I don't know what quality of posts are coming in the future, but I thought I would post something from a creative writing class back during my undergrad years. I wrote this when I was 19 and now seems like a good time to share it.

She lay in bed, content with her life. He had called her today, like he’d called everyday before and now she laid there, she, he, and her best friend; three in a bed, three friends content to be. Her best friend was beautiful, with cute blond hair and a million dollar smile, but he didn’t like the cute one, he’d told her so-she finally had a chance. Letting down the barriers and coming from her shell, she had discussed this very fact with her best friend earlier that day; the fact she thought she had a chance, he seemed interested. Thus it was quite a surprise as she lay there in bed, and felt him turn away toward the vixen on the other side; pushing her toward the side, shoving her over the edge. She could feel their bodies moving on the sheets, denting the bed with their amour as they drowned in each other’s spittle. She could hear the smack of skin on skin and feel his arm moving over the other’s body-branding her as he caressed her friend. Her mind, unable to accept the truth, her emotions roiling insider her-she knew she had to escape. Run away before her volcanic feelings erupted, burning her body, her friends, the bed. The bed that was to small for three people-was any bed big enough for this? Her feelings funneled to movement, she exploded from the bed, the bed of Satan and his succubus and she a mere mortal burned in their fire-she escaped the bed and its dirty sheets on dirty people. She ran from the room, ran from the feelings, ran from the friend. She had forgotten that to feel was to hurt; to love was to cry. She had forgotten an unarmored back was as broad as a barn. Her friend, with a thrust through her spine had stabbed to her heart, reminding her of that truth of life. She couldn’t beat her beautiful friend, she, a medusa to the siren; her friend had reminded her to stay in her place, that men would always think with the wrong head. Fuck that. And fuck them.

The world is abounding in ethical dilemmas these days. On one side it looks to be possible for parents to chose their child’s sexual orientation. Goodbye gays. On the other side parents’ whose child’s brain stopped developing at 3 months have decided to keep her from growing. That’s right, extreme estrogen therapy stunts growth, and combined with a hysterectomy, and removal of the breast buds you essentially have one, very oversized child or undersized adult. All depends on how you look at it right? We’ll talk about the girl first.
So, the parents’ stunted her growth because it made it easier for her to be handled by her care-givers. They desexualized her so that her breasts wouldn’t get in the way of her wheelchair straps and said care-givers (again) wouldn’t feel “uncomfortable” when undressing and dressing her. She would also never “suffer” from menstruation, cramps or any of the other downsides of a post-pubescent woman. You can read all about it at http://www.slate.com/id/2157861/?GT1=9010 or ashleytreatment.spaces.live.com. My question is this—if your kid is going to be too much of a hassle as an adult, why bother to spend the money on keeping her a kid? Why bother keeping her alive at all? And that leads me to my next issue.
The ability to ensure a child’s sexuality—eliminate homosexuality effectively. One person argued that if a woman could ethically abort a fetus with down syndrome why couldn’t a parent ethically decide upon his or her child’s sexuality? Well I guess that depends on how you view sexuality. Is it a disease? Is it some sort of birth defect? Does being born a homosexual really reduce your life expectations so very much? What about down syndrome? Or any other abnormality?
At what point are we ethically empowered by science to ensure the absolute best life for our children we can? And if you find out the fetus you are carrying (or your wife is carrying) is flawed in someway, can you abort it in favor another, less broken one? I honestly don’t know. Given the option of aborting a baby I knew had down syndrome I have no idea what decision I would make. But I do know two things. You are born with the genetics you have and there is nothing wrong or right about that. “Wrong” and “Right” are moral terms and genetics are not an issue of morality. That means that while down syndrome (and some might argue homosexuality, though that seems to prevalent to be an accident) might be a mutation, it is simply a difference from the norm not a punishment or failing of some kind. If as a parent you give birth to a child with such a condition, Ashley’s for instance how can you mutilate that child’s body for your convenience? At that point what little quality of life is being experienced has been completely destroyed so why not kill the kid? You obviously don’t want the hassle of dealing with it anyway. And finally, the female body will abort any fetus not viable for life so maybe if your body carries the kid to term, gay, stupid or otherwise, you should be prepared to deal with what you have, and love it, not look for a better model.

So I’ve been a bit testy lately. It finally occurred to me just a moment ago that my testiness might be do to the fact that I haven’t written in a long time—really written. Of course, to be honest part of my testiness is that I haven’t had any interaction with testes but I can’t do much about that. And hey, I can write about interaction with my favorite male anatomy and while that might not be the same thing, it at least alleviates some of the frustration. At least that’s what “they” say, whoever “they” are.
This whole “don’t be a ho” mentality I’ve adopted is honestly starting to get on my nerves. It’s been a year now of not sleeping around and only part of that year was due to lack of opportunity. There was one very blatant invitation and I didn’t accept. Looking back I flog myself a little bit for said decision, but the truth is I’m tired of bad sex. The only reason I decided not to sleep with anyone who offered was because I’ve yet to get to know someone before I sleep with him. What a concept.
Anyway, this whole self-awareness bit and accepting that maybe I’m a little more broken than I wanted to admit is annoying. And besides, who isn’t more broken than they want to admit? But here I sit, holding out for love because if I meet the right guy he’ll make it all better right? (Yes I was joking, I barfed a little in my mouth as I wrote that sentence too, don’t worry.) Seriously, here I sit holding out for love because if I’m going to continue this process of not being broken I have to make decisions that further my cause, not harm it. And, at the moment, this one seems to be the correct choice. However, making said correct choice has gotten neither love nor sex and we’re back to where we started: me being testy.
So I suppose I’ll write something; maybe a fanfiction or a short story, or I’ll start another novel I won’t finish. What matters is that for the time I’m writing I’m happy, and if I can’t ensure that I’ll be happy all the time I can ensure that I will be happy all the moments that are within my control. In a week school will start and I will be swamped with homework, a final project and grading, but that’s in a week. And if I planned ahead I wouldn’t be me now would I?

Well, it's four o'clock in the morning and that to me says “time to write!” To the rest of you it might say “go to bed” but hey, since when do I care what the voices in my head tell you?

I wonder sometimes if I'm turning into a crotchety old feminist. If I am, in fact, losing my ability to enjoy comedy because I am too horrified by the truth behind the joke to find said joke funny. The other problem is that in my horror, I want nothing more than to explain to others why they should be horrified with me—I want to spread my knowledge...like the plague. Is that acceptable?

I remember once during my undergraduate years when a man stood on the sidewalk and preached at all who walked by. He called out to the young women in revealing clothing labeling them “whores” and “Jezebels” and preached the word against homosexuality, abortion, and premarital sex. I was so incensed by him and my brother said that I shouldn't be. That if this man truly believed all of us were going to hell wasn't it honorable that he was doing his best to keep us from going there? He wasn't attacking anyone physically, only verbally. He wasn't limiting anyone's choices, just trying to elucidate why their choices were wrong. It was unwanted opinion and he was spewing it at the top of his lungs.

I am now the spewer of the unwanted and I have to question if that is acceptable or not. Of course I believe that what I know to be true is true—or, the best version of true. But so did this preacher. And, as much as I could argue why he was wrong and I am right, if the world he believes in is the truer world than all my arguments fail. Of course I wouldn't see things the way he sees them because I haven't seen the light. Naturally his arguments seem silly to me because I haven't accepted God into my heart. This conveniently shifts the playing field of the debate from the mundane to the spiritual thereby making it impossible for me to prove my point or disprove his. So, knowing that I can't disprove what he had to say I have only the unswerving belief that I am right—it is that same unswerving belief that keeps him warm at night. Does that make me a fanatic? Does that make me a zealot? Am I at liberty to express my opinions regardless of who wants to listen at will?

I would say no, but I would acknowledge that I can be zealous at times. I shut down sometimes when someone says something I don't want to hear and stop listening to what it is they are trying to say, instead focusing entirely on what they are saying literally. This isn't the way to handle any situation, especially not one where opinions are flying. But it is so difficult, perhaps the most difficult, thing I've ever had to do—this listening to what others are trying to tell me, regardless of my emotional response to their words. And, by choosing to listen to their side and not continually fight for my own I have to accept that they might not see what I see; they might not agree with me in the end. That's actually the hard part. Giving up the fight because this knowledge that I am so sure is correct and so sure would improve their thoughts and lives if they had it isn't, in the end, for them. Whether because they aren't ready to hear it, can't hear it or choose not to hear it is inconsequential. The fact of the matter is that it is like poison to them.

Sometimes a joke is just a joke, regardless of the history or the horror behind it, and you have to let people laugh. Even if you know deep down it isn't very funny it doesn't matter because on some level, some level even they don't fully understand or acknowledge, they know it isn't funny too. They know it's horrible. But laughing at it, knowingly or unknowingly, takes some of the power of that horror away. It is important to laugh at things that are tragic to the marrow of their bones I think, but I hope very, very strongly, that all will eventually learn to laugh while knowing why it isn't funny. Because in the end, so I believe, until you know the full history and meaning behind something your laughter isn't removing the power from the horror but merely hiding it. Until a thing is completely understood and, I would go so far as to say felt, the joke is still doing more harm than good.

I suppose I have to start trying something new. I suppose I will have to learn to say things quietly and when I feel they should or must be said only. I hope that isn't giving up the fight. I hope that is learning to fight more wisely. I suppose we shall see.