“First pill meant to end periods poised for OK: FDA considers birth control pill aimed at freeing women from their cycle.”

This is the title of an article on msn located here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18745930/

Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about it. On the one hand (I say this as I sit here with cramps) not having the inconvenience of bleeding monthly would be pretty sweet, but on the other it is a very fundamental part of my biology. The idea of stopping one’s periods is not new; as the article will attest, women have been doing this for years with birth control pills. I suppose it’s more the idea that a pill has now been created and marketed with this specific intent.

When I was all of twelve I counted up every month from twelve to fifty and estimated how many periods I had left until menopause. I did not go gently into puberty. When I was eighteen I went on the pill—partly for cramps, partly for control, but mostly because I was going to college and wanted to feel “free” to have sex as it were. At twenty-five I’m now off of it. I went off, not because I never plan on having sex again, and not because the cramps have gotten better (though they are a little more tolerable) but because I began to worry. Not about my health or fertility per say, but about my moods and emotions. Everyone that knows anything about basic female anatomy knows that our hormones (men’s hormones do this too actually) affect our moods. As the estrogen drops and the progesterone rises things get shifty. The progesterone then drops as well immediately following completion of the cycle leaving us at our lowest point hormonally and sometimes mentally.

Because birth control pills “trick” the body into thinking its pregnant they mess with our own hormone production to stop ovulation, but what no one tells you is that it also messes with your moods. I would assume the severity would depend on how high of a dose you’re on, what particular brand you use and any number of other factors, but as I crested the twenty-five mark it occurred to me I didn’t remember what it felt like to feel…well, unmedicated. I had been on orthotrycycline for so long that I knew exactly how my moods would go every week, but I had no way of knowing if that was me or the pill or some combination thereof.

What’s more, because I had gone on it at eighteen I hadn’t stopped fully forming yet before this all started. We think because legally we’re adults at eighteen that our body is pretty much done too, but that’s wrong. My hips and breasts didn’t stop changing until around twenty-one and who knows about the mood swings. I had “freed” myself of my period at eighteen before I ever took the time to see what it was like without the craziness of adolescence mucking it up. I’m not saying that the pill is bad—far from it—it does amazing things for women and if I ever find someone I like for more than two days I’ll no doubt go back on. But the pill isn’t a “fix-all.”

We look at everything our body does that is inconvenient and treat it like a symptom or cold to be fixed. But menstruation isn’t a cold. It isn’t something you catch. I’m uncomfortable with the idea of a pill that is supposed to “free” women from their periods because frankly we don’t know nearly enough about women’s medicine to know exactly what we’re freeing them from and if it’s even a good idea. We throw the pill at women and think there are no consequences. I think in most any case the good outweighs the bad tenfold, but I think we have never bothered to research the long term affects. Not just physically, but mentally. People chalk women and their emotions up to pms and craziness and I can’t help but feel like it some men had their druthers us women would all be “free” all the time and thus not bother them with our mood swings. Because there is so much negativity surrounding women’s emotions we never stop to wonder if stunting them or manipulating them is a bad thing. Anything’s better than what’s natural right?

There are a lot of factors that feed into my uncomfortable feelings on this discussion, gender roles and sexism not least among them. The pill isn’t covered by a lot of health insurance but Viagra is. They have tried to classify pregnancy as a disease at least once to make it easier for insurance to “cover” certain things. Because pregnancy and all aspects of it aren’t worth covering otherwise? We teach girls and young women that sexual revolution is all about the ability to have sex as often and as promiscuously as a man; that by flaunting their bodies they have more control than the man that pays for them. We never stop to consider that perhaps promiscuous sex should be the exception as opposed to the rule for both sexes or let women know that even though they take money, the men paying still have a lot more. And despite all our advances we still hold the male body up as the ideal. Women should be less curvy, like men. Women should be less moody, like men. Women shouldn’t be “burdened” with a period, like men.

I love men, but what I love most is that they’re different from me. And frankly, I want a man that loves what makes me different from him. Why can’t we study medicine to improve the lives of women as women and men as men? Then maybe women wouldn’t be ashamed of their moods, and men would have the support they need to acknowledge they have them. Just a thought.

So on msn today there is an article detailing how people follow a “U” shaped pattern in regards to happiness over the course of their life. In other words, starting at early at adulthood, happiness declines until around 45 where it bottoms out before rising again around 55 and on into retirement. Nothing about this article is particularly note-worthy except for the following paragraph:

"The authors also find that over the last century, Americans, both men and women, have gotten steadily—and hugely—less happy. The difference in happiness of men between men of my generation, born in the 1960s, and my father's generation, born in the 1920s, is the same as the effect of a tenfold difference in income. In other words, if my father had little money compared to his contemporaries and I have lots of money compared to mine, I can still expect to be less happy. Here, curiously, the European pattern diverges. Happiness falls for the birth years from 1900 to about 1950, and generations born on the continent since World War II have gotten successively happier."

(I use quotes because I can't indent in this silly blog easily. If you don't like my incorrect formatting then a pox on you and your family.)

I draw your attention to the last two sentences, “Here, curiously, the European pattern diverges. Happiness falls for the birth years from 1900 to about 1950, and generations born on the continent since World War II have gotten successively happier.” Curiously? CURIOUSLY?! Really? I can’t imagine why people born after World War II might possibly be happier than people born before, during, or immediately following. And hell, at 1900 you’ve got some folks in there who lived (and fought) through World War I and World War II. Curious indeed how that might affect their overall happiness.

I swear, sometimes I’m flabbergasted by the word choice of those writing professional articles. If you don’t want to make a sweeping general statement then don’t remark on it one way or the other—just cut out the “curiously.” But is it really all that curious? It is possible, mind you, that the author is being factious here. I’ll even give him the benefit of the doubt. At least that way he’s only guilty of his humor going awry, not being heinously stupid.

Ah screw it; it’s more fun to think of him as stupid. I’m going with that.

I ask you this: since when did losing weight equate a heroic activity? If lost 70 pounds is that the equivalent of saving a baby? 1.5 babies? Does every 50 pounds equal a baby? I mean, come on—if there’s publicity in it for me there might be serious incentive to lose weight.

My feelings this fine morning are prompted by the following story http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18399649/site/newsweek/ titled “Interview with a Former Fat Girl.” I’m not begrudging her anything, but I am asking the question, what makes this woman qualified to write a self-help book? My anger is two-fold here. First, that anyone with a minor grasp of clichés is allowed to write a self-help book, but second (and more importantly) that losing weight and keeping it off is somehow on par with trekking across Middle Earth and throwing the damn ring in Mount Doom. Hello! My ass is not the one ring that corrupts the souls of men, dooming them and all civilization to a hell-like existence.

In all honesty, there might be some ex-boyfriends that disagree with that statement, but I think we can discount them as biased contributors to this conversation.

Honestly people, I enjoy hearing about other people’s triumphs; I love to know how they have conquered adversity, overcoming tremendous odds and possibly a really bad fashion choice to become the impressive, genuinely good person that is worthy of my respect. Losing weight isn’t easy, certainly, nor is keeping it off. But is it the weight loss that is really worth praise here? How about learning to love oneself? How about learning to live your life as you want to, enjoying each day? Or maybe how you learned to stop judging yourself and others? Just throwing these out here as possibilities—you know, things that one might, if they were so inclined, feel the need to appreciate.

But no, let’s not appreciate any of those things. Rather let’s mention that the weight loss prompted them, or maybe they went hand in hand. But let’s focus on what’s important, what REALLY matters. That so-and-so lost weight and kept it off. She accomplished something millions of other women have tried and failed to do. She’s happier, she’s healthier, and she’s prettier. And now she makes more money, she’s married (or her husband loves her more) and she is the sort of woman we should all emulate. All because she lost the weight!

I got news for you people. Skinny women are just as likely to be bitches as fat women. Sometimes more likely cause they’re friggin’ hungry all the time. Loving yourself, being worthy of love, being a generally good human being that inspires people around her—these are things that have nothing to do with the size of one’s ass. In fact, despite popular belief, pretty people are no more likely to be “good people” than ugly people. Fat girls are capable of liking themselves.

So here is the self-help book I want to read. I want to read how someone went for a run, came home and ate a fucking ding-dong. Why? Because she wanted to. Because she had raging PMS, a boyfriend that farts in his sleep and a propensity for stinking up the bathroom. So she got up, feeling horrible, angry, and upset, went out for a run so she wouldn’t take out her anger on her boyfriend, came home and ate the fucking ding-dong cause the chocolate made her happy. Then she kissed her boyfriend, told him she loved him and meant it. Despite his stank-ass and sleeping habits. She meant it because he was an ok guy and she was able to appreciate that. She loved him because when he realized she was a raving bitch that day he HANDED her the ding-dong and begged her to eat it. He was more worried about her being happy than the calories. And after she eats the ding-dong, despite the raging PMS, she is still able to look around the room and say life is okay.

That’s the self-help book I want to read. The book about a woman that loves herself and is part of relationship that is loving. A relationship based on qualities that surpass both our physical appearance, bodily functions, and mood swings. That’s the sort of woman I can respect.

Losing weight just means you lost weight. It has nothing to do with your qualities as a human being. What a novel realization.

I feel I should offer an continuation of my thoughts from last night. I was a bit emotionally charged and unsure how to proceed with what I wanted to say, but today I feel it important to clarify where I ended up by the end.

I respect any church’s right not to marry specific couples. One aspect of religion is that it does possess doctrines and commandments dictating specific behavior. Our government, however, possesses no such power. For our government to police our sexual practices, either through marriage or sex education, is for us as a people to allow the moral practices of our politicians to dictate our laws. That is so amazingly unacceptable I don’t even know where to begin. There is nothing UNETHICAL about two consenting adults having a state/country recognized marriage. Whether it is immoral or not is irrelevant, specifically because one person’s morals do not always coincide with another’s. The problem with trying to separate church from state is that the government runs into this exact problem. If you cease to recognize one religion’s morals as being superior to another’s then where is your moral compass? Most people lose sight of their morals once removed from a religious lens. A government cannot afford such a luxury. Especially not ours.

Lacking scientific evidence that two people of the same gender engaging in sexual activity is somehow detrimental to one or both of those people because it is same-sex intercourse means there is no reason not to recognize equal rights for homosexuals. Our government polices sex in the public because so long as you control how people feel about sex, to a very strong degree you control how people feel. I think a great many of us do not know how to divorce sex from morality in day to day living. Not on a personal level, all personal decisions will be made with one’s morals in mind, but in how we view others. We view people who engage in indiscriminate sex as immoral or worth less as human beings. We place a high value on a woman’s “gift” of her virginity to a man. We fear that if teenagers know the ins and outs of sex they will be powerless to stop themselves from having it.

Governments have operated under church rule for so long that our government doesn’t know how to do it any differently. People have spent so much time judging each other that they are incapable of breaking the pattern. We keep ourselves in an infantile mental state because we’re afraid we won’t be able to control ourselves, our children, or each other without it.

I believe it comes from a fundamental lack of faith in each other. So many of us do not expect others to act responsibly or parent responsibly and we support the parent-like role of the government as a way to fix the problem. Because people can’t be trusted to make the “right” decision, the government should make it for them. Because our kids won’t hold strong in the face of opposing views they shouldn’t be exposed to them. Because homosexuality is detrimental to society we should do our best to keep it out of the mainstream and hope it dies out.

I don’t believe this. I do believe, in fact, that the majority of people are good people. I believe that the majority of people, if surrounded by good influences, will behave in an acceptable, ethical way. I also believe the reason so many people in our society act like idiots is because we constantly tell them they are. What you’re feeling is wrong, what you’re feeling is dirty, what you want to do is unacceptable. A good person doesn’t feel that way, therefore you shouldn’t feel that way. If you expect people to fuck up, then fuck up is what they are going to do. Over and over again.

Education is dangerous. There is no doubt about it. If your children are educated then they have a greater chance of disagreeing with you. If they aren’t scared of sex then there is a greater chance they will approach their sexuality without shame. If they aren’t ashamed then they might act in a way you don’t believe to be moral. And what happens then? If it’s not consensual then it’s not ethical and they go to jail. That comes from a selfish desire that has nothing to do with education, however, and everything to do with character of person. If it is consensual then you are faced with the nearly impossible task of loving someone you don’t like. But is the answer to this problem the government’s policing of education and marriage? Does legality and policy actually promote moral character? No. Those of us that don’t murder abstain because we respect another’s right to live. I don’t avoid killing my students simply because I would go to jail for it. It’s the same basic principle that keeps me from decapitating a puppy. I don’t need the government’s approval for my sex life and neither does anyone else. Wouldn’t you rather have a child that followed your moral code because s/he believed in it, not because s/he didn’t know any better or was too scared to disagree? And wouldn’t you rather have a child that has equal rights and protects others equal rights instead of passing judgment?

Ask yourself this: what is so very scary about sex that we need to legislate it?

I’m in an odd place tonight. For the first time in my memory of writing this thing, I’m afraid I’m going to offend somebody. I know; it’s unexpected for me too. Perhaps it’s a sign of my maturity that I no longer disregard other’s emotions if they do not agree with me, but maybe it is simply my reaction to particularly emotional news. Regardless, I’m proceeding with caution.

What I want to talk about is homosexuality. And those I’m afraid of offending are any whose church disagrees with a homosexual lifestyle. It’s not an intentional offense, and I hope to proceed with uncharacteristic tact. I can only hope you will see this as a presentation of my thoughts on the subject, not a manifesto against any particular set of beliefs.

A lot of religions believe a marriage can only take place between a man and a woman. Now I haven’t done nearly enough research into scripture to know the exact wording on this, but it doesn’t sit right with me. I fully and completely acknowledge my lack of Biblical education, but I don’t think it will surprise anyone to hear that I don’t fully trust interpretations of The Bible. Perhaps I am wrong and there is no wiggle room here; perhaps it states “Marriage shalt only be between a man and a woman. Any other conception of marriage, act of sex, or family structure is forbidden.” There is enough consensus on the subject that I’m inclined to believe The Bible does present a message of that sort. Regardless, I just can’t accept it. Allow me to explain.

God, as he is conceived in modern religion, doesn’t spare people from pain. Pain teaches, pain punishes, pain serves a purpose. Sometimes it is brought on by our own acts, and sometimes it is simply part of life. I can accept that whole-heartedly. Perhaps other’s don’t agree with my presentation of pain’s role in life and it’s relation to God, but that isn’t important. What is important is that I can fully understand how a religion can possess a God of love over a world filled with so much worldly pain. What I can’t understand is a God that would deny worldly love. For homosexual people to participate in many religions they must either marry people of the opposite sex or live a celibate life. There are many reasons I can imagine one might give for the prevalence of homosexuality in humans, specifically, why if it’s a lifestyle that must be lived celibately so many people seem to be born homosexual. What distinguishes being gay in my mind from any other tendency, behavior, etc.. that doesn’t agree with church doctrine is that homosexuality doesn’t hurt anybody. It isn’t murder, or pedophilia, or pleasure from pain. It’s a sexual desire for a person of the same gender. I don’t understand why that is wrong. Why is one of Christianity’s doctrines that worldly sexual love can only take place between a man and a woman?

The obvious answer is the scriptures. Many people have offered counter-arguments from misinterpretations to deliberate misreadings. A person of faith, however, believes the Gospel not to be misrepresented. I understand that homosexuality does not propagate the species, but it does serve significant sociological purposes, and is not prevalent enough to threaten the population.

I’m not harping on the “wrongness” of any particular belief. I am simply asking the question what is it about homosexuality in practice that makes it so displeasing to so many religious beliefs?

I am striving to understand other perspectives here. This isn’t a blog that passes judgment over others as some of my past writings have. This is simply a musing, and perhaps a hope that someday, regardless of what we believe privately, we can all agree to publicly respect others consensual relationships. A church does have the right to marry and not marry whomever they wish, but shouldn’t our government have to treat it’s citizens equally?

First of all this is my 102nd post. As I failed to make note of my 100th post I feel now is a good time for celebration. Yay for me!

Second of all I am fighting an inappropriate attraction to Dolph Lundgren. Now, this isn’t nearly as inappropriate as my love for Will Ferrell or even Steven Segal (yes, it’s wrong I know it) but none-the-less I feel I need to get this off my chest. (Or perhaps get Dolph on my chest, one never knows.)

This has all been brought on by my recent viewing of The Punisher, not the new one with Thomas Jane but the old one from 1989 with Dolph Lundgren. It’s a classic, trust me. But on the special feature they offer little bios and not only does Mr. Lundgren have a Master’s in Chemistry, but he was also a fullbright scholar for MIT. Hello?! I have yet to see anything remotely approaching Dolph Lundgren walking around campus either at my school or at MIT. Granted I haven’t canvassed MIT’s campus, but I’m willing to bet good money on it! And I also never saw Vin Disel at any D&D games I attended (for those of you who don’t know what D&D is I’m not going to explain). So I ask you, what’s the use of stereotyping gamer geeks and science nerds if there are men looking like Dolph Lundgren and Vin Disel out there destroying the curve hmm? In the end I suppose I simply hope that my new school will possess the exceptionally hot graduate student that wants to marry me. Or maybe have a weekend fling. Or perhaps just tell me I’m pretty. I’m really not that picky at this point.

So that’s my where-in-the-hell-is-my-body-building-hotness-oozing-incredibly-smart-highly-educated-boyfriend rant. I demand (demand I say!) that all men meeting this description take me out to dinner to interview for the position. It’s still true love if I force them into marrying me right? I mean, what’s the difference?

My love is like a plastic bag over your face.

This message brought to you by haters-not-daters. Have a nice day.

I don’t read the news because it makes me too mad. I get upset; I throw the newspaper, and usually I curse the heavens, the Republicans, and especially President Bush. Yes, it’s going to be that sort of blog so heed this warning before you continue.

Let’s start with abortion shall we? And why I’m more than a brood mare. I like that idea. The idea that we can pass a law that doesn’t take into account a woman’s health—I’m flabbergasted. Outraged doesn’t begin to describe me. We are so busy preserving the “sanctity of life” that a woman can be threatened and it’s only unfortunate, possibly tragic if she’s pretty. Being pro-choice does not mean I am thrilled by abortion; it doesn’t even mean I would have one necessarily—it means that I demand the choice. It means that I, as a functioning member of society demand my civil rights be upheld over a fetus that depends upon my body to grow. A fetus that has only the potential to be a functioning member of society. Once we begin to pass laws based on potential we enter a realm of ethics where there is no shallow end. The difference between infringing on a pedophile’s rights to molest children and a woman’s rights to an abortion is that a pedophile hurts a living, independent member of society. A fetus is neither self-sustaining nor independent and to deny abortion rights to women, especially without excepting for cases of health states specifically states that we are worth less than a clump of cells with nothing but “potential.”

I’ll be completely honest: I value women more than the babies they carry. Why? Because a woman is already alive. She is already here. A fetus is naught but a thing inside her until it is born. From a religious standpoint there are any number of reasons why a woman shouldn’t have an abortion. But from a legal one—there is none. We are supposed to protect a person’s right to control her body as she will. While that fetus grows inside her it is her body. That means she gets to decide what happens to it. If she can’t have an abortion, well then, what’s next? Should we control what she eats? How she lives? Whether she is exposed to second hand smoke? All of these things affect the “potential” of the fetus. And if we can do that—if we can decide what a woman wants to do with her body for her legally then we have reduced her to nothing but a brood mare. She is of no more value than her ability to carry a child to term. I refuse to accept that. I stand by anyone’s right to claim the immorality of abortion but I refuse to accept it from my government. A government should be based on ethics, not morals. And yes, there is a difference.

Why are we so very quick to fight for the “sanctity of life” until it’s actually here? Why are we willing to die for fetuses but we can’t manage to find a dime for the kids starving in ghettos and killing each other on the streets? Why is it fine to force a woman to carry a kid to term because it’s “for the child” but later, when that same child is born prematurely and has birth defects from all the crack she smoked we can casually hope it dies in the hospital? Or when it is incapable of being a contributing member of society we scoff at it and ask, “well why don’t you just pick yourself up and do what’s right? You have that choice to make.”

We’re so quick to judge. We just always need somebody to hate a little bit and fight a whole lot. For the babies. For the children of the future. We’ll do anything for our children and our children’s children. We will, in fact, give up all our civil liberties to make the world a better place. After all, it’s for our own good.

I begin my musings with this question: is it enough to survive, or should we have to deserve it?

This question was posed in the first episode of Battlestar Galactica, but I found myself posing it again as I was grading my most recent set of papers. In class we just finished reading a short story called “The Ones That Walk Away From Omelas”—a story that, in a nutshell, asks the question if you could live in a utopia at the expense of one child neglected and ignored in a basement far away from the light of day, would you? All the people of Omelas are happy, mature, incredible human beings with an incredible society. But this one kids suffers for them all; a kid kept naked in a broom closet, sores festering from sitting in his own waste all these years, starved and cut off from all human interaction. One kid who did not make the choice to suffer for his people; no, the decision was made for him as he was picked to bear all of society’s ills on his shoulders.

Many of my students would leave the kid in the closet. I can understand the appeal. A utopia is an appealing idea indeed, but it begs the question of worthiness. Is a society like that worthy of survival? If you’re willing to sacrifice another’s happiness for your own, what does that make you? You would stop disease, famine, war—all the biggies. But you resign this one child to a life of incarceration and abuse.

It isn’t comparable to war or self-sacrifice because the kid isn’t making the decision to sacrifice himself. The adults are making it for him. The kid isn’t noble or righteous, the kid is just screwed. And once you’ve done that, once you’ve decided the fate of someone else’s life without their consent or input what sort of person have you become? What is the difference between someone willing to sacrifice one kid to torture and someone willing to napalm the ghettos? If we cut down the population crime would lower; if we killed everyone but the rich and contributing society would run smoother. But everyone is quick to say that is a heinous act. We’re all quick to remember World War II and stay as far way from concentration camp logic as possible, but when the same logic is presented at the cost of only one it doesn’t seem so bad.

For all our talk about individuality and human rights we have still been taught to think of each other as part of a collective whole, or worse to think of others as part of a whole. We are special; we are unique. Obviously it wouldn’t be me in the closet because I am me. But the fact is, once you start sacrificing others’ rights, yours are never that far behind.

I worry I’ve failed to make that point to my students. I can only hope I’ve been slightly more successful with you.

We interrupt your weekly scheduled broadcast to bring you this short rant about how my needs are not being met by television programming—specifically, Veronica Mars.

I recently began watching this show as I am a fan of “tv on dvd” but as I am almost caught up with the third season (those episodes currently playing) I am left wanting and unsatisfied. Let me tell you why. Veronica and her on again off again beau Logan have yet to have wild, passionate, hot monkey sex complete with a wild, passionate, hot monkey-like relationship on screen. Where’s the monkey sex people?!

I have real life. I have a great life with great adventure and lots of wonderful boring non-monkey sex related activities. I have a handful of fond memories of a romantic nature and more than a dump truck full of crappy ones. I don’t need to see what I get everyday in the real world on television. That’s why it’s fantasy. That’s why I watch it. I turn on the tube to see hot people having the sort of wonderful, wild, hot, monkian-sex fueled relationship that I usually only read about in trashy romance novels. Do you see where I’m going with this?

Veronica dates Logan: good. Veronica and Logan break up: not good, but angst so possibility of good when getting back together. Veronica and Logan get back together: good. I see none of the wild, hot, passionate monkian activity that normally accompanies such getting back together festivities: not good. Veronica and Logan break up again: still not good. I don’t want all angst all the time. Please, I would let Steel Magnolias play in the background on repeat until I shot myself in the head if that were the case. What good is a fantasy if you can’t enjoy it? It’s like seeing the hot guy at a restaurant and then having to overhear him making bigoted, idiotic comments. A perfectly good fantasy ruined. Ruined I tell you! If you’re blessed with looks and not intelligence then do all of us a favor and don’t talk. I still won’t date you but at least I can still dream about it. And if you’re going to make a really good television show with a really hot guy lead then please, please let him have wild, hot, passionate, monkey sex with the main character. It’s the least you can do for all of us that chose a college major lacking in single, straight, manly-men.

Some day I’m going to have wild, hot, passionate, monkey sex of my own. In the meantime I am obviously going to have to write a television show of my own since Joss Whedon is out of commission and he is, as of yet, the only one to fulfill all of my fantasy needs.

I ramble, I write, I blog. Somehow that doesn’t have quite the same power as “I burn, I pine, I perish” but Shakespeare I’m not. I have a few friends who would be willing to attest to that.

Let’s see, so much to say—where to begin? I don’t have much to rant about as things have been good. There are silly (and stupid) people posting answers to msn.com survey’s but that’s nothing new. No one has argued the right to mutilate their child’s body recently so I’m feeling hopeful on that front.

I suppose I’ll start with an update. Looks like I might move to Sin City and progress on my journey towards a PhD. I can’t wait to make everyone call me “doctor.” Granted I’ll be so very far in debt at that point that they’ll be calling me “doctor” before telling me to take out the trash, but hey, at least I’ll have the title.

Secondly and far more importantly…I saw Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! Yeah, that’s right, I did. And I liked it! There were several moments in the theatre when I forgot my now enviable age of twenty-something in favor of being eleven again; a couple times during the movie I almost broke out in a rousing “go ninja, go ninja go!” Vanilla Ice has warped my fragile little mind. It was a fun, action-packed adventure. Me likey. I also had these wonderful deep thoughts about which I was totally going to write…and then I didn’t. So now you’re all stuck with this drivel and I would feel bad for you, but I don’t. I don’t promise entertaining writing all of the time.

I would, however, like to take a moment to discuss how very, very wrong I am. As in bad, socially unacceptable, and sexually perverse. I thought some of the turtles were cute. Yeah, I don’t know what that makes me, but I’m sure there’s a disorder name in a book somewhere. I can’t help it, when they personify the characters and make them all wounded deep down. Anyone whose read more than two posts knows I’m a sucker for the bad boys. Apparently I’m a sucker for the bad turtles too.

So that is most all of my news—the final project is in and graduation looms. My dreams of changing the world via comic books and Shakespeare are still going strong. So I leave you with these inspirational words:

Go ninja, go ninja go!!

An Ode To Itty-Bitty, Teeny-Tiny, Little Leather Panties

My title this installment is inspired by the movie 300. For anyone interested in a very interesting and entertaining action movie (not to mention the aforementioned itty-bitty, teeny-tiny leather panties worn by 300 well *ahem* endowed Spartans) I highly recommend it. I personally find it to be a brilliant idea. Muscled men, in not much clothing running around acting all manly in that I-kill-to-save-my-country way, jumping, stabbing, thrusting, usually a little bit dirty and sometimes all wet. Brilliant I say, brilliant.

All right, I’ll stop objectifying the other sex now. I don’t feel horribly bad about it, though and I’ll tell you why. Because it isn’t just the hotness of the Spartans that inspires my lust, it is, believe it or not, their personalities. In the movie you see the honor that drives them, the bonds of friendship, the love for their wives, children, and countrymen. Without that I wouldn’t be writing any “odes,” but with that I’m simply grateful that someone decided to present honorable men whom happen to be hot not wearing many clothes. That, I feel very little guilt for expressing.

As I sit grading papers I worry that my student’s ethics aren’t nearly as thought-out (or at least rationalized) as mine are. It can be “necessary and right” to kill someone they say, even if murder is always unethical. Well to that I say, why is murder always unethical? And if it is necessary and right but still unethical, is it perhaps neither necessary nor right? I am not claiming all ethical answers of the universe here, more just a general fright that these questions never seem to cross their minds. It is as if the world they live in cannot stand to be challenged in any way. That frightens me terribly, but then I suppose that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. No fun being teacher if the people you teach have nothing to learn, myself included.

In any case, I have more papers to grade and more fantasizing to do. I also have a little bit of wishful thinking that I will receive an acceptance letter for myself (with funding) to a PhD program. I have even more wishful thinking that my friends will as well. If not I might just be moving back home with the ma and the pa and I’m not sure I’m ready for that sort of situation. Afterall, Spartans in itty-bitty, teeny-tiny, little, leather panties never date twenty-something teachers who live at home with their parents.

Oh, bless the leather panties though. Bless them indeed.

Captain America is dead! Shot by an assassin coming out of a courthouse! That’s not noble, or heroic!

Okay, I’ve abused my quotient of exclamation marks so I’ll stop now. But still, Captain America is dead. I’m not nearly as moved as I was by the loss of Superman, but that’s mostly because I’ve never been particularly close to Captain America. And anyone who grew up with X-Men learned to accept death in the Marvel universe at an early age. I now look forward to the release of Civil War in a graphic novel so I can read the whole story line—I wasn’t particularly interested but in a brilliant marketing move they’ve roped me in. Marvel and I have had a bit of a falling out, you understand, but perhaps they’ve reclaimed my patronage.

D.C. and I have been having a bit of a love affair recently, the Infinite Crisis was an extremely good storyline and I really enjoyed reading it. We’ll have to see if Civil War is as good—it seems to have possibilities. I really can’t wait until I’m tenured and can teach entire freshman seminars on comic books; I’ll have to be very clear to my students that we’re going to be doing that so none of them whine at me later, but I’ve learned that whining is what freshman do. No avoiding it.

But Captain America…can you kill Captain America? In some ways it’s the loss of childhood innocence—not a bad move, D.C. did it with Superman and it rejuvenated the industry, but I have been hanging on to Marvel as my last link to childhood. Now it’s gone. They aren’t the same comics they used to be. And for as many stories as they have had about racism, bigotry, responsibility, sacrifice and any number of other topics, they’ve never killed anyone I couldn’t let go.

This isn’t to say that I can’t let Captain America go; he was always a little to black and white for me. Captain America fought for the government in a way I never saw Superman. Perhaps it was the name, perhaps it was the origin story, perhaps it was the amazing propaganda, but I always found it difficult to completely put my trust in Captain America. To say he was “too good” seems odd since Superman ought to be the one seeming to be “too good” and, yet, that is exactly how I would describe my refusal to read Captain America comics.

But he has been a staple; something I could always count on. I have several professors who like to remind us that characters are not people, but maybe I would argue with them. Not because the characters are living or breathing, but because characters that move you, characters that are part of your life do become real people. They become friends, someone you think about, perhaps even write about or consider when attempting to develop what kind of person you want to be. They feel like a friend. For literary studies that doesn’t mean you can write about them as if there is a history there you don’t know, but it does mean, I think, that we can use them as touchstones for philosophical thought. They are symbols of our culture, icons. When we kill them it is (to borrow a word from my roommates thesis) iconoclasm and I think anytime you destroy a cultures icons that is a very real reverberation. That’s something that affects us that we are completely unprepared to deal with. We point fingers at “geeks” and say dude, get over it. He isn’t a real person. But that’s just it. Captain America is more than a real person, he’s an icon, an idea. And the destruction of that affects more than just your emotional well-being. It’s a sign of your culture changing, shifting.

People look at comic books and graphic novels and call them children’s literature, pop culture—without currency in true academic debate. The truth is that we imbue our heroes, in comic books, movies, or television, with iconic status and some trust that so long as Captain America, or Superman, or Batman is fighting the good fight we as people are still fighting the good fight. When they die or break or fail—it’s more than a story. It’s the destruction of one of our ideals.

So Captain America is dead. And even though I didn’t read his comic book often he was still my friend. And I’m sad.

I think my ability for rational thought has officially vanished. I’m on day three of the “writing the final project binge” and all I can think about is Macbeth, V for Vendetta, and that ole sly dog Guy Fawkes. And I think I’m more than slightly in love with Guy Fawkes by the by. Which is odd because, you know, he was a terrorist (and is 500 years old, but whatever) but he was fighting for what he believed in and that’s hot. Granted he was going to kill lots of innocent people in the process, but what’s innocent anyway?

Did I just say that? I think I did. See, rational thought. Out the window!

Here’s a question, though; what do people think about V, from V for Vendetta? Terrorist? Hero? Savior? All of the above? And if you are a cop for a corrupt government is it more or less ethical to kill you? These are the issues kicking around in my head right now. Unfortunately I am incapable of musing on an answer since, like I said, rational thought, not so much.

I abuse the comma. That’s right, abuse it. And I like it!

I’m no longer even linking my thoughts and that’s scary. You shouldn’t be subjected to this. Especially when I’m just killing time and have absolutely nothing of substance to say here. Except Guy Fawkes…he was hot. All holding out against torture and stuff until they broke him. That’s a man that’s wounded deep down, and I, I just want to make it better. I want to heal him with my vagina. I mean, isn’t that why all women go for the wounded guy? We think we’re going to give them magical sex and then suddenly they’ll be healed, but it was because of us and only for us and weren’t we that special woman he’s been waiting for to make him whole?

Yes, I’m throwing up a little bit in my mouth too, but it’s true. We want to fix someone and we secretly hope they’ll fix us. Except that no one can fix you but yourself and isn’t that just depressing. I don’t want to fix myself, I’m tired. I’d much rather Guy Fawkes (or Gerard Butler playing the part of Guy Fawkes) fix me. Of course, Batman would work too—again with the acting outside the government. Subversion is sexy. I seem to have this thing for guys that are prone to physical violence. I don’t think I’m going to examine that aspect my personality just yet. I’m quite sure that’s something I should repress—and repress I fully intend to do, like a champ. At least until I find someone that will only hit me when I ask for it.

And now that I have successfully weirded you all out I sign off. Obviously I need to repress my scary self a little better.

You all need to go here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16429930/ and here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16981527/wid/11915773?GT1=9033 as soon as possible. The first is an article discussing the groundbreaking news that girls who read articles about dieting develop more food-related problems later in life and the second is information on an increase in child obesity related surgeries. Apparently, the surgeries are now safer and so it’s okay to stick your fat kid under the knife—might as well nip that weight problem right in the bud right?

Again, I’m not advocating an unhealthy lifestyle—but I am advocating non-mutilation of our children’s bodies. At times gastric-bypass surgery or the stomach band might very well be a responsible necessary decision for an adult to make after serious consultation with a doctor. But, for a child? Obese or not is “corrective” surgery for an obese child the best way to improve the child’s situation? How about taking your kid for a walk everyday, playing catch, hide and go seek, tag, and monitoring what sorts of food they eat? I mean if your child has that serious of a weight-problem then don’t you, as a parent, carry the responsibility of teaching them good lifestyle choices? And isn’t the message of “if you don’t like yourself just have surgery” not the best option?

I’m no Doctor Spock here people—I don’t have kids and I certainly am not a health-nut advocate, but…please. First we mutilate the bodies of our retarded kids and now we mutilate the bodies of our ugly kids.

Oh brave new world and what wondrous beings are in it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t post very often anymore do I? I wonder why that is. Probably because the longer I stay in school the less entertaining my thoughts become and the more academic (read socially-stunted) my writing sounds. I am so very sorry about that. Except perhaps not, because there are only so many times a person can talk about her bodily functions and get away with it. I’m not sure what that limit is, but I’ll let you know when we hit it.

So today I unburden the search for the perfect Ph.D. program on all of you. Of course, when I say “perfect” what I mean is someone that will accept me. I truly, truly hate selling myself and I look forward to the day I’m an old tenured professor who doesn’t have to do that sort of thing. But I will always be engaging in that behavior because I’m going to have to publish and publishing means selling your work…I’m sensing a pattern here and I don’t like it.

Instead I offer a change of subject: Daniel Craig as the new James Bond. Wet. Running. Panting. With his shirt off. Yes please.

I know there was a lot of skepticism preceding the release of the movie (myself included) but I am the first to admit that I am pleasantly surprised. Honestly, I thought it might be the best Bond movie yet. And, alternatively, I thought Craig to be the best Bond yet, and no, not just because he is hot. In all honesty, as much as I love the Sean Connery, I actually like older, post-Bond Connery better. What I’m about to say is going to be sacrilegious to all you Bond fanatics so just stop reading now.

I love Timothy Dalton. There, I said it; it’s done. My dirty, dirty secret is out in the open (one of them at least). I found Craig surpassing Dalton, but having some of the same characteristics that made me love Dalton in the first place. There’s a restraint about both of them like maybe, just maybe, they might lose control and it’s going to be a lot of action. A girl really likes seeing that. Not to mention, when Craig fights in this movie you really believe in his ability to fight. With the other Bond’s it was almost as if the bad guys were so inept that Bond couldn’t help but win the brawl. Daniel Craig really had to work for it. I appreciated that.

And right now, as I sit here with a cold and my snot-ridden self I’m really happy about the new Bond movie. Except I can’t go see it again because with the way I blow my nose people would have me kicked out of the theatre for being too loud. Ugh, I’m so hot right now it’s amazing men can keep their hands off of me. My roommate has asked the question how can my nose, as little as it is, produce so much snot? I don’t know man, I don’t know.

But I have now worked school, subjectification of men, and bodily functions into one blog. My life is complete.

I’ve been watching Battlestar Galactica with my roommate and it has prompted some very interesting debates. In the most recent episode the Humans were given the chance to exterminate the Cylons. And I do mean exterminate. I’m not sure I could do it. Yes, they are at war and yes the Cylons have been trying to exterminate the Humans for three seasons now, but does that make it justifiable? If it is a matter of life and death can one completely exterminate another race of sentient beings?
Another question raised just today, had to do with abortion. Humans would die out in eighteen years if they didn’t start having babies so the President declared abortion illegal. My roommate said you could not start limiting freedoms. It wasn’t enough just to survive, you had to be worthy of it.
Now here’s the kicker: she was pro-extermination and anti-outlawing abortion. I was the opposite. Why is that surprising you ask? Well, how is protecting our freedoms worthy of survival but exterminating a race not? Because the Cyclon are neither human nor part of the human government the removal of their freedom, of their race is somehow more justifiable than outlawing abortion?
I am (obviously to those of you who know me) very pro-choice. I will fight to my dying breath for a woman’s right to choose. But in this particular scenario we are faced with the extinction of the human race. No one can have babies but women. Does that reduce us to mere breeding cattle? Perhaps. What other option is there I ask you? My roommate says so be it; it is better to die than to start taking away freedoms. There is also all the typical stuff—women will find a way to do it themselves and probably suffer and die; women who suffer from rape or whose life is in danger will have no recourse etc., etc. So what is the answer?
If we preserve the freedom and the probable cost of the human race—do we not have to do the same thing for the Cylons? If we are going to be “worthy of surviving” doesn’t that include avoiding mass genocide? In war people die and that is, to some extent, to be expected, but where is the line? Where and how does biological warfare “break the rules”?
I’m not sure I have an answer. I believe in survival and yet while I understand the outlawing of abortion I can’t countenance the destruction of the Cylons. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that pregnancy is to some degree avoidable. Not always, but some. Furthermore, pregnancy only lasts for nine months and no matter how unpleasant is over. Granted one can die giving birth and the changes to the body are permanent but in a life or death situation, truly, a situation where the survival of the race is as stake and every new child is needed it’s a price I could pay. But destroying the Cylons—an entire race—that’s permanent. Yes, the Cylons brought it upon themselves; yes, if we don’t kill them they’ll probably kill us, but what does that make us? But, then again, what does taking away a woman’s right to chose make us?
Taking away people’s freedoms “for their own good” is a very, very dangerous path to walk indeed.