The Art of Digging Holes

My mom used to dig holes every year. They wouldn’t be pretty things or hard to spot. She’d find a place under the Manzanita next to our apartment and dig. It wasn’t technically part of the property we rented but it was close enough to us and far enough away from everyone else that no one minded. When she was done she’d paint oblong rocks with little designs and a name on them then set the rock at the head of where the hole used to be. Every day for weeks after she’d make the hole I’d walk past it on my way home and squint through the afternoon sun into the shade of the trees at the mounds of freshly turned earth. I always felt a sort of abstraction from the whole thing. Something would happen—a car usually—and mom would have to dig a hole. She never seemed sad about it. I remember when it was Murphy the cat my little brother didn’t cry. My dad thought the whole thing was an inconvenience from the looks of it. The first time there wasn’t a hole my older brother cried when he got the news. I was the first to know.

It was late at night and I had snuck downstairs for a drink but I didn’t get that far. As soon as he saw me, he whined. McCartney was on the rug we had that ran from the step down of the entry way and the kitchen. He looked up at me with fear in his eyes and yowled. I was scared, I didn’t want to get caught out of my room that late at night so I hurried out of the room and stood there, listening. He called after me. I couldn’t stay away. I’d never heard him sound like that.

So I crept back in and he scooted his way to me. It looked like he was trying to run away from his back legs. They weren’t moving, just trailing after him, tail flat and lifeless. McCartney made this hollow noise, looking up at me, his eyes round and wide. I reached out and touched his head, scratching behind his ears. He lay down after that and meowed again. I didn’t know what to do—I was just a kid and I’d never been the one to find them before – so I woke my dad (who had slept through McCartney’s cries like a baby not two feet away) then ran upstairs and woke my mom.

They took him to the vet and I went back to bed, worried but comforted that my parents were taking care of it. When my older brother came home from staying over at his friends there was no ceremony to it, no “we have to talk” or “I have some bad news” from mom or dad. Mom just walked up to him and said, “McCartney had a stroke. We took him to the vet but there was nothing they could do.” They both made comments like my older brother would like that his cat died high as a kite. I was revolted by this but decided they must know better how to deliver this news than I. After all, this was the first time I had discovered a reason for a hole.

But the hole never came. Two years later when Squirt, the turtle, died because of parasites there was no hole either. My dad just picked him up, put him in one of mom’s many shoeboxes, and tossed him in the trash. I felt as removed from it as I had when my mom dug the holes.

Today I dug my first hole. It was for Cecil who was white with a blond vest, shy, and liked to kiss my nose. I used to call him my fatty ratty, my mushmallow, my baby boy. Because that’s what you do when you hold a little life in your hands; you fill it up with love and tenderness and soft touches until they give you a reason to dig a hole.

The thing I didn’t know about digging holes is that there are choices you can make which will display your sentiments and your care (or lack thereof). My mom’s holes were always over-filled. She’d put all the dirt back in it until the ground bloated up over the bodies. She’d leave a visible mark where something once living was now decaying. She’d take a rock and paint it but always used water colors which meant the paint would fade then disappear, leaving only a lump of earth that would eventually erode away to subtle bumps. Cecil’s hole was not like that.

I borrowed a shovel from a friend. It had a long handle but a small head, just wide enough to make a good-sized hole. I looked around the backyard, I tried a few places. The ground is pretty hard this time of year so I tested the soil by pushing the shovel in and standing on it to see how long it took to sink below the grass and into the soil. I found a good spot by the chain link fence. It’s in the sun but near where a bush grows during the heat of summer. I framed my chosen spot by stabbing the earth, using my weight to sink the shovel into the ground. I made a rectangle half a foot wide and eight inches long then pushed the shovel back into the line. I put my boot on the back and pried until I got the grass up in one piece. I looked kind of silly, I know, prying up the grass like that. I’m sure Cecil would have loved it. Rats love to dig and play in grass.

After that I dug about a foot down, making sure to keep it in that geometric shape because I watch too much TV and they always dig these impossibly perfectly rectangular holes. Mine was less than perfect but I was pleased with it anyway. It was mostly rectangle at its entrance but belled like a hammock at the bottom. When I finished, I gathered up Cecil – now wrapped in the first sheet he ever destroyed (never leave rats unattended with your bedding as they will make it their bedding)—and put him inside a fast food box that had once contained chicken. He loved chicken. It was the perfect size for him even with how bloated in death he’d gotten. The box went in the hole and I put back only half the dirt I’d taken out then flipped the square of grass I’d pried off back over and hit the ground until it lay flat.

The only way you can tell that I dug a hole today is the dark soil still sitting next to where it is and the small toy I placed at the head of it. The toy was Cecil’s favorite; a brightly colored ball made out of chewing logs with an actual wood ball in the center so it rattled when he rolled it. I thought he might like that. Though I wasn’t thinking of anything when I dug the hole. Before I thought about it; I debated the best place to put it, what box to use, where I could find a shovel, what time of day to do it, what to do after I dug it, whether or not I should get a rock like my mom used to do. But I never thought of a single thing except digging while I was making that hole. The first thing that came to mind when I was done, standing in the sun with a shovel over my shoulder and staring at Cecil’s grave, was “There’s an art to digging holes.” I have to wonder if my mom thought the same thing when she made her first hole.

Haunted.

Living is like walking, possessed, through an old house that's veiled in spider webs. I am shrouded by ghosts that drive my body through rote actions that at one time were not my own.
It's only natural to hunch my back, sip at a beer while on the porch, and slowly smoke. I am not myself when I do this but I am more myself then than any other time. Because I am my father; thin lips wrapped around the mouth of a bitter ale and existential dilemas over his lack of ability to communicate. These are not my thoughts but his. He is long dead but still here in the most subtle and invasive ways possible. He mumbles his thoughts on intelligence and they come out my mouth. He throws the kitchen towel over his shoulder while he cooks and my arm goes to follow him. He speaks quietly, with a most effective venom when angered, and my mouth hisses out sibilant word after sharp vitriolic invective. Even with this, it is not him that has taken the strongest hold on my mindlessness.
Chris. I've heard her cadence in my voice and felt those nervous jitters she used to get in my leg. Every smile I make is hers and every cock of my hip sends pains of remembrance down the spines of my family. Not even one of my oldest favorite authors is my own.
It is hers.
Everything that makes me a unique individual is a simulation of someone else. I wear a well-stitched skin of other people, making me the very best Frankenstein's Monster there has ever been. I have her smile and chin and his nose and hairline and her fashion and his sense of humor and hopefully, hopefully, one day I'll have her air of solemn love that blanketed her like Atlas' onus.
I am not alone in this.
We are all quilts made up of other people and their memory. Whether they be alive or no, they will haunt us until our very last breath and after it. Every smile, every laugh, every sad time, every pain, every ounce of suffering that we have builds our control over others.
We haunt the living as much as the living and dead haunt us. Other people's experiences that we have helped them build will take to their minds and stick like flimsy spider webs; they will cling to them and cause them to mindlessly jerk their body in motions that are ours and not their own.
Except they are now.
One day someone will smile and it will be my smile. One day someone will throw a kitchen towel over their shoulder or sing while they wash the dishes and it will not be them but me.
I will be a guiding light in someone's life with or without my continued presence.
And that is both the most daunting and freeing thought there is.
I will live on even if my body does not.
I will perish and rot into so much meat and all of these shining habits that I've gratuitously stolen from those around me like a rabid magpie will live on in those who survive me.
I am haunted as I haunt others.
The same is true for you.

These are a few

Validation.

Acceptance,

Care,

Concern,

Worth,

Worry,

Pride,

Happiness,

Importance.

Thank you, Diana. 

You are a truly great friend and a wonderful person. 

I wish I could remember all the time how you feel for me. 

And I wish that I could adequately express my affection and love for you. 

Justice, Sort of. [TW: child molestation, incest]

About a week ago, maybe a little bit longer than that my sister told me something important. We were talking on the phone like we do every so often and she tells me- she says that our dad has told her that our uncle is in jail for child molestation.
I didn't feel anything, at first. Or so I thought. It was like suddenly there was this great big nothing pursuing me. It was a strange feeling but I intellectually I knew it was a good one. See, my uncle molested me when a was young. It made me feel so betrayed by my family and so hurt that I couldn't really ever trust them because not only did they let it happen to me but they were the ones who did it. For so long I have been so angry and so scared and so hurt and and so untrusting of everyone I love that it was impossible, really, for me to feel and be close to someone in a healthy way that didn't lead to me running away or ruining it. Because I was so angry, because I was so hurt, because I couldn't trust in people, because I was always afraid. Because I never got justice.
I never wanted revenge. I just wanted justice. I wanted him to know that what he did was wrong and that society wouldn't stand for it. I wanted him to pay for his crimes justly. I wanted it so that it would ever be that much harder to hurt another child again. I wanted there to be people who watched him and knew him for what he was. I wanted him to be punished for his crimes in accordance with the laws of our society.
And now he has.
After about five minutes googling his name and various phrases I found him. He's on the Megan's Law website of California. His address is known and he is known for the evil that he has done. It's a terrible thing that he had to hurt another child to be caught but caught he has been and he is being watched.
But since I've found out I've noticed some strange changes in myself.
I remember feeling this piecing sensation like a knife was being removed when I found his image on the MLoC site. It felt as if an old and cankerous wound had finally had the barb that had been festering in it removed. I didn't feel free. I didn't feel elated. I was momentarily terrified like a patient before an operation but once I looked at it and confirmed it was him and read all of the information they had I felt so much better. It felt like I had just woken up from anesthesia and the doctor was telling me my prognosis was good, that they'd removed most of the black cancerous tumors of hatred, anger, and fear that had been filling my body.
I felt lighter and it was like suddenly those things I feared when I turned off the light or walked up the stairs at night or sat alone at home were mere whispering vapors.
It wasn't so much that I was suddenly free and glad of it because I still feel angry and scared and don't trust easily and I'm still hurt by what my family did to me but it's lessened now. It's like I know I can defeat it now instead of just faking like I can.
It's as if all of those things I feared are no longer these undead things that grip the back of my skull and whisper terrible fears into my ears. They're intangible now. They can't touch me anymore. I can see them and I can laugh at them and walk away and they fall farther and farther behind me, rotting and dropping to the ground like the remnants they are.
Because justice is no longer an abstract thing but a reality, firm in my life as these demons that plagued me were.

I'm not saying they're entirely gone because they're not. I'm still angry. I'm still hurt. I'm still afraid. I'm still untrusting. But it's easier now to deal with it. It's like they've gotten weaker and I've gotten stronger simply because out there was someone who cared enough about a child to say 'hey, this is wrong. This man shouldn't be able to get away with what he's done.' And yeah, it wasn't for me that this was done, and more children had to get hurt for it to happen but it did happen. It's possible for there to be justice where there is evil.
And that is the most comforting and therapeutic thing that could have happened for me.
The man who hurt me is being dealt with. He has been told that what he did was wrong and that he won't get away with it anymore. I am not irrational. I am not alone. I am not unjustified in being angry or hurt or afraid. What happened to me was wrong and the monster who did it is being watched.

Groundhog's Day

“Another Day Sunrise”

Another day sunrise

Moments before dawn

Sails set

Friends depart

But they are not gone.

That was written by my Uncle Stephen who was the greatest man I ever knew.

On February 1, 1952 one of the most important men in my life was born. 

He had thin red hair and a slow steady gait. 

In his office he had gadgets and do-dads and bits and bobbles. 

In his kitchen he had an armada of little model houses.

In his dining room he had glass shelves covered in Star Trek memorabilia.

In his living room he had wind-up music boxes and the world’s largest collection of B-rated science fiction films all stored in brown boxes with thin faded black text describing the movie and some facts about filming.

In his life he lived simple and relatively lonely. He never married. He didn’t have many friends. What he did have were nephews and nieces that he treated like treasured plants. Plants that would look pretty damn badass with a machete and possibly a katana in some pictures. 

In his actions he was direct. He had honesty in spades. He showed me that solitude was not sadness. That finding the silly in the mundane was amazing. That making doo-dads even if they didn’t work was a great thing. That label makers had many uses.

On March 22, 2004 he died at his kitchen table. It took several days for him to be found. His baby sister who lived less than five miles away refused to drive to his house and see if he was alright. The same sister held his funeral in a Chapel with a pastor presiding. This same sister talked of God and what “Stephen would have wanted.” She said he would have loved the violin. She said a lot of things on his behalf. 

I sat for what felt like eternity listening to what she and others said on his behalf. I listened to my brother cry his way through an Edgar Allen Poe poem that he had spent days searching for. I listened to this pastor talk about heaven and hope and the ending of lives. I sat there and cried and looked at this blown up portrait of him. I sat there and thought about how he didn’t like green or red foods and how he always went to Al’s Pancake Palace and the waitress would bring him an iced tea without asking. I thought about the sweat stain in his truck’s front seat that was dark and pungent that I never wanted to touch. 

I thought about how he always made me try new foods and the careful way he went through every row at the Dollar Store. I thought about the time he took me and my brother to the park and tried to play a camera trick so it looked like we had jumped over a huge stone. I thought about the times he took us to the birdcage movies and how at the arcade he always played Space Invaders. 

I thought about all of these things while sitting next to the man who molested me when I was younger and listening to the woman who told me awful things about my whore mother. I thought about all of these things and I got angry and tearful. I thought about all of the cruel and meaningless things the people on the pew set aside for family had done and I was so angry.

Angry that these people had the right to talk on behalf of the one good man in my life. Angry that the pedophile still lived while the greatest man I knew had died. Angry that they had such a right and the privilege to stand there and tell us all what Stephen wanted, who Stephen was. I sat there and burned on the inside and listened to their lies and their legitimate grief and hated. 

I hated the chapel. I hated the pastor. I hated the violin. I hated Stephen’s brothers. I hated his sisters. I hated his friends. I hated everything except that picture. That ridiculously huge picture that was nearly drowned out by the hideous bouquets of flowers around it. 

That night at Stephen’s wake I laughed when my drunk aunt gave me the shirt off her back. I laughed not because Stephen would have wanted me to but because I wanted me to and that, more than the pastor, the chapel, and the awful squeaking violin music is something I knew in my heart that Stephen would have appreciated. 

I will never do anything in his name or because he would have wanted me to because that would go against everything he taught me growing up. I am my own person and the best way I can honor him is to continue being my own person. Proudly and without fanfare, I will be myself. Not because he loved me for me or because he would want me to but because I loved him- love him and this is the best way I can show it. 

Uncle Stephen was the greatest man I knew and he died alone. He loved his toaster oven and worked on traffic lights for a living. His obituary stated he “will be loved” and he is.  

In his words, “I’ve a feeling we’re all just a cornflake / Spilled loose from the box.”

This is something that has been bothering me for a while

The fact that while my orientation isn't well known it's already developed stereotypes that fuck up how I interact with others.
Because I'm asexual I must:

• Not like sex at all ever.
• Not like to talk about sex ever.
• Not like it when people check me out.
• Be uncomfortable around "sexuals."
• Never want to engage in sex at all.
• Have no desire or reason to have sex.
• Not be flirty at all for any reason.
• Never want to have sex with someone.

Holy fuck, people. Stop this. Just because I'm asexual doesn't mean any of those. The only thing being asexual means is that I do not experience sexual attraction. The rest of these purported traits are simply stereotypes. Not all gay men have sex indiscriminately. Not all heterosexual men only want women for sex. Not all asexuals lack a sex drive.

Putting in a page break to warn my sister that she may find the rest of this post awkward to read.

Tesk Rambles Because Tesk Can

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.