cdbb

Interviewed by Adrian.

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 01:49:55 GMT

1. Do you believe in the 10 second rule?

Maybe as a kid, it didn't matter so much. Something fell, I picked it up, whatever. But then college hit. And nursing pre-requisites hit. And suddenly I was in microbiology learning about bacteria and my whole perspective just shifted. EVERYTHING was dirty. EVERYTHING was crawling with something. I think I became slightly germaphobic that semester. The 10 second rule didn't apply anymore because I was never going to use it again. Ever. But then the next summer, I started working at a daycare center. Hahaha. Kids don't know a thing about clean and dirty. They just know happy and fun. They just know how not to be stuck up and anal. They will want to share what they're eating with you, and they will offer to feed you from their little hands with big wet eyes... and how does one resist something like that? You can't. You just can't. And after a year of this, my perspective kind of shifted again. Nowadays, if it falls on the countertop and I immediately pick it up, it's still fair game. But if it fell on the floor... well, I just can't bring myself to be that gung-ho, kids or no kids.

2. If you could sneak an unsneakable food into the cinema what would it be?

Hmmmmm! Interesting question! A fresh order from McDonald's definitely comes to mind because the scent is so distinct.

3. You've just become a karaoke champion. What song did you win with?

Lover by Devendra Banhart because it is so fucking deck. Who wouldn't win with that song? With those lyrics?

4. If you could only live in one place forever, where would you live and why?

This one's kind of hard. I haven't travelled very far, so I haven't really found a place that speaks to me. Niagara Falls is the closest place that comes to mind, but I know you can't exactly live there.

5. What's your philosophy on life in seven words?

"You have today; there is still hope."

This one was really really hard to nail down, mang.

Fun five, Adrian. ^^

who killed the mixtape?

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 11:40:49 GMT

not me.

8tracks.com/chrstn/like-deja-vu-these-remind-me-of-you

This is Matan.

Sat, 21 Feb 2009 19:53:34 GMT

XD

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 15:56:40 GMT

sigh.

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 12:56:00 GMT

why is it always so much easier to sit here and eat my ya pear than it is to read about the different functions of the placenta? why? why must life be so contrary?

a 3 secret meme.

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 11:11:11 GMT

directions: as long as it has the word "secret" in it, it's good to go, yo. even stuff like "i like cows (secret)." would be OK. just the word "secret" would still be within the rules and <i>is</i> technically OK to use. also, you are a very lame person.

1. my nightmares of getting buglarized and held captive have convinced me that i need to build a secret panic room in my home with walls and doors that are virtually impenetrable. i have often lain awake after one of these nightmares and constructed the actual room in my mind, complete with escape plan, a separate emergency phone line, and small food supply. without fail, i will go over my nightmare again and again to try to determine the steps i would take the second time around if i had my secret panic room in place.

2. i have made a secret, personalized alphabet based on a movie i saw once. i have used it for years now, but mainly for passwords, because transcribing everything often drives me nuts.

3. is it weird that i'm secretly proud of the time when i held my pee** during a flight from japan to new jersey, and then again during the flight back from new jersey to japan? the only explanation i can offer for this bit of brilliance is: awkward teenage phase plus dreaded middle seat BOTH TIMES!!! when i finally got to a bathroom to relieve myself, i think it took me some 3-4 minutes -- possibly even as high as 5 the first time -- to finish. i wasn't a nursing major then, so i didn't think to count, but i should have. it must have been some kind of world record. i mean talk about self-control! i took so long, i even distinctly remember thinking, "whaaat?! i'm still peeing?! when am i going to finish this up?!"

**i don't recommend that anyone try to attempt this ever. aside from the obvious pain, discomfort and very high risk of embarrassment should you soil yourself, stagnant pee left in your bladder becomes a great breeding ground for bacteria (especially if you're a diabetic! they love the sugar) and puts you at higher risk for urinary tract infections and kidney stones. also, i'm not entirely sure, but you could very possibly burst your bladder and become septic, which is never a good thing.

if your name is: adrian, amanda, jeannie, stephanie, or valerie -- i so totally tag you to do this meme.

a countdown meme.

Thu, 08 Jan 2009 12:03:11 GMT

TEN things you want to tell other people:
1. boy #5: you make the stupidest lyrics make absolute sense to me. *ahem* for example, there is a line from wham! that goes “you put the boom boom into my heart” that pretty much describes what you do to me.
2. ten years later, and i am still hurting over you. every memory, every picture, every story, every little thing that links me back to you still has the power to put my heart in my throat. i more than miss you.
3. you're changing right before my eyes, you know. i'd never say it out loud, but i sometimes look at you and wonder how much of your life i am missing out on. i do worry, but i know it's all a part of growing up. sometimes i miss the girl you used to be, the one who didn't argue back as much and wasn't so moody all the time, but you've got my OK to grow up into the woman you want to be.
4. i like coming to you whenever i feel horrible over something. you always find the right words to say to make me feel better. it's as if you know what i need, even when i don't know what that is myself. i think it's one of your superpowers.
5. i like the way you keep me grounded and practical. without you, i still wouldn't have a calculator to use for dosage. without you, there wouldn't be an umbrella for rainy days or a car shade for sunny ones. without you, i probably would have made some really silly choices in life.
6. i can't recall a time when you've ever been short with me. i honestly can't. even when i've missed a birthday or graduation, you've always been nothing but kind to me. to tell you the truth, i always feel as if you come out with the shorter stick in our friendship, and i know for a fact that i don't deserve someone as good as you, but i'm so glad we're friends.
7. sometimes i wonder if i'll ever get to see your face again. i miss it. i miss you. if we were to cross paths again, would you remember my face? would i know yours? i ask because i will always only know you at three, and how much do three-year-olds really remember of anything, anyway? it makes me sad to think that one day i won't be able to recognize the face of the boy who made such a tremendous impact on my life. to safeguard against this, i have etched your name over and over in my memory, should we ever meet again. i hope it will be enough.
8. behind those walls, you feel a million miles away. is it selfish to ask that you not slip too far away from me?
9. i am glad that you aren't T.B.I.L.W.A.M.H. anymore.
10. i never realized until last week how incredibly cool you are! thank you for EVERYTHING. and i really do mean everything.

NINE things about yourself:
1. i have a habit of almost obsessive-compulsively picking at things. sometimes i do this absent-mindedly and sometimes i do this with a big knot in my stomach. this is true when i chew my lip till it's sore, when i bite my fingernails to the quick, and when i am thinking about things that are important to me.
2. these days, you'd be hard-pressed to find me outside. i hate the heat and the sun and the sweat. but when i was a little girl, i spent all my waking hours outside because that's where my grandfather would always be. i was like a little shadow, always sticking by him. i remember mornings when we would walk around the yard together, using our metal skewers to shish-kebab the pesky slugs that liked to munch on his vegetables. i remember hot afternoons when the sweat would pour down our faces as we dug for sweet potatoes. i remember watching the sun set with him under our tree, and shyly working up the courage to ask him what his favorite quote was. i loved my grandfather. i have only the best memories of him. he was sunshine to me.
3. i was the type of girl who grew up needing the big surprise balloons from her friends on her birthday, but always denied wanting them, and so never got them.
4. i always end up falling for the antihero in a story.
5. i have found that i get the most enjoyment from people who are funny when they are being sarcastic or self-deprecating. i have an aversion towards most stand-up comedians because they tend to rely on “cut-lows” and stereotypes to make people laugh. also, i am always so very uncomfortable when people invite me to watch their favorite stand-up comedians with them, because most of the time, my humor doesn't match up with theirs and i end up “pretend-laughing” for their sake. i am always constantly afraid that the jig will be up and they will realize that i was just pretend-laughing with them the whole time. it is very stressful for me.
6. my mom hates when i lie. i lie because i don't want to disappoint her. i disappoint her because i lie. it's an old and very vicious cycle. only recently have i learned that as much as it might hurt to face certain truths, it is even worse to have to live your lies. when the truth gets too hard for me to say now, instead of speaking, i stay quiet and let the silence speak for me.
7. i can't swim. my dad tried to make me take swimming lessons when i was in fifth grade, but i used to get these massive, pounding headaches when i would hit the pool that would leave me crying and virtually incapacitated. my young and incredibly cute instructor thought i was faking the migraines and was always rather annoyed with me. i don't blame him; he probably thought i was making excuses, but they were real! i had never had them before that wasted summer, or since.
8. i used to think the name alison was cute. now i find that i can't really stand hearing it, especially in its nickname form. i wonder if there's a scientific term for this kind of aversion.
9. my three favorite movies are: amelie, lars and the real girl, and everything is illuminated. i have noticed that one of the things these movies have in common is that a lot of the characters in them have weird quirks in their personalities or appearances. i find this incredibly endearing. it is probably the main reason why i love these movies so much.

EIGHT ways to win your heart:
1. be a natural when it comes to kids. actually, there's really no way around this one.
2. cook with me in mind.
3. be passionate about something.
4. if it's a gift, make it with your own hands.
5. say sweet things to me, and actually mean it.
6. notice things about me that nobody else does.
7. tell me jokes that make me laugh.
8. make me not want to walk away from a conversation.

SEVEN things that cross your mind a lot:
1. school issues like my grades and my incomplete for clinicals
2. my right leg
3. different forms of sustenance
4. people i know
5. things i need to do
6. things i'd like to buy
7. what time i need to wake up tomorrow

SIX things you wish you never did:
1. i wish i had never taken that late afternoon walk with valerie in the nursing building.
2. i wish i had never lied to my parents about how i broke my leg.
3. i wish i had never gotten mad at my grandma after i very rudely demanded that she fix my hair for school when i was a kid.
4. i wish i had never let the cold war rage for so long.
5. i wish i had never followed the straight hair fad that was so popular my freshman year of college.
6. i wish i had never eaten a veritable shitload of shrimp last august. and then again a few months later. and then again around my birthday. now i have a food allergy. good job, self.

FIVE turn offs:
1. selfishness (especially people who don't like to share their food!)
2. infidelity
3. guys who are way too emo or needy
4. lack of manners
5. cruelty

FOUR turn ons:
1. single fathers (this is a serious panty-dropper for me, people!)
2. guys who write well
3. bad boys who are actually good guys, but like to pretend otherwise
4. guys who smell like fresh laundry when you hug them

THREE smileys that describe your life:
1. =)
2. @_@
3. :/

TWO things you want to do before you die:
1. become a mother
2. fall in love (the right kind of love)

ONE confession:
1. when i was in kindergarten, i stole akihiro's lunch money. i was later questioned by our teachers, to which i denied everything. feeling scared and wanting to remove all evidence from my person, i tore the bills in two and threw them in the cafeteria trash can during our snack break. i think i somehow deduced that tearing them in two negated the crime or something. i don't think i have ever told this to anyone before.

you know what's not nice?

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 01:48:51 GMT

what's not nice is waking up, reaching for your glasses, and getting bonked on the head with a bottle full of contact solution instead. it really hurts.

‘Hasn’t anybody ever told you a handful is enough?’ by Samara Ginsberg

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 05:51:35 GMT

I was saddened to read Hannah Whittaker’s article about her eating disorder a while back. I did, however, want to share the experiences of someone from the other side of the fence. I have what, for many women, is an extremely enviable figure. If I open a copy of FHM, the models don’t look like unattainable visions of tiny-waisted pneumatic perfection. They look like me. With my size 6, 30E frame I could easily be a glamour model if I wanted – although of course I am probably over the hill at 25. And if I had a pound for every time I’ve heard a female acquaintance tell me I have ‘the perfect figure’, whatever that is, I’d probably have enough money for a breast reduction.

I must say straight away that I am happy with the way I look. There are things that I would change if it were easy to do so. I would like to have longer limbs and yes, smaller breasts. But I quite like my body. It’s mine and it’s familiar. It’s good at martial arts and playing the cello and giving hugs. This happiness and acceptance however has been hard-won.

Typically, a boy would grab my breasts while his friends whooped and hollered. Occasionally the friends would be holding me down. I would scream and hit them, but this seemed only to increase their enjoyment. Nobody ever came to my rescue

I liked my breasts when they first appeared. I was a 28A for a long time and, while I felt a little self-conscious about these new additions to my physique simply by virtue of the fact that most other 12-year-olds didn’t yet have any at all, I liked them. They were small and perky, in proportion with the rest of me and didn’t get me any unwanted attention. All of this changed virtually overnight when I was 14. In the space of about three months, I went from an A to an E cup. The way I was treated by both people I knew and by strangers completely changed. My peers began to see me as ‘slutty’, despite the fact that I had never even kissed a boy. The bitchy, popular clique of girls at school tried to recruit me, not seeming to understand why I had little interest in wearing a truly hideous amount of make-up to school and making other girls’ lives hell. Teachers began to see me as troublesome, giving me detention for minor things. And overnight, I went from being able to walk down the street without even being looked at, to having strangers lean out of car windows to inform me that they would like to fuck my brains out.

Groping my breasts became almost a sport among the boys at school. It would happen in class, during break times, while I passed them in the corridor – any time that I was within groping distance. Typically, a boy would grab my breasts while his friends whooped and hollered. Occasionally the friends would be holding me down. I would scream and hit them, but this seemed only to increase their enjoyment. Nobody ever came to my rescue: not the girls, not the other boys whose opinions these male chauvinist piglets probably would have respected the most, and not the teachers whose job it was to intervene. It simply was not regarded as important. It was seen as an inevitability of my figure, and if I had the temerity to walk down the corridors looking like I did, what did I expect? A boy once told me about a specific sexual fantasy he had, involving tying me up, beating me and raping me. He apparently used to crack one out while imagining this every night. Another boy once asked me, “Hasn’t anybody ever told you a handful is enough?” as if I’d deliberately inflated them myself.

It wasn’t just the boys. A campaign of complete lechery from one of my teachers distressed me sufficiently for me to bunk off lessons. He stared at my tits in class, made lewd comments about me in front of everybody and, when I lost weight as a result of being so anxious and upset, chided me because he “liked his women with curves”. When I finally plucked up the courage to complain to my (female) head of year I was simply told: “Don’t worry dear, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

As I spent many break times hiding in the toilets, the girls would try to say helpful, supportive things. The general consensus was that I should be glad of having big breasts, that I should be happy with them because boys liked them, that perhaps I ought to chill out and enjoy the attention, and that putting up with groping was just the price I had to pay for being hot. I don’t lack respect for these girls (they were after all only between 14 and 16 at the time), but it’s hugely worrying that their kind words didn’t consist instead of: “You shouldn’t have to put up with this”, “It’s not your fault” or, “Let’s talk to the headmaster and make sure the governors hear about this because that teacher ought to be fired immediately.” My male friends trivialised the situation, possibly simply fearing the scorn of their classmates, but, for whatever reason, they were disinterested in sticking up for me and generally adopted the same “chill out and enjoy the attention” attitude as the girls. As for the teachers, they turned a blind eye whenever possible, pretended they hadn’t noticed when I was assaulted in their classes and did as little as possible when I specifically asked for their support.

Of course, it wasn’t just at school that my mammary tissue provoked so much humiliation. As soon as my large breasts appeared, I had to deal with grown men leering at me, propositioning me and telling me what they wanted to do to me. I don’t honestly know if I looked much older than I really was, but as a general rule, I’d say that inviting a girl in school uniform to provide you with a “tit wank” isn’t really appropriate. And no, this was not an isolated incident.

My youth orchestra held an annual awards ceremony, one of the awards being the “Mammoth Melons Award”, for which the girl with the biggest breasts would be presented with two enormous watermelons and everybody would have a good laugh about it. Every year I would spend the morning of the awards ceremony hiding in the bathroom hyperventilating at the prospect of being so humiliated (I never got the award – either I wasn’t popular enough or one of my friends tipped off the organisers about how upset I’d be). When I look back on this now, I’m completely appalled that it was allowed to happen. Making fun of a teenage girl’s breasts in an official awards ceremony approved by the teachers is just not cool.

Something else that made me feel very uncomfortable about my new assets was the extent to which I was stared at, not just by sleazy men, but by other women. My breasts were given disparaging stares, envious stares, and stares whose motivation I couldn’t work out at all. I was also given some very unpleasant verbal abuse by other women. I very rarely received compliments about my breasts from anyone other than close friends – whenever anyone made a comment, it was nasty. Unsolicited comments I’ve received from other women include “That’s SO not attractive,” “You do realise they’ll be down to your ankles by the time you’re 30,” and, “You think you’re something really special, don’t you?” And, of course, apart from the unpleasant comments themselves, a lengthy disparaging stare speaks a thousand vitriolic words.

I believe that the reason that so many women feel that it’s acceptable to mock large breasts is that there is an underlying assumption that all women want larger breasts. Women’s magazines are full of tips on how to “make the most of your assets”. In trashy chick-lit novels, the protagonist with whom we are supposed to identify always has small ones. Because there is an assumption that all women want bigger breasts, women who actually do have big breasts are assumed to be in a state of extreme smugness. And because it’s entirely unacceptable for a woman to be happy with her appearance, anyone with big tits needs taking down a peg or two, the conceited bitch.

Therein lies the sting in the tail. As the girl with the oh-so-envious figure, you will receive no sympathy. If you ever, ever express any discontent with the unwanted attention and discrimination you receive as a result of looking like the “ideal woman”, or if you ever express a dislike of the aesthetic appearance of that part of your anatomy, you will be shot down with cries of, “You BITCH” (this is a compliment – confusing, I know). You will be cheerfully informed that you ought to be glad of the attention. And people will say charming things like: “It’s a good thing you’ve got big boobs, because otherwise nobody would like you.”

It’s as if women’s breasts are public property – the bigger they are, the less they belong to the person to whom they are attached, and the more it is seen as acceptable to stare, make comments and to de-humanise their owner. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I finally started coming round to the idea that my breasts were my own, not just unwanted appendages attached to my body. Until then I hadn’t seen them as a part of me at all. I had thought of them almost as a deformity. They didn’t seem like mine. I fantasised that one day I would wake up and they would be gone, and I’d go back to being treated as a human being.

Nowadays things are much better. I’ve got better at dressing to make my breasts look smaller (not that I should have to, although I would choose to anyway), and looking older means that I get less unwanted attention (not that I should have received unwanted attention when I was younger either, and not that I am exactly geriatric at 25). I no longer feel like a sex object every waking moment. I no longer hate my breasts and I no longer feel that they’re unwanted appendages. I would definitely like them to be smaller and I won’t pretend otherwise, but they feel like part of me, rather than the disembodied udders that they used to feel like. I’m still not happy though. Why should I ever have felt that way? Why should I have had to have struggled so hard to be respected and taken seriously?

It’s incredible to me that any woman would want large breasts when they examine what the media at large seems to think of women so afflicted. Just take a look at FHM. They’re all “hot and ready” bimbos presented as receptacles existing solely for male entertainment. Even women in high-powered positions aren’t immune – witness the treatment of Harriet Harman after being photographed a few months ago from an angle that grossly exaggerated the amount of cleavage she was showing. Poor Harman. I know from bitter personal experience just how difficult it is to dress ‘modestly’ when you have large breasts. Dressing ‘modestly’ means wearing something that conceals the size of your large breasts – the actual size of them, not just the amount of flesh on show, otherwise you risk looking as if you’re actually dressing to make them look bigger. It’s a Catch-22 situation that reaches whole new dimensions if, like me, you are only 5’2” and have to consider that most people will be able to see down your top.

Because there are such limited representations of women in the media, and so many stereotypes associated with particular looks, this creates unfortunate associations for women who happen to resemble any one of these particular looks. Tall, slim, young women for example are stereotyped as bitchy fashionistas. Women above a size 10 who – gasp! – don’t hate themselves are ‘confident, real women’. Overweight, middle-aged women are regarded as barely deserving of existence until they give up carbs and get Botox. And young, petite women with big breasts are regarded as ‘easy’.

My classmate’s “a handful is enough” comment succinctly demonstrates the phenomenon of people thinking that women choose the size of their breasts, or at least treating them as if they do. Sometimes I feel as if I have the words ARROGANT SLUT tattooed across my forehead. Given what men seem to think about my sexual availability and the judgements that women seem to make about my ‘morals’ and self-image, it really does seem that having big breasts is equivalent to this.

I think that the crux of all of my breast-related problems was very well summarised by a perceptive comment made by a friend of mine when I was sixteen: “The problem is, your breasts just don’t suit your personality.” She was right: people had gone from seeing me as I really was – just another shy, geeky teenager who spent entirely too much time in the library – to seeing me as a bimbo who would definitely want to suck their dick. My breasts were a mask that seemed to prevent people from actually bothering to get to know me.

It seems that often women have the biggest problems with their breasts when this happens, and when the treatment that they receive from other people is related to their tits rather than to who they actually are as a person. All people are to some extent judged on their looks; this is unfair. Women are judged on their looks much more than men; this is even more unfair and makes looks-based discrimination very much a feminist issue. Women with big breasts are in my opinion subjected to many more negative snap judgements than most, perhaps even on a par with fat women and women who explicitly fail to comply with society’s standards of beauty by doing horrific things like failing to remove their armpit hair. This is horrendously unfair, not to mention bloody stupid.

I’m not saying: “Boo hoo, look how difficult life is for gorgeous women, don’t hate me because I’m beautiful!” Being regarded as attractive generally makes life much easier and puts one in a position of privilege, an unfair and wholly undeserved privilege that I am aware of having. But being seen as extremely sexually attractive is massively problematic for the individual in question. In such a deeply sexist and heteronormative culture, looking like the personification of “sluttiness” is seen as an invitation for sexual harassment. It’s bad enough when people think you are inviting sexual harassment because of how you happen to be dressed that day, but at least mini skirts and high heels come off. Breasts do not. The size of a woman’s breasts, surgery notwithstanding, is not a personal choice. Forget “This is what a feminist looks like” - I think I need a t-shirt that says, “These came with my body”.

For any girls or women who think that they would like to look like a glamour model, I would like to say that you are fortunate not to. Not because there is anything at all wrong with being petite with big breasts in itself, but because a woman who looks like a Nuts pin-up is constantly assumed by most people to be an airhead. Your life will be much easier if you have a more average figure. Consider how healthy your self image would be by now if you had endured being groped, being automatically regarded as unintelligent, being seen by other women as the enemy, being regarded as nothing more than your body, every day of your life. You can’t take the breasts off. They’re not like accessories that you can choose to put on when you feel like having lots of attention and take off when you feel like being respected or just simply able to run around without having to wear a sports bra made of reinforced concrete. For the love of God, why would you wish that upon yourself?

I have always thought, even as a child, that small and medium-sized breasts were more attractive than large ones. But were it not for the judgements, the harassment, the objectification and the pure hatred that my breasts have caused me, they’d be no different from my short legs or my frizzy hair – something that I’d change if it were easy to do so, but which doesn’t really bother me. Things are much better for me now because I have a good academic career behind me and a high-status job that explicitly requires intelligence. I have proved myself as not an airhead. But why should I have to do so? Why should the underlying assumption be that I am? It’s stupid and unfair and I am angry about it.

It’s not my problem that my breasts “don’t suit my personality”. The problem is that there is a personality type associated with having big breasts in the first place. We don’t need implants and breast reductions. What we need is to cure our society’s complete obsession with breasts. We need somehow to do away with the idea that breast size is directly proportional to sexual attractiveness, and that a sexually attractive woman is somehow deserving of harassment and contempt. Surely breasts aren’t the only beautiful thing about an attractive woman? As a heterosexual female I appreciate that it’s difficult for me to comment meaningfully on what makes a woman sexually attractive, but really, it’s the equivalent of a man’s attractiveness being judged solely by the size of the bulge in his pants, which is surely not an attitude that anybody with any aesthetic taste or basic respect for their fellow humans would take.

I do still have some residual shame about my body. I know this because I cringed when writing the opening paragraph of this piece, describing my appearance. I was shocked at just how much I cringed. After all, I happily walk down the street every day looking like I do. But nevertheless, admitting that I have a 23-inch waist and E-cup breasts (look, I just wrote it again, how brazen!) gave me visions of lots of angry women scowling at their monitors and fuming, “The stuck-up bitch! Who does she think she is? I mean, it’s as if she’s actually PROUD of her goddamn ‘perfect figure’. Who’d have thought it, Barbie writing for The F-Word…” I know that this is irrational, but I share my paranoia to illustrate that, despite the fact that I don’t usually think about my body much and never diet, I do still have quite a complicated relationship with my figure and what I think people’s reactions to it might be. I have cringed at every point at which I have stated or implied that I am generally regarded as attractive from the neck down. It feels like an extraordinarily arrogant thing to admit. I feel as if I ought to be simultaneously raving about having an ugly face or bad hair just to balance things out. It’s stupid and irrational, but it’s the way I feel. It’s the way that mainstream, female, male and even feminist culture seems to conspire to make me feel.

We cannot win. Whatever size our breasts are, there is something wrong with them. Whatever body type we have, even the most conventionally-attractive kind, we are encouraged to be unhappy with it somehow. So quit worrying. Stick two fingers up at society rather than down your throat. And if you think I’m an airhead, please let it be simply because you think I’ve been talking complete bollocks for the last 3,000 words.

My sentiments exactly.

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 08:58:26 GMT

"I want someone who wants to understand me. I am tired of feeling like always having to understand everyone else, now I want someone who wants to know me. Someone who has scars and bruises and is tired as well, but still laughs at life and the sun and at the silly things. Someone whose hands, no matter how soft or rough, wants to touch slowly and softly. Someone who wants to hear me, who doesn’t want too much for me. Someone who will feel the things I cannot put into words or writing. Someone who wants to see me no matter how fucked up I am. Someone who wants me to listen to them too, to see in their hearts and lay in the sun with the grass blowing around us. Someone who can still dream."

^___^

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 06:10:21 GMT

adrian: it's a writing exercise, inspired by a site i once stumbled across. you write the first or second thing that comes to mind all within a 5-10 minute timespan. the key is to not stop writing (and not to think all that much). minor grammar mistakes may be corrected after you complete the exercise, however long you choose to go for, but you can't change the thoughts once you write them.

i want to walk with both legs, but one fell and broke itself. i like the way he used to play with my hair. my sister imagines it is a slide you can ride on. this paper won't write itself. i wish it would. music feels delicious against my ear. rain hits my window in a glorious way. goosebumps are colonies under my skin. they surface when i feel good. old ladies have short hair. why? i like to imagine that when i type, the words silently spill from my fingertips. the pig on the table is hugging an empty water bottle called spring. i have a huge bell in my room for emergencies. the one time i used it nobody came. my right knee has crepitus, my left knee doesn't. fights are ugly and i have learned it is better not to lie. excitement is a flutter that often starts in my chest and spreads to my hands. i can still move my toes. that is a good sign. it is hot and my neck pops when i turn it to the left. cocoa butter smells nothing like butter. tapioca brings to mind balls, which bring to mind other balls, but not the hairy kind. i had a dream about heaven. it was filled with the flags of all nations and a family of rainbows. i cannot identify lullabies when they are hummed. i bring tone-deaf to an extreme. boys confuse me, but i like them anyway. i imagine that new knowledge pushes old knowledge out the side of my brain. does imagination like to stretch the way that cats do?

Must. Move. To. France. Now.

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 13:47:25 GMT

All of it.

Sun, 02 Nov 2008 13:06:38 GMT

I don’t just want
your heart.
I want your flesh,
your skin
and blood and bones,
your voice, your thoughts
your pulse
and most of all your
fingerprints,
everywhere.

~ Isobel Thrilling

What it's not.

Wed, 29 Oct 2008 12:08:40 GMT

This Feels Awful. It Must Be Love.
by Michelle Fisher

As I sat in the back seat of a rust-and-primer splotched Trans Am, watching a slasher flick with my date's kid sister at a drive-in movie theater in Trailer Village, Ore., I began to suspect that love had forsaken me once more. On that wretched evening, my date sat in the front seat with the driver, who was her ex-girlfriend, not incidentally, and the owner of the battered car. Every few minutes, their heads would close the gap between them as they would whisper something, probably not terribly clever, to one another, obstructing the view for the kid and me. Of course, any vision was already blurred by my tiny tears. I couldn't even explain to myself how I came to such a pitiful fate.

But it got worse. I guess being the third wheel while my girlfriend was on a date in the front seat wasn't humiliating enough. I had to wait a couple of weeks for her to steal all the money I had in the world ($37) and run off with Carl, the spotty teenage assistant manager of a fast-food restaurant.

I was a fool for love.

And when I decided that the next woman of my dreams was worth waiting for -- even if it meant waiting for her to bed every woman in the country prior to settling down with me -- well, you can imagine how that turned out. I thought I was her port in the storm, but I turned out to be just the shower at the rest stop.

Love stinks.

I knew I would never be alone again after my first date with Jennifer. We went to see Desperately Seeking Susan and held hands during the entire movie. After that, it was hot sex and Hunan food three times a week. Who knew that she was devouring burritos -- and someone else -- the other four days a week? Well, I did, eventually, and I declared love off-limits for the rest of my pathetic little life.

Obviously, that was just one of the many vows I broke.

It has taken me almost 35 years to realize that love doesn't suck. Sure, I could have reached this conclusion with the help of a therapist, but why bother when I was just going to hit upon the same truth a few decades later?

As I look back, I cannot believe what has passed for love in my life.

I know I cannot be the only person who has confused low self-esteem and desperation with love.

We all know what true love is. If you aren't sure, then it hasn't happened for you yet. But it will. True love is mutual. It is lasting and it is rewarding. For those of you who want more information, I can only tell you what is not true love.

Anyone who starts a sentence with, "If you loved me, you would..." is not your true love.

If she has been seen out at a club within 24 hours after giving you a speech about needing some space, she is not the one.

Your life partner will not tell you how fine her former women were, only how fine you are.

Nothing is "wrong" with you, and if she uses that term then she is wrong for you.

Your true love will not take other women on dates in your car and use the change in your ashtray to pay for their refreshments.

Cute nicknames such as "bunny" and "boo" make a girl feel special, but any woman who calls you "leather face" or "Bigfoot" should be dismissed without hesitation.

You will not have to wait for your true love to "grow" to love you. If she has told you that she might grow to love you, then she won't. If you are telling yourself that she might grow to love you, then she won't.

When you find her, she won't need to keep sleeping with other women to "keep it interesting".

Neither one of you will be afraid to commit. You will just do it.

True love does not require a girl to wait up half the night for her woman, who is drinking with an old flame. Your Ms. Right will invite you along or turn down the invitation.

Your special lady will not allow you to hock a kidney on eBay to pay for her latest obsession. It is sad when women think they need to buy love, but it is tragic when it works.

Anybody who wants you to gain or lose a pound to be loved should be left for dead.

True love means not keeping score of transgressions or apologies.

You won't have to wait for your soul mate to decide whether you are the one. But should someone make you that generous offer, I suggest you make the decision for her.

True love is inconvenient. It happens just before you are going to leave the country or six minutes after your last divorce.

If she gives you a speech about how there is always one person in a relationship who is more invested than the other person, that means that you are the one more invested and she is the "other person." In any case, women who are madly in love do not spout such drivel.

You don't move in with a woman to see how it will work. You are in love and you end up under the same roof without even realizing that you have moved in. Eventually, you will give up your place or the crackhead neighbors will take it over for you.

The woman you want to spend the rest of your life with does not belong to someone else, or else she will again.

If she is the one for you, she will not waste time pontificating over imperfect timing. Anytime is the right time to fall in love.

True love is not packed with ultimatums, but divorces are.

Your true love will never try to explain the difference between being in love and merely loving someone. Only people who are not in love give you that dopey song and dance because they think you will freak out less if they say they love you in some little crappy way.

One of the best things about being really in love is that sex is wonderful even when the sex is not wonderful.

True love is not bailing out the chickie who wrecked your car in a drunken rampage. And no, it's not romantic that she used you as one of her three free phone calls.

There are a lot of terrible things I would be willing to do for my true love, but she would never want me to do any of them.

True love makes you do things you have never done before, like clean your cupboards and cut your toenails before you feel them painfully hitting the front of your shoes when you walk.

True love is not what you pictured. If you are open to true love, then you do not have a physical type. Your eyes do not know what is best for your heart. Don't believe me? Then head to a buffet restaurant in Virginia sometime.

True love is not drama. Relationships are work, but love is not.

All the silly and sad things we do to ourselves because we fear that love has already passed us by make love seem like an impossible mess.

Who hasn't offered up her heart to an unwilling or unworthy recipient? Not to fret, you got it half right.

Don't blame love; don't blame yourself -- just look around and know that if all these other losers can find love, then surely you can too.

for a me and a you.

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 03:04:07 GMT

phenomenal woman

pretty women wonder where my secret lies
i'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
but when i start to tell them
they think i'm telling lies
i say
it's in the reach of my arms
the span of my hips
the stride of my step
the curl of my lips
i'm a woman
phenomenally
phenomenal woman
that's me

i walk into a room
just as cool as you please
and to a man
the fellows stand or
fall down on their knees
then they swarm around me
a hive of honey bees
i say
it's the fire in my eyes
and the flash of my teeth
the swing of my waist
and the joy in my feet
i'm a woman
phenomenally
phenomenal woman
that's me

men themselves have wondered
what they see in me
they try so much
but they can't touch
my inner mystery
when i try to show them
they say they still can't see
i say
it's in the arch of my back
the sun of my smile
the ride of my breasts
the grace of my style
i'm a woman
phenomenally
phenomenal woman
that's me

now you understand
just why my head's not bowed
i don't shout or jump about
or have to talk real loud
when you see me passing
it ought to make you proud
i say
it's in the click of my heels
the bend of my hair
the palm of my hand
the need of my care
'cause i'm a woman
phenomenally
phenomenal woman
that's me

written by the phenomenal maya angelou

how could you be so doctor evil?

Mon, 20 Oct 2008 12:24:44 GMT

in the night i hear them talk
the coldest story ever told
somewhere far along this road
he lost his soul
to a woman so heartless

how could you be so heartless?
how could you be so heartless?

-- kanye west

Hehe.

Wed, 08 Oct 2008 11:19:23 GMT

Can you raed tihs?

The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid. Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch sutdy at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

And hree I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt.

hello el el cool jay.

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 12:07:19 GMT

actually, i blog here.