeling so afraid and angry because of how they hurt me. Mostly I want to be free to just feel. To really feel and not hold back or keep things back or repress things. I want to be free. Really, that's all I want. I don't want to forget or for it to have never have happened but I want to be able to feel freely.
I want to be able to feel happy without having to pretend. I want to feel angry without it bringing up my anger at what went down when I was younger. I want to feel grief. To really, truly, feel the kind of grief that everyone else does. I don't want my automatic response to every emotion to be repress, forget. I don't want to have to make a conscious effort to feel, actually feel. Because reacting I've got down pat but actually feeling I don't.
I hate feeling like a monster because I don't feel the way I should. I walk around each day and I'm so full of nothing. It's heavy and it takes so much effort to do anything. Every interaction involves so much thinking and acting and it is just so damn tiring.
But it always hurts to realize that they really don't regard me on equal grounds with the rest of them. It hurts when they blame me for things that I didn't do or cannot control. I don't want to be the bigger man, as it's put. I really don't. I just want to leave them all behind. Delete them from my contacts list, de-friend them on facebook and forget their faces. I want to stop having nightmares about the things that happened to me and to stop feeling so afraid and angry because of how they hurt me. Mostly I want to be free to just feel. To really feel and not hold back or keep things back or repress things. I want to be free. Really, that's all I want. I don't want to forget or for it to have never have happened but I want to be able to feel freely.
I want to be able to feel happy without having to pretend. I want to feel angry without it bringing up my anger at what went down when I was younger. I want to feel grief. To really, truly, feel the kind of grief that everyone else does. I don't want my automatic response to every emotion to be repress, forget. I don't want to have to make a conscious effort to feel, actually feel. Because reacting I've got down pat but actually feeling I don't.
I hate feeling like a monster because I don't feel the way I should. I walk around each day and I'm so full of nothing. It's heavy and it takes so much effort to do anything. Every interaction involves so much thinking and acting and it is just so damn tiring.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Mischievous Genius
Some of the most intelligent and unique people on this Earth are not all that different from you or me. What truly sets them apart are four things. 1) They ask why. 2) They ask how 3) They look up for no other reason than to see what's there. 4) They take "I don't know" as a personal challenge. It is not I.Q. or originality that sets some of our most valued citizens apart but this crucial ability to look at the world and wonder and never stop wondering; to look and imagine and never stop imagining; to break standards and conventions not simply on accident or through contrivance but because it simply was in the way. These are the type of people that make impacts so profound that they are never not felt. These are the people we see echoes of in our daily life. They become archetypes through their impressions on society's psyche. These are the people that made "the mad scientist," "the cook philosopher," "the mischievous genius," or "the lonely prodigy."
Friday, June 10, 2011
So This Is What I did For the Past Week Or What I Remember of It.
I had these great writing plans for this past week but they all failed through horribly because of The Flu of Doom. There were moments there I thought for damn-cocking-shit-for-cunting-pisser-fuck that I was going to be the next rare instance of spontaneous human(ish) combustion. My fever broke after one night of hallucinating and flailing about like a minute old kitten but left me weak, sore, tired, thirsty, and with a resilient malaise.
It resurfaced that night after I managed to be well(ish) enough to make it out to the Greater Saint Louis Renaissance Faire Ground (I work there at a smoothie booth on weekends in May and September). Where I spent all of Saturday drifting in and out of consciousness on my boss' bed, visited sporadicly by friends coming up to escape the heat or have an afternoon smoke. I tried valiantly to stay for the Cast party that night but barely made it down to the showers before existence seemed like such a damn hard thing to do.
My friend kindly gathered up my assortment of drugs (for the sickness) and me and drove me home. Through which I spent the entirety of the ride alternatively napping on my stuffed penguin pillow or telling him orders for random fast-food places that I thought I wanted. (I ended up getting a burrito from Chipotle and glaring ardently at the server who, in my opinion was too cheery to live.)
I spent Sunday sleeping or propped up against the headboard pretending to talk to friends but mostly staring out into space and wondering how hard it would be to set the world on fire to make it all stop. I don't even remember Monday except for a throbbing indirect pain in my ears and a coughing that would not cease. What I remember from Tuesday may involve making my friend drive to the store to get me an econo pack of cough drops and some sweets? I'm not sure about the sweets. Wednesday I felt very good. I was well enough to accidentally make previously spoken about generous friend cry no less than three times in a span of two hours. Thursday I thought I was well, honest to Moffat. (Save for the part where I slept for approximately twelve plus hours).
Some time in all of this sleeping and coughing and pain and terribleness I began making plans with my aforementioned friend to start a Food Blog (The (Mis)Adventures of the Cook and the Useless Assistant). I'm the Useless Assistant because I'm lazy and generally just sit there while he's cooking making spousal abuse jokes and cussing a lot).
Also some time in this I agreed to re-watch Jurassic Park with my BFF. We've gone through Jurassic Park, The Lost World, and tonight we're supposed to finish with the third one (We both sort of went all squeally and giggly at the adorable raptors and the too cute baby T-rex).
So that was my experience being exceptionally sick and making some terrible decisions. (Like deciding it was smart to pretty much live off of cough drops and water for a week.)
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Just So You Know
I feel like writing something amazing. It's forming inside my mind but it isn't done yet.
Cheerio.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Reason I love Horror, Angst, Romance, and Violence
I know this is going to sound creepy but I really don't give a fuck.
I love writing intimate moments. Not really sex scenes because that's different but moments where someone bares their soul and mind and shows everything that's on the inside. I love taking a scene that could be about as emotionally involved as pouring milk and make it a scene where it feels as if you've just stuck your hands in someone's warm and slick insides and they're not quite dead yet...
I could feel their eyes looking up at me-- large and round and full of an inconceivable question ("Why?"). I smile brighter, cheerier, and hum to myself as I kneel on the wet floor. The blood hasn't stopped but that's ok, that makes sense. They haven't died yet. In fact, they won't die. They will just lay there, looking up, unable to defend themselves as I slowly, softly, slip my hands inside the rent open hole in their torso. Oh, how I love the warmth in here. Inside humanity it is so very very warm.
"People always forget, you know, what temperature we run at," I say quietly, cheerily, to them. "We have an average temperature of ninety-eight degrees. That's oh so very hot. You can't touch an object that hot." Their small intestine feels a bit like a wide hose in my hand. I giggle briefly, reminded of summers spent running up to the garden hose for a drink. I remember fumbling with the hosing because it was wet and slicked with mud because I had left it in the yard just a little bit on so it leaked warm water onto the grass.
"This is why I love writing moments like these," I say and raise the intestine up to my face. "People are so soft and vulnerable and people always seem to forget that. I like to take their vulnerabilities and raise them to my face... So close I could pucker out my lips and..." I cup the length of intestine carefully in my hand because it is wet and it could slip right out and I press my lips delicately to them. "Kiss them. I like showing people how they tick. I like the act behind it."
I set the intestine down and finger the dip between sternum and rib. "I like how they pretend that it's the character, splayed out before them, helpless and unable to protect themself," I say and slide my finger like a curious young girl in bed at night on the underneath of their ribcage. "I really do enjoy taking the things that people wince from and presenting it to them, as if it were a treasure I had found."
I smirk and lightly run my palm over their lungs. I can almost feel the burning, suffocating feel that the pressure of my hand must create for them. "I love putting something before them that they will not forget," I whisper this with my face as close to their open wound as I can get and not leave my kneeling position. "I love knowing that I have invaded them and knowing that no, I will not leave and yes, you will be thinking of this later. Maybe when you're alone or maybe when you're walking under a streetlamp at night by yourself on a nice warm evening."
I dig my nails into their lung and hear their scream catch in their chest and turn into a gurgled moan. I can feel their soft tissue under my nails. So warm and tender and alive. "You'll feel the warm air against the back of your neck and know that I am there. I am with you. Because I'm in your mind now and I will never leave." I smile a slow, lazy smile and push my other hand underneath their ribcage. I can feel their intestines shift under my elbows.
I love writing intimate moments. Not really sex scenes because that's different but moments where someone bares their soul and mind and shows everything that's on the inside. I love taking a scene that could be about as emotionally involved as pouring milk and make it a scene where it feels as if you've just stuck your hands in someone's warm and slick insides and they're not quite dead yet...
I could feel their eyes looking up at me-- large and round and full of an inconceivable question ("Why?"). I smile brighter, cheerier, and hum to myself as I kneel on the wet floor. The blood hasn't stopped but that's ok, that makes sense. They haven't died yet. In fact, they won't die. They will just lay there, looking up, unable to defend themselves as I slowly, softly, slip my hands inside the rent open hole in their torso. Oh, how I love the warmth in here. Inside humanity it is so very very warm.
"People always forget, you know, what temperature we run at," I say quietly, cheerily, to them. "We have an average temperature of ninety-eight degrees. That's oh so very hot. You can't touch an object that hot." Their small intestine feels a bit like a wide hose in my hand. I giggle briefly, reminded of summers spent running up to the garden hose for a drink. I remember fumbling with the hosing because it was wet and slicked with mud because I had left it in the yard just a little bit on so it leaked warm water onto the grass.
"This is why I love writing moments like these," I say and raise the intestine up to my face. "People are so soft and vulnerable and people always seem to forget that. I like to take their vulnerabilities and raise them to my face... So close I could pucker out my lips and..." I cup the length of intestine carefully in my hand because it is wet and it could slip right out and I press my lips delicately to them. "Kiss them. I like showing people how they tick. I like the act behind it."
I set the intestine down and finger the dip between sternum and rib. "I like how they pretend that it's the character, splayed out before them, helpless and unable to protect themself," I say and slide my finger like a curious young girl in bed at night on the underneath of their ribcage. "I really do enjoy taking the things that people wince from and presenting it to them, as if it were a treasure I had found."
I smirk and lightly run my palm over their lungs. I can almost feel the burning, suffocating feel that the pressure of my hand must create for them. "I love putting something before them that they will not forget," I whisper this with my face as close to their open wound as I can get and not leave my kneeling position. "I love knowing that I have invaded them and knowing that no, I will not leave and yes, you will be thinking of this later. Maybe when you're alone or maybe when you're walking under a streetlamp at night by yourself on a nice warm evening."
I dig my nails into their lung and hear their scream catch in their chest and turn into a gurgled moan. I can feel their soft tissue under my nails. So warm and tender and alive. "You'll feel the warm air against the back of your neck and know that I am there. I am with you. Because I'm in your mind now and I will never leave." I smile a slow, lazy smile and push my other hand underneath their ribcage. I can feel their intestines shift under my elbows.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
So I solved it
Turns out all it took to solve my sexuality (non)crisis was google (ALL HAIL THE OVERLORD) and a really awesome chatroom.
Turns out that all this self-hate and discomfort with who I am has stemmed from a really weird denial. Like the weirdest kind you can think of.
Seriously doubt anyone I know will see this coming but....
I'm asexual.
Specifically (And to be a douche) I'm a panromantic asexual.
There. Said it. Done with it. If you want more information on what that means go HERE.
And that's it. I'm done talking about it for a while.
In a bit I'll come back and explain but for now. That's all I can offer.
Turns out that all this self-hate and discomfort with who I am has stemmed from a really weird denial. Like the weirdest kind you can think of.
Seriously doubt anyone I know will see this coming but....
I'm asexual.
Specifically (And to be a douche) I'm a panromantic asexual.
There. Said it. Done with it. If you want more information on what that means go HERE.
And that's it. I'm done talking about it for a while.
In a bit I'll come back and explain but for now. That's all I can offer.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
It Just Never Crossed My Mind
I've never really had a crisis about my sexual orientation before and I think I know why now. This is just... I don't know. I am so uncertain and confused right now and it makes NO SENSE because gender has never mattered to me. EVER. I really, honestly, don't care about gender. But there's another part of sexual orientation that a lot of people forget or don't think about because it does seem like it's a bit inconceivable but... I think I'm actually beginning to understand what I am. Like... I think I've finally found the words to describe that part of me but I just don't want to be throwing it out there until I know for sure for sure but... This is hard. It has never been this hard for me to find or admit to anything in my life.
I am so scared right now because this is just so astoundingly right-feeling but... at the same time it's like how could this ever possibly be true and how will I ever find someone now?
I am so scared right now because this is just so astoundingly right-feeling but... at the same time it's like how could this ever possibly be true and how will I ever find someone now?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Soul mate
A soul mate to me, is a bond that is romantic, family centric, platonic, and all things. It is love…to me, that can never be replaced, matched, or even come close to. It isn’t the sort of bond that is sex centric, but rather, the bond itself is erotic and very much replaces physical pleasure. It is the kind of bond that makes romantic relationships with other people impossible or next to impossible because you would never really be able to put that romantic interest ahead of your soul mate. . I don’t think everybody has a soul mate. I don’t think it’s a cosmic or magical thing. To me, it is a rare, special thing that really only exists for a select group of very lucky people.
-j2annon
-j2annon
IDEKWTF
I spend a lot of my day wondering exactly what orientation I am, sexually. Because I appreciate women, and I appreciate men, and I have no problem with either but... there are times when romance just seems like too much fucking work to bother.
It's not that I'm not sexual because I am. I have needs and desires but I don't think they're the same as everyone else. I don't masturbate because I enjoy it. I do it because it fills a need that my body has. I don't even do it frequently. By my estimation I only do it when I'm ovulating and my hormones are running high. I don't even think of anyone or anything in particular. It's like the act doesn't reach my mind because in my mind I could be thinking about what I'll do for my next homework assignment or wondering where I left my glasses because I'm always fucking leaving them in weird places but it never matters what I'm thinking about because my body always reacts the same.
It's not just when I'm by myself, though. When I do have sex with someone else I can think about just about anything without it bothering me. Sometimes I just run through my mental cheque book or start thinking about what I should write next. I do focus on my actions, yeah. I pay enough attention to notice when something is liked or not and to make sure my partner enjoys themselves but... I don't enjoy it mentally.
Physically, sure, I guess. A body is a body and you touch a body and it'll do something but I never find it enough for my mind. Aside from the fact that the act is disturbing in a way. Grunts and sweat, wet slapping sounds, the occasional mouth-plunger noise.... I just don't like it. Which is weird beyond belief because I like kissing and I like cuddling and touching and I enjoy that a lot but I would be content to never go further. In fact I think I'd be happy if I found someone who was content to not have intercourse. I mean, I like making people I care for feel good and I like discovering what noises they can make or where they like to be touched but for me I just like the intimacy of being able to touch them without hinderance.
I could care less about getting off, really, I just enjoy being close to someone and I don't need to have sex to be intimate with someone.
I think that's kind of why I have a tendency to date women instead of men even though I do find men more appealing. It's because I can have sex with a woman, be close to her, touch her, and intimately know her without having to involve my own genitals. I like touching and loving and caring and I'll let someone do so to me if it fills a need for them; if it makes them happy.
Sometime I think I'm gay. I know pretty much everybody who only sort of knows me thinks I am gay. Like my sister is convinced I am and maybe she's right. Sometimes I think I'm straight but there's no one who agrees with me. Possibly because I flirt with women. Sometimes I think I'm bisexual. And I know there's some people who agree with me there. But I don't really know because I'm not particularly attracted to any person. Sure, I recognize when someone is attractive but I'm never really drawn to anyone. I'm never actually attracted to anyone.
Some of my friends I find beautiful, regardless of gender. But I'm never sexually attracted to anyone. I'm drawn to some people's minds. I want to get to know them but mostly it's the mystery. Because I don't know everything about them and these people that I am drawn to have a tendency to keep details to themselves and there's that challenge of figuring them out without them having to tell me or of manipulating them into telling me.
But even when I find out I'm still fascinated by them. I could watch them silently, contently, for long stretches of time. Just doing whatever it is they do.
I especially love surprising them by knowing things they've never told me. Especially things I shouldn't know. Like getting a friend's mobile number without asking her or knowing where another friend lives without them ever having specifically said.
But even still.... I'm never actually physically attracted to someone. No one has ever "turned me on".
And I know that's not... right? per se. That I should want someone sexually. But I just don't. I want people intellectually or intimately. But never sexually.
Idekwtfti.
Maybe this is why none of my relationships work out. Whatever.
It's not that I'm not sexual because I am. I have needs and desires but I don't think they're the same as everyone else. I don't masturbate because I enjoy it. I do it because it fills a need that my body has. I don't even do it frequently. By my estimation I only do it when I'm ovulating and my hormones are running high. I don't even think of anyone or anything in particular. It's like the act doesn't reach my mind because in my mind I could be thinking about what I'll do for my next homework assignment or wondering where I left my glasses because I'm always fucking leaving them in weird places but it never matters what I'm thinking about because my body always reacts the same.
It's not just when I'm by myself, though. When I do have sex with someone else I can think about just about anything without it bothering me. Sometimes I just run through my mental cheque book or start thinking about what I should write next. I do focus on my actions, yeah. I pay enough attention to notice when something is liked or not and to make sure my partner enjoys themselves but... I don't enjoy it mentally.
Physically, sure, I guess. A body is a body and you touch a body and it'll do something but I never find it enough for my mind. Aside from the fact that the act is disturbing in a way. Grunts and sweat, wet slapping sounds, the occasional mouth-plunger noise.... I just don't like it. Which is weird beyond belief because I like kissing and I like cuddling and touching and I enjoy that a lot but I would be content to never go further. In fact I think I'd be happy if I found someone who was content to not have intercourse. I mean, I like making people I care for feel good and I like discovering what noises they can make or where they like to be touched but for me I just like the intimacy of being able to touch them without hinderance.
I could care less about getting off, really, I just enjoy being close to someone and I don't need to have sex to be intimate with someone.
I think that's kind of why I have a tendency to date women instead of men even though I do find men more appealing. It's because I can have sex with a woman, be close to her, touch her, and intimately know her without having to involve my own genitals. I like touching and loving and caring and I'll let someone do so to me if it fills a need for them; if it makes them happy.
Sometime I think I'm gay. I know pretty much everybody who only sort of knows me thinks I am gay. Like my sister is convinced I am and maybe she's right. Sometimes I think I'm straight but there's no one who agrees with me. Possibly because I flirt with women. Sometimes I think I'm bisexual. And I know there's some people who agree with me there. But I don't really know because I'm not particularly attracted to any person. Sure, I recognize when someone is attractive but I'm never really drawn to anyone. I'm never actually attracted to anyone.
Some of my friends I find beautiful, regardless of gender. But I'm never sexually attracted to anyone. I'm drawn to some people's minds. I want to get to know them but mostly it's the mystery. Because I don't know everything about them and these people that I am drawn to have a tendency to keep details to themselves and there's that challenge of figuring them out without them having to tell me or of manipulating them into telling me.
But even when I find out I'm still fascinated by them. I could watch them silently, contently, for long stretches of time. Just doing whatever it is they do.
I especially love surprising them by knowing things they've never told me. Especially things I shouldn't know. Like getting a friend's mobile number without asking her or knowing where another friend lives without them ever having specifically said.
But even still.... I'm never actually physically attracted to someone. No one has ever "turned me on".
And I know that's not... right? per se. That I should want someone sexually. But I just don't. I want people intellectually or intimately. But never sexually.
Idekwtfti.
Maybe this is why none of my relationships work out. Whatever.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sharing Is Daring.
SOmetimes my biggest fear isn't sharable because that is what the fear is about. Not that I can't share something but that the burden of knowing my fears or bad memories or nightmares is too much for the person I entrust them to. I know it's ridiculous and I know it's stupid but I can't help it. I don't mind sharing things when people ask questions. I don't mind sharing the facts of my life with people but it's the things that make me press my lips together against my front teeth, it's the things that ball up tight and acidic in the middle of my spine, it's the things that make me feel breathless and empty that I don't like to share.
I don't mind telling people that my mother was a prostitute. I don't mind telling that my father has been hooked on speed and other various drugs my entire life. I don't like sharing my fear of becoming an addict. I don't like sharing what my mother being a prostitute makes me feel deep in the back of my head where sometimes a pressure builds and is painful to even think about. I don't like sharing these things because it means that the person I tell them to now has to hold them up to and they're so heavy and thick that it just seems like too much to ask someone.
I don't think I'll ever get a psychiatrist. Not because I'm uncomfortable with the thought of talking to one but because I don't want them to make my experiences into excuses. Because they're just not. My dysfunction is something I own. My weirdness, my quirks, and eccentricities make up who I am. They are part of me just as much as my experiences are and I don't want someone going: Oh well, you know, she was molested as a child and that's why she's obsessed with sex. Because it's just not fucking good enough to think that. I was molested as a kid. I do have a preoccupation with sex. The two may be linked but that doesn't mean I have an event to blame, an excuse for how I act. I act the way I do because I so choose. The end.
Sure, I could blame my parents, blame my siblings, blame my relatives for how I act but that makes my actions not my own and I just won't fucking hear that. Because my actions are my own and I won't let anyone else have them. If I blame something then it just means that that part of me is no longer mine and that is unacceptable.
I don't mind telling people that my mother was a prostitute. I don't mind telling that my father has been hooked on speed and other various drugs my entire life. I don't like sharing my fear of becoming an addict. I don't like sharing what my mother being a prostitute makes me feel deep in the back of my head where sometimes a pressure builds and is painful to even think about. I don't like sharing these things because it means that the person I tell them to now has to hold them up to and they're so heavy and thick that it just seems like too much to ask someone.
I don't think I'll ever get a psychiatrist. Not because I'm uncomfortable with the thought of talking to one but because I don't want them to make my experiences into excuses. Because they're just not. My dysfunction is something I own. My weirdness, my quirks, and eccentricities make up who I am. They are part of me just as much as my experiences are and I don't want someone going: Oh well, you know, she was molested as a child and that's why she's obsessed with sex. Because it's just not fucking good enough to think that. I was molested as a kid. I do have a preoccupation with sex. The two may be linked but that doesn't mean I have an event to blame, an excuse for how I act. I act the way I do because I so choose. The end.
Sure, I could blame my parents, blame my siblings, blame my relatives for how I act but that makes my actions not my own and I just won't fucking hear that. Because my actions are my own and I won't let anyone else have them. If I blame something then it just means that that part of me is no longer mine and that is unacceptable.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Like Grown Ups Do (Unsettling Content)
Today I was watching Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and the two elderly people I live with were sitting there next to me and neither of them seemed as interested in the program as I.
I was sitting there durring a commercial and it got me thinking. Why do I like this program? It's unpleasant and never happy and it's uncomfortable to the other people in the room as I since I only ever watch it on the T.V.
But I don't really know why I asked this because I know why I watch these kind of shows.
I'm obsessed with them.
I'm obsessed with sexual assault. But it's not a kink or any sort of physical thing for me. It's sort of cathartic to watch police officers run about and try to solve these crimes because it never happened for me or those I know that these sort of things have happened to.
I watch these types of shows because it helps me live with what happened to me.
There is a lot of things I've heard about my childhood but I've blocked so much of it out that I don't feel comfortable relying on other's heresy. I know what is said is at least partially true because I'll have dreams or moments where I remember something from when I was little that I don't actively know. I have memories of seeing my mother get fucked by strangers. I have memories of strange people coming in to my room at night when I lived with her and doing things. Most of my memories are very vague and convoluted because I've spent so long trying to forget them that they're not quite reliable anymore but...
I remember one instance when I was older that I've never been able to forget.
There had been some emergency that called away both my father and my mum and they hadn't been able to find anyone to watch us so they left us with the only option available: my uncle Dale. He was nice, if a bit strange at times but he wasn't so odd for a member of our family. He lived with my other uncle, Steven, who I loved intensely. Steven collected Star Trek memorabilia and those little plaster houses from the Dollar Store, just to give you an idea of what 'normal' constituted in the family.
Anyway, we stayed over and during the day it was fine. We played at a creek and I was mostly left alone, as most people do with me. I was very into myself from a young age. By that I don't mean that I loved myself and only paid attention to myself but that I spent most of my time in the imaginary world in my head. So my two brothers played with each other and I joined in sort of. My uncle always seemed to like my brothers better so I didn't really mind. I didn't know him too well and he was no Uncle Steven so I didn't really pay any mind to him.
But come that evening is when the strange started. I didn't think it at the time, probably because I was young and because I didn't know any better. But when he took each of us alone into his room to pat down with powder (I assume it was baby powder or something similar) it was strange and it should have sounded an alarm but it didn't. It sounded so reasonable when he took me in there after one of my brothers to "check for ticks" and apply this powder for some reason. He was an adult and as such I trusted him, as most children trust adults of their family.
I remember being confused because I could check myself in the mirror for ticks but I trusted him because I didn't know what a tick was or what they looked like. I know he convinced me to kiss him under some line about doing things like "grown ups". Applying the powder and checking for ticks constituted an all-body search.
An all over the body search.
But he treated me like a "grown up"
I was happy. I was fucking happy because adults never treated me like a grown up. I was small, blond, and had one of those little girl voices and no one took me seriously. Usually they just ignored me or pandered to me.
It ended quickly because one of my brothers was waiting for his tick-check but it didn't stop there.
Later, when we were watching a movie, he sat me in his lap and asked me again if I wanted to learn to kiss like the grown ups do. I was eager because I was small and young and he's my uncle and family means safe, right?
So he showed me what a grown up kiss was and he touched me and made me touch him.
And I think this is about the last time I ever really trusted my family or adults in general.
Because in the back of my head I knew he did something wrong. That he wasn't supposed to do that with little girls like me and the older I got the more revolted I was at what he had done.
The more it made me hate my family and it even got me to start to distrust my brothers and pull away from them. Before this it had always been big brother, me, then little brother against everyone else but I couldn't trust them anymore.
They were there for the second come around of this. They were sitting right there in the room and they did nothing. Not even my older brother who I know has gone through enough bad-touch moments to know better.
I couldn't trust them. I couldn't like them. They had betrayed me. My whole family. I know this sounds a bit melodramatic but that's just the sentiment I have. I can't trust them because they made me damaged.
They have damaged me so much and I doubt there is recovery from this ever. There only seems to be coping. But I don't know if I want to cope with the things that happened to me while I was growing up. Sometimes I just want to drown myself in recklessness so that I can at least pretend not to care about myself. I hate my family and I hate myself and I hate the world because we all let this happen to me and it just makes me so angry all the time.
All this anger and hurt and rage and pain and guilt just makes me feel like I don't quite belong to the human race because there's no way the rest of them burn in their center with this massive craving to destroy everything because it all just makes it hurt and the destruction will make them feel alive and whole. It seems perverted to want to set everything on fire just to be able to appreciate how alive it was.
I love life and I love existence and I love the passion and energy that is humanity but I spend so much of my life inside this contradiction.
I hate everyone and everything but in the same breath I love them all and I feel so much. I don't understand how I don't feel at ends. I suppose, though, that it's simply my nature. I hate and I love in the same breath because I feel as if with every breath I live that I die. I revel in this contradiction. It feels so human and I need that sometimes because there are moments where I'd rather see the world burn than continue on with this mass of sickening and depraved individuals that make up the glorious race I am apart of.
I was sitting there durring a commercial and it got me thinking. Why do I like this program? It's unpleasant and never happy and it's uncomfortable to the other people in the room as I since I only ever watch it on the T.V.
But I don't really know why I asked this because I know why I watch these kind of shows.
I'm obsessed with them.
I'm obsessed with sexual assault. But it's not a kink or any sort of physical thing for me. It's sort of cathartic to watch police officers run about and try to solve these crimes because it never happened for me or those I know that these sort of things have happened to.
I watch these types of shows because it helps me live with what happened to me.
There is a lot of things I've heard about my childhood but I've blocked so much of it out that I don't feel comfortable relying on other's heresy. I know what is said is at least partially true because I'll have dreams or moments where I remember something from when I was little that I don't actively know. I have memories of seeing my mother get fucked by strangers. I have memories of strange people coming in to my room at night when I lived with her and doing things. Most of my memories are very vague and convoluted because I've spent so long trying to forget them that they're not quite reliable anymore but...
I remember one instance when I was older that I've never been able to forget.
There had been some emergency that called away both my father and my mum and they hadn't been able to find anyone to watch us so they left us with the only option available: my uncle Dale. He was nice, if a bit strange at times but he wasn't so odd for a member of our family. He lived with my other uncle, Steven, who I loved intensely. Steven collected Star Trek memorabilia and those little plaster houses from the Dollar Store, just to give you an idea of what 'normal' constituted in the family.
Anyway, we stayed over and during the day it was fine. We played at a creek and I was mostly left alone, as most people do with me. I was very into myself from a young age. By that I don't mean that I loved myself and only paid attention to myself but that I spent most of my time in the imaginary world in my head. So my two brothers played with each other and I joined in sort of. My uncle always seemed to like my brothers better so I didn't really mind. I didn't know him too well and he was no Uncle Steven so I didn't really pay any mind to him.
But come that evening is when the strange started. I didn't think it at the time, probably because I was young and because I didn't know any better. But when he took each of us alone into his room to pat down with powder (I assume it was baby powder or something similar) it was strange and it should have sounded an alarm but it didn't. It sounded so reasonable when he took me in there after one of my brothers to "check for ticks" and apply this powder for some reason. He was an adult and as such I trusted him, as most children trust adults of their family.
I remember being confused because I could check myself in the mirror for ticks but I trusted him because I didn't know what a tick was or what they looked like. I know he convinced me to kiss him under some line about doing things like "grown ups". Applying the powder and checking for ticks constituted an all-body search.
An all over the body search.
But he treated me like a "grown up"
I was happy. I was fucking happy because adults never treated me like a grown up. I was small, blond, and had one of those little girl voices and no one took me seriously. Usually they just ignored me or pandered to me.
It ended quickly because one of my brothers was waiting for his tick-check but it didn't stop there.
Later, when we were watching a movie, he sat me in his lap and asked me again if I wanted to learn to kiss like the grown ups do. I was eager because I was small and young and he's my uncle and family means safe, right?
So he showed me what a grown up kiss was and he touched me and made me touch him.
And I think this is about the last time I ever really trusted my family or adults in general.
Because in the back of my head I knew he did something wrong. That he wasn't supposed to do that with little girls like me and the older I got the more revolted I was at what he had done.
The more it made me hate my family and it even got me to start to distrust my brothers and pull away from them. Before this it had always been big brother, me, then little brother against everyone else but I couldn't trust them anymore.
They were there for the second come around of this. They were sitting right there in the room and they did nothing. Not even my older brother who I know has gone through enough bad-touch moments to know better.
I couldn't trust them. I couldn't like them. They had betrayed me. My whole family. I know this sounds a bit melodramatic but that's just the sentiment I have. I can't trust them because they made me damaged.
They have damaged me so much and I doubt there is recovery from this ever. There only seems to be coping. But I don't know if I want to cope with the things that happened to me while I was growing up. Sometimes I just want to drown myself in recklessness so that I can at least pretend not to care about myself. I hate my family and I hate myself and I hate the world because we all let this happen to me and it just makes me so angry all the time.
All this anger and hurt and rage and pain and guilt just makes me feel like I don't quite belong to the human race because there's no way the rest of them burn in their center with this massive craving to destroy everything because it all just makes it hurt and the destruction will make them feel alive and whole. It seems perverted to want to set everything on fire just to be able to appreciate how alive it was.
I love life and I love existence and I love the passion and energy that is humanity but I spend so much of my life inside this contradiction.
I hate everyone and everything but in the same breath I love them all and I feel so much. I don't understand how I don't feel at ends. I suppose, though, that it's simply my nature. I hate and I love in the same breath because I feel as if with every breath I live that I die. I revel in this contradiction. It feels so human and I need that sometimes because there are moments where I'd rather see the world burn than continue on with this mass of sickening and depraved individuals that make up the glorious race I am apart of.
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