I am sitting at work now, writing this.  I have twenty-five minutes to use up you see before I leave.  As it is work has been exceptionally dull and it has occurred to me throughout the day that I should write this, but I have neglected to do so until now.  There is only one thing I can write about today.  Something exceptionally personal to me and normally I would not choose to share it with any who read this, but I think this is a subject that might do everyone some good.  This blog is only Part I you understand.

Today I go for my first HIV test.  Part II will conclude with the results.

I have extremely mixed feelings about all of this.  I have not been “loose” or “foolish” but neither have I been a fanatic with the use of condoms.  I do not think I have HIV, but neither did my two uncles.  One is now dead of AIDS some ten years past; the other still lives with the HIV virus.  Uncle A was what one would kindly refer to as sexually active, what one would meanly call a slut, in the 80’s.  He contracted some multiple strains of the virus and was dead in what seemed no time at all.  Uncle B has been in a monogamous relationship some twenty-years, but five or six years ago was having trouble with his partner and involved himself in a one-night stand.  He now tests positive for HIV.  With examples such as that in my life how can I not be tested when I too have had sex without a condom?  It doesn’t matter how small the chances—it matters that it only takes one mistake to ruin your life.  I have to know because to subject others to my body when it might be infected is foolish and murderous on my part.  I cannot accept that.

What angers me the most about all of it is that were circumstances different I might very well still be a virgin today.  While I have never referred to my first time as rape, it certainly wasn’t consenting either.  I was extremely drunk, you understand, and trusted the wrong person.  I wasn’t particularly attached the idea of being a virgin so it wasn’t the act that bothered me half as much as the fact he didn’t use a condom.  I have given blood since then and blood is required to be tested by law, at which point I would have been notified had anything turned up, but that isn’t the same as a test.  The idea that one night of drunken stupidity, misjudgment on my part, may have cost me my life and could lead to me destroying the lives of others will not let me rest.  A bit melodramatic perhaps, but read the previous paragraph.  Two people I love have suffered due to one mistake.  How can I play the odds when so obviously the odds are stacked against me?

So the worst part by far is the waiting.    Now that I have decided it must be done it is all I can think about.  Before I just pretended it didn’t need to be done.  But I am too smart, and have been too dumb in the past, to ignore the necessity.  So now I go.

Perhaps you will judge me based on this blog—perhaps you will be angry with me for getting so personal on you.  I know not.  But I know there are others in my situation be they someone reading this or not. 

I do not regret my sexual history—at least not usually.  Now I just hope the price isn’t too high for my lack of belief that playing with fire gets you burned.  One night of being too drunk with the wrong guy and now here I sit typing this.  For any other fat girls out there reading this please take this to heart: don’t count on your weight to save you.  When a guy decides he needs a vagina to fuck he doesn’t care how big the exterior is surrounding it.  Especially if you’re too drunk to catch on to what’s going on until it’s too late.

Well, I have attempted to allow you all to post comments on here, if you so desire.  As best I can tell if you click on the time, next to my name at the bottom of each blog it takes you to a screen where you may “post comments” at the top.  This might bear some investigation.  I make no promises about it working.  Hopefully within a month or two I will have cable modem or DSL and will be able to fix these things much more easily from my home computer. 

So my roommate left for California on Tuesday.  Normally a trip to California would be something about which to rejoice, but this trip, not so much.  California is just a stop, you see, on her way to Iraq.  I am still confused about how I feel.  Not that I should necessarily feel anything.  I am not the one going, after all, so why should it matter to me? 

My ambivalence of feeling, stems from the knowledge that she and I aren’t friends, so much, as family.  While we knew each other previously to first living together three years ago, we weren’t close.  Suddenly there we were together, all the time, and we became what I could only call sisters.  But this is different than when two girlfriends call each other sisters; this was more, well, real if you can believe it.  Families aren’t friends by default you understand.  You love each other because you are family.  Hopefully you like each other too, but that isn’t a requirement.  With my roommate it is much the same relationship.  Living together has forced us to get along, and over the span of three years we have developed a mutual respect, and perhaps even love, for one another, the love of family members.  It is odd.  When she left on Tuesday morning and hugged me goodbye I believe that was the first time we had ever hugged.  That is an odd thing for two females who are as close as we are.  But we are both more male in our relationships than female.  At least stereotypically speaking.  We don’t talk about feelings so much as rant about them.  We don’t hug or do each other’s make up.  We each have our own space and that is that.  If there is a problem it is mentioned and dealt with.  If there isn’t we sit in companionable silence.  Not your two typical female roommates.

And now she is gone.  I have a new roommate to replace her absence and I love him; I know I will enjoy living with him, but it isn’t the same.  He is a friend.  She was family.  He means as much to me as she does but I can’t joke with him about periods, or yeast infections, or how my boobs look.  While we are open with each other there are certain things he simply will not understand.  I cannot walk through the door and say, “man, you ever just want a good deep dickin’?”  The dialogue will not be the same.  He can understand, but being a straight male will not really want to discuss it, and I would not ask that of him.

And the crux of it all is, while I sit in my abode missing my roommate, she will be off at war running into god knows what.  There it is.  I’ve said it.  I’m worried about her.  I do not want to spend a year hearing over the news only that “another marine was killed today” and not knowing who.  I do not want the stress of thinking where will she march today?  Will anyone blow up a car by her?  I do not want her to have to go through that.  War is somehow easier to stomach if no one you care about is involved.  If it is something removed, something seen only through pictures and read about only through third person news stories it is not so real.    Now it is suddenly, uncontrollably, in my face.  And I do not like it.  More than that I do not want my dear friend to experience it. 

The crap of it is she was already there once.  But that was a year ago before things got so messy.  That was before beheadings and car bombs and everything else.  It was no less real then, but somehow it seemed more like a game.  Or perhaps I was too young then to appreciate the gravity of the situation. 

I don’t know if this war needed to be started, but I know now it needs to be finished.  We have destroyed a country and her people for better or for worse.  I don’t want to see my roommate march off to danger and sandstorms and ugliness, but I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror if I condoned the abandonment of the people in Iraq.  I don’t know what the solution is.  I think perhaps there isn’t one.  We, as a country, have lumbered into quicksand and now I can only hope my roommate doesn’t have to be hurt or killed as we vainly struggle trying to get out. 

Lord and Lady guide us.  We need all the help we can get.

Oh nothing makes me want to smoke as much as marching band. I have been smoke free for three days, however, so I fight the temptation. Thankfully, everyone around me is attempting to quit as well so that makes things much easier. I’m not sure I am strong enough to survive the stress of little shitheads and friends enjoying nicotine without me. I admit it: I’m just not that good.

So speaking of marching band, yes it is that time for me. Not for me to march (that time is long past) but for me to teach the youngin’s how to count to four. That’s right, one, two, three…and four. It seems simple, truly it does, but trying to get a fourteen-year-old to count out loud takes jedi powers I have not yet mastered. This one kid, whom I thought was cute before tonight shrugged at me. The bastard shrugged at me!! AAHHH!!!! I was ready to kill him. I don’t think he realized how close he was to permanent maiming. I know, shrugging doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but let me explain.

I was attempting to communicate to him that I cannot help him if he doesn’t tell me what he doesn’t understand. So I ask him, ‘do you know what I mean when I say count?’ and he says ‘yes.’ I then ask, ‘do you understand how to count?’ and he says ‘yes.’ So the next logical question is ‘why don’t you count?’ He shrugged. I wanted to shake him until he understood.
I know more than you do! I wanted to scream at him. Do what I say and stop being a bratty teenager!!! Unfortunately phrases such as that are frowned on in the classroom. And, this kid seems like the type that might have crappy parents so I will have to watch myself. Obviously I shouldn’t be a teacher.

And that brings me to my next point of the night. (Oh such a good transition, enjoy it with me.) Do I really want to be a teacher? Is it really worth the school and the tests and the paperwork and the bullshit? I mean honestly. Does anyone know what they want to do at twenty-three? I know whom I want to sleep with, but I don’t plan on garnering a harem until about thirty. Maybe my priorities are backwards.

Wait, I got off track…

Work has been insane lately. I have been handed more responsibility, and I am now signed up for a 401k plan. That doesn’t mean I will stay there any longer than usual, I doubt I’ll last the five years it will take to be vested, but I am officially saving for retirement. If that is not a sign of adulthood, hell if I know what is. But a machine shop worker is not my goal in life. I don’t want to have the word "assistant" in my title for the rest of my life. I plan on attending school in the fall and seeing where that gets me but I’m not sure about the spring. I don’t want to work where I am forever, but I’m not sure teaching is the right route either. Graduate school would be nice, except then I’m back to being poorer than I am now. Why can’t I be happy and make money? Is it feasible for me to garner enough experience I could move some place larger and find big bucks and a career that challenges me but doesn’t drive me crazy? I might find happiness as a college professor, but at this point, the idea of pursuing masters and a doctorate seems daunting. I like school, love it in fact, but I like the financial independence of a career. Except right now I’m not very financially independent as I am dirt poor. Thank goodness I have such wonderful parents.

I suppose what this all boils down to is this—if any of you have figured out what you want to do with your lives do two things for me. 1) Tell me how you figured it out so I can maybe figure mine out and 2) go do it. For Christ’s sake if you are lucky enough to have even an inkling of what makes you happy you owe it to the rest of us to make it work for you.

I promise I am not above living vicariously through your happiness.

Did you know I have been blogging for over a year now?  Well, of course you know as you can see the dates on the screen, but I simply must point it out.  It is amazing!  That’s all I’ve got really, I’m not drunk, just tired.  And yet, still I sit here typing….

I do wish sometimes there were a message board on this thing—I would be interested to know who actually reads this bastard and what they think.  Have I ever pissed anyone off?  My instinct would be yes, but one never knows.  I always think I aggravate people more than I do.  Apparently I fade into obscurity fairly easily.

For instance, the other weekend I was talking with an old comrade from school and I asked him to tell me honestly if people ever ranted and raved about me.  Had I left any bad feelings behind?  He thought about it for awhile and said no, I was just that drummer girl who was a music major.  Now I suppose this is good in that I made no enemies, but I never riled anyone either.  I left no mark or memories so strong that people remember me.  I find that terribly depressing. 

Do I affect anyone I know really?  Is anyone I talk to or correspond with a better person for knowing me?  Or am I just one more of the crowd?  Everyone likes to think their special.  Everyone wants to be remembered but we aren’t.  Or, at least, I’m not.  How disappointing.  Many call me blunt, but am I truly?  Some day I would like to take a poll?  Have I ever been truly blunt with you?  And did it serve a good purpose?  That is what I would like to know.  Should anyone reading this have a way to contact me feel free to answer that question.  I would like an answer.

I am blunt because I have no patience for politics or games.  Tact has its place, and truth be told I can be quite tactful when necessary, but I don’t lie and I don’t fake.  I can’t be anything but blunt because my body language gives me away.  I feel like less of a person if I tell someone what s/he wants to hear instead of what I believe to be true.  Nine times out of ten I hold quite a bit back because I don’t know everything, therefore, no one needs to be burdened with uncensored me, but I would say I lay it out pretty straight.  It has only been in the last year or so that I have begun to watch what I say to certain friends.  It has only been recently that I learned fully the repercussions of having a big mouth.  I’m still struggling with how I want to handle that. 

Life is simpler if you cut through the bullshit.  If you can just talk to each other like adults it saves so much time.  But who wants to hear the truth really?  Or the truth as it is seen by the person presenting it.  Most times I do not.  I want to live in my own happy world; I admit it.  But wouldn’t it be better if I weren’t working under false assumptions.  Is it not better for me to know how you really feel so I can go away if needed or stay close of wanted?  That just seems like a better way to do things.

I haven’t got much tonight, I’m too tired and too burnt out from work for much.  I apologize that this is all I’ve got, but I’ll build on it.  I think this idea has some merit.  And if it doesn’t, I won’t remember it in the morning anyway. 

That’s why I’m perfect.  I keep forgetting my faults. ;)

I have been asked in the past if PMS is a real thing. My answer is, oh dear god, yes. I am a crazy bitch.

That being said, we’ll move right along. I apologize to any men that stumble across this. But in the words of Margaret Cho I really don’t talk about menstruation that much, considering how often it happens.

My time of going to work at 4:00 in the am is almost done. I’ll probably still go in at 6:00 am just because I’m used to getting up early now, and I really like being able to leave at 2:30 or 3:00. I find it nice to have an afternoon to play with. I tend to buy comic books with my hard-earned birthday money, but these things they happen. Besides, Wolverine is hot. And Gambit, and Colossus, and Angel, and…oh never mind.

Wow, the construction men are pouring cement outside my window. If they weren’t all big, sweaty, and able to kick my ass I might have to throw a spoon at them. Oh the joys of living in a city. Helicopters, ambulances, construction…and movie theatres, twenty-four hour restaurants, lane bryants, comic books stores…yeah it’s worth it.

So I am twenty-three now. It is certainly an odd age. I’m too old to be young, and too young to be old. I am officially fading into obscurity. It was a very odd birthday—I spent most of it feeling guilty. That was unfortunate. Next year I will definitely try harder not to pms on my birthday. I felt guilty, because for the first time I asked for specific things for my birthday that I actually needed. Not just wanted, but needed. And I didn’t get any of them. I got something very nice that was very expensive and very impractical for me at this point in my life. I couldn’t even fake it for the parents while opening the present. How bad of a daughter am I? Anyway, after a whole lot of drama and questions and anxiety that was wholly unneeded things have been straightened out. I now have all I could ever want and need, am fully aware of the awesomeness of my parents and can’t help but feel guilty over the whole thing.

I am such a girl. But hey, that’s not a bad thing. That’s just me right? I know this. And tomorrow when everything straightens itself out internally the world will make sense again. I promise. It better, or I’m going legitimately crazy. That would be unacceptable. I can’t afford the amount of Dairy Queen it would take to make me better if that were the case.

There are times I forget that not everyone is like me.  There are more times I forget that is okay.
 
I despise passing judgment over people, and yet I do it.  Consistently whenever I’m aggravated I judge others, my friends, my co-workers, my family for how they choose to live their life.  It is not a good habit.  It is not even a habit I am aware of often, but the danger of being close to someone, or wanting to be close to someone, is that emotions continually get in the way.  My perception is skewered by what I feel, or want to feel, and I forget to look at things equally.  I still stand by my belief that assholes are assholes, but perhaps it is not my place to hate them for that.  Perhaps it is not my place to be angry with them for that.  I have only myself to blame.  Expecting someone to be something they are not is doomed to failure.  I know this and yet, I have done it.  When did I forget that to love someone is to accept him or her for all that s/he is?  Compromise is key but an asshole smiling is still an asshole.   It is not my place to judge that.  It is my choice to accept it or move away.
 
I don’t know if I can accept it.  And I’m not sure I have the strength to move away.  While I have moments I might fairly be described as a bitch and I would not say I’m an asshole.  I simply see no point in living if I’m not having fun.  That doesn’t mean I am unaware of what goes on around me.  That doesn’t mean I don’t know how hard life can be.  It means I choose enjoyment.  It means it is simply not in my nature to be an unhappy person. 
 
I cannot hate a person for what s/he is.  I cannot expect him or her to change on my or anyone else’s behalf.  I can be a friend.  I can put up with the crazy and the surly and the mood swings and the tears as long as I am able.  After that I don’t know.  I’ve maintained friendships that might seem odd, at the least, to an outside observer.  I suppose I just think everyone wants to be loved.  At some point I need to accept that not everyone wants to be loved by me. 
 
Maybe assholes aren’t assholes.  Maybe assholes are just assholes to me.  Hmm, nothing personal I hope.  But just as they shouldn’t change for me, I have no intention of changing for them.  I suppose I better find the strength to move away.

I dedicate this blog to all you assholes out there.

Who is the greater fool: the fool or the fool who follows him?

If you know someone to be mean-spirited, an asshole, know them to always do their best to ruin all the enjoyment of others, know them to suck the fun out of living why do you keep talking to them? Why do you continually ask for their opinion on a situation? Or, in some cases, not even ask for an opinion; simply offer a statement of plans laying out a good time. You lay yourself out like a sacrificial lamb.

“Here!” You say. “Here I am! Here is all my joy, all my hopes, everything I look forward to in life! Take it, take it upon your altar and slaughter it! Please!”

Why do this? You know the outcome; you know the consequences, why lay down upon the altar and act surprised when you see the knife descending?

Because none of us who aren’t assholes can help it.

We live our life joyously. We enjoy simple pleasures and look forward to simple times. The idea that someone would not be happy for us, as we have been happy for others our whole lives, is so foreign, so abominable that we simply cannot comprehend it. In our souls is an innate belief that if we just keep being a good friend, a good lover, a good relative the asshole will come around. We keep offering harmless anecdotes about nothing more complicated than laughing. We keep supporting and loving and sharing and listening because that’s what we do. Our mistake is made when we expect said asshole to listen to us. Our mistake is made when we expect said asshole to support and love and share with us. It isn’t going to happen. Some people are pretty; some people are ugly. Some people are nice, and some people are assholes. It is the way of the world. It has taken me twenty-three years to learn this.

What aggravates me is that assholes do not have to be that way. Something in their development went so awry that they are unable to allow others joy. I suppose that is what makes them an asshole. But this idea is so alien to me! Why can’t you be happy? Why can’t you say, “Hey, that sounds like a good time for you. Enjoy yourself.” What is so frightening or threatening or Goddess only knows what about people having a good time? Always the asshole picks it apart. Always the asshole finds a reason that what is being done is stupid, or inefficient or wasteful. Always the asshole is an asshole.

It makes me angry. I wouldn’t say this is over-reacting on my part. I wouldn’t say I’m just pmsing. I would say this is very real annoyance in my life. Assholes need to be banished to their own little island where they can be mean and spiteful to each other. Where their bitchy, nagging habits won’t attach to me like leeches settling down for a feast. The worst part about assholes is they turn the rest of us into assholes if we let them. So surrounded are we by negativity that we finally give in and become negative ourselves.

Well screw you guys I’m not doing it. You want to be an asshole to me fine. But I’m still going to have a good time and there is nothing you can do about it. You can be an asshole, but I will point you out for the petty, insecure creature you are. It’s not my problem I like my life. It’s your problem you hate yours.

Go fix yourself. I’m not playing your games anymore.

I saw King Arthur today. Personally, I thought it was fabulous. Not because I believe it is historically accurate, though it is certainly the closest thing to the truth I have witnessed yet, but because of the message it depicts. Arthur and his knights were people. Simple men who rose above what was expected of them. Men and women (Guinevere to be exact) that fought on behalf of those that couldn’t. They showed their strength of character and strength of spirit. I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

And yes, I intentionally put "fucking" in there because, honestly, I felt it was appropriate.

That is the kind of person I want to be. I want to have that sort of fortitude that I can do what needs to be done. But how does one reach that? How do you give up what you hold most dear to fight for something bigger than yourself? How do you recognize the need? In hindsight it is always so obvious what should have been done. How I should have acted, but how do I make the decision I need to when I need to?

There is no answer to this question. I realize that but it does not stop me from asking it. It is my belief that, if I am aware of the challenges ahead of me, hopefully I will recognize them when they come my way. And, if I recognize them, hopefully I can meet them in the manner I wish.
I’m not a particularly strong person. I’m not anyone special persay, or deserving of recognition in the history books. We all may be the stars of our own lives, but I recognize my life is only a supporting actor to others. I’m okay with that; I accept it. By accepting it I gain power over it and can help those around me as best I can. But remembered or not I want to die knowing I fought for something greater. I do not know if my battles will be fought physically or verbally—there is no way to tell. But I do know this, no one controls who I want to be. No one decides what I can and can’t do. I have the power to grant or deny myself happiness.

I can’t say I will never fail those I love. I have in the past and, invariably, I will sometime in the future. But, I can say I will always try to make it better. If it is in my power I will do it. If it means my life so be it. I am the master of my fate and there is no reason not to achieve what I desire.

Why live if you’re scared of tomorrow? Why live if you don’t want to change?

None of us is perfect so how can we resign ourselves to stay the same person forever?

Don’t you want to be better than you are and do better than you have done?

Go out and do it. You can give the world excuses why you aren’t, but you know better.
 
Don’t live a half-life. You don’t know if you’re going to get another one.

Ah, it has been awhile. I have had several requests to update this dear blog and I admit I am surprised. I figured I had faded into obscurity. Cheers for all of you reminding me why I started this damn thing.

Where to start? I believe a tale of sweet irony is a wonderful beginning. I have had the pleasure of getting to know a very special child in recent months. My roommates daughter to be exact. She is an amazing child, truly. Rambunctious, spunky, intelligent and completely out of control. My first weekend baby-sitting her made me wish to call my parents and apologize profusely for everything I ever put them through.

It’s an amazing thing, spending time with children. I see my own childhood rearing up to slap me in the face every time I’m jumped on, poked, prodded or begged. And I’m nothing but an innocent bystander. I ask you, am I really parent material? I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see. No matter how irritated I become I can never be angry, because she is simply being what she is twelve. How can I be angry at someone for being what they are? I can’t.

I had a particularly fun time buying her comic books the other day. I’m always happy to create another addict. The world is decidedly short of smart, female comic book readers so it gives me great pleasure to swell the ranks just a little bit.

I am back on my comic book kick you see. With the release of Spider Man 2 (fabulous movie) and my re-entry in the world of X-Men I am fully immersed in the world of superheroes once again. So much so, in fact, that my dear roommate and I have brainstormed the idea about writing our own story. What idea have we brainstormed you ask? Well, let me tell you. I’m not sure we could ever sell it, or that anyone would ever want to buy it, but I would really like to write a story about and an ugly heroine. A super-powered, butt-kicking, smart, strong, intelligent, fully capable, ugly heroine.

There is no movie, book or comic book that addresses how it is to be ugly in this world. What it would be like to save the lives of person after person that ignores you on the street and laughs at you behind your back or simply doesn’t see you. Spider Man addresses it to a point. Peter Parker is a dork, after all. But even him, like all other characters, becomes handsome (or beautiful) before the story is over. Unattractive characters are typically comic relief or a foil for the lead character to grow. If they are the leads themselves they progress through some physical change which leaves them attractive when all is said and done. What about a woman that isn’t pretty and isn’t ever going to be pretty? What about a woman that saves the world on a bi-weekly basis but can’t get a date for Saturday night? She’s funny, witty, strong, and fun but who really wants to kiss her? What about her story?

So I think I might try to tell that because all women, pretty or ugly have an ugly girl inside them. Why else would female after female sit around a table and bitch about her weight or her face or her boobs? A precious few of us have accepted the ugly girl inside. And maybe none of us have accepted her fully.

That’s the story I want to tell. I just hope I have the talent to do it.