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| Reblogged from On the Bright Side |
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
"Paul Ryan's love of Rage Against the Machine is amusing, because he is the embodiment of the machine that our music has been raging against for two decades."
--Rage guitarist Tom Morello
I still feel bad for the amount of nothing I said
in a conversation with a friend who shall not be referred to by gender or initials last weekend. We were out to dinner on the last night this friend was in town and this friend was telling me a story that I felt they'd been working up to all weekend.
It is not my intention, place, or desire to reveal the details of this story in this post or anywhere else, as it is, in fact, not my story to tell. The only relevant piece of information is that this story involved a person this kind of knew cuddling with and then inappropriately touching them while they were sleeping. Relevant to the rest of the conversation is that this is not the first time that has happened to this friend.
I was very vocal about the THIS PERSON COMMITTED A CRIME and THIS WAS IN NO WAY YOUR FAULT and SILENCE IS NOT CONSENT ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE NOT FUCKING CONSCIOUS parts of the conversation. These things were immediately crystal clear. I made my friend repeat after me in more than one instance, if I recall, so that I could be sure that my friend had internalized them.
Where I began to falter, and falter hard, however, is when it came to the question of how to prevent this from happening to my friend again. I certainly wasn't going to suggest anything along the lines of my friend shouldn't drink so much or sleep over in the company of people they don't know so well or any other victim-blaming bullshit, and I did not allow my friend to suggest them either. That is NOT the answer. But what is? "Teaching enthusiastic consent," right? But what does that mean for the women (and men because let's not forget that sexual harrassment is gender-indiscriminate) right now while we're somehow still getting the word out?
I have yet to come up with a satisfactory response to this question, and that terrifies me. "You didn't bring this on yourself" loses all levels of comfort-bringing when coupled with "and there's nothing you can do to be true and fair to yourself and stop it." So much of my friend's confessions and fears fell on what must have looked like deaf ears, but I had and have no answers for my friend, for myself, for anyone out there in a world where defenselessness translates to consent in anyone's mind. At the same time, this can't just be something we have to live with, a price we pay for leading active social lives, a risk we run when we let our guard down in places that are supposed to be safe. We cannot accept the limitation that nowhere is safe. We cannot accept the burden of keeping our guards up all the time. We do not wish to never be touched. We are sex-positive. We like sex. We just demand that it be on our terms...which, again, we need to be conscious and not blacked-out to agree to.
How do we stop predators from preying? Why can I devise exactly zero immediately applicable to real life and non-victim-blaming strategies?
It is not my intention, place, or desire to reveal the details of this story in this post or anywhere else, as it is, in fact, not my story to tell. The only relevant piece of information is that this story involved a person this kind of knew cuddling with and then inappropriately touching them while they were sleeping. Relevant to the rest of the conversation is that this is not the first time that has happened to this friend.
I was very vocal about the THIS PERSON COMMITTED A CRIME and THIS WAS IN NO WAY YOUR FAULT and SILENCE IS NOT CONSENT ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE NOT FUCKING CONSCIOUS parts of the conversation. These things were immediately crystal clear. I made my friend repeat after me in more than one instance, if I recall, so that I could be sure that my friend had internalized them.
Where I began to falter, and falter hard, however, is when it came to the question of how to prevent this from happening to my friend again. I certainly wasn't going to suggest anything along the lines of my friend shouldn't drink so much or sleep over in the company of people they don't know so well or any other victim-blaming bullshit, and I did not allow my friend to suggest them either. That is NOT the answer. But what is? "Teaching enthusiastic consent," right? But what does that mean for the women (and men because let's not forget that sexual harrassment is gender-indiscriminate) right now while we're somehow still getting the word out?
I have yet to come up with a satisfactory response to this question, and that terrifies me. "You didn't bring this on yourself" loses all levels of comfort-bringing when coupled with "and there's nothing you can do to be true and fair to yourself and stop it." So much of my friend's confessions and fears fell on what must have looked like deaf ears, but I had and have no answers for my friend, for myself, for anyone out there in a world where defenselessness translates to consent in anyone's mind. At the same time, this can't just be something we have to live with, a price we pay for leading active social lives, a risk we run when we let our guard down in places that are supposed to be safe. We cannot accept the limitation that nowhere is safe. We cannot accept the burden of keeping our guards up all the time. We do not wish to never be touched. We are sex-positive. We like sex. We just demand that it be on our terms...which, again, we need to be conscious and not blacked-out to agree to.
How do we stop predators from preying? Why can I devise exactly zero immediately applicable to real life and non-victim-blaming strategies?
Monday, October 15, 2012
If Middle of Nowhere is playing in your city, go see it. Right now.
Between independent films and webseries, I'm pretty much giving up on the overwhelming majority of commercially-produced video entertainment.
I had the pleasure of attending the opening night of the newest big independent Black-written, Black-directed, and nearly-entirely-Black-acted film of 2012, Middle of Nowhere, on Friday night. It was a beautiful, beautiful film. The acting was exquisite. I felt that I got to see multiple layers of each of the characters--even the ones I came to dislike (some quite strongly) throughout the course of the film, I felt like weren't wholly bad people. Ava DuVernay has created a film about the lives of Black women left behind by men in jail or otherwise gone without presenting a single character I could confidently called victim OR villain. On the contrary, each character, each scene, is an exercise in nuance. It is masterful, which is undoubtedly why DuVernay became the first Black women to ever win "Best Director" at Sundance.
To me, this was a tale of tenacity with the potential to turn into triumph. It begins in uncertainty and ends unresolved. Absolutely nothing about it is neat, and I was surprised by the number of common tropes it set up and then distinctly veered away from. I was wholly impressed by this film, and as such, all my readers in DC, NYC, Philly, Atlanta, and LA, I urge you to spend the twelve bucks or however much a movie costs in your city and go see it. You can thank me later.
I had the pleasure of attending the opening night of the newest big independent Black-written, Black-directed, and nearly-entirely-Black-acted film of 2012, Middle of Nowhere, on Friday night. It was a beautiful, beautiful film. The acting was exquisite. I felt that I got to see multiple layers of each of the characters--even the ones I came to dislike (some quite strongly) throughout the course of the film, I felt like weren't wholly bad people. Ava DuVernay has created a film about the lives of Black women left behind by men in jail or otherwise gone without presenting a single character I could confidently called victim OR villain. On the contrary, each character, each scene, is an exercise in nuance. It is masterful, which is undoubtedly why DuVernay became the first Black women to ever win "Best Director" at Sundance.
To me, this was a tale of tenacity with the potential to turn into triumph. It begins in uncertainty and ends unresolved. Absolutely nothing about it is neat, and I was surprised by the number of common tropes it set up and then distinctly veered away from. I was wholly impressed by this film, and as such, all my readers in DC, NYC, Philly, Atlanta, and LA, I urge you to spend the twelve bucks or however much a movie costs in your city and go see it. You can thank me later.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
True Life: I think I Dislike Happy Hours
I know, I know, this goes against everything you understand about my deep-set love and affection for alcohol and camaraderie. Hear me out, okay?
So RG asked me to go to happy hour at this bar he likes that is walking distance from both my job and my house tonight. I said sure, because I hadn't seen him in almost three weeks and wanted a chance to catch up, and besides, he's always *RAVING* about this bar. I got there first and he wasn't as late as he usually is, which was nice [Really, RG, I give you two freebies whenever we hang out--it's just that you always use your first one by being late :P]. I couldn't see their happy hour specials posted anywhere, so I decided to just sit, pretend to be interested in my phone, and wait until he got there.
Strike one: my amaretto sour was EIGHT DOLLARS. But I love amaretto, and so I let it slide and said I'd get a beer ne
So RG asked me to go to happy hour at this bar he likes that is walking distance from both my job and my house tonight. I said sure, because I hadn't seen him in almost three weeks and wanted a chance to catch up, and besides, he's always *RAVING* about this bar. I got there first and he wasn't as late as he usually is, which was nice [Really, RG, I give you two freebies whenever we hang out--it's just that you always use your first one by being late :P]. I couldn't see their happy hour specials posted anywhere, so I decided to just sit, pretend to be interested in my phone, and wait until he got there.
Strike one: my amaretto sour was EIGHT DOLLARS. But I love amaretto, and so I let it slide and said I'd get a beer ne
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
I feel...replenished.
In the video game version of my life, along with the normal health and energy bars that every character needs to sustain life, I would have a Snuggles Touch bar. This bar would make my energy last longer and the things that usually hurt me hurt less. Today, coming off of my weekend with BC, I feel like my Touch bar has been alternating between being completely drained and being so low that it's red and flashing for months now, and then over the 28-hour period I spent in Charlottesville, it's now filled back up to a vibrant green color and I feel AWESOME.
Evidence: *came home from 4 hours on public transit to rearrange her clothing and fold her laundry* It's Monday? *Is bright and chipper as ever* It was in the 40s as I walked to work? *sings along with her mp3 player* *Doesn't need tea to keep her going through the morning*
I was telling this to KS, and he said rather poignantly, "I didn't realized one needed snuggles." I've understood about myself for a long time now that I'm a person who craves physicality. I don't think I so clearly understood that I THRIVE on it until now, though. Touch doesn't always mean something. I don't get off on high five or fist bumps. I don't think that grinding with a guy and any hand-holding/touching that happens as part of that is some sort of spiritual connection. I don't think that having sex with someone fundamentally changes our relationship forever. I am not naive about touch--I just find that substantive episodes of touching people that matter to me enhance the quality of my life.
Touch is something that the overwhelming majority of people have some level of strict boundaries about. I'm writing yet another blog post about how I really like touching, but that doesn't mean that someone touching me when I do not want them to be touching me isn't violation. So it feels both emotionally and physically good to me when someone that is important to me a) doesn't mind, b) likes, or c) actively encourages my touching them (a < b < c). Those emotional good feelings increase exponentially when permission to touch can safely be assumed, when we fall into what I like to call a pattern of physicality. This is best exemplified by the fact that I would often say hi to my friend DS by walking up behind his chair in the Large Library at Quad, digging my hands into his hair to the scalp, and massaging/scratching his scalp while playing with his hair. I would to this for a few minutes and then realize I should actually say hi. He'd say hi back, not really looking up from what he was doing, but I knew I was appreciated by the way he'd angle his head to encourage me to move a little to the right or left and the little moans and sighs of satisfaction. He would take breaks from his work to return the favor--not right away like one demanded the other, but just because it was something we liked to do.
An altogether different kind of example is that of how I became known for the quality of my massages during the course of my time at Princeton. I have never turned down someone's request for a massage, because someone coming to me saying the equivalent of I-am-in-some-degree-of-pain-or-discomfort-and-I-trust-you-to-put-your-hands-on-me-and-take-it-away is beautiful to me. I am not particularly skilled at slow-dancing, but when RG or BC pulls me into a Pianoman circle, I feel..reminded of the strength of our friendship, maybe. When I play Santa Claus at Quad's Christmas party and EL is the unlikely first person to seem comfortable on my lap, it becomes my favorite memory of him. When I pick little pieces of lint off of people's clothing/hair and they do not mind, I feel...intimate. Touch and intimacy are one and the same to me, often, except that I don't bring sex into that equation. Hands that easily find one another when you're walking down the street say we fit together. Cuddling says you want me here. Your arms around me while we sleep is the sweetest I've missed you you can say.
Evidence: *came home from 4 hours on public transit to rearrange her clothing and fold her laundry* It's Monday? *Is bright and chipper as ever* It was in the 40s as I walked to work? *sings along with her mp3 player* *Doesn't need tea to keep her going through the morning*
I was telling this to KS, and he said rather poignantly, "I didn't realized one needed snuggles." I've understood about myself for a long time now that I'm a person who craves physicality. I don't think I so clearly understood that I THRIVE on it until now, though. Touch doesn't always mean something. I don't get off on high five or fist bumps. I don't think that grinding with a guy and any hand-holding/touching that happens as part of that is some sort of spiritual connection. I don't think that having sex with someone fundamentally changes our relationship forever. I am not naive about touch--I just find that substantive episodes of touching people that matter to me enhance the quality of my life.
Touch is something that the overwhelming majority of people have some level of strict boundaries about. I'm writing yet another blog post about how I really like touching, but that doesn't mean that someone touching me when I do not want them to be touching me isn't violation. So it feels both emotionally and physically good to me when someone that is important to me a) doesn't mind, b) likes, or c) actively encourages my touching them (a < b < c). Those emotional good feelings increase exponentially when permission to touch can safely be assumed, when we fall into what I like to call a pattern of physicality. This is best exemplified by the fact that I would often say hi to my friend DS by walking up behind his chair in the Large Library at Quad, digging my hands into his hair to the scalp, and massaging/scratching his scalp while playing with his hair. I would to this for a few minutes and then realize I should actually say hi. He'd say hi back, not really looking up from what he was doing, but I knew I was appreciated by the way he'd angle his head to encourage me to move a little to the right or left and the little moans and sighs of satisfaction. He would take breaks from his work to return the favor--not right away like one demanded the other, but just because it was something we liked to do.
An altogether different kind of example is that of how I became known for the quality of my massages during the course of my time at Princeton. I have never turned down someone's request for a massage, because someone coming to me saying the equivalent of I-am-in-some-degree-of-pain-or-discomfort-and-I-trust-you-to-put-your-hands-on-me-and-take-it-away is beautiful to me. I am not particularly skilled at slow-dancing, but when RG or BC pulls me into a Pianoman circle, I feel..reminded of the strength of our friendship, maybe. When I play Santa Claus at Quad's Christmas party and EL is the unlikely first person to seem comfortable on my lap, it becomes my favorite memory of him. When I pick little pieces of lint off of people's clothing/hair and they do not mind, I feel...intimate. Touch and intimacy are one and the same to me, often, except that I don't bring sex into that equation. Hands that easily find one another when you're walking down the street say we fit together. Cuddling says you want me here. Your arms around me while we sleep is the sweetest I've missed you you can say.
I really like finding tiny bits of art around my city.
I saw this in a tree outside of an art gallery on Thursday afternoon: a little blue pipe-cleaner-man with a big red pipe-cleaner-heart is his hands.
I'm not gonna lie: it made me want an instagram account, haha.
I'm not gonna lie: it made me want an instagram account, haha.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
I want to spend more time at/around Howard.
I went to this cool kind of snazzy event with some coworkers after work today, Phillips after 5. (Link for DC-based readers.) It's an event The Phillips Gallery holds on the first Thursday of every month, with live music, art, refreshments, and live performances. The kid's dance company that performed the dance to MJ's "Thriller" was pretty great, and I really liked the jazz band that performed tonight.
What does any of this have to do with Howard, you might be wondering. Well after a subset of us museum-goers ventured to Shake Shack for dinner, I decided to ride the trusty old G2 bus home while they all got on the metro. The bus took foooorever to show up, and I contemplated giving up and walking the 15 blocks home instead. But my mother convinced me to stay and wait, and like a good daughter, I listened.
My little sister called me while I was on the bus, and I was only half-listening to her while I eavesdropped on the conversation of three young Black people across the aisle from me. I was drawn to them because one of the girls was absolutely gorgeous, and I could have been content to spend that twenty minute bus ride alternating between appreciating her beauty and ogling the ass of the guy she was talking to.
They were talking about religion. The other girl (3rd person in the 3-person party) was saying that she's a combination Christian and Buddhist. She's "trying to be a Buddhist but it's just so hard!" I didn't hear why--I went back to listening to my sister. But a minute or two later, the beautiful girl made a comment about how the church is always preaching humility, but have you SEEN some of those churches?! Talk about ego! I laughed outright, but was disguised by the fact that I was on the phone.
I got off of the phone with my sister and began pointedly looking the other way so that I might better pretend I wasn't listening to their every word when the beautiful girl said something else hilarious. Talking to the second girl, she said, "But you're okay because you go to Howard. Black people looooooove Howard!" I laughed outright again, and this time they noticed me. She said, "It's true!" I agreed, and the guy asked me if I go to Howard. I'm never sure when the HBCU v. Ivy thing is going to be an issue or not, so I tried to get away with just saying that no, I don't go to Howard. Where do you go, he asked. I went to Princeton--I graduated in June. They all but fell out on the ground congratulating me, and the guy turned to face me too, officially including me in the conversation. The guy and the second girl both go to Howard, while the beautiful girl just graduated from UCBerkeley.
The second girl was trying to get the beautiful girl and the guy to go to a Kendrick Lamar concert with her on the 22nd at the Howard Theater. I mentioned that I love that theater, and how disappointed I was that the Emeli Sande tour has been postponed because I was pumped to see her on Monday. The beautiful girl was surprised that I knew Emeli Sande, and the second girl said that she had recently been on an all-neo-soul-all-the-time groove. The beautiful girl asked her if she knew any of Bilal's music, and the second girl put a look on her face like, Who? I told her she should remedy that. The beautiful girl laughed. The second girl said she was really into a lot of instrumental things recently as well, and I told her she should look up The Robert Glasper Experiment, because their recent album Black Radio is a beautiful combination of neo-soul and instrumentals. The beautiful girl looked impressed, and said I knew what I was talking about. The second girl told me she loved my hair and my earrings, and asked me where I got them from. I introduced her to etsy. [Second girl's wallet, I make my apologies to you now.] Somehow the conversation turned to Wawa and the guy joked that he'd been lost for like 10 minutes by this point.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, our conversation had to come to an end because I'd reached my stop. I will likely never see any of them again, but that was the best bus ride I've had in a very long time. Perhaps ever. And it has reminded me that there are, in fact, lots of indie Black people I can relate to in this city--I just have to find them. And evidently Howard is the place to start--as if I didn't know that already. Can I just go make myself a permanent fixture in their bookstore? Take up permanent residence in a nearby coffee shop? I need an in...
What does any of this have to do with Howard, you might be wondering. Well after a subset of us museum-goers ventured to Shake Shack for dinner, I decided to ride the trusty old G2 bus home while they all got on the metro. The bus took foooorever to show up, and I contemplated giving up and walking the 15 blocks home instead. But my mother convinced me to stay and wait, and like a good daughter, I listened.
My little sister called me while I was on the bus, and I was only half-listening to her while I eavesdropped on the conversation of three young Black people across the aisle from me. I was drawn to them because one of the girls was absolutely gorgeous, and I could have been content to spend that twenty minute bus ride alternating between appreciating her beauty and ogling the ass of the guy she was talking to.
They were talking about religion. The other girl (3rd person in the 3-person party) was saying that she's a combination Christian and Buddhist. She's "trying to be a Buddhist but it's just so hard!" I didn't hear why--I went back to listening to my sister. But a minute or two later, the beautiful girl made a comment about how the church is always preaching humility, but have you SEEN some of those churches?! Talk about ego! I laughed outright, but was disguised by the fact that I was on the phone.
I got off of the phone with my sister and began pointedly looking the other way so that I might better pretend I wasn't listening to their every word when the beautiful girl said something else hilarious. Talking to the second girl, she said, "But you're okay because you go to Howard. Black people looooooove Howard!" I laughed outright again, and this time they noticed me. She said, "It's true!" I agreed, and the guy asked me if I go to Howard. I'm never sure when the HBCU v. Ivy thing is going to be an issue or not, so I tried to get away with just saying that no, I don't go to Howard. Where do you go, he asked. I went to Princeton--I graduated in June. They all but fell out on the ground congratulating me, and the guy turned to face me too, officially including me in the conversation. The guy and the second girl both go to Howard, while the beautiful girl just graduated from UCBerkeley.
The second girl was trying to get the beautiful girl and the guy to go to a Kendrick Lamar concert with her on the 22nd at the Howard Theater. I mentioned that I love that theater, and how disappointed I was that the Emeli Sande tour has been postponed because I was pumped to see her on Monday. The beautiful girl was surprised that I knew Emeli Sande, and the second girl said that she had recently been on an all-neo-soul-all-the-time groove. The beautiful girl asked her if she knew any of Bilal's music, and the second girl put a look on her face like, Who? I told her she should remedy that. The beautiful girl laughed. The second girl said she was really into a lot of instrumental things recently as well, and I told her she should look up The Robert Glasper Experiment, because their recent album Black Radio is a beautiful combination of neo-soul and instrumentals. The beautiful girl looked impressed, and said I knew what I was talking about. The second girl told me she loved my hair and my earrings, and asked me where I got them from. I introduced her to etsy. [Second girl's wallet, I make my apologies to you now.] Somehow the conversation turned to Wawa and the guy joked that he'd been lost for like 10 minutes by this point.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, our conversation had to come to an end because I'd reached my stop. I will likely never see any of them again, but that was the best bus ride I've had in a very long time. Perhaps ever. And it has reminded me that there are, in fact, lots of indie Black people I can relate to in this city--I just have to find them. And evidently Howard is the place to start--as if I didn't know that already. Can I just go make myself a permanent fixture in their bookstore? Take up permanent residence in a nearby coffee shop? I need an in...
My great-grandmother passed away last week. I took an impromptu trip to Savannah on Sunday and Monday for the viewing and funeral.
It was great seeing some family members I hadn't seen in nearly a decade, as well as some I'd just met for the first time about two months ago at my aunt's family reunion. My cousin who is the same age as me has a three year old daughter, and it was great to meet her and see them interact. My cousin who is two years younger than me and I interacted in a way that was just the same but different than when we were kids--we played a game together and watched a movie. When we were 14 and 12 (the last time we saw each other), this was Grand Theft Auto and Harry Potter. This time around it was chess on his iPhone and The Hunger Games. He didn't mention anything about it, but I heard through the family grapevine that he is going to be a father soon. This blows my mind.
But I think the most fascinating part of this whole experience is this:
Things I did not cry at: my great-grandmother's funeral.
Things I cried at: the sympathy card some of my coworkers got me because she passed.
...I'm not sure what this says about me as a person.
It was great seeing some family members I hadn't seen in nearly a decade, as well as some I'd just met for the first time about two months ago at my aunt's family reunion. My cousin who is the same age as me has a three year old daughter, and it was great to meet her and see them interact. My cousin who is two years younger than me and I interacted in a way that was just the same but different than when we were kids--we played a game together and watched a movie. When we were 14 and 12 (the last time we saw each other), this was Grand Theft Auto and Harry Potter. This time around it was chess on his iPhone and The Hunger Games. He didn't mention anything about it, but I heard through the family grapevine that he is going to be a father soon. This blows my mind.
But I think the most fascinating part of this whole experience is this:
Things I did not cry at: my great-grandmother's funeral.
Things I cried at: the sympathy card some of my coworkers got me because she passed.
...I'm not sure what this says about me as a person.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
This may slightly contradict my comment on Choosing Pancakes's post the other day, but I still think that good in bed is a valid concept--just that it does not necessarily refer to the physical aspects of being in bed directly.
Towards the bottom, I feel like she was losing agency, and I don't feel like technique needs to be thrown out the window from the get-go. Maybe what has been pleasurable to other girls will be pleasurable to me. Maybe it won't. Try it--I'll tell you.
Sex is not a goddamn performance. Sex should feel as natural as drinking water. It should not require confidence. Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe. Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire. You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh. It’s not about being “good in bed”. It’s about being happy. One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough. What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you. Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later. Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be. I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this. I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want. It’s originality. It’s passion. It’s joy. Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception. I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way. “Good in bed,” what. You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.This isn’t a test.
(via come correct)
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Usually, I will cosign Emily Dickinson in a heartbeat...
but I came across this a few minutes ago on Peace, Love, and Pretty Things, and I had to vehemently disagree.
I want to dwell in action. In experience. In the moments themselves, rather than in hoping for chances of them.
So last night/this morning, I finally caught up on a webseries I've had bookmarked for ages.
It's called The Unwritten Rules (that's a link to the first episode), and it's about this Black female Brown graduate who starts at a new job where she's the only Black girl. In fact, only Black person. In fact, only person of (visible) color.
I don't know if I've made it clear on here that, while I'm far from the only one, I'm one of few in my workplace of 300+. That becomes one of very few if you discount the secretarial staff, Copy Room and Mail Room employees, security staff, etc. I'm both the only Black person under age 30 and the only Black female in my division.
And I mean, those of you who have a good understanding of my history know that being a rarity is far from unusual for me, which is probably why I haven't really mentioned it. I've made fast fantastic friends at work--the young people in my division and recent hires in other divisions are seriously awesome people, and they're just one part of what makes my job le awesomest.
I get compliments on my various hairstyles, but no one has ever asked to touch my hair. I've never eaten Black ethnic food at work (when RG's mom gave me leftover fried chicken, plantains, and chilli, I decided to bring the chilli to work and eat the chicken and plantains at home, lol), so all of my "Mmm that smells good" instances aren't particularly egregious for any reason. I'm sure that once it gets colder and I start making mac and cheese, that's gonna get some attention, though. And my Nana's pies? PLEASE. The episode that really got me, though, is number 5, in which Racey (yes her name is Racey, which I just adore) tries and fails to bond with the other Black people who work in her building (in security and at the front desk, while she's some sort of manager). Their playing of dominoes (which I didn't learn were a Black thing until recently, actually) and her eating of asparagus don't really mix well...
I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed that I haven't really become close to any other Black people at work (though that's starting to change with the guy closest to my age in my division). Granted, most of them are considerably older than me, but still something seems...off. When I see a Black person I don't recognize at work, I will go out of my way to introduce myself to her. Like on campus, I don't pass a Black person in the office without acknowledging him or her in some way. But it occurred to me that I only know the name of about four Black people outside of my division. I know the others by face, know them enough to wave and ask how their weekends were, but I do not substantively know them in any way. There are small clusters of Black employees who regularly eat lunch together, and I don't eat with them. Granted, I've never been invited. But on the other hand, I've never asked either.
I want to make more legitimate attempts at forming friendly acquaintanceships with other Black people in my office. Like, the next time I see a cluster eating or chatting, instead of just waving as I walk by, I'm going to wander over and chat for a little while. #babystepstonotfeelingliketheonlypocinmydailyworld
I don't know if I've made it clear on here that, while I'm far from the only one, I'm one of few in my workplace of 300+. That becomes one of very few if you discount the secretarial staff, Copy Room and Mail Room employees, security staff, etc. I'm both the only Black person under age 30 and the only Black female in my division.
And I mean, those of you who have a good understanding of my history know that being a rarity is far from unusual for me, which is probably why I haven't really mentioned it. I've made fast fantastic friends at work--the young people in my division and recent hires in other divisions are seriously awesome people, and they're just one part of what makes my job le awesomest.
I get compliments on my various hairstyles, but no one has ever asked to touch my hair. I've never eaten Black ethnic food at work (when RG's mom gave me leftover fried chicken, plantains, and chilli, I decided to bring the chilli to work and eat the chicken and plantains at home, lol), so all of my "Mmm that smells good" instances aren't particularly egregious for any reason. I'm sure that once it gets colder and I start making mac and cheese, that's gonna get some attention, though. And my Nana's pies? PLEASE. The episode that really got me, though, is number 5, in which Racey (yes her name is Racey, which I just adore) tries and fails to bond with the other Black people who work in her building (in security and at the front desk, while she's some sort of manager). Their playing of dominoes (which I didn't learn were a Black thing until recently, actually) and her eating of asparagus don't really mix well...
I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed that I haven't really become close to any other Black people at work (though that's starting to change with the guy closest to my age in my division). Granted, most of them are considerably older than me, but still something seems...off. When I see a Black person I don't recognize at work, I will go out of my way to introduce myself to her. Like on campus, I don't pass a Black person in the office without acknowledging him or her in some way. But it occurred to me that I only know the name of about four Black people outside of my division. I know the others by face, know them enough to wave and ask how their weekends were, but I do not substantively know them in any way. There are small clusters of Black employees who regularly eat lunch together, and I don't eat with them. Granted, I've never been invited. But on the other hand, I've never asked either.
I want to make more legitimate attempts at forming friendly acquaintanceships with other Black people in my office. Like, the next time I see a cluster eating or chatting, instead of just waving as I walk by, I'm going to wander over and chat for a little while. #babystepstonotfeelingliketheonlypocinmydailyworld
Monday, September 24, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
The planet does not need more ‘successful’ people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every shape and form. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these needs have little to do with success as our culture has defined it.
--David Orr
I don't even really like her music, but this is on point:
SORRY GUYS. I’M PRO-BLACK GIRL. I’M NOT ANTI-WHITE GIRL, BUT I’M ALSO NOT HERE FOR ANYONE OUTSIDE OF MY CULTURE TRYING TO TRIVIALIZE SERIOUS ASPECTS OF IT. IN ANY CAPACITY.
--Azealia Banks
(via Tudo Bom(b))
Saturday, September 22, 2012
One of the coolest things I've seen on the internet in a long time:
These people are in half-drag. Gender is such a performance.
These images were taken by photographer Leland Bobbé, and reblogged from Sociological Images.
I've been thinking about the word "angry."
Synonyms "mad," "upset," "pissed the fuck off." I've been thinking about these words as parts of my personal political vocabulary. I've been thinking about them in relationship to how everything prominent members of the Republican party say makes me feel. I've been thinking about them in relationship to the tears that fell from my eyes on the Red Line Wednesday while I read the introduction to Professor Perry's Sister Citizen, reliving the disgust and bitterness at the total lack of regard for poor Black American lives in the days before and after Hurricane Katrina. I've been thinking about them in relationship to how I felt about myself when I got an email last night from Change.org commemorating the one-year anniversary of Troy Davis's death and I momentarily could not remember who Troy Davis was.
I don't think angry fits. I don't find mad to be an appropriate expression of what I feel about these things. Upset is too paltry a word to encompass what I mean. Pissed off does too much work separating the meaning from the message.
I'm not angry. I'm outraged.
Let us presume for a moment that the opposite of outrage must be in-rage. In-rage is seething, festering, the-world-doesn't-give-a-fuck-about-me-so-I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-the-world rage. In-rage is starting to believe the lies the world tells you about yourself. In-rage is internalized racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, fatphobia, ad infinitum. In-rage is fighting to fight instead of fighting the good fight. In-rage is the self-esteem issues of a whole people. In-rage is living in the now because you have no reason to believe in next year, or 25, or 40, as a reality which you will attain. In-rage can be bloody and violent. It can be quiet and cold. It can be fast, a million things all at once that don't make sense together or apart. It can tear a person, a people, asunder.
I refuse to be overtaken by in-rage. I refuse to soak up all of the world's bullshit like a sponge and just carry it around, being heavy for the sake of being heavy. I deserve to be full of better things than these. So, I will exist in the world. And existing in this world means yeah, racism and sexism and classism and heteronormativity and you're-not-like-me-so-you're-wrong-ism will be flung at me from every imaginable angle, sopping wet and eager to soak me. I am porous, so not only will I be coated and covered by these things, but I will take them in. I have no choice. But when it becomes too much, when I am oversaturated by everything wrong with the world, I can make a beautiful choice. I can wring myself dry. Expel these things from the depths of me, wholly and irrevocably changed. I will expose them for what they are, spread their innards across these pages so that I can know my own. This wringing is outrage. It can be violent. It can be loud. It can come off as harsh or even militant. Those who don't know might even call it angry.
I don't think angry fits. I don't find mad to be an appropriate expression of what I feel about these things. Upset is too paltry a word to encompass what I mean. Pissed off does too much work separating the meaning from the message.
I'm not angry. I'm outraged.
Let us presume for a moment that the opposite of outrage must be in-rage. In-rage is seething, festering, the-world-doesn't-give-a-fuck-about-me-so-I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-the-world rage. In-rage is starting to believe the lies the world tells you about yourself. In-rage is internalized racism, sexism, classism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, fatphobia, ad infinitum. In-rage is fighting to fight instead of fighting the good fight. In-rage is the self-esteem issues of a whole people. In-rage is living in the now because you have no reason to believe in next year, or 25, or 40, as a reality which you will attain. In-rage can be bloody and violent. It can be quiet and cold. It can be fast, a million things all at once that don't make sense together or apart. It can tear a person, a people, asunder.
I refuse to be overtaken by in-rage. I refuse to soak up all of the world's bullshit like a sponge and just carry it around, being heavy for the sake of being heavy. I deserve to be full of better things than these. So, I will exist in the world. And existing in this world means yeah, racism and sexism and classism and heteronormativity and you're-not-like-me-so-you're-wrong-ism will be flung at me from every imaginable angle, sopping wet and eager to soak me. I am porous, so not only will I be coated and covered by these things, but I will take them in. I have no choice. But when it becomes too much, when I am oversaturated by everything wrong with the world, I can make a beautiful choice. I can wring myself dry. Expel these things from the depths of me, wholly and irrevocably changed. I will expose them for what they are, spread their innards across these pages so that I can know my own. This wringing is outrage. It can be violent. It can be loud. It can come off as harsh or even militant. Those who don't know might even call it angry.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Nail. Head. Bang bang bang. (Hahaha all of those are euphemisms for sex.)
The problem comes not with casual sex in and of itself, but with people who engage in casual sex without exercising the prudence that it, just like ANY OTHER behavior, merits.It becomes clearer that this is a misguided reaction when you realize this: when someone gets burned in dating/love/Relationships, (outside of the idiosyncratic college age bracket,) you are much less likely to hear, “OMG love sucks. You should try sleeping around. That works out A LOT better.” So much less likely!
--Choosing Pancakes
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.
--Andrew Boyd
(via Indie. Radiant.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
The half-life of love is forever.
--Yunior de Las Casas, This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz
(via Choosing Pancakes)
Monday, September 17, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Dear Libido,
I know, I know...sometimes we go through dry spells. It's unfortunate for everyone involved. I'll think about you as two months turns into three and hope you know the neglect isn't intentional. I want better things for us!
Then as soon as a hot guy we barely know but are wholly intrigued by comes along and kisses us on the back of our neck and licks his way up to nibble on our earlobe, WHY do we lose all sense of decorum and make out like we're highschoolers in the backseat of a borrowed car in the middle of the club? Someone else's tongue touches our skin and we're like, kisses and squeezing and hands in places they shouldn't be publicly, wheeee!
And then we go home alone feeling quite satisfied with our accomplishments, but by the next night I'm laying in bed trying to watch The L Word and you're thinking about things that only got to be felt through pants and wanting to feel them/let them be felt with less restriction. I'm trying to pay attention to this lesbian strap-on scene and you're this constant WAIT BUT PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I'M HERE AND I WANT THINGS! I WANT KISSES AND TOUCHING AND GROPING AND STROKING AND NIBBLING AND LICKING AND WHY DID WE FORGET HOW GREAT SEXYTIME IS?!?! LET'S DO IT AGAIN!
You are going to lead us to make possibly bad but definitely fun life decisions. I can feel it.
All of this is to say, I'm glad you're back.
You are going to lead us to make possibly bad but definitely fun life decisions. I can feel it.
All of this is to say, I'm glad you're back.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
I like art, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature… All of this is art to me.
--Hunter Reveur
(via Serenity in Perspective)
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves? Until we do lose ourselves there is no hope of finding ourselves.
--Henry Miller
(via happinessruns...)
So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.
--Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Probably surprising fact: I've actually never read this book.
Related: I really need to get a library card. Except there are already so many unread books on my bookshelf. And I want to get into the used bookstore scene in DC so I can fill the shelves!
I don't own enough sheets for this...
 |
| Reblogged from Square Dancing with Giants |
I don’t believe in safety. I wish I did. I am not brave. I simply know what to be scared of; I know to be scared of everything. There is freedom in that. That freedom makes it easier to appear fearless—to say and do what I want. I have been broken, so I am prepared should that happen again. I have, at times, put myself in dangerous situations. I have thought, you have no idea what I can take.
(via Choosing Pancakes)
This is the real secret of life — to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realize it is play.
--Alan Watts
(via Serenity in Perspective)
So I've been throwing around the idea of watching HBO's "Girls"
when I finish The L Word, even though I've been reading that there's some controversy because there aren't any Black people, but there's no Black people on Sex and the City ever either and I didn't let that stop me from being entertained by it while I'm waiting for Without a Trace on weeknights when I'm in a place with cable. I have been places where I am the only Black person in a crowded room, and so it is not inconceivable to me that the group of friends that the show follows could all be White, or that I could enjoy such a show.
What IS inconceivable to me, however, are the beliefs of the show's writer. I cannot, in good faith, or even under any form of irony or curiosity I could drum up, under any circumstances, watch this show (even if finding it online does little if anything to support the writer).
I'm not sure you can read that. I wasn't turned off yet in the beginning. She was reported to have said that she doesn't have any personal relationships with black people, and thus can't create a black character. I hoped that this would go off into her saying that she didn't want her own ignorance to contribute to harmful stereotypes, or to go the opposite route and so totally whitewash a character of color that she loses any cultural authenticity. I would have accepted reasonings of that sort, even if I'd rather see people of color on the show. I would have seen that she was coming from a place of...understanding of her lack of understanding, and that kind of a place is honest enough that I could probably have still watched the show.
But then, she continued. The bottom paragraph reads,
What IS inconceivable to me, however, are the beliefs of the show's writer. I cannot, in good faith, or even under any form of irony or curiosity I could drum up, under any circumstances, watch this show (even if finding it online does little if anything to support the writer).
I'm not sure you can read that. I wasn't turned off yet in the beginning. She was reported to have said that she doesn't have any personal relationships with black people, and thus can't create a black character. I hoped that this would go off into her saying that she didn't want her own ignorance to contribute to harmful stereotypes, or to go the opposite route and so totally whitewash a character of color that she loses any cultural authenticity. I would have accepted reasonings of that sort, even if I'd rather see people of color on the show. I would have seen that she was coming from a place of...understanding of her lack of understanding, and that kind of a place is honest enough that I could probably have still watched the show.
But then, she continued. The bottom paragraph reads,
"Writers are supposed to write what they know," Dunham told a reporter. "I don't know any black people, so how do I write about them? I'm not sure how they think. I'm not sure what they feel. I'm not even sure they exist. Is there any conclusive evidence that people can really be black? I don't see color, so I honestly don't know."YEAH, RIGHT, BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY YOU, WHITE PEOPLE, ARE A HUGE MONOLITHIC GROUP THAT THINKS AND FEELS THE EXACT SAME WAY ABOUT EVERYTHING AND WE, BLACK PEOPLE, ARE A SMALLER MONOLITHIC GROUP THAT THINKS AND FEELS THE EXACT SAME WAY ABOUT EVERYTHING BUT OUR EXACT SAME WAY IS WHOLLY AND FUNDAMENTALLY DIFFERENT FROM YOUR EXACT SAME WAY EVEN THOUGH EVIDENTLY, WE MAY VERY WELL NOT EXIST IN THE WORLD BECAUSE YOUR PRIVILEGED PORCELAIN-COLORED FACE HAS NEVER HAD TO "SEE" COLOR. #ICANT #IMDONE
Big girl purchases:
I made two significant purchases that make me feel like a big girl this weekend:
1) My very first piece of art. As in, you know, something three dimensional and not a poster that an artist spent hours of sweat and struggle and creativity on.
And 2), a comforter for my bed! It cost the same amount as my prom dress (which was under $200--I wasn't one of those crazy girls with dresses that must have been diamond-encrusted for the money they cost), which I balked at at first, but then rationalized was worth something I'll use daily for 8-9 months a year for at least a few years. And it's GORGEOUS and bright and fun and funky and will complement my mauve walls wonderfully.
With these items, my bedroom shall finally be complete!
1) My very first piece of art. As in, you know, something three dimensional and not a poster that an artist spent hours of sweat and struggle and creativity on.
 |
| From this etsy shop. It's wooden, painted black and glossed over so it will shine. It is FIERCE and I can't wait to have it on my wall! |
With these items, my bedroom shall finally be complete!
Monday, September 10, 2012
Take a look! It's in a book!
I officially have my copy of the undergraduate research journal that published a version of my junior independent work!!!
Yup, this makes me an author, rather than solely a writer. And I'ma play up those semantics, haha.
I can be cited:
Yup, this makes me an author, rather than solely a writer. And I'ma play up those semantics, haha.
I can be cited:
Reid, Maya Ange'le. "Learning to be Adults: The Effects of University Structure on Students' Transitions to Adulthood." Sociologicsl Insight: Undergraduate Research Journal. University of Texas at Austin. Vol. 4, May 2012. 73-95.
I took an impromptu break from my ever-so-busy social life this weekend
I was supposed to go to a friend's birthday surprise dinner on Saturday, but then a freak tornado in Fairfax and the accompanying rain in DC that had me hiding in my downstairs bathroom (the smallest room in my house, which still has a window) with a blanket, a thermos of water, a box of honey nut cheerios, and my computer, cell phone, and mp3 player charging in case the power went out) convinced me to stay in the house. Day of deep conditioning my hair and watching The L Word on my couch in sweatpants #1. I had long leisurely conversations with EY on Skype and CC on the phone in the middle of the night, during the course of which, in having effectively stopped for a day, I was able to recognize the holes in my life in DC.
Keeping myself too busy to recognize that I'm unhappy is a tactic I've used before with great (if temporary) success. I'm not sure, however, that I've ever done it unintentionally before...
Okay, unhappy is too strong a word. I am far from unhappy with my life in DC. I love this city. I feel like I'm adjusting well to most parts of adult life. I have a more-than-well-enough-paying job (at which I recently got a "salary adjustment") that I enjoy on both the day-to-day and deeper-purpose levels. I have a core group of people I'm cool enough with at work to eat lunch with, be Facebook friends with, and do some sort of fun thing together once every other week or so with. I don't want to kill my housemates, and even hang out voluntarily with one of them somewhat regularly. I'm getting involved with Princeton alumni stuff (don't even pretend this surprises you). I've been to 10 bars, 9 concerts, 9 restaurants, 5 Meetups, 4 baseball games, 3 museums, 3 movies, 2 barbeques, 2 Jazz in the Gardenses, 1 festival, and 1 cupcake shop. I am unabashedly and undoubtedly having fun.
...But really all I wanted on Saturday night was someone I could call to come over and watch TV with me. Someone with whom an evening spent together does not require any planned activities. Someone I could touch in little intimate non-sexual ways without needing to ask permission--someone with whom head rubs or massages are welcomed. Someone to snuggle with. Someone to bake cookies with or have an entire night constructed around Disarono sours and conversation.
I love my work friends, but I don't ever really see developing that sort of easy intimacy I had with my friends from middle school or high school or college with them. I think they will forever be activity partners, which is great, but I need relationships that are deeper than that with people beyond RG (who really does deserve an appreciation day, btw).
...It turns out I still don't know how to make new friends.
Keeping myself too busy to recognize that I'm unhappy is a tactic I've used before with great (if temporary) success. I'm not sure, however, that I've ever done it unintentionally before...
Okay, unhappy is too strong a word. I am far from unhappy with my life in DC. I love this city. I feel like I'm adjusting well to most parts of adult life. I have a more-than-well-enough-paying job (at which I recently got a "salary adjustment") that I enjoy on both the day-to-day and deeper-purpose levels. I have a core group of people I'm cool enough with at work to eat lunch with, be Facebook friends with, and do some sort of fun thing together once every other week or so with. I don't want to kill my housemates, and even hang out voluntarily with one of them somewhat regularly. I'm getting involved with Princeton alumni stuff (don't even pretend this surprises you). I've been to 10 bars, 9 concerts, 9 restaurants, 5 Meetups, 4 baseball games, 3 museums, 3 movies, 2 barbeques, 2 Jazz in the Gardenses, 1 festival, and 1 cupcake shop. I am unabashedly and undoubtedly having fun.
...But really all I wanted on Saturday night was someone I could call to come over and watch TV with me. Someone with whom an evening spent together does not require any planned activities. Someone I could touch in little intimate non-sexual ways without needing to ask permission--someone with whom head rubs or massages are welcomed. Someone to snuggle with. Someone to bake cookies with or have an entire night constructed around Disarono sours and conversation.
I love my work friends, but I don't ever really see developing that sort of easy intimacy I had with my friends from middle school or high school or college with them. I think they will forever be activity partners, which is great, but I need relationships that are deeper than that with people beyond RG (who really does deserve an appreciation day, btw).
...It turns out I still don't know how to make new friends.
I take pleasure in my transformations. I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.
--Anais Nin
(via Serenity in Perspective)
To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.
--Federico Garcia Lorca, Blood Wedding and Yerma
(via come correct)
I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.
--Robert Fulghum
(via happinessruns...)
Sunday, September 9, 2012
I fall in love with people's passion. The way their eyes light up when they talk about the thing they love and the way they fill with light.
(via happinessruns...)
Your task is not to seek love, but to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have build against it.
--Rumi
(via Clutch Magazine)
Friday, September 7, 2012
Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.
--Janet Fitch
(via happinessruns...)
#currentlycausingissuesinmylife
The epiphany of orgasms or infatuations is a consistently sought after reward for leading an otherwise reasonable life.
--Ntozake Shange, "The Love Space Demands (A Continuing Saga)"
Thursday, September 6, 2012
If we needed more reasons I can't fuck with the GOP...
32,000+ pregnancies from rape every year: "Really rare"
10 cases of voter fraud over 12 years: An epidemic that must be stopped by any means necessary, constitution be damned!
We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.
--Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment
(via Serenity in Perspective)
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
For a woman, self-acceptance is civil disobedience.
--Miss Plumcake, Self Praise and Other Endangered Species
Increase tenfold for every way in which said woman varies from hegemonic White, wealthy, straight, thin, Christian, married-with-children womanhood.
Don’t ask for permission to do what you need to do. Don’t invite people to make your choices for you.
--AJ Pacitti, Thought Catalog
I think I spent too much time in recent years
consciously letting myself miss shots I knew I wanted to take. In fact, often actively preventing small vocal parts of myself from taking control and taking those shots. I sat around on my haunches and continued sipping at people I wanted deeper tastes of, or just breathing them in from across the room. Somehow, I let all of my 'What if...' wonderings be negative, ignoring the possibility that something good could come of my curious wanting. I out-hesitated hesitation and out-stalled stalling, moving straight into consciously ignoring. This eventually led to sort of taking what I could get, moving only when interest had been expressed.
Making the first move was a silly risk, too big a gamble to take. I wasn't pretty/thin/smart/funny/sexy/cool/into-X-thing(s) enough for the person(s) in question. He was probably like that with everyone. It probably didn't mean anything. He liked White/short/slim girls. I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship. I had a nearly endless litany of excuses.
...I no longer want my feelings to be things I am embarrassed of or make excuses regarding. I don't want to push myself into a corner full of nos before I even ask my questions aloud. I don't want to keep cheating myself out of potentials. I don't want the only shots I take to be at myself.
I am far from being a supermodel, but I think I can be my own brand of exquisite from time to time. There are lots of things I don't know, but lots of things I know enough to have extensive conversations about. I make people laugh all the time. My sexiest place isn't necessarily the dance floor, but sensuality ripples in me. Like humor, I'm coolest when I'm not trying to be., I think I am full of flaws, yes, but I am just as full of fabulousness. It's not fair to everything I have worked and am working to be to discount one or the other when it comes to feelings I might catch.
This is all to say that I recently randomly met a person in real life and felt the strongest all-around interest I've ever felt in a stranger. And I want to uncharacteristically do something about this, because being chickenshit should not be characteristic of my life in any aspect.
Making the first move was a silly risk, too big a gamble to take. I wasn't pretty/thin/smart/funny/sexy/cool/into-X-thing(s) enough for the person(s) in question. He was probably like that with everyone. It probably didn't mean anything. He liked White/short/slim girls. I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship. I had a nearly endless litany of excuses.
...I no longer want my feelings to be things I am embarrassed of or make excuses regarding. I don't want to push myself into a corner full of nos before I even ask my questions aloud. I don't want to keep cheating myself out of potentials. I don't want the only shots I take to be at myself.
I am far from being a supermodel, but I think I can be my own brand of exquisite from time to time. There are lots of things I don't know, but lots of things I know enough to have extensive conversations about. I make people laugh all the time. My sexiest place isn't necessarily the dance floor, but sensuality ripples in me. Like humor, I'm coolest when I'm not trying to be., I think I am full of flaws, yes, but I am just as full of fabulousness. It's not fair to everything I have worked and am working to be to discount one or the other when it comes to feelings I might catch.
This is all to say that I recently randomly met a person in real life and felt the strongest all-around interest I've ever felt in a stranger. And I want to uncharacteristically do something about this, because being chickenshit should not be characteristic of my life in any aspect.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Random young fairly non-sketchy seeming guy outside the Center City subway station last night, to me
I just wanted to say that you are absolutely beautiful, and if I was a little bit taller, I'd be all over you.I thanked him and kept it moving, as is my general strategy when I am approached on the street by reasonably non-sketchy seeming men I don't know, but I'm not gonna front--he put a little pep in my step.
*cue feeling like a bad feminist*
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