This is something I wrote after seeing V for Vendetta, but I felt I should share it after reading an article this morning on Slate. Apparently the war on fat is fully underway. Obesiety has been declared "worse than 9-11". That, is not okay. For those that don't understand why that's not okay I won't be able to explain it to you. As a woman I've had my share of marginalizing, but I've never been part of a group specifically targeted as evil and detrimental to the country before. Some of you will argue that a person can control how fat she is, therefore, there is no reason for it. I will say, yes I can control the size of my ass to a certain degree, but it's my right. It's my choice what I eat how I eat and where I eat. The government does not get to make that decision for me. How many more liberties are we going to sacrifice "in our own good"? How many more freedoms are we going to let be regulated and taxed away? How many more times will a group of people be targeted because they offend the state? Answer me that, and then tell me I'm not allowed to be fat.

There's a problem with apathy. Or, rather, the thought that whatever you want to do someone has already done, and done better than you ever could. There is a danger in that thought. There is a danger because while it might be true, it is never an excuse for inaction. If, always, we leave it up to others to change things, enact those actions we so desperately wish for ourselves, then eventually some thoughts will remain unsaid. Eventually, enough people will be sure enough of other's actions that they cease to act themsevles and eventually action itself will slow to a crawl and those that feed off the inaction of others will rise to the forefront. We have reached that point now. The other problem with apathy is that it provides no protection against fear. When you never really care about anything other than your world you are never willing to fight for anything. Then, when fear threatens the only thing you've cared about, you have no idea how to fight for it and so you let others fight for you. You let them fight for whatever they want and give up everything you didn't know you had to ensure that those things of which you are aware, your home, your comforts, your material posessions, remain unharmed. Your ideas, your thoughts, your freedom is sacrificed without a thought; those things can be lost without pain after being neglected for so long. Their loss is never missed until the fear returns, and it is then that you realize what you had and what you've lost. Because now the fear has returned, only this time it isn't just a fear for your comfort or even your life, now it's a fear for your soul. But not it's too late. That which you didn't say because you were sure someone else had or would can no longer be said. Thoughts that might have changed the course remained silent and now the course is set. And maybe you think it's not a bad thing. Perhaps you think the course would be a good thing. The fear has yet to set in and you probably think it never will. And that is where you are wrong most of all. Because the sacrifice of ideas, thoughts and freedom are never acceptable losses. You are not safe if those must be given up. Instead you are more vulnerable than ever before, but in a subversive way. Those that would take these things from you for your protection will never protect you, only enslave you. Those that keep control of you for your own good want only to control you for theirs. The thought of a government that polices morals with actions is comforting to children but our country is not full of children. As easy as it would be to let the government parent we must never. We must never because a government must be the policer of injustice, the protector and stabilizer of the people. To be the moral parent might seem necessary to accomplish these things but it is the antithesis of them. To parent you must supress and control the child, lead her into what you want her to be. But the people are not children and parenting by the government will only result in the supression and control of the people. It will result in the squashing of unsavory ideas and forbidding of seemingly immoral acts. This isn't right. This is not okay because while the idea of a society that encourages specific moral ideas can be comforting the reality will always result in the abuse, supression and control of its people. That is never okay. If you believe that the violence against certain persons is justified because their moral structure does not match yours what does that say about you? Do not shy away from that question, do not rationalize. What does it mean if you believe that facism is acceptable if it results in stability? These are the questions we must ask of ouirselves because we like to justify our choices. We like to think we have reasons, good reasons for what we do and what we let happen. But do we really? Do we really have any better reason for the allowance of control than fear? Fear for our lives, homes, material possessions? And if all you have is fear what are you allowing to be done to allieviate that fear? And now we're back to where we started.

I would like to say that some ass posted a comment promoting porn on my last blog and that is not okay. I get to choose what porn I promote and don't promote so this is my official comment not sanctioning the promotion.

Other than that I really don't have much to say, it's finals and my brain is fried which makes for not very interesting material really. Oh for the day when I can be noted author and Professor and not have to worry about homework anymore!

Well, this week we're on to Pericles. I'm not sure this one will make as much sense, but we'll put it up here anyway.

Ode to the Sodden Brothel

Before we begin I must say that Shakespeare (and whoever might have written Pericles) is a true master of describing female anatomy in the most hideous way possible. Why are there no criticisms written on this? I think it’s absolutely fabulous.
Moving on to Benjamin and Pericles—I don’t have much to say. Gower is the storyteller. I think it would be easy to make the case that everything seen (or read) is done so through him; even though he only appears at the beginning of the acts it is his story. It’s strange to view Pericles through Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Storyteller” because I don’t view Pericles as that great of an epic. I liked it, I think it might be the one I have most enjoyed reading thus far, but it doesn’t fit into Benjamin’s essay really. What wisdom does it impart? That incest is bad? Check. Don’t try to kill the kid you’re supposed to take care of? Check. You can always talk your way out of “working” by ministering in a brothel? Hm, not so sure about that one.
But perhaps Pericles could be looked at as an example of a story lacking all those qualities Benjamin is discussing. Let’s focus on the experiences related by Pericles and decide if they are justly rendered.
All aspects of the play are fairly clear; in fact, if it is truly written by Shakespeare it certainly is the least layered of all of his plays. Were it written at the beginning of his career I could understand this—the guy’s just starting out, he hasn’t hit is stride yet and the words just don’t quite flow so easily. But this is placed near the end. So how can Pericles be written by Shakespeare, at the end of his career, and be so amazingly different from the other plays? I would say perhaps he got tired of hiding his meanings, but The Tempest is nothing if not elusive. So where does that leave us? Perhaps it was written on a dare? Someone got tired of Shakespeare always hiding the incest and double dog dared him to write it clear out? Seems like as good of an idea as any. No matter the man’s talent he was human (and I would say egotistical) so the idea of Shakespeare writing Pericles on a dare doesn’t particularly surprise me.
So we will assume (because it’s late and I’m tired) that Shakespeare wrote Pericles. Smarter people than I have sat around and discussed this quite snottily and I’m happy to go with their decision. How does it rank as storytelling? I think for pure enjoyment value, it’s right near the top. No one in this play is overly melancholy, the gender roles are by far the easiest to digest (minus Marina being married at 14 to a man she met in a brothel, but concessions must be made) and I like most all of the characters. Seems like a good story to me. But what about the wisdom? What is it imparting to the reader? After arguing criticism should cover more of these topics last week why is Pericles the first play to talk about?
Honestly, it seems like Shakespeare’s attempt at a blockbuster. Not a whole lot of substance, but we’ve got action, romance, dirty sex, people dying, intrigue—the whole lot. It’s even got catchy music in between acts sung by Gower. But I think maybe, this play (and Gower in particular) does fit Benjamin’s definition of a good story or storyteller. On page 91 Benjamin says, “The storytelling that thrives for a long time in the milieu of work…is itself an artisan form of communication…It does not aim to convey the pure essence of the thing, like information or a report. It sinks the thing into the life of the storyteller, in order to bring it out of him again.” No one’s conveying particularly sought after wisdom with Pericles but it does sink into one’s life. It’s not a play you forget and it is one you want to talk about soon after reading it. Hamlet might be more dense and ripe for literary discussion, but it’s Pericles that makes you go “oh, that’s not right.” Then you have to go verify with everyone else, yes, incest is wrong, no, none of us have ever tossed our spouse overboard because we neglected to check for a pulse.
What greater purpose for a story than for it to stay in people’s minds? To be remembered and told again? A person loses a bit of her purity after reading Pericles, much like watching Deliverance, and you don’t ever get to be the same person after that you were before. Nothing’s hidden, meaning doesn’t have to be sought after, but like herpes it gets inside you and doesn’t go away (no, I don’t have herpes).
I suppose that could be argued to be the hidden genius of this play. I still maintain, though, that he wrote it on a dare.

Here's the latest on Hamlet. Enjoy...


Hamlet, what a guy. I’m having a really hard time figuring out what to say for this paper. What observations do I have to offer on Hamlet or Hamlet? Perhaps I should focus my energies more towards the criticisms. I read the articles that formerly annoyed me. I even read the business explaining what the different types of criticism were to better understand what I was reading. And, now making an informed opinion about the feminist essay and the psychoanalytic essay I have two observations: 1) Freud is fucking nuts and 2) the essays still annoy me (though slightly less). I use strong language in my description of Freud for a very specific purpose in describing just how strongly I find his ideas repugnant. The things of use he has to say weren’t even his original thoughts; he simply expounded on them, more often than not, in terrible ways.
Yes, it’s fun in a slightly juvenile way (which I am much more than slightly juvenile myself) to joke about incest and the son having unnatural urges towards the mother and all that. However, I am quite sure no one before dear old Sigmund Freud honestly thought that sons wished to kill their fathers so they could bang their mothers. It’s an inane thought! Does Hamlet have mother issues? Undoubtedly. Is it because he wants to literally or figuratively have sex with his mother? Please. Even I in my admitted immaturity am not that stupid. In case I have offended I will explain. I am certainly not attempting to insult you or any of my classmates.
Shakespeare was writing in a time when gender roles were very much not as they are today. His views on women as expounded by his plays (his personal views I cannot vouch for) are horrific and barbaric. There is no excuse or reason for it; you can write all the feminist criticism you want but you’re never going to find a better reason for the women being they way they are other than women’s rights, freedoms, or basic understanding of the female gender simply did not exist at that time. It doesn’t take an essay to figure that out. Throw in a heavy mix of guilt, embarrassment and oppression towards anything sexual is it any wonder men, women, parents and children interact the way they do? Our cultural completely repressed a healthy sexual development for the better part of two millennia. That’s not an oedipal complex that’s religion (or people) screwing people up. Hamlet does not want to have sex with his mother he wants to keep his mother from having sex because he is completely uneasy with his own sexuality, let alone that of his parents. Like every child in the world his reaction to the idea of his parent getting it on is “gross!” What is so hard to understand about that?
Freud is an idiot. I can’t say it any better. Not to mention he completely misunderstood the female urge to use a penis as being envy for one of our own. Why do put any weight on what this man says?!
Okay, moving on. The above speaks, more or less, to Adleman’s essay. As to Showalter I have to say she has given me nothing that sparks my thoughts on Ophelia or Ophelia’s relationship to the play. She doesn’t talk about the character she talks about what the character has meant to the culture of art and literature and the study of psychology. That’s all well and fine, but that doesn’t help me better understand the play. It doesn’t teach me anything and it certainly doesn’t make me think. These critics (and most all critics for that matter) seem to disregard that what we are reading are stories. Stories (this is excluding metafiction) must have a plot and certain things must progress as they do for said plot to make sense and be effective. That means that not every piece of the play can or should be extracted and examined on its own. It must be looked at in the context of the rest of the story. And some of it doesn’t mean anything—it’s just there to help the story move along. Am I exceptionally naïve in having this belief? Why? It’s the nature of any piece of writing so why isn’t it considered in criticism?
Ophelia, I believe, exists for a very specific purpose. She goes mad for a purpose. There is more than one purpose, perhaps, or more than one purpose could be argued certainly but you can’t look at her as a psychological study and expect to understand her position in the play. And you certainly can’t take Hamlet out of it’s time and attempt to look for reasons of Hamlet’s treatment of Ophelia in modern day feminism. It doesn’t work. He treats her like an ass because he is an ass and because he had no basic respect for women. He has no basic respect for himself and, therefore, cannot have respect for women but there’s no deep thought that needs to accompany that revelation. That’s not the part worth pondering anyway. What I want to know is what was Hamlet lacking as a human being and how did that lack affect Ophelia who obviously hoped to (or did I’m not sure) love him. What does Ophelia’s character have that I as a woman, if not a medieval woman, can relate to or learn from? Why does it matter that I read this play? What does it make a person feel? What does it hope to teach? What is the warning here in this tragedy?
I don’t care if Ophelia had schizophrenia. I don’t care if Hamlet couldn’t define himself because his father and Claudius kept falling into each other. How does his inability to separate the father figures affect his musings on life and the meaning of it all? Why is he so damn whiny? What’s the true story of Gertrude? Who is she, what does she like, why did she marry Claudius so quickly following the death of her husband? What can I as a reader learn or feel from that? Why does it matter that I read this story in the 21st century?
The Tempest and its implications for modern technology mattered because it helped us consider what we might be doing wrong all these years later. It makes us think about the danger of creating Calibans. Hamlet has extremely important lessons concerning growing up, becoming an adult, recognizing our place in the world and coming to peace with ourselves and where we come from, but everyone seems more interested in talking about the incestuous urges he has towards his mother and oedipal complexes. I think that’s a blatant misreading and a way for everyone to run away from the parts of the play that are truly worth studying. I think people are scared to really contemplate the questions Hamlet himself asks in the play. I think people would much rather think of an outlandish, unavoidable reason to be angry with their parents other than to face it. Who wants to accept responsibility for him or herself? There’s no fun in that.
This play is thick and while I hate the character Hamlet I do think the play is worth reading and studying. I think it’s worthwhile because it forces us to seriously consider or own inner natures. And I think we don’t study it that way because none of us wants to.

Well I had so much fun posting last week's paper I thought I would do it again. This week we read Hamlet. Enjoy.

Episode 3--Revenge of the Hamlet

I do not think I have been this depressed since seeing Star Wars: Episode 3 (hence the pseudo-title of this informal paper). I mean, honestly, could there be a more depressing tale in all of human history? I haven’t read any of the other Shakespearean dramas so I don’t know the answer to that, but I have to say I stayed away from them for precisely this point! It’s a sad story! Why the hell do I want to be sad?!

Anyway, I apologize and I promise at some point I will get to the point of this paper, but first I must point out the irony of reading Hamlet during the week of Valentine’s day (which I would like to think you planned) and since one’s seasonal depression is usually at its worst in February (never mind the snow storm) I’m really in no mood for the melancholy Prince of Denmark. But despite all of that it had the same effect on me a lifetime original movie does on a lazy Saturday afternoon--I just couldn’t turn away.

I’m not trying to demean Shakespeare here, and I’m certainly not trying to undermine the importance of Hamlet. I might be the only person in the class to be excited to recognize the relationship to Star Trek 6: The Undiscovered Country (in which they quote Hamlet) but that doesn’t mean I don’t comprehend why it important to read this play.

That being said I have a few issues. First of all, how can Hamlet muse on the meaning of life in such a powerful way as he does in his soliloquies and still be such a self-obsessed, whiny, immature little troglodyte? It’s almost as if he’s two separate characters--owing to which, people suffering from extreme depression as Hamlet does sometimes do seem that way. Also, there is something seriously more screwed up with that boy than just his father’s death. He was already inconsolable before he spoke to the ghost, the whole revenge plot seemed more to give him an out for his unhappiness than anything else.

And what about poor, dear Ophelia! Alas for such a fate as hers. I do think Hamlet loved her, but I think his love for her, like his love for everyone stemmed mostly from how much he perceived they loved him. The boy (and I say boy on purpose because he was not truly a man, despite the beard) had issues with his parents. His father’s death seemed to deny him the ability to prove his worth and his mother’s second marriage was the cause of some serious abandonment issues. Freud would have a field day!

Though, Freud completely screwed up Oedipus so probably we should leave him out of this, but I digress.

Hamlet is completely unable to process human nature. I suppose that is the best way to describe it. I know there is speculation that this play was written following the death of Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet, and that much of the philosophical ponderings derive especially from a need to understand that. It certainly makes the greater purpose of the play easier to understand. Hamlet is such a dramatic character that without believing he is the author’s tool for pondering life and death I’m quite sure I would scoff him. Or I would if the writing weren’t so damned good.

But what do you say about Hamlet? What can you say? I’ve been known to ramble on the meaning of life and death but I have no urge to do that here. A more purposeful matter would be to ramble on some people’s inability to handle life and death. For that I turn to a modern day example of Anakin Skywalker.

Poor Anakin, turned to the dark side not because he is a sociopath or pure evil at heart, but because he couldn’t handle love. And that too, I think, describes Hamlet. Hamlet doesn’t know how to love. To love is to forgive and let go and he can do neither of those things. His inability causes him to kill an innocent just as Claudius and become that which he hated--a crime he eventually dies for. Karma’s a bitch.

Hamlet and Anakin both have too much passion and not enough wisdom. They seem trapped in that perpetual state of philosophizing without any closure. Their intelligence causes them to know things they shouldn’t, Anakin with the force and Hamlet with his father’s ghost (and before that his natural dislike of Claudius) and they are left separated from their fellows by an irreconcilable difference. They feel too strongly without any idea how to handle it.

That leads me to my next question. Do some people feel more strongly than others? Why is Hamlet so affected by his father’s death? Was he always prone to fits of melancholy? Did he suffer from bi-polar disorder? What is the deal?

I think part of it stems from being unable to see the world in shades of gray. Hamlet saw everything in white and black, but most everything he saw was black. What else will become of a man when all he sees is failure surrounding him? What else is to be expected but slight madness and severe depression?

Is it better then to become the cynic and accept human nature as failing and beyond hope? To shut down the emotional drives, cease to philosophize about what it all means and simply accept? Is anyone that dares to feel as Hamlet does and ponder those dark questions of the afterlife doomed to depression and madness? I don’t think so, I think Hamlet lacked the emotional maturity to deal with his station in life, but, in his defense, when one is overwrought with sadness it’s awful hard to be mature. He is, in the end, a sympathetic character, though, and that is what matters. At some level we can each relate to Hamlet and indeed, learn from his mistakes.

Though, on a happier note, it’s pretty okay that my uncle was gay. I never had to worry about him killing my dad and marrying my mum to get to the family fortune.

After reading The Tempest for class I had to read Brave New World and watch an old sci-fi movie, Forbidden Planet. I then had to write a response to all of this for my teacher. I like my response so much I'm going to post it here. It will make more sense if you've read these works or seen the movie, but I think it gets its point across anyway. And perhaps it will inspire you to expand your horizons. I am writing directly back to the teacher so just ignore any references to "last week".

Ahhh!

“The Monster in the Id! The Monster in the Id!” I love that line. Anyway, on to more important matters. The Tempest did not bother me have so much as what we have read and watched this week. How has reading Brave New World and watching Forbidden Planet changed how I view The Tempest? I’m not quite sure, but I know they have changed how I view my life.
Brave New World is just flat out scary. I was sure I would hate it (since I hated it in high school) but I read it in a day. Absolutely couldn’t put it down. I suppose that means I’ve matured at least a little bit since fifteen. However, for as much as I liked it, it scared me more. Especially in this age of the government secretly tapping phones and keeping tabs on people all over the place without their consent. Which being a conspiracy theorist myself I’ve thought has been going on this whole time and the media just finally caught wind of it, but that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is that Brave New World might be closer to coming true than any of us want to admit. But I’m supposed to be relating this to Shakespeare.
I have to say I thought Brave New World was more a commentary on the overall works of Shakespeare than The Tempest in particular. I didn’t see an exact link to that play in particular, more an overall commentary on emotion viewed thru Shakespeare and what that means. There isn’t really a character in the novel a person can get behind except perhaps Mustapha Mond or Helmholtz. Bernard is a whiny, self-pitying idiot and John Savage is a misogynistic ass. I feel for The Savage, I honestly do but he is an excellent example of the dangers of learning the world only through Shakespeare. Helmholtz and Mustapha Mond were right in their assessment that you must go over the top when reaching for an emotional reaction but they recognized, which The Savage failed to do, that such excess should exist only in the text. “Civilization” is devoid of emotion and John Savage has too much of it--or, too much held in too tight of strictures.
As to how all of this relates to The Tempest I suppose it goes back to an idea I am still half-forming. There is something different about The Tempest from Shakespeare’s other plays. It isn’t just about colonization or a god story. Reading it this last time it’s almost like Shakespeare himself didn’t even know where he wanted it to go exactly. In his other plays he expresses the major theme explicitly. One of his characters offers the reader (or viewer) a nice little emotional rant that sums it all up quite nicely. But in The Tempest we don’t ever get that. It bothered me last week that no one saw a greater meaning in the play. We read the critics and we all tailored our responses around what we read but none of us, myself included, really reached for something greater. Maybe a critic has already commented on this, but what if The Tempest is bigger than love or death or revenge? What if this is Shakespeare’s culminating play? The one that truly tries to tackle all the aspects of the human condition, humanity itself?
Certainly Brave New World and Forbidden Planet go in that direction. Their storylines have nothing to do with colonization or revenge and everything to do with man tinkering with powers that are beyond him. As the captain says at the end of the movie, “man is not meant to play God.” I suppose that’s where you were trying to get us to go last class with your talks of Chimeras and what not. Sarah and I knew we were missing it but we couldn’t figure out where you wanted us to go. Sorry about that.
So I’m back once again to that age-old question, what does it all mean? Was Shakespeare trying to warn us away from creating Calibans or warn us that we already had? Did he create Prospero so like his enemies in the hopes we would look to ourselves and see our own faults so clearly? Was he trying to show us the dangers of a caste system or too much knowledge? Or all of the above?
Prospero is an amazingly powerful character, but his power truly lies in manipulating those with more power than himself. That does reflect mankind in that, as human beings we are fearfully fragile, but immense in our ability to create technology that protects us. Is Prospero then, a metaphor for all of humanity? And, if so, what does that mean? Is Shakespeare trying to tell us we are meant to lord over nature or show us that we are, actually, equal to it? Without his servants Prospero wouldn’t survive and without our natural resources neither do we. Perhaps Shakespeare saw in the discovery of the New World the destruction of the last pure wilderness and with it the total sublimation of the Earth. But how could he have possibly predicted we would end up where we are today?
But maybe it’s more simple than that. Greed is no new friend to humans and greed was as powerful in the 17th century as it is today. Greed has been the root of destruction for entire cultures. Assuming that Shakespeare was bound by the strictures of the time, Prospero had to fulfill certain requirements for the audience to accept, the play had to end a certain way where does that leave us? Prospero had to get his dukedom back and had to forgive his brother. Miranda and Ferdinand needed to fall in love. These were all necessary parts to the story for the basic plot. Of more interest is Prospero’s dealings with Caliban and Ariel.
Caliban is an ill-mannered brute, there can be no doubt about that, but he reminds me of Magua from The Last of the Mohicans. Beaten and abused by the world he lives in is he truly to blame for what has become of him? Unable to comprehend the world Caliban attacks Miranda and Prospero deals with him accordingly. Does that make Prospero evil? Who is at fault? What if no one is at fault? What if that is the point?

What if Shakespeare was just trying to say shit happens and there’s nothing anybody can do about it?

That’s not a very eloquent way of stating the argument but it does get the point across. Caliban is a victim of circumstance, but a dangerous creature none-the-less. Prospero is a conceited jerk, but must deal with the very real threat Caliban poses to Miranda. Antonio is a backstabber, but Prospero wasn’t watching over his dukedom properly. Alonzo should have kept Antonio from stealing the dukedom, but as King he had the very real need of his provinces being run by competent people. Everyone in the play makes a bad decision but not a completely unjustified one.
What if, after all his plays and all his sonnets William Shakespeare finally came to the realization that humanity will never be perfect? Could The Tempest be his response to that realization? Both Brave New World and Forbidden Planet deal with the ills of utopian societies. Could Aldous Huxley and the writer of Forbidden Planet have grasped this concept so clearly? Did they grasp this realization or did it just work its way out in their works?
Deep down we all know utopia isn’t possible but perhaps on Shakespeare and the writer of Forbidden Planet understand why. Because always, for all our education and refinement, for all our power, magical or otherwise, there will always, always be a monster in our id.

I’m trying here people. Honestly I’m working at posting more regularly, I promise. Unfortunately, my pursuits into higher education are not good for the concept of free time. Apparently last semester was really just the padded introduction to lure blindly into the world of graduate school. There is screwing around this time, folks. Nope, three classes each assigning well over fifty pages a week to read and papers to write applying the knowledge we garnered from said reading. I know, I know, it’s not like I’m in law school or med school or any other school that actually promises a job and an income at the other end. The English degree really is the haven for the pompous, lazy people of academia--we sit in our chairs and write our essays and spout these great ideas like we’re the best thing since Aristotle when in fact we are just philosopher wannabes.

But enough of that! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, honestly. It isn’t like I didn’t walk into this willingly. And it isn’t like I didn’t know what being an English major would entail. I think maybe I just like to bitch. But hey, everybody’s got to have a talent.
So what is more fun to talk about than school? Why boys of course! Or men, in actuality, but I think I say “boys” because when one is drooling over hot men it’s hard to view them as people. Really at that point I’m objectifying. And that means that I have become that which I hate most, a shallow, useless human being who looks at others only for what can be used and taken. Dammit, that makes it all entirely to complicated. What if I promise never to let said object of my affection know I’m drooling and in all real encounters not judge the book by its cover? Does that work? I figure since we’re all catty to some degree its okay to enjoy it a little bit so long as you don’t hurt another human being in the process. I’m rationalizing, I know. This whole blogging thing, I’m still working my way back up to it.

So now that I’ve beat the ever-living fun out of sex lets go back to talking about my favorite subject--men. I would say penis, but unfortunately it’s the men that make the penis so much fun so I can’t separate the two. Believe me, I’ve tried. Anyway, I’ve taken to watching “Charmed”. It is a truly awful t.v. show I have got to admit. I mean, they couldn’t write an original plot line to save themselves; and Shannon Doherty (whom I’ve always had a soft spot for since Mallrats) doing Matrix-moves is not okay. And when I say not okay I mean that in the strongest way possible. Be that as it may, however, they do have a penchant for casting extremely attractive men in the supporting roles and that is really all I’ve ever needed to enjoy a good show. By the bye, if anyone reading this hasn’t bought Firefly and Serenity and watched them multiple times I urge you strongly to do this. Both are stories with significant substance and well worth your time. (And I made that jump because both also include hot men, if you follow.)

So the point of this useless story is to say I think I have a problem. All the characters in books, t.v., movies, comic books, take your pick, that I fall in love with have serious mental problems. Darth Vader, the Phantom of the Opera, Cole Turner, Jean Claude (vampire from the Anita Blake novels), and so on. The only thing these men have in common is that they are mentally unstable and kill people. Coming to this realization has not allowed me to sleep any easier at night. Oh yeah and they all end up with some grotesque physical defect too, Darth Vader and the Phantom’s being most obvious, but the half-demony and vampire folk aren’t exactly smoking-hot when they’re all fanged out either.

I suppose there is no real point to sharing all of this except that should I ever disappear please start the search for me with whatever recovering serial killer is running loose in the area. And I am the future of the academic community. That is a truly frightening thought indeed…

Well son-of-a-bitch. Do you know what our government is up to now? Actually, I believe they’ve been up to it for awhile, but I’m just now learning about it. A “fat tax” is what they’re calling it. It’s actually a one penny tax on foods considered to be low in nutrition and high in calories and/or fat. Some senator is also proposing the tax to be on video games as well. The full story is on MSN if you want to check it out. Now, a one penny tax on soft drinks can bring in a lot of money and it doesn’t change the price that much so my first impulse wasn’t to be overly dismayed. But then I started thinking about it. Why does the government get to decide what’s good for us and bad for us? Why do they get to tax certain items to “encourage” us not to buy them? I understand the need for taxes, I am democratic afterall, they are a necessary part of the world. But where do you draw the line? At what point do you say, “hey, I get to decide what I want to spend my money on and you don’t get to charge me more because you don’t approve!”

I find this all very irritating. My life, my fate lies in the hands of men I don’t know anything about, not really. The government is incredibly complicated and I have not made nearly enough of a study of it. Now, obviously it has to be complicated and there are significant variables to be dealt with in legislation, but doesn’t it strike anyone as a little odd that the average American knows so little about it? We choose to know so little about it. We get confused and give up. We ignore high school civics classes and sleep our way through political science 101 (if we even take it). Meanwhile, other people make a lot of money off our ignorance.

This is not something I am happy about and I do hope to take a more active part in my government in the future. But I implore you, anyone who is reading this, to take an active part yourselves. We need to converse amongst ourselves. Help each other find ways of being heard. Give each other ideas. And we must hurry. Soon the government will be taxing ideas as well as going to war over them.

Here I go again on my own/ going down the only road I’ve ever known

Yes, I just quoted Whitesnake. I have no pride. I admit it.

So how ya’all doin’ out there anyway? It’s January, I haven’t posted since June and I would apologize about that except well, you all have better things to do than read what I have to say so really there isn’t any need is there? I’m in Massachusetts now, have been for sometime and I absolutely love it. L-O-V-E it. There are mountains! And I see ocean every time I drive to school! And trees, lots and lots and lots of trees. Everywhere. Have I mentioned I love it? I am truly a nature nerd; well, I am truly a nerd and nature is just one more obsession among many. I love the comforts of home, don’t get me wrong, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, these are all good things. But nothing beats being able to drive 15 minutes and go for a walk on a mountain. There is no greater feeling than that, for me at least.

What else have I got to say? I do miss my friends terribly—they were all wonderful people, after all, and missing them is therefore only natural. But I think it’s good that I’ve gone. In some ways it reminds me why I love them all so much and gives me something to look forward too when I settle down in the next decade or so.

That’s really about all I’ve got right now. I’m attempting to get back into this blogging thing slowly but surely. I will attempt to be more humorous and my normal pompous self at a later date. I will try to think of something suitably inflammatory to write next time.

Well it’s been a long while and I suppose there probably aren’t many of you out there still checking this, if any at all. I don’t think I mind. The thought that I’m writing for the first time in months without an audience is somehow, liberating.

I’ve been a bit of a recluse lately, not just from here, though this certainly wins the medal for most ignored, but from myself really. It’s been eating away at me for awhile now and as I ignore it I just become more withdrawn. More apathetic.

Oh, I’ve had my moments. In a lot of ways it’s been a fabulous five months. I’ve been accepted to graduate school and will be moving to Massachusetts in August. I’ll leave almost all my family and friends and hand myself over to an entirely new world with one cousin as my only safety net. I’m not afraid. I will be lonely, and I will miss everyone and most likely, at least once, I’ll have a good heart-wrenching cry. But it’s time.

It seems like I’ve started countless posts only to delete them before they ever really get going. Wouldn’t you know it would take another obsession with a story to bring me back out again. I don’t think I’ll share what story because I don’t feel that is important, but I do feel I need to get my thoughts out there. Even if they’re only for me.

It’s odd this love thing. I’ve remarked on it many times in the past. Sometimes with, what I hope could be called a little insight, and sometimes like a bloody fool. I’ve ranted in anger. I’ve ranted in pain. But I don’t think I’ve ever really told the truth. The truth is something more than scary—the truth is frightening as hell.

The truth is I’m afraid.

I know what love is, you understand. And I know that true love, the love that shakes the mountains and boils the seas…well, you don’t get to keep that kind of love. People sometimes scoff romance novels; they say it’s all a lie and life isn’t like that. They’re right, but not in the way they know. True love does exist, and it is absolutely the most beautiful thing in the universe. But we don’t get to keep it. True love requires sacrifice and I suppose it would be easy to say we’ve all heard the cliché let’s move on with the story, but the reason this thought is worth hearing out—the reason this thought is anything new at all—is because you never have true love, not really, until you’ve made the sacrifice.

That’s the trick you see. We can love with all our hearts, we can fully believe we are willing to die for the ones we love, but that’s easy. Loving with all your heart is easy. Dying for the one you love is easy. When you die you don’t have to worry about going on. If you’re dead, what’s to worry about? But what if it’s not your job to die, but to kill? What if, you have to let go of the one you love—the one you love more than your own life—to do what is right?

That’s why true love doesn’t exist until that second. That’s why certain couples grow old, happy with each other. Ignorance is bliss. Love is tested and love is genuine, but true love…well, true love means loving everything. True love means loving life. True love means that even if you each want nothing more than to be with each other you just say no.

I know it sounds crazy. What scenario could I possibly be dreaming up in this twisted little head of mine? It’s not a particularly pleasant idea, even to me. But there is a difference between loving too much, and loving truly. The true lover stops when he sees what is happening. He stops when he sees the consequences. The one who loves too much just keeps going—keeps grasping at the sandcastle trying to protect it from the rising tide. Trying to change the world. And that’s the real shit of it.

The world is a living place. You can make that argument using New Age mumbo-jumbo Mother Nature garbage, or you can make that argument pointing out the cause-effect relationships of every human being, animal, and plant on this planet. It’s all alive. And it’s all connected. And sometimes, to preserve the purity of that life we have to give up that we most want.

Tragedies irritate me so because they miss the point. It isn’t about dying for one another. In Romeo and Juliet there was no reason for Romeo to kill himself when he thought her dead. Nothing to be gained from it, no lesson to be learned. Not for him anyway. Relieving yourself, running away from the pain isn’t true love. That’s loving too much. And yes, you can love too much, just like you can eat too much, smoke too much, or sleep too much. Love is not a pure ideal. Not the way it exists for us anyway.

And therein lies the second thought tonight. I once refused to tell a high-school boyfriend I loved him because at the tender age of fourteen I knew I would never marry him and thus thought I couldn’t possibly love him. If I could live without him it couldn’t be love could it? I didn’t understand how people could say "love isn’t enough" or not choose to be with someone they cared about. But love is a malleable thing; when have human hearts ever felt clearly about anything? Even parents don’t always like their children. I loved my high-school sweatheart and sometimes love isn’t enough, because love is only one part of the equation.

True love implies pure love. And there are very few things in our world that, in their pure state, aren’t deadly. Why should love be any different? And, with all the different types of love in the human heart, why do we think true love exists only between a romantic couple? What of true love between friends? What of true love between a parent and a child?

Love is a chemistry equation. Lust + Compromise + Humor + Adrenaline + Hope + Stubbornness = Romantic Love. Take out the lust and you’ve flipped over into Friendship. Take out the Adrenaline and you’ve got what exists between a parent and the child.

But true love, that is something altogether different. On some level I think we all know this. That’s why we hide it behind religion, "You can’t understand God’s plan" and Hollywood. We create vehicles to express what we know is out there and are afraid to grasp.

Most likely no one will agree with me on this. I could explain it further, but…it’s not my place to do that. It’s possible I’ve said too much, but perhaps I’ve said just enough. It’s also possible no one will ever read this and thus I needn’t worry.
But if you should stumble across these words think about what I’ve said. They mean nothing by themselves—their power comes only from how it relates to your life.

Are you afraid to understand the lesson of love? I still am. But I’m most afraid it’s already too late.

Now, first of all I have to say I feel a little cheated. The two lines quoted in that last comment seemed petulant and childlike by themselves. Combined with the rest of the statement I am not nearly so ashamed of them, but perhaps I am at fault for writing such lines in any context. That being said, let’s get down to business.

I have fabulous family and friends (as stated in previous blogs) and would never be so arrogant as to say I could get along easily without them. Nor would I argue that they have all been there for me through hard times. Stood by me, supported me, and ultimately helped me grow. I do not hesitate, nor have I ever, to inform all around me that I have, possibly, the best family in the world. Yes they drive me crazy, yes I want to kill a vast majority of them at times, but they are all fabulous. When it comes to friends outside the family I have had exceptional luck meeting phenomenal. I am lucky. Flat out, plain-spoken lucky. And now I should clarify.

I have never expected anyone to take care of me (except, perhaps, my mother but that doesn’t enter into this statement). When I say, “learn to lean on” I mean asking for support, help, or a swift kick in the ass. Learning to lean on others is learning to accept my emotions. Learning to lean on others means opening up and not being a crazy co-dependent. Learning to lean on others means betting my emotional health and abilities to interact with others. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear and perhaps I’m just not agreed with. I can accept that, but if so I do believe we are arguing for the same cause. Whatever words you choose to use the meaning is still the same—healthy, loving, supportive relationships. Isn’t that what the lifetime channel has been preaching all these years?

So, my response having been given, I now have a confession to make. I am quite sure if asked to craft a statement on the same topic as the mentioned blog it would read completely different. That’s the way it goes when you write with emotion as the emotion hits you. Not that I take back any of my words or step back from what I said, but I can sound significantly more whiny, petulant, and like a god damned martyr than intended when I get going on my soap box. It isn’t that I don’t believe what I’m saying, but catch me the next day after a good nights sleep and what was cause for the end of the world last night no longer makes my head turn. I guess that’s just the way it goes.

Never think I am not aware of my station up on the cross some days. If there is one thing I do well it is complain about how bad I’ve got it when the mood strikes me. And look, I’m complaining about complaining. That takes talent, I don’t care who you are.

So on to happier subjects! I am still on my Phantom kick—oh yeah. I had a brilliant description of said obsession in an email to a friend and I like it so much I’m going to quote myself now:

I am sorry to admit that the aforementioned Post-Melodramatic Stress Disorder was not my invention. I stole it from the Onion actually, but regardless of its origins, it does apply to my situation. George Carlin prefers “Shell Shock” to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder so perhaps in honor of him, I will call my malady by a truer name: pathetic. Yes, I and the legions of single women around the world sitting on their couch night after night watching lifetime original movies, feeling as if they can “sympathize” with the poor widowed, abused wife, raped by her stepfather while her mom popped pills, now on the run from her husband with her two kids, one of whom actually belongs to the man she really loves but who died tragically from an aneurysm suffered while lifting a large boulder off a small child during the freak landslide that accosted this small Kansas town are pathetic. We flock to Phantom of the Opera, oogle Gerard Butler (the actor who played Phantom) write distressing fan mail and tell every man we meet our life story, menstrual cycle and appropriate behaviors necessary for different mood swings. Then we wonder why we sit at home engaging in the aforementioned behavior and the cycle starts all over again.
And even knowing all that I can’t help but go back and see the damn movie again, and again (and again and again). It just speaks to the sap in me. Who am I to argue with beautiful, crazy, mask-wearing men proclaiming their love? For some reason I find myself more readily able to forgive the craziness I so often preach against when said crazy person is singing “Music of the Night” to me. Go figure.

So how is that for food for thought? I think I have divulged enough premenstrual thoughts to you all (fear the dark blue pills, fear them very much) and I leave now before I say something I mean, but never wanted anyone to know I mean.

Well, I suppose it’s that time again. I’ve had my vacation and as I have absolutely nothing to do at work right now there is no better thing than to blog. At least, that’s what I’m rationalizing. So the holidays are finally over. I have to say, I enjoy Christmas; I had a fabulous Christmas and New Years, but I am glad they are done. I’m just not a holiday girl anymore—the older I get the less sentimentality I seem to hold. Funny how that works.

And on a completely unrelated side note I urge you all to never, ever, eat Long John Silver’s. Sure, it tastes good, but I haven’t been quite right for two days now. There food just isn’t natural (and neither is the effect it is having on my body for that matter).

Okay, on the main event. You wouldn’t think I would wait all this time and not offer you a tirade worthy of your time? I would, but hopefully not this time—at least not intentionally. I actually have two events that are somewhat related, though not at first glance.

I offer you my thoughts on Phantom of the Opera and graduate school.

Oh Phantom, dear sweet Phantom. Has it struck anyone else’s notice you can wake up a fully functional adult, perhaps a bit nerdy but nothing overwhelmingly disturbing about your attitude and by the time you go to sleep you have devolved into a purely pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling obsessive mass? Perhaps I’m being a bit hard on myself, but I doubt it. I am preparing you, you understand, for the obsession that is about to be unleashed on this page. I am a pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling, obsessive mass you understand. I acknowledge it.

Besides, when The Phantom marries me one day it won’t matter. (Yes I know he’s a fictional character, I’m not that far gone…yet)

So—where to begin? Oh the movie is stupendous! If you do not like musicals, true musicals, you might not enjoy it as much as myself. If you aren’t a fan of well-executed melodrama you certainly won’t like it. But then again, perhaps you will. I am a huge fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber and while I have always liked the music of Phantom, not having seen the stage play I just didn’t get it. Then I saw the movie. It’s dark. It’s spectacular. It’s quite possibly the best love story ever told. Ya’all can keep Gone With The Wind. Rhett Butler’s got nothing on the Phantom.

I will grant you, Phantom is crazy. That is indisputable. But he loves Christine perfectly. He would never hurt, never cause her harm, would do anything to make her happy—and yet he is not whipped. He is not pathetic. He is regal, powerful, and still very much his own man. I’ll take a little crazy to get that. Granted, trying to keep him from killing all my friends he didn’t like would be a chore, but I think we could work through it. The point I’m trying to make is this: a few months ago I posted my thoughts on not wanting to cheapen myself with the “game”. Not wanting to fake the electricity between two people. This movie, the love in this movie is the real deal. It is a soul-binding eternal love that happens to one in every one-thousand couples (if that). That is what I’m after and that is what I won’t play the game to get. When I said I didn’t want to fake it, it was because in my heart I am still very much a hopeless romantic. I want it all or nothing at all. I am fully prepared to love someone as deeply as the Phantom loves Christine, but I will not accept Raoul instead. That was what I was attempting to communicate and perhaps didn’t get across as clearly as I hoped.

I am the Phantom. (See, told you I was a pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling, obsessive mass.) I should add when I said I was a romantic the word “twisted” should be included in there. I am a twisted human being, and perhaps that is why this story speaks so strongly to me.

Now, what does all of this have to do with graduate school you ask? How could cow-eyes over an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical possibly have a connection with my ever-shifting life plans? It all boils down to one thing—the will to live.

The Phantom was miserable—lonely and pathetic, his emotional growth stunted, but dammit he wanted to live. He wanted his life and he had a fire that was (is) undeniable. I watch that movie and I think, how can I, someone with no excuses, and no real reasons not to, neglect to live my life completely? How can I, an intelligent, virile young woman settle into oblivion with no better reason than laziness? I can get a job anywhere. I can support myself anywhere. I don’t doubt that. The thrill is in the experience. Where I live, who I’m with, what I’m doing. There is a whole wide world outside Illinois and I’m ready to jump into it. I made the move to Peoria, I liked it, but it is now time to move on. I’m going to grad school in Nevada or Massachusetts and should I not be accepted, I’ll move somewhere anyway. Come August I will no longer be an Illinois resident. I need mountains and ocean and vivacity. I need life.

Anyone who wants to come with me is more than welcome. We’ll make it work.

Well kids I have news. I am going to take a break from my regularly scheduled blogger and begin to participate in nanowrimo, National Novel Writing Month. I will be doing this over blogger, so what you will be treated to is the story as I write it. No editing (to speak of) just me, splooging a story out on the page. It goes from November 1st -30th so I will probably not be blogging on here for awhile. Instead all my energy will be concentrated on achieving 50,000 words before November 3oth. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

The site is http://jessbook.blogspot.com

I haven't written anything yet, but you please offer feedback as you read, be it there or here.

Let the games begin.

Well, here is how I’m seeing things. It is 2:03 pm by my clock at work and I have one more hour to go. I am, therefore, going to write this blog, email it to myself and post it when I get home. By the time you read this blog (whomever the faceless mass of “you” may consist of) it will have completed quite the cyber journey. It makes a body tired just thinking about it. But perhaps that is just me. But I’m the only one keeping myself company right now so I am, therefore, the only one that counts.



Wow, I am off to a wordy, rambling start. Not good kids, not good. I do believe last night I left you all a treat as I attempted to pass the time away at class. Why is it real life persists in intruding upon my dreams? Always this business of working, and learning, and improving one’s self. Never time for playing, writing and, in general, living in a world of fantasy.



Oh, we’re up to 2:07. I swear this building is in a different time continuum. Perhaps all office buildings are. The day slows to a grinding halt when you are at work. It doesn’t matter how much work I do, or how fast I work, or how hard I work inevitably, 3:00 or 3:30 (depending on what time I make it in the morning) simply will not come fast enough. But, once I go home the evening hours seem to fly by with nary a minute to enjoy them. How is this possible? I am sometimes convinced that being an adult is something forced upon the rest of us by boring, bitter people, angry that they are boring and bitter and thus must make the rest of us suffer.



Whew, more rambling. This is what happens when I write at work. But, the time is now 2:11.



So I do have one thing of value worth mentioning. Christopher Reeve died. Two nights ago Larry King Live did a tribute to this man and in the background the crowd cheered him on while shaking “Bush-Cheney” signs in their hands. People gave a tribute to Christopher Reeve while endorsing President Bush and his Vice President. Perhaps you aren’t aware of why this makes me seethe. I will explain.



Christopher Reeve was paralyzed from the shoulders down. His one hope for a cure not only himself, but countless others like him, as well as thousands of cancer patients was stem cell therapy. He fought with every ounce of considerable power at his disposal for the necessary funding and governmental support of stem cell research. President Bush offered him a paltry sum more to appease the uneducated masses than to offer any true support to stem cell research. Reeve is on record countless times as saying “if only we can get the funding”. At what point does it seem like a good idea to tribute a man while endorsing the one person he fought most obviously against? How is this acceptable?!



Stem cell therapy was Christopher Reeve’s one true hope for walking again. Bush would not support it. Stem cell therapy is the key to improving and saving the lives of millions of people around the world. Bush will not support it. It is a free country. You can support Bush if you so choose, but don’t you dare shake a Bush sign and say you are sorry Christopher Reeve is dead! Don’t you dare pay tribute to that man and vote his nemesis into office. And nemesis is certainly what Bush was to Reeve. Whether the two got along or not, stem cell therapy is the next big break through in our world and Bush is the most obvious opposition right now. The man is simple minded and an idiot. No matter what arguments you make for Bush you cannot argue those two facts, because that is what they are, facts. He is not a smart man.



I’m not saying you can’t support Bush (though it is unfortunate if you do). Everyone is entitled to their opinion, even the KKK. But be aware of what you are doing when you shake a sign and cheer someone on. Holding a Bush sign at a Christopher Reeve tribute is like wearing an “I love the Romans” button to a Christian Church. It just doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.



Well, the time is now 2:25 pm and I have acquired more work. So I’m off to do my work and I bid you all adieu.

Okay, I've put up with all I can, and I cannot put up with anymore. Here I sit in my Access Class, paid for by work which is really the only thing that makes it tolerable. I am bored beyond my mind! Granted, I have learned a lot, but my patience is not so great that I can sit here for three hours. It is mind numbing and tedious. I have no patience. I want it all and I want it now!

You will have to forgive me on this post. It is rather hard to type quietly and get my thoughts out before they run away. I am also trying to pay attention when necessary. It is all very time consuming and irritating.

So I have discovered lately that my blog readers are far more varied then I had ever imagined. I know who you are now (some of you) but no, I will not censor. This is after all, my place to rant, be crude, and in general spout views, thoughts and ideas that might not be classroom appropriate. I haven't apologized yet for who I am, I don't imagine myself beginning now. Besides, I wouldn't be nearly as much fun if I thought about what I was saying before I said it now would I?

I am in a very odd mood of late. Which might not be surprising, but you must remember I only blog when I'm in a very odd mood. What is strange is that this mood has persisted.

Oh joy! He is going to call it a night soon! I am very thrilled. Unfortunately I was just getting ready to start blogging...I'm not sure I will have a chance now. In all honesty I owe you all a nice long provocative blog. Or at least something to muddle on for the next few days.

I think I will preview myself by stating a few topics I look foward to covering:

1) I am no longer Christian. That is not to say I am not spiritual, but my spirituality no longer falls in the realm of Christianity.
2) You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink. No matter how much you may want to shake sense into someone it is not always your place to do so. I will delve into learning that lesson later.
3) I am a big coward. I think perhaps I have doomed myself to spinsterhood. My self-defense mechanisms work so darn well I just don't think I have it in my to lay it all on the line and risk friendship, future and happiness.

So these are some topics I wish to discuss in the future. This can remind me of what I owe you a blog on and perhaps I will expand on these topics in the future.

I suppose I should pay attention for the last thirty minute of class. I bid you adieu and wish you many orgasms in your near future.

:)

This blog I am going to discuss the merits of masturbation. That’s right, I said it. MAS-TUR-BATION. I know you all aren’t shocked. There is no way I have any room left to shock anyone that’s read more than three of these posts. But I don’t think I have yet dedicated an entire post to the wonder that is masturbating. Heaven knows it deserves it. I speak from experience, believe me. You can’t not fuck me the week before my period. I will masturbate. I know, I’ve seen me do it.

At this point, perhaps there are a few moans of "over-sharing" and I ask you why is that? We all do it. And if you don't, that only explains your surly behavior. It’s not something I enjoy nearly as often as I would like, after all I have a roommate. And, while I miss him terribly when he is gone, at least I don’t sit around the apartment with him complaining about my horniness. I can take care of it myself.

But the terrible thing is even I feel like I’m pushing boundaries here. I feel slightly ashamed talking so candidly about my solo affairs. I have no trouble relating my bad sex stories (I would say good, but with a few exceptions my good ones are lacking). So how is it that I can discuss so candidly my experiences of dickie-doos and limp dicks and short dicks and perfectly good dicks attached to perfectly terrible people and I shy away from the topic of masturbation? If I were talking about a man yankin’ the crank it would not seem nearly like such a taboo discussion.

I have a theory. (Did you doubt me?)

Until the age of eighteen and even for a few years following, female masturbation seemed the height of grossness to me. I played around as a kid (because all kids do and if you try to argue you’re just fooling yourself) but by the time I was old enough to truly enjoy the activity I had shied away from it as something disgusting and improper. Amazing isn’t it, that I would harbor thoughts of propriety? But there you have it. Even in the sanctity of my bedroom, alone and undisturbed I could not bring myself to discover what feeling good truly was. I knew my brother did it and most every male in my acquaintance but for females it remained something dirty. Something bad girls did. I, unfortunately, was not yet bad. But, about eighteen I finally gained enough insight into my feelings of restlessness to put two and two together. Or two to one as the case may be. Very logically I thought to myself "hm, boys masturbate. Girls masturbate in porn. Shouldn’t I be able to masturbate? How do I accomplish this? I guess you just…go for it." You think I’m exaggerating. I’m not. I had no idea. Filled with the world of chick flicks and trashy romances where beautiful idealistic virgins are just waiting for their passion to be tapped by a skilled, worldly man I assumed deep down that when I found a man to share intimacy with he would show me the ropes. I would touch him, he would touch me everyone goes home happy.

Two problems with that thought process (at least). 1) The amount of men in this world who can do you right when you don’t even know what you like is so small as to be a thing of dreams. I’m not saying they don’t exist, I’m saying you’ll never meet them unless you’re a character in a Danielle Steele novel. 2) Since when did my body become something only a man could enjoy? It’s my body. I think that gives me some rights in the orgasm department. I love men, goddess knows, but the clitoris is a finicky creature. I need to keep my finger on her so that I can help him (or them) along when the time comes. Yes, that pun was intended.

Why is female masturbation such a harder concept to accept than male masturbation? This isn’t a problem that affects older people; usually by the time you hit your twenties you’ve figured it out. But what about young adolescent girls? Why do we hide the knowledge of sexual pleasure from them? It isn’t that I think fathers are sitting down with their sons explaining the rudiments of stroking one’s penis, but hell, I’m a girl and even I knew how a guy got the job done. I just figured people had sex, guys stuck it in and some magical fairy godmother of sex would wave her wand and grant me an orgasm.

I missed out on a good six or seven years of stroking the beaver due to that little misnomer. You better believe I’m pissed about that.

Even today girls and women will reply with "ooh, that’s gross!" when questioned about masturbating. Where do they get that ridiculous idea?! The clitoris is a beautiful thing and there is none so beautiful as your own. Use it, learn it, love it ladies.

I think part of the problem with masturbation is that there is something pathetic associated with it. If a person has to please oneself they are lacking because they have no on else to do it for them. That mentality applies to both men and women. And it’s bullshit. I don’t care who you are, you are never going to be ready to do me each and every time I need to be done. Why shouldn’t I spare you and save myself? And how are we to help others love our bodies if we don’t even know how to do it ourselves?

Now, I think sex is something you have to learn on your own. Not understand, the education should come from the parents, but you don’t know it until you do it. And learning is half the fun. The same holds true for masturbation. No one can sit you down and explain "first you stick your hands down your pants and then you…" No, not going to work. But it is a topic that should be addressed during "the talk". Or, in the case of those of us that were fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have multiple talks, should be addressed somewhere along the way. When you give your kid the adolescent, funny feelings talk just throw masturbation in there. Don’t draw a map but tell your kid what the word means, what it is and that it is a natural thing. Not to mention it will help keep them happy. I mean honestly, they won’t get pregnant, they won’t catch std’s and there will be a release for all that tension inside them they have no idea what to do with. It isn’t the people that embrace sexuality that are freaky, it’s the people that repress it. Just try to argue with me.

So, obviously I am pro-masturbation. I have to admit I’ve lost my shyness by the end of this. And for all you men out there feeling grossed out by this discussion just think of it this way. The more I know about myself means the easier it is for me to show you what to do (or do it myself) and the more time we have to get to what makes you happy. You get yours, I get mine, we both go home happy.

You cannot tell me that is a bad thing.

A lesson is always waiting to be learned when you least expect. I have learned two over the course of five days, one at work late last week and one just now while playing piano. Neither lesson had anything to do with what I was doing at the time, and yet my mind just seemed to wander on its own, released by my consciousness to seek whatever knowledge it would. And, in an instant, my inner self grabbed the knowledge and slammed it in front of my eyes, undeniable. That’s the beauty of activities like playing the piano, instead of forcing your conscious mind on the unconscious you are focused, attentive, so the rest of your mind can do what it will. That is when I always learn the most necessary, and painful, life lessons.

I wonder about my Grandma Dee-Dee a lot. She lost her husband while she was in her forties. She went to work outside the home for the first time in her life, finished putting two kids through school while watching out for the first two and lived her life to all appearances like everything was fine. How do you do that? How do you lose the love of your life while there is still so much life to live? And knowing that you are going to lose them early, lose them having had only enough time to love with them with all your soul, but not enough time follow after, can you give everything you have?

You have too, because to short change your love is to deny yourself and your match all that can be. But every day is bittersweet because you know it will end. At least if you don’t know you can just live. But maybe if you do know you can make more of it. It’s a twisted thing—you have to love them completely because there is no other choice, but you know one day you will be left alone. A cold spot in the bed next to you, no hugs or gentle kisses on the brow, no passionate nights in the cold of winter. Vision is a terrible thing sometimes, and while it is necessary to accept certain aspects of life it is not easy. Knowing that the person you love more than any other life on Earth will leave you stranded without his or her physical presence is a disturbing thought.

I have years of repressed emotion built up inside of me. Any one who knows me to any degree won’t be shocked by that knowledge. I’m the coolest person you know until you say the wrong thing at the wrong time of the month and I try to kill you. Not because I’m truly angry at you, but because you tapped a hidden vein of aggression from who knows how long ago. You become the easy target. To lose someone I planned my life around would destroy me if I don’t learn a better way to cope with my self. I understand now that crying isn’t a bad or evil thing. It isn’t weak or symbolic of manipulative female. It just is. Expressing your anger or discomfort or disappointment or sadness is necessary for a healthy life. It makes some people uncomfortable but that is why one has friends.

I have gone through some of the hardest times of my life alone to prepare me because, ultimately, I have only myself to rely on. I have friends and family I would die for in an instant but there is no one that can support me when I am at my lowest. I would drain them dry. But I have to learn to lean on them. It is something every human being must learn if they are to have a healthy life. To put absolute faith and trust in another human being to help us hold ourselves up when we will surely topple without their love. That is an enormous amount of trust to place in another person, especially knowing that they might not be there forever. As I face that thought I find myself torn between wanting to curl up in bed and cry or just sit here and cry (don’t worry I’m not crying). It is such a horrible thought. And yet, people take that chance every day. And they live fuller lives because of it.

I don’t think it is because of the adolescent immortality syndrome, but rather because they all know something I only truly learned today. To love someone fully and share his/her love in return is worth all the pain of loss. You’re never truly alive until you hand your life over to someone else’s hands. Heartbreak is a bitch, but I’ll take that over regret any day. I never regret doing something. I just regret being too scared to do what I truly wanted to. I will not be too scared to love.

Big words, but can I live up to them? I suppose we’ll find out in twenty years or so.

I am a crazy bitch. Now, when most people make that statement it is accompanied by a smirk or a smile and everyone understands that said person is not a crazy bitch in truth, just having a bad day (week, month, whatever.) I am not just having a bad day, week or month (because I am but that isn’t the sole culprit) I am a co-dependent, neurotic, crazy, chic. And, unfortunately, it’s not the cute crazy so I don’t even think it will get me laid.

Co-dependency: I’m going to do {insert emotion, action, feeling, whatever here} for you no matter if you asked me to or not. Then when you do not show appropriate {insert whatever emotion, action, feeling I think should be shown here} to me I will become angry, hurt, and upset. Yeah, cause that makes perfect sense. I know it’s crazy; I know I can be crazy. Does that stop me from being crazy? No, I’m still crazy.

Are you sensing a theme here?

Now, in my defense (because I can’t just tear myself to pieces without rationalizing at least a little bit) I have had good reason this particular bout of pms to be co-dependent. I’m not saying I was justified, but I do feel as if at least a small part of my craziness was earned. I mean, when your good friends have a habit of disregarding you while in you are in the room to seduce/make out/or screw the guy that happens to also be in the room it can hurt your feelings. Being the third wheel is never fun, especially when you’re supposed to be with people that include you. It feels like shit, I’m not going to lie to you.

But, that being said, I can accept that and move on. I don’t think it is egotistical of me to say I can deal with most any situation and move on, because I have and I will. I’m a survivor. My friends mean too much to me to let stupid shit ruin our time together.

Now I know what you’re all thinking—I should stop being so damn defensive and live life a little. The comment that was added to the last post (and I loved it by the way, that’s why I switched to a template where comments were available) said something to the effect that shouldn’t I let the tingle in since that is what makes life worth living? Here is my answer to that.

The tingle is never not there. I can’t change how I feel—it isn’t possible. People who say they can or do are lying to you. Feelings and emotions are beyond anyone’s control. What I can change is how I act. It’s not that I don’t feel the tingle or try to protect myself from the tingle, it is that I refuse to shortchange myself anymore with silly games and substitutions. Yes, passion is what makes life worth living; living on the edge is what reminds you you are alive. But I want to live on the edge for a purpose. I want to risk my life and/or emotions knowing that I am doing it for a greater gain. I’ve had my fun in and out of the bedroom. I’m too old to keep convincing myself the moment will last forever. It won’t; it never does.

If I can’t have it all, I’m not settling. I’m worth more than that and my life is worth more than that. I get plenty of excitement just living—I love life and I love people. But I am not going to keep hurting myself hoping a knight in shining armor is going to save me. Knights don’t exist any more and we sometimes forget that those we love are people too. We want them to be greater than they can be. We want them to be superhuman and always say and do the right thing. That isn’t going to happen. It never has and it never will. When you love someone you have to love all of them. Otherwise you’re living in a fantasy—I have movies for that. I don’t need to delude myself with the mundane stuff too. Accepting someone’s flaws takes a lot of the spark out of it. Accepting someone is no more or less than anyone else removes all those wonderful elements that keep us coming back to chick flicks and trashy romance novels. But loving someone truly offers something a movie and a book and a fling can never give you—contentment. Knowing that I love someone completely, accepting all that he is, fills me with a much greater energy than simple passion. It is a thought that makes every day a little bit easier to handle. It is something that could destroy me and I accept that too. Should I ever love and be loved back I will not run from it but I will embrace it. I will not cheapen it with childish antics and silly games of seduction, but I will lock the bedroom door and alternately make love and fuck the shit out of him until neither one of us knows who is who and where one ends and the other begins. I will not settle for less than that. I will not make believe that is there when it isn’t.

And if it is there I will not ruin it by treating it like a drunken fling. That is not something you fuck with be it yours or someone else’s. If that regulates me to living my life alone so be it. I am happier knowing it exists and just isn’t in my cards than I ever would be trying to force it into existence. I accept myself and others as we are, completely, as humans. I’ve found life to be a whole lot better when I just let myself live my own life instead of trying so hard to live someone else’s.

I had a realization the other night. I know you all love my realizations. A lot of comment has been made at different times in my life about "I’ll find the right guy", or "it’ll all work out" (blah, blah, blah, life is fuzzy bunny rabbits and pink cotton candy). But I know now what I couldn’t explain, but have always known inside. I know why I think I will never marry and most likely, never engage in any sort of long-term relationship. I have no patience for drama.

I don’t like it, I don’t court it, and I don’t put up with it. When it comes to picking up a guy most girls play "the game" with their big eyes, and meaningful looks, and seemingly casual touches (or sometimes bold strokes depending on the situation). I don’t do that. If I decide you need to know I want you I’ll tell you. If I decide I want to suck your dick or fuck you I will. There are no play-tender moments; there are no misleading words. I can’t do it.

Now, does this mean I don’t crave some sort of tender loving relationship? Of course not, I am human after all, but I cannot come by it through dishonest means. I cannot substitute a session of fucking for my need to "make love". That’s part of the excitement for some people, the thrill of the chase and all that. I don’t have the time or the patience for chase. I’m too fat and too lazy to chase anybody or anything for more than a couple of steps. There is too much to do in life and too much to see for me to waste time playing with you and your craziness. Can’t do it. Even in friendships I can’t stand it. I want to laugh, have fun, make good crazy stories that are backed up by an honestly good time, not the two of us playing the "who can be badder (or crazier or whatever you feel like being)" game. I know what I am. Why do I need to compete with you?

But people want that thrill. People want to run around the room after each other teasing with words and touches and glances and riding the edge of what might happen. The adrenaline rush of what could occur is so addictive that cutting to the point takes all the fun out of it. I understand that, I have even been there, but always when the rush is over you’re left with nothing. You’ve got nothing more substantial to hold on to but the imaginings of the night before that burn away in the morning sun. I’m not going to waste mental energy trying to hold onto a mirage for adrenaline’s sake. For just about everyone in this world that cuts me out of the picture. Everyone uses sex and the thrills of sex to fill the urge of feeling loved for a night. I refuse. I’m not going to pretend I care about you if I don’t, and I’m not going to degrade my feelings for you with meaningless sex. Self-awareness is a deadly thing. That means people who want to play the game with me are left finding comfort with someone else and those I might spend time on never try as I never offer them the rush.

I’m not a completely honest person, I lie when I think it saves everyone pain (though inevitably it doesn’t) but false emotions hold no nourishment for me. They degrade me as a person and lessen me as a woman. That’s not true of everyone, but it is true for me. I will never marry because I will never ensnare or entrap. I will never lead anyone on a merry chase to my bedroom or run after a possibility to his. It just isn’t going to happen. I will fuck when I’m horny and sleep alone that night. Nothing but drama comes from playing games and pretending life is anything different than what it is.

I don’t do drama and I refuse to compromise.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t say "ooh," and "that’s too bad" or "she’ll learn". You don’t know what I’ve learned. You don’t know what I know or who I am—certainly not better than myself. I will not run away from happiness if I find it with another person, but I will not try to turn some cheap imitation into the real thing so I can fill that imaginary need of having to be loved. I’m loved by my family and my friends. I don’t need a significant other to qualify me as a woman and human being. I am content with who I am and life offers me enough excitement without me creating more because I can.

So I suppose the point of this statement is to tell you don’t worry about me. Don’t think you know what’s good for me or what will happen or what I will learn. I do not presume to predict your future so please, offer me that same courtesy. It’s fine for the rest of the world to play the game, but trust me—I’m fine without it.

"Are you some sort of feminist?"

This was the question asked of me today. It wasn’t the question that left me speechless, it was the disgust that fairly dripped off the word feminist. I might have expected that from a man. I do work in a machine shop in the middle of the Bible Belt. But the comment did not come from a man. It came from a woman.
It came from a woman who is only twenty-nine—too young not to have felt the tremors of women’s liberation. It came from a woman who, while not a genius, is certainly not mentally deficient—smart enough to understand the inequalities that wrack our world for every human being. It came from a woman. This is 2004. The 21st Century and women still view the word feminist as something dirty. They speak of it in hushed tones and whispers; they liken it to Leprosy, a disease that if it gets a hold of you will be the cause of your banishment and eventual painful, deformed, lonely death. 2004 and this is still an issue.
We forget when something isn’t on the news or plastered on a billboard or painted across the naked body of a supermodel that it still matters. We forget that just because we aren’t directly affected by it every day (or obviously affected in this case) that our lives are still changed. We forget our past.
I had my roommate read my Hooter’s blog the other night and it sparked quite a conversation. He is not biased or bigoted in any way. I have never witnessed him mistreat a woman or felt judged by him concerning how I look or act. In fact, he might be the only man I have ever known with whom I have felt so at ease, it doesn’t even bother me to cry in front of him. With the exception of a few family members I have never felt I could cry in front of anyone and not be judged as weak.
And yet, this friend of mine, this fantastically intelligent man for whom I hold the utmost respect did not agree with my view of Hooters. He would never take a woman in there given a choice,but he felt no sympathy for the women working there because they made the choice to do so.
I would say that is a reasonably general consensus. I myself have even written those women off as just a different breed of female than myself. But what if the problem isn’t that they make the choice willingly, but that they simply don’t know any better?
Consider this:
When the Europeans came to this country they bought Manhattan and most of New England from the Natives for jewelry and toys. It was a monstrously vicious deal that led (in part with many other events) to the eventual downfall of the Natives of North America. No one ever says of those original natives that it was "their own fault." No one ever argues that "they made the choice so I feel no sympathy for them" because we all know they were taken advantage of. And yet, they did make the choice. They were completely aware that the land was being exchanged for the trinkets and items given to them by the Europeans. They knew the white man would live there and they would move on. To them it seemed like a good idea. But it wasn’t their fault because the entire situation was so completely foreign to them. There was no possible way they could have been prepared for what was coming. They were taken advantage of by people in power, and anyone that disputes that is someone incapable of dealing with reality.
Trading with the natives was easier than fighting them. Giving them the illusion of "bartering" allowed them to feel empowered and in control of the situation. It was okay that they gave that little bit up because they still had so much more land to hold on to.
But don’t you see? As women when we use our bodies for power we mimic those original natives. We allow ourselves to be objectified (sell Manhattan) and used (sell New England) and trick ourselves into feeling empowered by the situation and until we find ourselves living in poverty on a withered reservation that used to be our soul. We think that because this rich white man is drooling all over us and handing us so much of his money that we have used him. We have got the best of him. It’s okay that we work at Hooters or fuck a guy here and there because we’re working our way to the top. We never see the prize for what it is. Cheap plastic trinkets that appeal to only us and our fellow girlfriends. That man has more money and power at home than we can even imagine and thus it is not possible for us to comprehend that what he uses to buy us, our bodies, our integrity, costs him no more than that pathetic jewelry cost the first European settlers.
Women have fought so hard for so long and we have underestimated our enemy. Our greatest enemy is not men, but ourselves. We have lost sight of the point of feminism. We have become so wrapped up in our own anger and hurt that we just want to hurt back. We think we can become the subjects instead of the objects if we work at a place like Hooters. We think by strutting our stuff in a restaurant, or mud wrestling, or posing half-naked on the cover of a magazine, or bragging about our abilities to give the best blow-job that we have gained something. But we haven’t. We’ve gained nothing but crudeness. Like a two-year old placated by a plastic toy after a temper tantrum we have allowed the inequalities against which we fought to silence us. Feminism isn’t a fight of women against men—it isn’t about getting back at anyone or starting a war.
It’s about waking up and realizing that all PEOPLE are created equal.
Sex is fun and sex is exciting and sex should be something we embrace and enjoy. It is not a god-damned power trip. It should not be a tool or a weapon or a way to get ahead. Women fight against each other to be the prettiest and the smartest and the most fun and the most pleasant and never realize they’re miserable. Human beings are extraordinary creatures and yet we constantly urge ourselves to be lower than what we are. And then, in moments of extreme arrogance we have the gall to state we "don’t feel sorry for her/him because s/he made that choice." If you see a child about to hurt herself because she hasn’t learned not to play with knives do you take the knife away? Or do you stand back and scoff, feeling superior because "she made the choice" to play with the knife? What sort of pompous asshole are you to assume that just because you know the truth you are relieved of the responsibility to ensure everyone knows the truth?
Why do we abandon people to stupidity instead of trying to lead them away from it?
Now, I know I have stated multiple times I hate stupid people and they do annoy the piss out of me. There is nothing more frustrating than a person that won’t wake up. No genetic reasons, no traumatic childhood, just plain stupid. It’s frustrating and it’s a bitch but I am not going to stop fighting for awareness just because the people around me refuse to admit we’re standing in shit.
And this is a fight for awareness. This is a fight for a willingness to make things better. There is nothing wrong with living the life you lead so long as you choose to live that life freely. The reasons we don’t take home Hooter’s girls and strippers to mom is that they are childlike in their lack of awareness. They are infants on their spiritual journey. Most men wouldn’t admit or even realize that is why they cannot take those women seriously, but that is the truth. On a subconscious level men see the truth of it. They know what is being done to these women and placate themselves with the conscious idea that "she choose to do it."
Why won’t you consider settling down with a girl like that? Not because she’s easy, or a whore, but because you recognize the fundamental lack of perception a woman has to have to behave that way. Whore and easy are just the easiest, least threatening titles we can all attach to them to make us feel better.

This isn’t a rant directed at any one person or even any one thing, unless that thing be inequality. This is a soulful plea for all of you, male and female alike, to open your eyes to the world around you. Stop putting things in the easiest perspective. Please, stop judging and making excuses for why others behave the way they do. We are all responsible for each other because we are all part of the same race. Responsibility has nothing to do with guilt. I will not feel guilty when you cut yourself with the knife. But I will feel guilty that I laughed at you while you played with it instead of trying to take it away. I can only affect those few people around me, but I am now begging you. Listen to what I’m saying. If you can think of a twenty-nine year old woman saying the word feminist with disgust and not feel horrified by that concept, then reevaluate yourself. Why doesn’t that bother you? Empowerment comes from within. Everything else is only material. Don’t you want your fellow human beings to be empowered? Don’t you want to be? Why are you fearful of the truth?

The truth will set you free and it will beat the shit out of you doing it. But at least you will heal from that fight cleanly instead of dying slowly, your own wounds festering inside you until you collapse upon yourself. A great oozing wound where a soul used to be.

I found it was easier to be a woman when I stop listening to men telling me how. I found it was easier to look at myself when I stopped basing my worth on my judgement of others.

"The Glass Bracelets"
I know I can only speak for myself
but after reading a simple story in The News
wish I could speak for a ninety-four-year-old woman
who on a day of the full moon of Magha in 1907,
at age seven, was led by her parents
to the Saundatti Temple of Karnatakaa
and given to the Hindu goddess Yellamma:
the childish glass arm bangles broken,
a nuptial necklace given her—
wedded to the deity Dev, Murali must never
marry a mortal, has never washed or cut
her long hair, a stiff mat of gray—
her duty was forever to be fucked
by those who came to the Temple.
At onset of menstruation the child was,
and still is, auctioned for the privilege
of tearing her hymen often times
by one with syphilis or gonorrhea—
virgins believed to be a certain cure.
It is difficult for me to like men at times,
any man, when such atrocities are sanctioned
by the religious. Atrocities for male pleasure.
And I doubt a woman concocted
the legend of this goddess. I am fucking mad
and want my daughters
to never leave our small Brooklyn apartment
though I know any room can be the residence
of secrets—like that of a man in Ocala, Florida
infecting six of his fourteen children
with venereal disease, fathering his daughter’s babies,
beating their faces, beating their faces. This
while the religious target abortion clinics
and rude art. Who
can believe in a god in such a world
when god is made by man for men –
I will not respect a moment of silence
in my children’s public school for the sake
of semi-automatic politicians wishing to purchase votes
with their small public piety.
And if you think this is not a poem
because I’ve ranted without benefit of a metaphor
think again: the story of Murali
is the story of any infant female or male
until the arteries of the status quo, of the silent,
of those who silence, or those who seek
solution in prayer, of those who limit choices—
until the varicose veins of the "religiously correct"
are slit and drawn. Until then
you, reader, are the five-year-old boy,
genitals severed and flesh neatly
folded back into a tiny cunt, or
the ten-year-old girl with second-stage syphilis
now lodged in her central nervous system.
Hear me: I will not pray. I will not pray.

~Kimiko Hahn

Hopefully you are all looking at a shnazzy (sha-naz-y) new template as you read this. I felt I was falling behind in the blogger world so I shut my eyes, held my breath, and leapt out into the world of new templates. I’ll let you know how the landing is.
Oh my, my, my there is so much to relate and so little time. I have been remiss in my stories and now I fear I have too much to possibly catch everyone up on. Let’s start with a quick synopsis hm?

1) I will not be attending school as I have decided I do not want to be a teacher.
2) My duties at work are shifting to include more responsibility; I now work overtime, and I’m hoping for a raise.
3) I saw the Metallica/Godsmack concert and it was fabulous other than the fact that Lars is an absolutely terrible drummer.
4) I have decided that all men are hopeless and I will now be a lesbian.
4 ½) Just kidding on #4—I just like to harbor the idea of lesbian lovers every now and then. Keeps things fresh and exciting. Unfortunately we all know (as it has been stated on here multiple times) I love the cock and will not be giving it up ever.

So what do you want to hear about? I won’t go into number 1; it seems pretty self-explanatory to me. Number 2 is exciting only to me and those who benefit directly from the hoped for increase in wages. Number 3 was going to be a blog topic, and might still, but not tonight. And number 4 is beaten into the ground. I mean honestly, how many times do any of you want to read me stating the obvious? As much as I love men they will never be as good in bed as my vibrator and I just need to accept that and stop trying to make trashy romance novels a reality. It just isn’t fair to anyone (me least of all).

So instead I will say this. I just drove through an absolutely horrific thunderstorm that turned a hour drive into a hour and forty-five minute drive. I am tired, cranky, and suffering from EBS (explosive bowel syndrome). I know you are all wincing over that last remark, but don’t play all high and mighty with me. We’ve all had a little EBS in our lives at some point or another so don’t act disgusted that I brought it up. So rather than me ranting on about something I have neither the energy nor the drive to rant on about I will begin the first of my new habit on my new template. I will leave you with a poem. Enjoy.

The Pope’s Penis

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat—and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

~Sharon Olds

I am a terrible person; I know this. I haven’t had time to return phone calls, sleep or eat. So please—too all my friends out there who I said I would call and didn’t I’m sorry.

Work has been absolutely insane. Completely and utterly, beyond a shadow of a doubt out of control. Am I making my point here? I know I am not the only one with a busy schedule, heaven’s knows of at least one other person working as long of hours as myself, but I’m still trying to cope with it all. It’s not the hours; I don’t mind working hard when necessary, but the craziness of the task that has been set before me. The boss has decided that since I’m “smart” I can micromanage the company for him. Yeah, me. Quite the micromanager huh? If only he knew. Hopefully he will never learn different, but that means I need to pick up some organizational skills quick. That’s where all the craziness comes in.

On another note (it’s been awhile, a lot has happened) I am no longer attending college. I have my bachelor’s and I don’t want to be a teacher. Why spend the money if it does me no good? I’m getting more money and hopefully (if I can conquer this demon at work) I will have a wage/salary I can be proud of. I like my job so money is the only real issue here.

This is a hurried update you understand, since I don’t really have any time to make a full out blog.

I will tell you this story, though.

Part II

I went in last week, to the health clinic. I give the lady my tag stating that I am here for the test results and she asks me to take a seat. Now, I have already waited two weeks for this bastard test and now I have to sit another ten minutes. Following that a morose looking woman walks up and asks me to follow her back to a room. She stares at me solemnly, not even the hint of a friendly smile, and places a folder down in front of me. She compares the tag on the folder to the tag I brought in, asks me if my name and information is correct and then, only then, opens it up. It’s like some crazy macabre game: how long can she last before she snaps? Instead of just saying “you’re negative it’s all good!” she just runs her finger across the page and makes me find the damn thing! I was so pissed. Mostly I was pissed at myself for worrying as much as I did, but I won’t take blame for that. It’s a big deal, negative or not.

So—all is good in my world right now. I have, of course, left a number of stories, tales and thoughts out (it’s been a hell of a two weeks) but those will be forthcoming soon. In the meantime I bid you all adieu and apologize once again for my tardiness in communications.

Phht!