what grieving is

there is this weird place in grief where you just want nothing more than for time to pass. you're not feeling any of the emotions, you're just numb. i guess numb is the word. it's a holding pattern - anyone who's been in an actual holding pattern on a plane knows this sensation, the loud roar of the engines, the totally sensory overload of the constant roaring and the bright neon airplane lights and the twist and jerk of turbulence.

part of me wishes i could just feel all the grief at once, at my convenience. block out an afternoon and go through all the stages, in order. work through my denial and feel all the sadness i will ever feel about this, break for tea, move to anger and bargaining. then i could look back for always with only wistfulness and regret. that might be perfect.

but stupid humans don't stupid work like that. (i hope you laughed at that, it was a funny transition. see? i can still be funny. that's the strange thing about grief. you are Supposed To Be Grieving, but you want to do everything else WHILE you grieve - part of you is desperately clutching at normal, and still wants to be funny or silly or sexy or flatulent or whatever fill-in-the-adjective that is supposed to contain some aspect of your fragile human existence.)

and while you're in Holding Pattern Grief, you can't DO anything. you have to strike just the right chord of distraction and be careful with it. too little distraction and the pain comes on and you can't deal with it right now and it tries to suck you under and you either fight it and pull yourself out or go with it. Holding Pattern Grief is good for when you still have to function, like waiting for the bus or train, going to get food, in between classes. but too much distraction and it's unbearable, you can't stand to be around these people who are Normal when you are Not. and that can make you angry or bring on random tears or outbursts. so you have to be careful.

i forgot how mundane grief is. in the two years, i've forgotten. when i tried to write about it, i did what everyone does - i wrote the sexy, dramatic parts. it's much more interesting to see the falling to the knees and dramatic sobbing. it's the waiting, the numb dragging hours, that no one wants to know about. because it feels like a death sentence, this dull thudding pain.

but a HUGE part of the grieving process is the sheer number of hours you spend. with people who love and understand. doing nothing.

we spent hours in the brown house. laying there. not saying much of anything. people played halo, people put on movies. people came and went. we ate because eating is What You Do, not what we felt like. we watched movies at shakira's, ate from her copious chocolate supplies, made tea. a whole lot of nothing, but with a completely different tinge. we went to walmart and target and gas stations. we got restless.

grief is boring and restless.

dear universe -
fuck you. fuck you so much and so hard and so long you have internal damage. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck YOU, universe.

how the fuck can you do this?

my friends had JUST healed. all the letters and the crying this week, it felt like closure. it felt like catharsis. it felt good. it's been 2 years since DAC's death, and now you kill one of his best friends?

how fucked up can you get?

i fucking hate you. now if you'll excuse me, i have to go back to tending the far-flung members of my extended family who are in even more pain this time around because of the cruel, sick, sadistic, fucked up irony.

i fucking hate you.
- sarah, who hates you

MOTHERFUCKINGGODDAMNIT I FUCKING HATE THIS SHIT

MOTHERFUCKING FUCK HOW THE FUCK CAN THIS FUCKING HAPPEN THIS IS SOOOOOOO GODDAMN FUCKED UP.

GODFUCKINGDAMNIT THERE IS NO MOTHERFUCKING GOD BECAUSE IN A JUST UNIVERSE THIS WOULDN'T FUCKING HAPPEN.

best friends shouldn't die. and one best friend, who survives the other's death, should not die two years and three days later. NOT FUCKING FAIR, YOU GODDAMN TWO-FACED UNIVERSE. NO FUCKING FAIR.

i want it to be not true. i want it SOOOOOOOOO to not be true. unfortunately even phillip christopher brooks isn't fucked up enough to lie to me about something like that. these are the times when two-year-old ties, when the people who comforted me then are the ones who will comfort me now, fuck my newly-made friends, they don't know what this is and can't handle it and my old friendships go deeper anyway. what the fuck? i've just been sentenced to at least a week of flashbacks, disbelief and tears.

how THE FUCK can this happen to my extended community? HOW THE FUCK????? how the fuck is this fair?

tim, and adam, and JB, and sarah, and mana, and me and gerard and mike, pray for us. pray for us in this unfair, unholy universe.

we knew. we all fucking knew. you pay for the good times with bad. and we could all FEEL that things were just going too well, could FEEL that something was wrong. i want SO BADLY to not believe this, want it to be the MOST FUCKED UP JOKE THAT WAS EVER TOLD TO A GROUP OF TEENAGERS JUST TRYING TO STUMBLE THROUGH LIFE WITHOUT TOO MANY PEOPLE GETTING HURT.

fuck you, god. fuck you, humanism. fuck you, buddha. fuck EVERYTHING!!!!! HOW THE FUCK COULD THIS HAPPEN?????

I CAN'T EVEN COMPREHEND IT.

what now? a fucking band using both their initials? what now? maybe we should just change the name of the band whenever someone else dies. i DO NOT WANT to write the letter i just wrote to DAC to someone else every two years. motherfucker. jonathan micah reeves. johnny, who's nickname i just learned to spell properly two weeks ago. HOW THE FUCK? out of the triplets, one is left. WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, PICK US OFF ONE BY ONE EVERY COUPLE OF YEARS?????

please please please please please let it be a lie. let it be a huge lie. please. i'd rather hate whoever started a brush fire of gossip forever than have jonathan be gone. please. let me beat up the person who started the rumor, but let jonny be alive, let him return to his tiny one room house and his kitten. i'll do anything.

vagina doctor

*disclaimer: this post is hilarious if you can get past the subject matter.*

fuck fuck fuck i'm freaking the fuck out.

so i went to the vagina doctor today, and i was thinking, hmm, i'm going to write a post about this, because i have friends who've never been (or haven't been in a long time) to the vagina doctor, some of whom have vaginas, and they should know what it's like (regardless of anatomy) because people freak the hell out about the vagina doctor.

i like the vagina doctor in principle and theory - vagina doctors are Very Important. anyone who's had heterosexual sex (or wants to, or has had a pregnancy scare) should understand the importance of the vagina doctor. (gynecologist, for all you squares. *not saying people who don't engage in hetero sex shouldn't be interested in 'gina docs, just saying they're the most obvious population who'd be concerned, especially among teenagers.) in actuality, i LOATHE the vagina doctor and my appointments with them, though i think it is very important to say the vagina doctor is not NEARLY as scary as people who've never been think they are. the things they do to you are yucky, but not nearly as bad as the imagining what they're going to do to you.

so i'm having this fine lil train of thought chugging along, dutifully pulling out my List of Vagina-Related Questions (you're supposed to make one before you go so, in the moment, you don't forget all), and pondering how this visit is taking longer than it should. then they pop in and ask if they can get a urine sample from me. i've been getting annual exams for 4 years now, and never having been asked for urine that wasn't in connection with a pregnancy test (and knowing i'm not pregnant because i peed in a cup for these people 3 weeks ago and then commenced bleeding), i think Something Is Up.

so i pee in the cup, and calm myself down by thinking how boys have such an advantage when it comes to peeing in cups, and freak myself out thinking how It Has Finally Happened, I Have an STD Because I'm a Slut and A Bad Girl and This Is What Happens To Bad Girls. i trot in with my urine sample and sit down and chew on some ice. the doctor stands in front of me. "have you ever had a yeast infection?" oh thank fucking god. yeast is fine. yeast is not sexually transmitted, everyone gets yeast infections, they do fucking commercials on teevee about it, i can handle that! (i had no idea anything was wrong with me. yeah, i'm in touch with my body.)

so we talk about that and it's cool. and then, somehow, someone brings up my family history (diabetes, both sides). "have you been thirsty lately?" the power of suggestion, eh? all of a sudden my brain is like, yesihavebeenthirstylatelyohmygodi'msick AAAAHHHHH!!! I PEE ALL THE TIME!!!! I'VE GOT DIABETES!!!! then the doc says to the woman doing my tests to "run a glucose sample on that, too." glucose? glucose means SUGAR!!!! sugar means DIABETES!!!!!! (as you can tell, this doc wasn't really impressing me with her bedside manner while i was freakingthefuckout and she was the good one. yes, i got TWO vagina doctors, one of whom didn't know what she was doing, so of course SHE was the one wielding the speculum. that's a whole 'nother story. suffice it to say i NEVER want to hear another male complain about having to bend over and cough, given what my poor cunt just went through.)

so anyway, we're sure it's nothing, just checking because elevated yeast can be an early sign of diabetes. or it can just mean you have a working cunt and you're alive. seriously, the range is that broad. i'm getting blood tests for diabetes on wednesday. oh, and they're checking my cholesterol, also because of family history (because the doc was like, who has diabetes, your father? and i said, no, he's the one with high cholesterol. damn me and my big mouth). isn't that awesome? woohoo. i want to be cool with it, not be such a fucking hypochrondriac. but i am. i always have been. i'm a worst case scenario kind of girl. argh.

update on my night

watched two movies with two deaf boys. and jeana. had some beer. ran around campus. must go to bed now.

hawk vs. squirrel

i feel about 18 kinds of awesome right now.

i scammed the bookstore out of $18 - my weekend is paid for! AND i got three free books! (one of which is about sex!)

told a kid in the library that there is nothing geeky about evil dead, it rocks like old metallica! (totally stole the phrase.) it was cute when he asked, what do you really listen to? enya? and when i objected that this was a stereotype he was like, hey! i listen to enya!

there is a hawk outside trying to eat a black squirrel. i wish it was a gray squirrel (as they are more common), but the whole nature thing is beautiful. i'm worried the hawk is lost. *update* a gaggle of SLC kids watched the hawk vs. squirrel drama for TWO HOURS. finally the hawk left, seeming to give up. it returned less than 10 minutes later, just when its prey was getting complacent enough to try and run for cover. the hawk returned, snatched the squirrel, and is now enjoying his squirrel dinner. SLC kids continue to watch, and i think someone got it on video. everyone's saying, that was amazing! incredible! kinda restores my faith in those nutjobs. you could hear the hawk's wings when it swooped in.

took computer to academic computing. and fixed it.

put in work order for our hallway.

had cookies.

week is over, prison survived.

also

we found this. and played it throughout the day. we are professionals.

http://albinoblacksheep.com/flash/numa.php

6 hours in admissions

i hate the alphabet. it's time to stop filing when you no longer know if i or e comes first.

Linda, giving Ryan more filing to do: Remember, it's not for me, it's for the cause.

Ryan on his interview: it was great! i mean, it was fine, you know, okay. normal interview. she was just gorgeous and i wanted to let her keeping talking so i could have an excuse to look at her eyes.

actual conversation in SLC admissions today:
prospie parent: i'd like to . . . well, you see my son is applying . . . and i noticed that your school is three-quarters female . . . and i was just wondering if that makes it different? is there a man in the office i could speak to?
female secretary: sure. (transfers to Larry, our flamboyantly gay admissions counselor)
Larry: How can i help you?
prospie parent: um, i was just wondering what it's like for young men at sarah lawrence?
Larry: Excuse me?
PP: well, is it any different? i mean, if he went to another school he'd get a different experience, right?
Larry: um, yes? [thinking: well, yeah, it would be a DIFFERENT SCHOOL.]
PP: i mean, it's just, how does the fact that the school is 3/4 female affect the young men?
Larry: well, i'm told it's not that noticeable . . .
PP: i mean, i like women, i like women a lot, but that must be strange for them.
Larry: . . . ?
PP: okay, um, thanks. bye.

dude, there are only two reasons you would call us with a question like this.

A) you think your son is gay. (and you, in all your moron-ocity, think the # of girls here will TURN him gay.) in which case, he probably is, and he'll find lots of eager fag-hags here, and come out in an open and accepting environment and will make sure to tell you after the tuition bills are paid. he'll come up with a fabulous outfit for the Coming Out Dance, and he will go barely clothed, drunk, and make out with TONS of people whose names he doesn't know! woohoo!

B) more likely: your son is straight, to some extent, and you're worried all the whoring will distract from his schooling. a legit fear, but ASK us that, don't just beat around the moron bush. most college kids go on some kind of rampage first year, and your kid might go on a sex ramage. deal. SLC hands out free condoms, glides (aka dental dams), gloves, and sample packets of lube, because we believe whatever kind of sex you have should be as safe as possible. so chill.

either way, i just wanna be like, yep, your kid's gonna have LOTS of sex! some of it unprotected! HAH!! maybe you'll get REALLY lucky and we'll send him home a daddy! aww!

what was i thinking?

today is the best i've felt in awhile. today is strange.

i look like a preschooler's art project - teal blue long sleeved tee, pale pink handkerchief hem skirt (handkerchief hems are the ones where the bottom of the skirt is cut into a bunch of V shapes - very popular last spring/summerish, you've seen one on me. the assymetrical bottom-of-skirt aids the impression that i'm a piece of construction paper that has been attacked by safety scissors wielded by a 4 year old), black leggings and midnight blue fingernails, hair messy and clipped up into a bun-like creature. i am le sex on a stick, as they say in Le France.

anyway. i've cried each of the past four days and i don't think that's a bad thing, and i'm not sad (nor am i hormonal). there are just some truths in this world that can only be honestly recognized through tears. i'm young and idealistic enough to believe that. i know tears don't change anything, but they are - shudder at the phrase - part of the process.

most of what i've been thinking about the past 24 hours is: what the fuck was i thinking when i said i'd partcipate in this crazy-ass prison writing program?

yeah, easy for you to think it's cool. you're not the one who will be metal-detectored and face a half dozen women who are wondering what the fuck makes you think you have a right to be there while you half-agree with them.

lea, my teaching partner, warned me that some of the women are pregnant, and many are mothers. they might have their babies in prison. (i will be getting to know these women and trying to forge relationships with them?) most of them will be older, to some degree, than i am. ALL will have more experience than me. and, um, i'm privileged. they have their own ideas about the "rich college kids" who come to teach them. (i would too.) they ask questions: are you doing a paper about this? are you going to write about us?

i'm scared. because this is real. this might *actually matter* to someone. this is not the same thing as helping an opera patron find the bathroom or screwing up someone's half-caf double soy cappucino.

what right DO i have to do this?

IGNORE THIS POST

* i wrote this late at night a coupla days ago. it has gone through a couple of edits since then, but this is it in more or less original form, sans edits.

Dear DAC,

I will spend part of the second anniversary of your death in jail, getting oriented so I may teach writing to the prisoners. On Thursday you would have been exactly 20 years and 5 months old, and if nothing had happened we wouldn’t have marked the date.

In a way this is not just a 2nd anniversary. It is a 24th (a weird confluence of numbers – you were born on a 24th, died on another 24th, it’s been 24 months – things always come in threes), maybe it is a 14th – I’m not sure when I stopped counting the 24th of every month and giving a pause to reflect, not sure how many times since then I’ve stopped and thought about dates. Or counted. There was a lot of counting in the beginning.

You can still break my heart. Just as well as anyone living. I shared some of the most intimate moments with you. And you were safe and welcomed me for all of it.

I feel like I’ll always be chasing your death. Anything too close at the neck, through S&M conventions and arguments in the kink community forever. When I give my absolutes to partners, your presence will be in the list: no breath play.

Ironically you were always superbly safe for me. I may never recapture the easy intimacy we had. You really did break my heart, honey, or maybe it was me. Since your death I’ve been going over why I hadn’t the sense to kiss you & tickle you & give in. Why, why didn’t I sprint towards that smile? Because I knew it would be unfair. The answer is always the same. I had to be honest with you. I don’t know how you did it, took my rejection & allowed our friendship to survive completely without malice. That’s a rare thing indeed. I am so sorry I didn’t have better sense.

Another thing, too much to explain and impossible to ignore is (was?) your sense of honor. You were the most truly honorable man I have ever known. That alone may be the reason I write to you year after year. I wasn’t the only girl you loved – you loved us all, but it didn’t diminish the strength of your love for any of us. You knew how to appreciate the beauty of a good woman, and you thought we were all beautiful and deserved appreciating. You had a way of complimenting us that made us believe that we really were how you saw us.

And of course, you pouted and fussed like the rest of us. You had an anger management problem and a temper like a pissed off bear – but you never directed it at us. And if we stepped in to resolve a conflict, you respected our word – period. You were hilarious when drunk, because you always drank enough JD to make it impossible to stand. Even piss drunk you were respectful.

In a way, your death gave me gifts. It gave me an improved relationship with my two best friends, the only people in the world who I feel can approximate what I’ve been through. It gave something to Tina, even though I don’t know what – all’s I know is it scared the shit out of her in the beginning. You made me realize I can’t take shit. Your memory is what reminds me I deserve respect. You liked me when I was honest. Your chivalry set the highest standard. Your death gave me a healthy respect for monogamy, a la Tim (it was a direct result). Honey, I respect your parents so much. I admire your mother’s strength something fierce. If I ever have a boy, I can only hope to raise him to be half as respectful as you.

I can still feel the ghost of your body against mine. I remember your hands and forearms, your hairy belly. Your smell: sweat, dirt, detergent and faint sawdust. Your love of classical music & Gypsy Kings & System of a Down. (You ruined an album for me, you know. Toxicity will never be the same.) You hated to read aloud and I always had to be on your jeopardy team (or Boggle) in Gael’s class – remember, she gave you an A!

You shoulda seen the CAPA banquet senior year. Not a dry eye in the house. I’ve seen Jonny and Tim (and Mike and JB) cry now, you know. They renamed Tech Legend after you. And they gave it to Adam when he graduated.

I still remember the first glimpse of Jonny when he walked into that theater. Six feet of crumpling man, who’d survived so much, only to be reduced to tears by this. We just held him because it was all we could do. I was the first one he got to, and I still remember the shirt he was wearing and his hug. I didn’t want to let him go, but when I did he and Sarah just clung to each other. I think they formed their own bubble that entire week.

Your parents are so brave. And honest. And courageous. They refused to lie about you. And honey, Mama Brown . . . she loved you so much. She was a wreck. Out of the 3 “adopted” kids (Adam, Phil, you), I think she liked you the best. Even Dad was upset. I remember your walk and your whine and your whimper. You called me one day in the summer just to talk. Allsup’s chimis. Tim’s sneezes always finding you. You called us Ma’am, you called me Pepe. I remember your “do you want a backrub?” motion. My favorite memory is The Shirt. It was at the memorial service and the wake. I wanted to tell everyone, I did that. I had a part in it. See? I mattered to this life. It was how I introduced myself to your mother.

In a very weird way your death gave me respect for sexual choices. You pursued what turned you on. That simple. Left us with a lot of questions, but it made sense to you. Even that is just what it is – simple, honest, brutal, true and plain. Now as I admonish all my friends to Be Careful, Just Please Be Careful (It’s That Time of Year), I remember. I remember your parents and siblings, I remember your aunt. Colored Sharpies and the phrase “I’m an asshole” (which I hear a LOT, being in college with a bunch of assholes) make me think of you. Even now you break my heart. I love you very much.

Sarah

Honor the brave who fought.
Honor the dead who fell.
Honor the world they saved.

my neck, my back/my pussy AND my crack

it's a matter of myth that i didn't know what that song was about 'til mana and sean told me. or maybe it was that other song, Oops. yeah, it was the oops song. anyway.
here's a silly poem, i wrote a long time ago, the last line of which is stolen from mana. i've been reading over old journals; it's a dangerous thing.

my ass
my cunt
my boobs
my mouth
these are not for you
leave the disparate parts
in a pile on the floor
for the surrealists to come hang up in the sky

my offer:
a portion of my mind
a bigger share than you deserve
of my attention
if you're lucky
you could win back
a tiny part
of my heart

(but my sweetness is not for you)

- deep, ain't i?

practical magic

I DIDN'T KNOW ALBERT FINNEY PLAYED DADDY WARBUCKS!!!!!!!!!

no wonder i've always had an inexplicable attraction to him!!!!!

with that, ladies and gentlemen, i bring you my true gender identity:

PRACTICAL FEMME
You are more mentally femme than physically. You love to gussy up for the occasional special event but it wears you out to maintain that image round the clock. Your nails are short but neat, your hair short and easy to care for, and you wear minimal makeup. You usually dress in more feminine styles of pants or longer, flowy skirts, often without hose. But you have no doubt in your heart that you are femme.

You take the direct approach to problems, often flying in head first without looking - this at times gets you in a flustering situation, but you are adept at digging yourself out of it. You like a moderately assertive career in lower management or self-employment. You really don't like having a boss, but don't want the onus of being the top boss.

You're a decent but not fancy cook, keep a neat but not elaborate house, and prefer efficiency to style, comfort to being "trendy."

In relationships you gravitate toward nearly every type, though Extreme Femmes strike you as a bit silly, Androgynes as indecisive and Extreme Butches as too posing. And what you don't date, you welcome as friends, though you are very selective in your friendships and tend to have a small, well chosen circle of associates.

(i chose this from a list, but there IS a butch/femme quiz: http://members.tripod.com/~womens_voices/BF100/BF100.html?submit=I+understand+it+is+a+satire)

this is not a boating accident

(title comes from a surrealist poem or painting i saw somewhere and found hilarious)

little pieces of happy:
A. i've been wearing pearls these past two days. i'm trying to figure how i can shower in them.
B. my nails are painted blue. i'm a real girl!

i'm not crazy enough. my life is boring. i wish i'd gone to a state school. i want frat parties. i want to get drunk and make out. the parties here are all small. what am i saying? i wouldn't have anything to WEAR to such an event anyway.

i don't want to be in school anymore. to sum up: i never thought i would hate school or monotony. i don't feel like myself. i want to get drunk at frat parties and damn near date raped, or i want to live in the real world and struggle to make ends meet. at least i wouldn't be bored.

bumpersticker a friend saw: any kind of sex that can get you into hell is NOT safe sex.
my version: i ONLY want to have sex that can get me into hell or jail or both.

i'm not harassed on the street enough.
i don't experience street harassment at ALL. am i oblivious? i know i'm not horrendously ugly. in fact, i'm pretty attractive. but i've never been harassed, haven't had the creepy things happen to me like so many friends, haven't been asked out on dates by men twice my age.
so, if it's not because i'm fat (i know too many fat girls getting harassed too) and it's not being ugly that does it, why aren't i getting harassed? there's no way i'm doing EVERYTHING right, and i'm in the new york area, so it's not like people are just *too polite.* so what's up? my walk isn't THAT intimidating. i don't get it. i'm not tall enough to be imposing. i'm reasonably-straight looking. WTF?

i'm not complaining. just curious that this all-too-common phenomenon doesn't happen to me.

boys will be girls and girls will be boys

i have gender privilege. by this i mean i feel generally comfortable in my skin (actually, i like my skin and its contours lots, but that's another blog entry) and my assigned gender. pretty much everyone in this culture who sees me thinks female, almost automatically, and i don't really object to that. i do not, in my gut, feel uncomfortable as a woman. this affords me a lot of comfort. people who do NOT feel comfortable as their assigned gender simply have a lot more shit to deal with, everything from deciding to stay closeted - coming out of the gender closet seems like one of the most terrifying things - to switching pronouns and names, to clothing and gender presentation. to *pass* as another gender in this culture, you have to walk different, talk different, sound, dress, do everything different. think about it. if you went to the store tomorrow trying to get read as a gender other than your automatically assigned gender, think of all the work you'd have to do to get people to REALLY believe it.

i don't know what to do with that. i am invested in being seen as a woman. so this whole genderless utopia thing, i'm a faker promoting that, que no? i don't REALLY want for there to be no gender. i DO really really think people need more gender choices, and i do really think gender shouldn't be quite the straitjacket it is today. but i really like my gender. i am benefitting from my privilege in this area. i don't know if i really want to give it up. i'm trying to figure out how this DOESN'T make me an asshole, because it looks like a pretty asshole position to take from here.

* * * *

all this is prompted by the-artist-formerly-known-as-TWIL switching gender pronouns on me. this has been in the making for awhile, and today *he* formally stated that *he* prefers masculine or neutral gender pronouns. i am having trouble with this. not just because i have known HER as SHE for a year; something else is wrong. i suppose i'm attracted to and relate to him primarily as/because something in my brain says "female". and somehow part of me is reading this as "safe." something in the back of my brain was saying "if you were attracted this way to a man, you would have to be more careful. but she is female, she understands, females are inherently safer." for someone like me, who has friends of different genders and tries not to see them as genders but as the roles they play in my life, this is a smack upside the head. what a sexist thing to do! to subconsciously declare that women, even as objects of lust, are safer, or make more sense, or are somehow easier to deal with or relate to, is fundamentally a false construction. what i'm saying is, i made that shit up in my head and it's fucked up.

so. i benefit from (yet another kind of) privilege and i'm not being fair to the Devine Mr. C (my new name for the Artist formerly known as TWIL, stay with me kids).

damn. i'm a gender misogynist.

* * * *

i should offer some behind the scenes info to explain this post and the last. i had lunch with the Devine Mr. C (DMC for short), and it was heavy. mr c and the Boyfriend are in a heavy important fight. the BF said some fucked up shit regarding his privilege. the BF is white, mr c is not. basically, the Devine Mr C feels like he ends up in a lot of situations where people are using him as a guinea pig. ie,"i'm not queer, but i'm attracted to you . . . so you can be my experimental phase!" or, "i haven't dealt with my shit or my privilege, so i'm gonna date this person of color and see what it brings up for me, and expect them to be able to help me with my white identity crisis." basically, DMC feels like he is all too often an experiment for people. that's like exoticization, and it's a shitty feeling. it's sort of like feeling like everyone wants you or dates you for your big boobs, or that fact that you're rich, or your willingness to put out or whatever, only worse, because this brings in an extra-icky element of racism/classism/privilege. to use DMC's words, "i might just be done dating privileged white people." what the BF said was THAT hurtful. yikes.

and even worse than that, i couldn't guarantee i wouldn't have hurt her - damn, HIM - the exact same way. i haven't worked through my privilege either (here i'm talking about white privilege - DMC's BF has, presumably, dealt with gender privilege to some extent, being a transperson). i can't say i wouldn't have said the same damn thing - well, okay, maybe i would have had enough damn sense to keep my friggin mouth shut, but that's about it.

* * * *

so yeah, there ya go. such are the thoughts in sarahland today. but at least i was acting, as i told mana, as a good friend and not as a selfish cunt. which was tempting, but no. i was a good little caring cunt. if i'm meant to sleep with DMC, which i'm not sure i AM, it'll happen. what matters is her primary relationship is important to her. (*damn, just noticed. HIS relationship to HIM,
sarah. goddamnit.)

****
Devine Mr C and i decided to put off the Intense Conversation about Gender Identity for another day. part of me wants to argue on for feminine pronouns on behalf of feminism - isn't appropriating masculine privilege for yourself through a masculine pronoun leaving your damn biological sisters out in the wind? is claiming "he" for yourself subversive, because it DOES require a re-appropriation of privilege? shouldn't our definitions of female and who is feminine be expanded to include those who are very "butch" or not traditionally female or people who exist outside of traditionally gendered ideas?

basically, don't you belong fighting over here on MY side? okay, there's no need to be that devisive about it, and i should know better than to think someone's committment to feminism is determined by their gender pronoun. damn. sometimes i'm not as smart as i hope i am.

****
on another note i just finished another Very Important Book. seriously, if you want to understand issues of Queerness, Third Wave Feminism, Sex Positivity, or my new favorite, Ethical Sluthood - aka Free Love - here are the best books i can recommend:

cunt, inga muscio
real live nude girl, carol queen
sex for one, betty dodson
gender outlaw, kate bornstein
the ethical slut, dossie easton and catherine liszt

the last one is the most recently finished. more about that later. if you read these 5 books, you will pretty much have a damn good idea of what's influenced my thinking about sex, love, affection (all three very different and distinct), a more sex-positive culture, and my pansexual/queer identity. in fact, i might make them required reading. they are so freaking awesome. these are the ways i've become the genius i am, yall. READ.

ways to tell i love you

i will listen for an hour about the potentially relationship-ending fight you are having with your boyfriend.

i will take that hour out of the time that i was planning on devoting to spanish homework (okay, i will take time away from spanish homework for almost anything, but especially for you).

i will spend this hour actually listening and trying to come up with ways to deal with the problem, not trying to jump your bones, even though this previously would have been HIGH on my list of goals. i will not exploit the situation, even though i know i could.

when you suggest opening up the relationship, i remind you this is not a solution to the problems in the primary relationship. even though some little voice in my head or my cunt wants to urge you to do this so i can sleep with you. see? for you i'll look beyond the dictates of my own desires.

i will urge you to stay with him and work it out, on behalf of your honor and the hard work you've done for the sake of said relationship.

most of all, i will wish i could fight your battles for you, wish i could call your boyfriend and yell at him for hurting you so, break it off with him for you, and lay in your bed and cry your tears so you wouldn't have to. i will wish i could feel this pain for you, or split it with you. i will want nothing more than to kiss your forehead and cheeks and take you home and put you in bed and hold you until you fall asleep for a brief respite from these awful fighting thoughts. and i will refrain because i know you need to be alone with these thoughts, know you need to find some way to do your homework even though this is tearing you apart. so i will let you kiss my cheek and walk away with your pain.

but most of all, you will know i love you when, even more than fighting your battles for you, i want you to fight your own battles because i know you will emerge from them stronger and smarter. i will be smart enough to know and trust that you can do this yourself, and know you are smart enough to ask for my help when you need it. i'll let you handle your own shit and step back til you need me to step up. i promise. i'll let you handle this shit as long as you promise to let me know when you need me.

i love you.

tis a pity

this is a pity-me post. if you are not going to find me duly pitiful, skip down to the highlights.

varying parts of my body are in a war to see which can cause me the most pain this week. so far it's a tie between my sinuses (with occasional stop-everything-stabbing pain) and my right shoulder (which is really mad at me for no apparent reason). my ears are not far behind.

i gave myself a fit of chills because i took a shower during one of my periodic bouts of fever. lame-ASS. but i think it did help me sleep.

i have been unable to concentrate or think or sleep or talk since sunday, when i woke up with this Death Plague Russian Bird Monkey Flu.

hours spent in admissions this week: 13.
tours taken out: 2.
that means ELEVEN hours of filing, or sitting and doing nothing in a boring-ass office. luckily i've been feeling so spacey (thanks dayQuil!), that i just spent most of the time staring off into space and trying to not creep out my admissions-comrades.

my mouse scroll-bar can no longer tell up from down, so there's a lot of webpage bouncing. as brenda would say, it's making me dizzy.

i misspelled "pizzeria" today. it was on the board and everything.

and for some reason, my spanish teacher barked "se necesita dos secretarias" at us, which means, we need two secretaries!, more or less. i'm still not sure why that was necessary.

my spanish companion to my left was drawing: a shark, an octopus, a lit cigarette, can of beer, fire truck. and i was envious of his skills.

i've lost my mind. with that, i bring you . . .

highlights of the week:
hour and a half long lunch with TWIL. we made a list of characteristics i want in a mate. why is it everyone who's in a relationship is eager to have me try one? what IS that? anyone, she can be the best man at my wedding. i love her.

tomorrow i fly to san francisco for a gay wedding! woot! and if nothing else, at least my mom will be there to feel my forehead and coo over me. but i'd much prefer to be healthy and able to taste. which set of parents foots the bill for a gay wedding? (this one is going to be QUITE the affair, too.)

one week from now i'll be in san francisco, bitches!

damn near midnight and i haven't done a lick of work all day.

it was a great day.

i have to write a poem about something i've never understood. i think she meant an incident which occurred that had some subtext to which we were not privy, but i might do it about the urge to play videogames instead. what IS that?

"you, of all people, should know better than to stereotype."

i stereotype all the time! especially about the ones i love!

sean did not ruin a funeral, due in large part to my help.

i have to write 20 things that start with "i saw and i heard" and i haven't started, and i'm NOT that observant. okay, i am, but it's really hard to be observant without comment or judgement.

it is also really hard for me not to think i am everyone's life consultant. if i do this to you, stop me. it is not my job to plan your job, your internship, your classes or your life. not unless you explicitly ask. i need to break this habit.

even though i still think some people need to change their majors, some people need to change or get jobs, and some people need therapy. (if you think it applies to you, figure it out on your own.)

i reserve the right to make an exception for exes. i will yell at you for being stupid about your breakup whether or not you want me to because that is what good friends do. they listen, let you cry, and keep you on track. if you hate it, leave me.

happenstance

sometimes i feel like i'm cheating at life. like i've actually started thinking to myself, oh, that'll work itself out. i think this for no reason other than, well, things just work themselves out in my life. fortuitous circumstance - serendipity - is my forte. going into this semester, i knew i wanted to pick up more hours at work. i knew office assisting paid less than tour guiding, and i also like tour guiding much better, and touring has more flexible hours (as well as more replacements to call upon). so, magically, there were no times available when i could office asst. i was just about to panic (as i was scheduled to work all of 2 hours a week) and call Karen and beg to tour more often, when lo and behold she e-mails out the spring schedule, complete with openings in the exact hours i'd designated to work. and voila! more work, up to 12 hours a week instead of last semester's 9 (and that was between both jobs), at the better-paying, well-liked job.

things like this tend to happen to me.
em's right: i was blessed with all the luck in the family.

now, a list!!!! ways to set myself up with connections that will help me land the kind of job i want post-grad:
1. work with Kensington Rights Welfare Union over spring break. learn about advocacy and make sure i really DO have a taste for it.
2. go to Mexico, participate in NGO week. learn about the workings of NGOs, make sure i want to work for one - find a specific one if possible.
3. intern with MADRE senior year. make them love me and want to hire me or offer me to someone else.
4. go to Nicaragua spring break, senior year. (i can go to the beach and get drunk on my own time, right?)