My hindrances

Every so often I spend aimless hours looking at my hindrances. You might call these part of my "identity" but I tend to call them hindrances and disadvantages because sadly that's all they are for me. Most of the time. You'll hear me list just a few out every now and then.

I'm black, lesbian, female, atheist, chubby *cough*, short, flat footed (don't laugh, buying shoes sucks for me), kinky haired, and probably a switch (I likes to hit and be hit), probably bipolar (runs in the family, I've not been officially diagnosed though so the jury's out).

A couple of those not too bad, a couple of them probably don't even matter in the scheme of things (don't laugh at my flat feet dude). Why are they hindrances? Because most of them eventually cancel each other out and make it quite hard to get along in life.

Let's take the first three. I'm a girl, putting me at a slight disadvantage in society compared to my male counterparts. I'm a black woman putting me even FURTHER down the ladder and effectively dismissing any issues I may have as either. I'm a black lesbian which gives me a small support group, then I'm an atheist which just sort of strips that support group.

Chubby, well, I'm constantly being told to put the fork down. Short & chubby = morbidly obese despite the fact that I'm pretty healthy according to my doctors, it also means I have to use chairs to get shit out my pantry and that makes me feel inadequate. Having flat feet makes buying shoes a pain. Natural hair makes me ugly to both whites and blacks alike. My sexuality makes me a freak, my potential bipolarness makes me either a faker or a crazy bitch. Or a slut, I forget now.

Stereotypes, they follow me around. I can't do much to shed any of these hindrances no matter how much I wish it some days. I've yet been able to live with most of them and don't know if I will, because whenever I think me and my hindrances are going to settle down together something just stirs up old wounds. I take things to heart and I must call them out to make peace with myself, do you understand?

Except I can't make peace with myself, so what's the point? Do I float in the subspace between my so called identity and what I'm supposed to be? Do I suffer endlessly, painlessly, internally? Or do I do nothing at all? That's the next step after finding out who you are, no matter how many "whos" there are, sadly a lot of the time there are no answers and even more often no one to fully guide you.

I've yet to find my doppleganger (although I've been told I would die if I did), someone like me I can relate to and call upon when I'm stranded with the she-wolves and the lionesses. But maybe someday if I keep trying, if I ever manage to pull myselves together.

Ally failitudes and *sadness*

First, failitudes:

Being an ally is tough work. Not "omg woe is meeee" tough but "augh I fucked up, let me try that again" tough. The difference is the former, I think, is more self-serving, and the latter is an admittance of need-to-do-better-ness, not only because you feel you have to, but because you WANT to.

Over Twitter last night I talked about a song Danz had sent me from a trans performer named Adhamh Roland. Danz said he was a trans woman, and I gleefully went about saying "she" until I stumbled upon his Myspace and realized I should be using male pronouns. Oops! I changed, but kept stumbling because...well he looks and sounds female, and in my binary mind = girl = she regardless of every source referring to him as a "he". Oops again!

While talking about the artist at some point my brain clicked in with "auuuug this is harrrrd~ *flailflail*" in a sort of self defeating manner. I didn't totally give up though.

You see, also, in my journey on becoming a better ally and maybe a better human being in the proecess, I've been trying to figure out how to tackle trans issues. I write up blog posts in my sleep (no shit) and dismiss them like little mental drafts because they're never quite right. Because I've been so focused on the negative aspects of life--which is driving me nuts--all I wanted to talk about was transphobia.

The thing about transphobia is, I think of all the isms and phobias, it actually confuses me most of all. Gays & lesbians can be transphobic and I've seen it and just thought "Eh?" Then those normal cisgendered hetero folks can be transphobic as well--even gleefully so. And it's so strange to me when anyone is derided and abused just for living their lives, even with the groups you'd think they would belong with, like the gay & lesbian community. But that's also the same community that blamed blacks for prop 8 and has apparently decided that bisexuals of any type don't exist so I should take that back...no I'm not bitter at all.

Pretty sure last year I talked about the Remembering Our Dead project and I'm still astounded at how many trans women and trans men are murdered each year. That's part of the reason I'm so anxious about the Angie Zapata trial (note: I'm too stupid right now to figure out the light a candle button so don't think I just forgot about it or something, working on it). I want to see a court charge this as a hate crime and put a foot down and say this is MURDER and it's a HATEFUL murder. You killed this woman because she was different and you deserve to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

But who knows how that will turn out...it seems our country is still having a hard trouble accepting "differences"--I'm looking at you, entire country, even Hawaii and Alaska--and I'm feeling rather moot instead of optimistic. Being an ally is tough work...when there's not even any hope in you.

If I may transition to SADNESS, occasionally I'll bump into people I don't really want to be ally'd with. No, not the groups I'm ally'ing for, but other allies. Let's talk about my fucking Am Lit II professor yet again.

See, prof has declared himself a "bleeding heart liberal" in front of the class...with no irony, and even has the nice pink triangle on his office door, which I GUESS makes him a friend to gays. This man is no friend of mine though and I'd rather he not be.

I know, we can't all be enlightened. But I really doubt your "liberal" credentials when you can refer to a story involving Zora Neale Hurston in which she allegedly molested a "retarded" child and then call Zelda Fitzgerald "insane" and "crazy".

SADNESS.

Even more SADNESS is the failure of the class--including myself--to call him out on this...stupid-speak. I felt like less of an ally and more of an apathetic student, which I am, but I picked the wrong time to just lose all empathy (and feeling in my pimp-hand).

Being an ally is tough work and never-ending, sometimes tiring, sometimes gratifying, sometimes amazing, sometimes AMAZING, sometimes NYARLATHOTEP BE PRAISED. And I hope I can continue...

To gripe or not to gripe over American Lit (to my white friends)

Sup from subspace,

It seems I've been in a bit of a posting drain lately. Oh sure I still update daily with something random as hell, but the drafts are piling up and I've just been unmotivated as...I don't know WHAT.

Saturday I was so unmotivated I had to have someone go eat with me. It was sadness. More on that in a second.

As you good folks know, either via twitter or my posts (scroll a few months for the hate), I hate my AmLit class. I unabashedly sit in the very front row RIGHT IN FRONT of the man and threaten him with my eyes. I meanmug and side-eye at the risk of going crosseyed or permanently blind. He probably senses this as we rarely make eye contact anymore. I've totally disengaged from this shit not only because of our caucasian malecentric reading list (I've seen him purposefully skip over women and people of color, just cause) but because of his...well, is it privilege to just sort of assume that everyone in the class has a grandparent that grew up/owns a farm therefore we're all instilled with intricate agricultural knowledge? I kid you not. You know what, fine. Maybe I just hate him in general.

(Okay, granted my dad IS from the country side...but that's not a farm)

The professor rambles on and on and has developed a tendency to start injecting religion where there is none indicated. I can't even pinpoint anymore the issues I have with that class, and I decided a while ago to just stop complaining and read something else, since my grade is currently invincible in that class. I fully believe in the power of a library and my ability to just find random stuff to read. I can't just wait for diversity, I gotta go get it. That's a lesson in life for everyone!

Anyway, I've vaguely touched on this issue, mostly to white friends of mine, because it seems (unfortunately in a lot of cases) white friends are all I have in the moment. Woefully unaware white friends. I haven't dared mentioned my displeasure with the whitecentric list but, oh, last week it came out to a person I don't particularly like, and she giggled.

"Who are more people going to know, Robert Frost or WEB Dubois?" she said behind a glass. Not missing a beat I laughed in turn and said, "You should know both" and kept right on going. She faltered, I glared.

Huh. Well going back to Saturday, as I was leaving with my dining buddy we stopped upon another friend of ours working the info desk. As we were talking we got around to discussing our English classes, and I again brought up my displeasure with my AmLit reading list in addition to the fact that the teacher just sucks. When I exclaimed "WHITE DUDES!" and boring not too long after, yeah I got a bit of a look. Then one of the girls just went on to say some mildly racist/fatphobic junk later on in the conversation (don't worry, I called her out...what the fuck is speaking Asian?)

I'm beginning to wonder if even soft activism is just lost on the people I tend to associate with--again I guess because I'm their safe negro--and if I should just give up. You see, I have no choice but to live my skin color daily. It kind of follows me around and the bad things that go with my skin color? Also stalk me. I wish I could just shed it and hang it up on the door every night but sadly I can't. Things stick out to me when I see myself unreflected in my most favorite of subjects, let alone when I know damn well there's a good portion of our reading dedicated to people of color. I suppose I'm impatient. I guess we'll never get to it. I suppose I shouldn't care so much since I'm going to have to take Am Lit I next semester, and I should be lucky to get slave narratives.

So I go on and on. But I'm a little tired of bringing up the itty bitty and the biggie things that irritate ME so much only to have either laughter as a result or at the least a subtle "what's wrong with you? Why can't you be quiet? What are you talking about?!" in response.

Such is the life of people of color, we seem to be the only ones that understand that. And yeah, my phrasing is correct and you read me right.

Ehhh. As carefully as I try to pick my classes, it seems I'm benefiting more and more from just tuning out of them and learning things on my own, as it usually is. Sigh.

Fear of Dying.

Warning: Talk of death and suicide, and the futility of life. Actually...that's what the whole damn post is about. It's the weekend!



I am tired and this is the weekend, ergo this is bound not to be pleasant.

But.

I will tell you something I need to get off my chest.

I cannot wait to get out of my teen angst stage. I refuse to believe I will be a depressed individual for the rest of my life. I've changed and I will change again.

And yet the more things change the more they stay the same.

I'm not sure how to put this other than I'm tired of being fed up with the world around me and myself. I'm tired of seeing others as untrustworthy. I don't want to hate. I don't want to drown in self pity. I don't want to die.

Let me tell you about death. I had a kooky dream Thursday night/morning no doubt brought on by the fact that I had voraciously consumed not one, not two, but FIVE PACKS OF M&Ms.

The dream was this. I was the Angel of Death. Aaand I killed Mark Sandman. In his sleep. Umm.

I helped him write a song, a couple that appeared on Morphine's final album, the Night (I remember one being "The Way We Met", dunno the other). It was a fairly lucid dream because at the end I remember telling myself, "wait, he didn't die in his sleep, he died on stage!"

Anyway, the dream, I was helping Mark write awesome tunes and while we were talking at some point he asked me if I was tired. I don't remember my response, but then he began taking on a little sickly and I ordered him to bed. I tucked him in (coz I like doing that) and we spoke again...I ended the dream by saying, "The next time I see you it'll be for that final sleep."

"...Damn," I thought upon waking. "The fuck was that."

That was a dream. I don't put much stock in chocolate-induced dreams pretty much for that reason, because I am neither the Angel of Death and nor do I wish any harm on musicians that are already dead.

But like all good Morbid Folks (which is going to be the name of my shoe line I swear) death enters my mind a deal. Being an atheist...or better yet, just being me for some reason I often encounter the question of just what happens after death, I'm so smart. My usual answer is "Just that" or "What the fuck you think happens?!"

I think about it. It's a useless question really, I don't care what happens after death, I'll be fucking dead. I used to be awful determined to find out just that though, either that or prove my immortality to the world, being a former teenage Weekend Para Suicider. That is to say, I used to cut. A lot. First in attempt to kill myself (then there was that one time I drank rubbing alcohol, pills, etc...) then, honestly, for the hell of it. It felt nice compared to everything else.

/soul baring

I stopped suicide after I realized, I was deathly afraid of dying. I didn't want to really leave the earth because I didn't know what would happen next, atheism or not. Not because I might be wrong and end up in that ol' Lake of Fire with the Old Man, not even worrying about my family and...uh, acquaintances, but just because I wouldn't be LIVING anymore. I'd be dead. Deceased. No more. I'd be an ex-Xands. But overtime I lost my fear of death and haven't really regained it.

What drove me nuts about our little shooting incident in January is just how close I had seriously come to dying. If I'd gone and taken a nap I'd have a bullet lodged somewhere in my abdomen. I thought perhaps it was just adrenaline taking over and I was in Co-Ops Mode or something, but days after the fact I realized...I didn't care at all. Perhaps it's just my fatalistic outlook that tells me, well if I had died that would have been it, but I didn't so oh well. Then I had to laugh at the irony that I'd nearly got what I wanted about 5 years ago, and all I had to do was go on the couch for that final sleep. Death is beautiful in it's simplicity, isn't it? Murder. Those men will never get caught you know, fact.

So yes, I am tired, Mr Sandman, I get tired a lot. I am the Angel of Death and sometimes I wish I could crawl into my own tomb.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

Somedays, I give up more than others

So those of us that actively try to change people's minds & ways of thinking--whether it be racism, sexism, glbt issues, ableism, and whatever we're all stuck in the ground with--surely, SURELY we all come to the point where we just say, "Know what? Fuck it."

I have those days a lot. With my so-called battles with racism (I feel like I just need to add "in the South" every time I say that) and Ignorant!whitey I just look and say, "Okay, you aren't getting it and I've explained it on a kindergarten level several times, get out of my sight." I feel awful defeated, which is sad because I've been told that one of my worst traits is I give up too easy. Which...you know what, I really hate repeating myself. It's not that I give up too easy, it's that you try too less to grasp simple damn concepts (this is one of the stages of grieving I think).

So, I just say, fuck it you aren't getting it and I'm not going to make you, just stay ignorant (*sings: "Not payin him any atteeention!"*). Occasionally I delude myself into thinking that moving up north will, somehow, make it all better and I can just relax, and sip my Starbucks coffee and look upon the troubles of the world like a playful toy. A bit like an episode of the Twilight Zone. But obviously that doesn't work now does it.

And then sometimes I think of the poem "If--" by Rudyard "Behold the White Man's Burden" Kipling which is funny to me. I had to memorize If for English III honors and it thus traumatized me for a while because I had a horrible experience with it, but sometimes, I think of a few choice particular stanzas (it is a long poem after all) and it somehow makes everything better:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

And you know, it ends, when I can do all these things I'll be a grown ass Man. Sure it's rather androcentric (I just taught you a new word) but I think it can still apply. I'm not sure why those two stanzas just stick in my memory, on the whole I don't think I even like the poem all that much. But you have to say they're rather true.

Would WEB DuBois condone throwing furniture?

Forgive me if this shows up like 20 times, me and ScribeFire are having a dire malfunction.

"I think he's disappointed I'm even in the class." Me to Danz via text message.

I've already told you my grievances with my American Literature II class. I don't think I expressed well enough I'm about to take down my professor.

Today we talked a little about Booker T Washington as he's the next piece we're about to read, specifically the Atlanta Compromise. I can give you all my feelings on Booker T Washington another time, but for now let's focus on this. Mind you, I got about 3 hours of sleep last night and we all know how fucked up I get with no sleep. I hear the voices louder and I'm more prone to so-called Freudian slips and paranoia. It's just how I work. Don't act like you don't want to kill people when you're sleepy.

Anyway, so we talk about Booker T and the infamous incident with Roosevelt. We then get into some of what made Booker T so remarkable and influential, that being his oratory skills. Professor starts talking about how important it is to have good oratory skills, remarking that this his how mostly how Obama got into the White House.

My ears prick but I'm busy trying to take notes and not yawn so loudly. Then...well...the inevitable Hitler comparison.

Yes, sir, that's how Hitler & Obama took power, their charisma and oratory magic. In one miraculous sentence my professor managed to link together an activist, a dictator, and a president. I mean, why not right.

Did I get outraged? Not really. I was more amused/bemused by the fact that he even went there. Strictly academically, I saw his point. In my mind though

WHAT THE FUCK

COULD HE NOT THINK OF ANYONE ELSE WITH BETTER ORATORY SKILLS THAT HITLER

OH WELL AT LEAST IT WASN'T MUSSOLINI, OBAMA'S BACK TO BEING A NAZI

Aren't we all tired of the Obama's Just Like Hitler meme? Furthermore, I want to know why, when anyone is mentioned as being a good speaker, Adolph Hitler just HAS to come up. Okay, the man had the charisma to sway an entire nation (or just about all of it at the very least). You know what Hitler also was? A psychopath & a mass murderer. Goddamnit.

Also pissing me off was my professor's seemingly lax grip of black history in total. Sure, he's a lit teacher, you'd argue that he doesn't need to know history extensively, except that's wrong because if you're going to teach AMERICAN LITERATURE you might want to edumacate y'self on some black folk writings, I don't care what part of the course you're teaching. You hear me future teachers and professors?! What is history but literature, and literature is history? Please know your shit before walking across the threshold of that room.

Lastly...this may just be me but I swear whenever I say something in class--and I'm usually pretty relevant, I don't say anything unless I think it is on topic--his responses to me feel so...condescending. That other shit is real but this may just be a psychological side effect of the fact that I was already annoyed, and then was blindly pissed when I left the class.

So other than blatantly displaying my mirth, I didn't do anything other than fantasizing hitting him with a chair. After the whole Obama = Hitler thing I rather did tune him out and just made notes all over my book. Really, professor, fuck you. We're talking about Dubois next and I suggest he gets that shit right, or I may have to beat him with a chair in the name of militancy.

"What the fuck," you say numbly. "Hitting him with a desk?! Isn't that a little EXTREME?"

And yes, yes it is, but it's been proven throughout history time and time again that people just do not learn unless something is drastic enough, and I figure hitting him with a desk is pretty drastic. Put that fucking phone down.

Masturbation: it's not a big deal...

...or is it?

So, my dear mama reminded me of why we can't talk about shit with each other. Earlier in the year I told you we tried to have the dreaded sex talk and it went...alright. For a minute she seemed okay talking to me about sex. For a MINUTE. Then I went back to school and she must have been so relieved that we didn't have to press the issue anymore. I guess.

So tonight I tried to talk about masturbation. And she FREAAAKED OOOOUT.

Now, I don't take much pleasure in making my mother cry over the phone. I wasn't even EXPECTING that. She can handle my jokes about masturbation, hell, she has quite a few toys of her own and it's sort of an open secret. She was even alright breaking her comfort zone to talk to me about sex if only briefly. But for some reason the subject of me touching my "naughty places" blew her miiind, maaaaan.

Let me explain the scenario and tell you why I don't really feel bad about it.

So we're talking on the phone, calling Danz a punk bitch and going generally well. Then she mentions going to Nashville's only Hustler Hollywood store outlet and how slammed the parking lot was with couples for Valentine's Day. It's around here that I make the joke of wanting a rabbit. She thinks I mean the animal, then Labbits, then finally she realizes I mean THOSE RABBITS. Ohhh nooo.

So she yells at me about it. I'm...taken aback. I didn't say anything about my own habits, just would she buy me a rabbit. Make note that I actually DO NOT want a rabbit vibe, I just used it as a generic term for a vibrator. I was completely joking about her buying me one but I didn't expect her to yell. Because I can't let shit go, I asked well what if I bought me own.

Well...yeah, that's about the time that I apparently upset her so much (because I "don't need anything like that") that she starts crying. Then sobbing. At this point I'm just blinking over the phone, flabbergasted. I had no idea why she was crying about it. Again, nothing about her or my own masturbation habits, just talking about apparatus. For some reason this is...distressing? I wasn't feeling it...

...But don't forget, I'm inexplicably pissed at the world this week, so I ask why it's okay for her to masturbate but not me. She doesn't give an answer. I press it gently as I can then she insists that I don't need anything like that.

Fine. No, it's true, I don't need a rabbit, or any "device" to masturbate with but my own hands and maybe the shower when I'm feeling fearless *shudder* _{oh god} But I still don't get it. I looked back over that "dreaded talk" and remembered that she was the one telling me to "save myself" for marriage, despite the fact that she didn't. She had me AND my brother out of wedlock so I suppose I'm supposed to get a "do as I say not as I do" vibe but I DON'T GO FOR THAT SHIT, and I've expressed this. Why is it so hard? I really don't get it. Masturbation's not a big deal to me. I don't think it should be to ANYONE. It used to be when I felt so guilty about it, to the point where I couldn't even enjoy an orgasm because I would freak out about not being "normal" (this is long after I went agnostic/atheist too) but seriously, who the hell am I hurting when I touch myself? It's natural and it makes you feel good.

I still don't get why she freaked out. Is it that her daughter might finally be interested in sex? (shock and horror) Is it the phallic nature of the rabbit vibe? (which is actually why I don't want one but I didn't tell her that *cough my fault*) What? I can't ask her any of this because our views on sex are so fundamentally different, and I wish they weren't. I want her to talk to me and it makes me sad that her bravery only comes in spurts. It's also silly.

I wouldn't call myself all that liberal on sex, but it seems that my mom holds such a strange, twisted "traditional" view on it that I'm honestly kind of confused on what I'm supposed to be doing. How can one acknowledge having multiple partners (not really poly) but still spin me some outdated shite on masturbation & sex? Seriously. Again I can't discuss any of this with her because, like this phone call, she will freak the hell out.

And this is why I really don't get in to it and just keep my views to myself. If she wants to do the "do as I say not as I do" thing, whatever. I try to be as honest and open as I can with my mom because she's like my best friend and she doesn't even have to hear about me having sex or masturbating--even I wouldn't go that far, to describe my habits to her. I just wish we could be more open about the possibilities that are so plainly there, ALL THE TIME, just not once every blue damn moon. Shit, living is damn difficult these days.

Take me to the river, drop me in the water

Warning: Angsting. Angsting hard.

Holla at ya person. You all know I have to go super hard with everything, including emotions.

I've been feeling homesick lately. I think it's homesickness. I really hope so because there's no excuse for random suicidal thoughts. I mean, I have these sometimes, but recently it's been sort of intense. I'm assuming it's homesickness because it's always connected to home...

I hate myself for bringing it up to my mother that I'll be home in May. It sounded more like I was trying to convince myself that I'll be home soon, not her. Sure May isn't all that far off and I'm already pretty well acclimated to dorm living as it were. Other than Housing coming after me (and I ignore them pretty well) I've been okay.

But...I dunno. I guess suddenly I want to be home right now. It's so empty & lonely here on the weekends, walking through the halls of this dorm & on the street is kind of creepy and well, depressing. Everyone's at home or out with friends, I can't go home OR go out with friends.

I've had to start sleeping with my TV on to drown out my own thoughts. My mind goes overactive usually just before I go to sleep, I think that's a normal occurrence. "What did I do today, why didn't I go to that class, wow that sushi was really awesome, did I get more than 400 calories today (no, that's why I'm hungry now)". You know, shit like that. But then you'd usually go to sleep, whereas I...well, I stay awake and think about incidents from eight, ten years ago. The memories won't let me sleep. I turn the TV on and screw my eyes shut and pretty much do the "LALALALALA~" routine. Lately I've started hitting my headboard and that rather hurts, but the pain takes me mind off...me mind.

So that's actually where the suicidal thoughts come from believe it or not. And...well, I think it was Tuesday night, as I hovered there between sleep and sort-of-sleep (I sleep like a cat), I thought of my dad. I thought of one particular incident where we got into an argument and later I ended up hugging him. I could...feel it so vividly and realized that over Christmas break I didn't get to see him much, let alone hug his tall, squishy self.

I thought my tear ducts were going to go into overload, and for about 5 minutes I wanted to die like that would have done any good. I wanted to die with that feeling of hugging his tummy. I come up to his chest, but I always end up hugging his tummy because it's all soft and familiar and secure. I wanted to DIE. I started thinking about all the stuff I'd read up until that point and wanted to die. I thought about cutting (I don't think I've ever mentioned I'm a former mutilator) and wanted to absolutely die. Then I just wanted to be at home.

And that, ladies and gents, is how hard I do with homesickness. And why I avoid it at all costs. This is actually only the second time I've felt that intensely about going home, and the first I've ever connected it with dying *blink* very weird...but this too shall pass.

The Treachery of the Hills

Well, today was my first day back tutoring! It felt good--without a couple of staunchly Republican, over tanned, over fake elements there (what?) it went very smoothly. I had so much fun!

You'd never know I had walked thirty minutes in the snow in freezing temperatures uphill just to be there!

Yes, even now I can't quite type because my hands are so, so frosty. It was way too cold to bike so in my logic I walked. I've GOT to find out where these school buses come from, SURELY I look like a middle schooler.

But it was great. Me and my normal kid did vowels and he was very well behaved, then another girl read to us (very well!) and I helped another with homework. Then it was over :/ ...and I had to walk back.

You know, I love snow, but this shit right here? This shit right here?

So...I've been working on two separate stories lately. They're more or less kiddie stories. One I've posted excerpts from before and is the mermaid tale I've been trying to work on so long. The other I'm working on now is more or less a fairy tale...I love fairy tales as I've mentioned a few times before. Older ones, some contemporary ones...I try my hand at them every now and then but lately I've been feeling lucky and I think I've gotten better at combining my favorite elements almost seamlessly into something coherent and readable while still being myself.

Yes, it is time for an excerpt. This story is about a little girl lost and loster still. It's a strange mix of Alice in Wonderland and one of my favorite gruesome tales, Bluebeard. Those are the two main inspirations, then of course the typical "magical elements" I suppose. If it doesn't turn out too freaky I think I'll post the whole thing here.

Annabelle was hopelessly and irretrievably lost at this point. All it was, was a few right turns on a dirt road, behind the trees, through a field…she should have known when the houses she recognized began thinning out, and she should have realized for sure when the houses abruptly disappeared completely. There was no denying it now, she was quite a ways from home.

“Drat it all,” she muttered softly. “I do hate getting lost.”

She sighed and flopped down in the grass, staring at the clouds as they sailed by. Her golden ringlets sprawled like spilled silk across the emerald plain and she twirled a finger absently through the strands. The sky was so beautiful this afternoon, the grass so soft and warm under her that she was loath to rise again. The countryside was always so beautiful in the summer, she had never adventured out this far before and it was more wondrous that she could have hoped for. She would have to visit this quiet place again, if she ever figured out exactly where “here” was.

Another languid sigh and Annabelle rose to her feet. She didn’t have time to lie around and lounge, although being on the ground certainly meant she wouldn’t get anymore lost than she was. Still, it was foolish to hope that she could just lay there and be found; after all, who would think to look for her way out here? She trudged on with her school bag hanging heavily from her shoulder, switching it from left to right as she moved along, but all that did was make both her shoulders ache at the same time. To add to her frustration, the pretty, soft grass was becoming drier and drier, itching at her bare ankles.

After walking what felt like an entire mile in the seemingly never ending field, Annabelle spied a grey wall in the distance. Now dragging her book bag on the ground, she hurried toward it. As she came closer, she realized the wall was perhaps about waist level and appeared freshly built. The stone was very cleanly and uniformly cut and just beyond it the grass was visibly much lower and, best of all, she could see a well-worn path. Annabelle stopped at the wall and hesitated, panting in exhaustion.

“Well, it’s not quite right to just hop over a wall is it?” she pondered aloud. “But then again, I am very lost.”

With a shrug, Annabelle tossed her school bag over the wall. She waited a moment, but to her surprise she didn’t hear the dull thump one would expect from a heavy object hitting the ground. Annabelle blinked then peered over the wall. What she saw made her gasp: instead of land, what lay below was a very deep, deep valley, so deep that if she had jumped along with her bag she would have surely broken her neck, or worse. The beginning of the path was at the foot of the wall several feet below, where her bag now lay, her books all spilled out in the dust. Annabelle pulled back from the wall in fear that she would fall over as well.

“That certainly isn’t the way,” she said, voice trembling.

And now I'm going to defrost my nipples.

Xands needs to be a girl for a few minutes

Ugh. I need to be girly today and do several things, including getting some damn tweezers since I seem to have misplaced mine. I need some cereal and KitKats because my cycle has started *draws Xs over eyes* and I would really like some new nail polish. Really, really, really like some new nail polish. For winter and summer.

And I still need frackin' hair products. Man my scalp is thirsty as hell. I do rinse daily but that doesn't help much since I'm out of my deep conditioner (maybe for the best, it had a little more junk in it than I really wanted). In the winter my hair gets really dry really quick. I'm torn between trying Kroger/Rite Aid or maybe just ordering something online. I'm looking at the Treasured Locks website and they have some interesting stuff that I really doubt I'd find in Johnson City--that being because JC is really tiny mostly. You never know though...hmm.

I'm currently looking at Black Earth Herbal Hair & Scalp Strengthener because I'm always having issues with breakage & dry scalp. We'll see how my bank account looks in the morning, I might get magically paid again or something. Not that it's that much more expensive than what I'd buy in the store though.

Am I the only one fucked up about this?

This is something I haven't talked about in a while...or ever I don't think. It's actually kind of depressing, but I hate it when people act like I don't understand abuse. Um, I was abused as a kid.

Mostly emotionally and verbally...that, I actually do talk about because it was by my dad. I can talk all day about his abuse for some reason. But who I don't talk about is my uncle L. That I can't talk about. It's so surreal because for a long time no one ever talked to me about it. I tried to tell my dad but he was on his own trip (literally) at the time and my mother was ineffective. And I damn sure couldn't talk to his family about it because they were getting abused also.

My mother worked nights so my dad would stay at home with me. But my dad worked out of town doing odd jobs to get money and he was also an alcoholic/drug addict at this time, so one way or another I'd usually end up being left alone with my cousins, my aunt R and my uncle L. L was, I realize, way more hardcore than my dad was. He was out of control and extremely violent. His kids were about teenaged at the time and I was about 9 to 11. He would hit them, beat them, beat his own wife, he almost made her miscarry his own damn child. Then my aunt would abuse her own children as well.

And then, you know, because I was in the house some of it would just get layered over to me. I wasn't actually hit but I saw things that still fuck with me to this day and I was so verbally and emotionally abused, between my uncle and my father I don't know why I'm just not committed somewhere.

I can't even tell you in words how horrible this was, and despite what I said (and my uncle ending up on the news one day), my parents would still have me spend the night at this man's house and even PAY them to babysit me on occasion. Over and over until one day I finally put my foot down to my mother when I was 11 and told her I wasn't spending another goddamned night at that man's house (not in so many words, I wish I would cuss my mother out). And while I learned how to fend for myself at home the cycle of abuse continued over at my cousin's until all his kids left and eventually uncle L was thrown out his house.

It's not that my parents didn't believe me. Mom still acknowledges what my uncle did, but she was just afraid to leave me at home alone in our neighborhood, which I understood. But I still don't understand why no one ever talked to me about this--it's so surreal I still question whether any of that shit ever happened. It couldn't have, could it? Even my cousins won't acknowledge it to me and just act like everything is all good and wonder why I don't speak to them.

So that's one of the many things in my life I haven't worked over and I wonder if I ever will. It still really disturbs me that everyone just acts like my uncle's abuse was normal. Comes with the territory of drug habit right? Right. So let's not talk about it at all and hide our scars, and move on. Easier said than done.

What could I do, if I gave my heart to you?

Fuck you, I quote Guns n Roses anytime!

Alright, sorry. As I keep mentioning lately I've been...moody. I'm almost convinced it's period time even though this has been so weird. For PMS I'm usually just more irate than usual and occasionally depressed, but this has been freaky. I've been horny, sad, sleepy, angry, ANGRY, agitated, agitated & horny, sleepy and angry, sad and ANGRY, and any permutation you can write up if you throw in some serious apathy and insomnia.

In short, I've been a freaking mess. And now suddenly...throw in LOVESICK.

Let me share something with you about Xands. I've actually never had a stable relationship...ever. I just haven't bothered. That's not to say I've never dated, but I'm too...independent for my own good. My last notable relationship, I didn't like the guy with good reason and we tend not to acknowledge our short relationship. I honestly do not care...or so I'd like to think. Unfortunately, at random I go through periods of lovesickness. I guess this is normal considering that I hate everyone, so I do feel lonely. This is not period-time-exclusive, this is a...thing for me.

Unfortunately again, I tend to get attached to random people who display any affection towards me, which I guess you'd call a crush. Crushes such for me because I'll have a torrid love affair with someone in my mind and we'll break up horribly and angstily and that person will be left wondering why I refuse to talk to them ~_~ I lose friends this way and I'm petty.

So now I'm acknowledging this and wondering what I can do about it. Perhaps dating more actively, with decent people who don't just want that one thing. If they exist. I guess I'm finally ready to mingle if I dare. I wonder if I could even maintain a relationship should I decide to start one. But I guess I'll never know until I actually do it, so...hm.

Even further than I can take

Well, I try to stray from emo-ness in my blog entries and talk about substantial things, and I really want to, but schoolin' is currently driving me up a damn wall and over it.

It seems that I won't be able to make my Mockingbird entry before the deadline, which ironically enough frees me up to do MORE things...sigh. That doesn't mean I want to stop writing it because it's become something personal to me--maybe too personal.

My English class...sucks. Not enough to make me switch majors but I never do research right. Ever, apparently. It's not that she's too harsh or too strict, I just wish she'd remember that most of us have more than one class to fucking take this semester. I'm getting really annoyed with her piling work on us, and she's really helpful but I've never learned anything by having heaps of work dumped on me at a time and I never will, and all it does is irritate me! I like my teacher, she's pretty nice and kind, but I may be telling her to fuck herself in so many words pretty soon. This was an old tactic I used my last two years of high school...a lot. Basically it involves me just standing by my work grade or no grade.

Now obviously this is a foolish move to make at any grade level but at college level, with my money riding on this shit it's more so. But..yeah, seriously, she needs to go in depth about these assignments. Sometimes when you've got your whole class confused, it could just be us; then again, maybe it's you. Maybe it's all of us! But this is really ridiculous, the assignments are so simple they turn out to be really difficult. I could just go see about it during office hours but when do I have fucking time?!

I can't stand this. It always feels like my hard work is for nothing when it comes to school...

And now, excerpts!

The day started off with orange juice and a newspaper. A sure sign that the week would be askew, breaking my ritualistic habits like that. I’d never started off my morning with the paper before—orange juice, sure, but the paper was usually reserved for the afternoon. I’m glad I did though, or else I would have never learned about my professor’s death.

Dr. Lourdes, or simply Lourdes as he preferred, was my World History professor. Ol’ Lourdes was found last night, the paper said, in one of the dumpsters on the side of Bledsoe Hall to the east. A female student was throwing out some very late night trash—so she said—and heard something thumping rhythmically against the side of the dumpster. She tried to put it off to the wind, she says, but the thumping was so powerful she just had to take a look. So she whips out her cell phone and by its pale light she saw a blood-stained foot hanging from the side slot where Mister Murderer—that’s what I called him—had so haphazardly thrown him, tapping in time to some invisible tune. The poor girl dropped her phone and ran back to Bledsoe screaming, well, murder.

“Mangled” the paper said, mangled over and over. It struck me as a good word to use; “mangle” can conjure up all kinds of nastiness. And nastiness this was, downright sloppy. The paper also described it as “overkill”. Ol’ Lourdes had a startling sixty stab wounds in his stomach, chest, back, and legs. If that wasn’t heinous enough his neck was broken and both his legs had been damn near severed from his body, and on top of that his ankle was shattered, which the doctors said probably accounted for the thumping. It was like it wasn’t even attached to his leg anymore it was broken so bad. His scalp had been ripped from his head and his eyes partially gouged, that piercing hazel glance now mush hanging from his sockets like so much yolk. It occurred to me, halfway through the article, that this person not only wanted Lourdes to cease living but to suffer the whole time. And personally, I kind of hoped they would never find him, crazy bastard.

Finishing off my orange juice, I grabbed my cell phone off my dresser and reset my alarm. In light of these events I assumed, I think correctly, that class was cancelled; ergo I could catch another hour of sleep.

...

When my alarm beeped again it was noon. I stretched a minute, shaking off that good sleep then set about putting on some clothes and just making myself decent for class. I was rolling on some rather pungent deodorant when I noticed the tiny crack in the mirror over the sink. It was at the bottom, near the metal rim in the right-hand corner if I recall correctly. The mirror was old—the whole damn room was old—so I didn’t think much of the fracture, especially when I was in a hurry to make it to my English class. I checked myself again and looked at the crack a moment longer, then got my books and backpack and headed out the door.

... I took the stairs to get to the first floor from my third floor room and made it out the door in about as much time as the elevator would have taken. When I finally made it outside, warm air startled me after being cooped up in my cold dorm room most of the weekend. I was pretty grateful even though I knew I’d be sweating like the devil in about ten minutes. The walk to my second class of the day would have been so much easier coming from the Hilling building where the late ol’ Lourdes was located. From my hall, Mercer, it was about a fifteen minute day trip if I walked fast enough. And quickly I did walk as I didn’t leave myself much time to dally while slowly getting ready in the morning. About ten minutes later I began to see the big, round brick and marble building over the horizon, looking surprised to see me so soon with its glass doors propped open and most of the windows flung open to let in a little late autumn air. Briskly I strode into the building, up three flights of stairs then around a narrow hall to my English lit class with Dr. Kline.

...

“That’s right,” she said firmly, and I knew she was talking to me. I looked down at the five question quiz. It wasn’t long and the questions wouldn’t be too hard. But I was still recovering from Ol’ Lourdes’ massive, four-page test on all five chapters we had covered thus far. Lourdes was known for his frustratingly difficult tests, but I was known for my tenaciousness when it came to tough teachers. His test, however, seemed to have broken my spirit and several other people in the class as we all scratched our heads and balled up our scrap sheets. It occurred to me that I might never know how badly I did on that test.

Do what it do...

Boo!

I only have 15 days left to submit my Mockingbird entry. And the way my schedule has been lately I may not make it *sigh* Oh well...we'll have to see.

I'm a little pissed about my roommate crisis. Dude, it's October and my second roommate may be dropping out. Meaning I may get another. I feel like it's been 3 years already. I'm getting really annoyed with people LEAVING me. It makes me feel...horrible!

On the same hand, I really haven't...liked my two roommates so far. I mean, I don't like anyone but could I have been put up with 2 more polar opposites? I'm tired and I've just been listening to Bob Dylan over and over and over...it really is driving me insane.

Interestingly, this is good fodder for my story. Hmm...keep the depression cycle up yes? [/sarcasm] Why does this feel like a trumped-up, ridiculous-er version of high school...

Just let me sleep goddamnit.

The Debit Affair

*Man From U.N.C.L.E theme*

Nah, just kidding. I watched the Avengers son!

This is LOOOONG but stay with me, it's rewarding.

Anyway, I figure I better tell about my whole debit card adventure. This happened Friday, I was very sleep-deprived and already upset.

So it begins when my roomette, who I'm in hate with right now, asks me if I want to go pick up her friend from some apartments on campus. My...room mate has a car so why she was reluctant to drive the five minutes to pick HER FRIEND up I don't know. Stupidly I say yes.

I'm walking, alone, at 2 in the morning in the fucking PITCH DARK in my pajamas and flip flops. There's some...scallywags about and I almost get hit by a car walking on the side walk (not even the first time this has happened). The grass is wet. It's dark and I don't have my glasses and I'm not sure where I'm going. About...1/3 of the way there and nearly getting hit several other times and I'm SURROUNDED by people screaming for some reason (whoo party campus), I decide I really don't like this girl that much to be doing this so I turn around.

The fun happens here.

I get back to my dorm and realize I must have left my ID in the room. Which is bad because I can't get in the building. Some fool thankfully lets me in, but I still can't get back to my room. I call room mate up and tell her to let me the fuck in. After waiting for her slow self some other young fool so happens to open the fire doors and lets me in, room mate is like half way down the hall. I give her a half-glare and we just go back to the room. I decide to stay up for the rest of the day because I'm PISSED.

Now the fun really begins.

I decide since I'll be up, I can do breakfast. It's about 6 AM so I start looking for my ID. Not to be found. I look for my debit card, also not to be found. After thirty minutes of tearing my room up I still can't find either card, and I'm on the verge of having quite a breakdown, shaking like I've got really angry DTs. I call up my mother because I at least need someone to yell at (yeah I know) and I end up going down to the first floor, getting locked out AGAIN because I still don't have my card. I get back to my room eventually and am now dying because I realize I must have dropped my cards somewhere outside on my little trip. But WHERE?

Deciding I didn't give a fuck about that, I decide to report my card missing to Bank of America and just get a new one.

MORE fun here.

BoA apparently doesn't really care about my poor debit card (no one does in this economy) so I end up with the credit card people, who continuously put me on to the debit card line, which just tells me my bank balance. After being reassured several times that no one has gone on an EBay spree with my card, I finally snap and get angry on the one person that has sense enough to patch me through to the FUCKING DEBIT PEOPLE. And this wonderful gentlemen took care of my shit and my new card should arrive sometime next week.

Now my ID card. I have to buy another and it's 10 bucks. They take checks! Oh, but the drama isn't over yet.

I angrily get dress for my next class after having to miss my 8:15 (I let the teacher know I was in a crisis beforehand) and I'm heading down the street when I hear Bobby Ray McJenkins calling me from behind.

I turn around and I recognize the really dark-skinned custodian from the 3rd floor and he recognizes me. Guess what? He found my cards. RAPTURE.

So now I have a new debit card coming and I have my old ID back. No money lost, no money gained, my mind just a wee bit fractured. And that's how a bad week got worse, then got fucked up, then got a wee un-FUBAR'd.

Xands is a Heel Ep 2: Depression & Self-punishment

Oh the foolish decisions...

Ugh. It's been a bad...night. I think I'm getting depressed or something. I'm not...happy with the things I was happy with even just a few weeks ago.

There's Youngin Down the Hall whom I actually used to get along with (until she showed herself I suppose). My room mate currently who probably just made a huge mistake that wasn't her fault that she'll never be aware of *rolls eyes* I feel...abandoned, strangely, but by who I don't know. Certainly not my parents; by these strangers? I don't know...

Not happy with classes either right now. Not the work, not the content...I just resent these classes. Not suddenly, this change is more gradual, but now I'm not happy with them...

And then there's just minor things that have probably been irking me to death for no reason that otherwise I'd just brush off.

And this is why I'm a heel, you see. I can identify the problems within myself and even come up with solutions to my problems, but I have a really REALLY hard time applying them. I go through the cycles without doing anything. I take that back, I can self-punish oddly enough. Go figure.

I made a really idiotic mistake tonight and out of sheer embarrassment and anger I decided I wouldn't sleep. This is actually good because now it means I can take a shower & eat before going to class. Of course, it's also bad because uhhhh I've officially gone nearly 24 without sleep. UHHH.

I'm a fool. Again I recognize and I make occasional changes but as a whole I don't think I give a damn about myself sometimes. And it shows. Sigh.

I DO NOT LIKE YOU

Well I've been rockin' my tichel day in day out for the most part. Yesterday at dinner I saw Youngin from Down The Hall and I'd told her I was ordering one and today she saw it for the first time. She wants to call me "Hassie", short for Hasidic Jew. Not that I was horribly offended, but there's 3 points I need to illustrate:

1) No you may not call me "Hassie" because that's stupid as fuck
2) That wasn't as hilarious as you thought it was; no, not because we're stupid but because you aren't fucking funny
3) Speaking of you not being funny, I DON'T LIKE YOU, goodbye

There's actually a fourth point, that being--as you all may realize--I'm not Jewish. Surprise! I'm not Jewish in the least. I'm a real-live atheist and she knows this; I've already explained why I'm wearing Jewish headgear (that's what I call it, really) to her and to anyone that was just curious. Ergo, I'm not overly offended by her little pet name (which, if she likes living, I suggest she not say to me ever again). I only mention her because so far she's been the only person with anything significant (or un-significant really) to say about it. Otherwise it's been pretty uneventful. Also, I flat out do not like her. I repeat: I don't like her.

I'm a little worried about her and I think I should continue staying away from her. She doesn't seem racist so much as she just seems downright ignorant. She treats me like I'm somehow lesser than she is too, for some reason *blink* I guess it's because she's a Biochem major and I'm a lowly English major. Whatever. I hate talking to her because it seems like she goes out of her way to make me feel insecure or just randomly throw around her assumed superiority.

The scary thing is, she reminds me of how I USED to be. I wouldn't talk to anyone I thought "stupider" than I was and I'd throw around my intellectual weight. Fortunately, I realized I'm no where near Einstein's level and the reason I didn't have any good friends was because I'd pushed them away thinking I was too good for them. I look at her and I think of how I used to be that way, and I'm disgusted with her and myself.

Sigh. Smart people sure can be idiots just like the rest of us, sometimes even more so.

Homosexuality vs Atheism

Yeeeah, my wireless is alive you guys! *hugs library* I told my mother, I'm not going to DIE without 'net access on my laptop _{but secretly? YES I WAS.}

*looks around* Trying to type quietly...

Anyhow, you read my title right. This is going to be one of those things where I ask a bunch of questions and offer myself no answers. I've touched on this sparingly but I'm ready to go in depth about it. Soooo....

Atheism. I make no bones about being atheist. When I'm asked anyway...and I rarely get asked because I live in the Bible Belt where everyone is some sort of religious *shrug* eeevery oooone. But I've never pretended to be religious, even for free food. That's just wrong. If prodded or if it ever comes up, I proudly admit I's a godless heathen. I have no problem. I've only ever had a problem being atheist when I first made the transition from agnosticism, and from then on it's been smooth sailing. I'm not going to Hell for anything because there isn't one so please, stop throwing bibles at me.

HOWEVER.

I'm also queer ~_~ gay if you will. I say gay instead of lesbian...I...don't actually know why, but I prefer just "queer" as a kind of umbrella term. I hang around LGBTIA (did I get all the letters?) blogs, read coming out stories and...personally I don't have ONE to share.

Let me explain: I've come out about...3 times now I think. And two times it was just passed of as a phase *punches at the ceiling* Even though I know pretty clearly how I feel and who I am. And then the other time I was met with disgust *punch punch* So I just stopped "officially" coming out to anyone. I don't feel like I'm closeted mind you, I'm actually pretty open. Open in the sense that, like the atheism, I'm outwardly fond of the same sex (and...some of the opposite, keeps 'em on their toes). I've just never actually said "Hey guys, I'm kinda gay!" I'm not ashamed of it anymore, I'm just tired of being judged and yelled at and other such stupid shit ~_~ hmmm. I've even gotten mildly defensive about it. Frankly, I don't think it's anyone else's goddamn business but mine...uh, I digress.

Here's the main thing: Again, I live in the Bible Belt, and I'm an atheist. SHIT. I should be running from mobs daily right?

WRONG. WROOONG.

This has always been strange to me, that my adamant atheism (and yes, I am not only atheist but RATHER atheist) is actually MORE acceptable than my gayness. WHY. How the HELL does that work? At the very least I'd expect them to be on the same level of RAAAGE.

I ran one option last night: that I can be saved. I can be "saved" from atheism if I have an especially enterprising friend, I suppose (haha...no, please don't try this. It just makes me irate). But...well, couldn't I technically be saved from homosexuality too? Can't I be "reversed"?

Then another thought. Maybe, just maybe I give religious folk too little credit (no, I don't think they're all stupid btw). Perhaps it's because atheism is a philosophy (if you call it a religion you haven't been listening) and, if you want to accept it that way because I know a few people still don't, homosexuality is "genetic". This would mean that I couldn't actually be "saved" from my ungodly lifestyle because you can change a philosophy but NOT who you are on the inside. So if my homosexuality is indeed genetic (well, I do have a really flamboyant cousin) and my atheism is just a product of my sitting on the porch with a cape going "HMMMMMM." a lot, then that would mean I'm just flat out...damned? Something like that.

Both of those make sense in their own little way. But it still perplexes me that my atheism is usually more readily accepted than being gay. I suppose homosexuality still makes people quite uncomfortable, but I remember when atheism did too...but now it seems to be okay? So the prospect of me "choosing to be eternally damned"--I don't know who I'm quoting--versus the prospect of me being...eternally damned, somehow one of those is better than the other? Or am I applying too much of that silly logic? Personally I kinda go with my second hypothesis although I'm not about go conduct a survey or anything to prove it true or false.

Oh, and as for why this drives me crazy, it's because my atheism and my homosexuality are both integral parts of me, and it's just...damned WEIRD to have one side be acceptable but the other is spat on and cursed. Especially since the two aren't related (as in, I'm not...gay because I'm atheist or atheist because I'm gay, only I would put those together though). So yeah, I admit, it freaks me out a little bit.

And that was my thought provoking entry. I could do this shit all day.

I can't even laugh

I wanted to be all relevant and shit and talk about McCain's...er...different choice for Veeper (lawl) but honestly? I can't. I just...can't. There isn't much to say about the 18 month gov of Alaska. Alaska. McCain went all the way to Alaska to finds his VP. Somewhere, Mitt Romney is tearing up his lottery tickets.

*random PB&J sandwich* I mean, I just wanted a break in my posts about how college is some mythical place you've never seen and then I get this shit. Really? I was shocked to death with Obiden (yeah that's right) and now...McPalin...that's kinda cute--uh, anyway, yeah this election just somehow got doubly silly.

Speaking of shit I can't even laugh at, two girls on my floor got stuck in an elevator. Then after that the fire alarms went off because of someone's fog machine. I don't think you people understand: let's take incense for example. I assume we've all seen incense smoke; it kinda just evaporates doesn't it? And leaves a pleasant smell. Unfortunately, we can't have incense because of fire hazard. Hell, we can't even have air freshener.


So

what

made

YOU

dumbass

think

it was OKAY

to have

a

FOG MACHINE

?

Please tell me so me and the rest of the hall can BEAT YOUR MONKEY ASS. Yes, there was a guy interrupted during his shower. Someone had a ukulele (whaat). Several people with no shoes, one guy with no shirt. All of us 100% pissed. Mean muggin each other in the dark. Slightly embarrassed.

Sigh. You people gonna make me take back everything I said >.> buc deez hos...

Eh, it's quite hour, Imma try to finish this movie in relative silence if I can. Considering it's quite...erotic, this might be a feat.

Also, why can I have a piss fetish in my sleep but not when I'm awake? Hmm.

The norms.

I made a post a while ago in which I kinda sorta touched on my own identity and how I feel about it. And that post was really messy, but I think I can safely talk about it now without getting horribly confused or frustrated...

First off, identity. I don't think I'm having so much an identity "crisis" as I'm having an identity awakening. We all go through--or rather, we all HAVE to go through that period where we discover who we are. For some of us this happens sooner than later...to me, it's never too late and never really too early to find out who and what you are.

But, what does all that mean? Is that who you are to people around you, or who are you to yourself? What do you mean to friends and family, and what do you mean to yourself? For me, I thought the question was so simple several years ago, and even recently. I knew who I was and what I was. Unfortunately, I realized, I only knew pieces of my own identity but had never really put together the grand picture. And I could say who I am to other people, but not to myself.

To my family, I'm a daughter, niece, half-sister, aunt, sister-in-law, cousin and even though my grandparents are deceased, I'm a granddaughter. I occupy all those roles, all noticeably female right? Well, I'm a girl too.

Which brings me to the world and society at large: what am I? What can they see in me? I am black/African-American, not that tall (damn genes), a glasses-wearer, stocky (or as some would put it, overweight :P) and short-haired since I cut most of my hair off. And that is what I am, or what I feel I am, to others. But notice those are just physical characteristics, what do these people actually know about me? Even my family and even close friends. Does my outside appearance really tell all there is to know about me?

Do they tell I'm an atheist despite living in a mostly Baptist/Christian household? Do they tell about my sexual preferences (aka my queer-ness), my thoughts and feelings? Do they suggest I'm an English major with hopes of being an author and maybe not broke? Could people just guess who I like to hang out with looking at my clothes?

The answer is no. My outside appearance doesn't necessarily say all that. I can make myself "say" that to others if I choose to, but I don't. And why? Am I afraid of not being vocal?

And that kinda takes me into the question of what I identify myself as being. I've noted recently how much I don't like talking about myself. I mean, I've always known but I REALLY hate talking about myself. I didn't realize how much until recently. It's just really hard. I feel sometimes it's really vain and I'm like a little mouse, so I hate that stuff.

To me, I am black, and happy with being black but not the general perception of "black". A female that's kinda starting to be happy being female, but not necessarily with the perceived "female role". I'm exploring my sexuality little by little after living in a bit of a repressed household for so long (I've settled on just "queer" for now) and I'm an atheist. And I can say all these things, but what exactly does it mean? These are all the pieces to my puzzle, and I'm still kinda rearranging them and getting the big picture straight.

And that's my philosophical talk for the day.