i have a GAY announcement to make

•November 17, 2009 • 1 Comment

Hi all! I know it’s been awhile, but “I’ve just been super busy” and blah blah gag, no one cares.

Anyway, I just wanted to pimp my beautiful girlfriend’s blog, Real Gay Agenda. It’s super gay, filled with really gay stuff. And I know you’re probably thinking “Why should I go there when you don’t even read my blog anymore?” but GO. And I will, I just need to get back in the swing of things.

GAY.

can we just leave the moon alone?

•October 11, 2009 • 2 Comments

Am I the only one who is completely disturbed by NASA’s recent endeavor to find water on the moon? I seriously feel like I am in the Twilight Zone or at least that mortal chicky on Dark Shadows. I DON’T GET IT. And here’s why:

1. We are in recession. A RECESSION. Which means that we can’t just be galaxy gallivanting trying to find ice crystals of water on the damn moon. Do you know how much money it costs for a flight to the moon? And not just in 1st Class, I’m talking Coach-to-Crater…BILLIONS. Hmm, let’s see….instead of crashing a rocket into the moon, maybe we should put that money into the economy and, um, save people from getting canned from jobs that do a whole lot more for society than fuck around with the moon.

Also, we have issues here on Earth. Issue of EDUCATION, HEALTH CARE, COUNTRIES IN POVERTY, FAMILIES HERE, IN THE U.S. IN POVERTY. Who gives a shit about moon water?

2. Which brings me to point nummer zwei…Who the fuck wants to drink moon water? Would you trust water from the moon? I wouldn’t. Who knows what kind of alien demons poisoned that water with freaky extraterrestrial goo that looks normal to the human eye, but then once it hits our systems we instantly turn to dust and then everyone dies and the aliens take over and I’ll never live to see Gay Marriage get legalized. NO NO NO.

3. There’s this book called “Life as We Knew It” by Beth Pfeffer and in it, the moon gets hit by some sort of meteorite or something and the impact knocks the moon off its orbit. Then what happens? Oh, just your garden-variety of earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes, extreme weather…all that good stuff that the moon controls. LUNAR CYCLES, people, COME ON. The moon controls everything. Crashing rockets into it for experimental value seems so stupid when you think of the damage that could be done. I would like to trust that NASA knows what they’re doing, but I just don’t. This disturbs me greatly.

4. Also, as a citizen of this Earth, do I get to vote on this? Do we get a say in what happens to the moon? It’s our fucking moon, for crying out loud, and I’m pretty sure I live on planet Earth – therefore anything that happens to the moon – anything that has the power to fuck up life as we know it – is something that I think we should be able to have a say in.

Yeah! I’m going to make T-shirts that say, “I SWOON FOR THE MOON,” or some shit. 

For more info on this: http://www.nasa.gov/home/hqnews/2009/feb/HQ_09032_LCROSS.html

after all these years*

•August 23, 2009 • 2 Comments

I know it’s been a minute since I’ve posted but I’ve just been super busy, what, with being a full-time nurse to my beloved who has broken her metatarsal bone (foot), being naughty, and landing an RA position on my floor here at the dorms.

My new position as 4th floor RA has inspired this post. This morning, before check-ins for the new freshman started, I updated my facebook status with this:  checking in bright-eyed, clueless, malleable freshman 9:00-7fucking30 at night.

When I signed on again during our hour break, I saw that my girlfriend had posted this in response to my status: I once checked out a bright-eyed, clueless, malleable freshman in Room 81.

Though the context of this comment is, um, sexual, it really changed my perspective on these incoming freshman. During my sophomore year, I was on a high horse, acting like the big man on campus, ignoring the freshman and rolling my eyes at their wide-eyed wonder. But this year, as I started to fall back into that same arrogant attitude, there my boo was to whip me back into shape – though I doubt that’s what she even meant to do.

Anyway, her comment gave me some perspective. Yeah I came into Manhattan with fear, with giddy, nerdy excitement, with expectation and willingness to explore the unknown, but I also came here a totally different person than I am today. I entered my freshman year as a girl who cared about how men viewed her. I came as a girl who was afraid to examine her nagging and alarming sexual attractions to women. I came as a person who thought she would never make a friend, never have a group of friends that  she could turn to and trust and tell her secrets to. I came as a person who had no fountain of creative inspiration. I came as a person who didn’t care about equality (sexual or gender), didn’t care about pleasing myself, didn’t care about ever being in a relationship ever again. 

But as I enter my junior year, I am a completely changed person.

I now realize the invaluable spirit of a woman who cares not what a man thinks of her, but how she views and cares about herself. I am now a girl who befriended and nurtured her same-sex attractions, really just dove right into it (ha, hahaha…) blindly and unabashedly. And I found an amazing group of girls to cling to, girls who I know I will forever be involved with, girls who love and accept and listen and forgive. I am now a person who, through finding love, experiencing death and loss, through cutting people out of her life, and through walking a path of independence has now birthed this amazing vat of inspiration and creativity. I can write stories now that I am proud of, that I can connect to and that I can use to exorcise my demons and praise my angels.  And lastly, I am a person who now values equality, who puts herself first, and who has fallen into an amazing relationship with a beautiful woman, totally unexpected, but completely welcomed. I have changed.

Coming into my freshman year I thought I knew everything.  I didn’t. I still don’t. But I know a hell of a lot more than I did. And I welcome the learning. In copious amounts. Bring it!

*for extra CHEESE, read the post while listening to the beautiful daniel johns of silverchair sing:

vixen, my ass

•July 22, 2009 • 14 Comments

Riding the 2/3 line everyday, I usually end up sitting right in front of ads for Karrine Steffans’ The Vixen Manual. Have I read this book? No. Do  I feel entitled enough to bash it without having read it? Yes. Now that that’s squared away, let’s get to it.

My issue with this book stems from high school, but really it could be applied to any Lifetime movie, any Oxygen/WE channel original movie,  any Danielle  Steel novel, etc (and I know that that is quite a silky pink coated amalgamation). It’s something I have grown up seeing and still see now as I am entering my 20s: The woman is always expected to find, seduce and maintain – as if those were the three most important verbs we could be blessed with.  This book was created based on those principles and, as I have read in reviews, goes to great lengths to relay the proper way to go about achieving them.

I don’t know about you, but facing those words on the subway after a long day filled with lousy men who take up at least three spots worth of seating because their too damn special to close their fucking legs, crime sections of newspapers overflowing with stories about boyfriends who kill their girlfriends because they won’t put out or because they weren’t at their beck and call all hours of the day, and men who apparently think it’s their God-given right in life to stand on the sidewalk, mentally undressing you with their eyes, traveling up YOUR curves and under YOUR dress and down YOUR shirt without YOUR permission…I just can’t take an ad like this, an ad that validates a man’s importance over the importance of, first, self-worth.

SELF WORTH, ya’ll. It’s always fucking about the damn man. It’s always a woman’s job to FIND, to SEDUCE, and to MAINTAIN. Well, fuck. What about me? Find ME, seduce ME, and keep ME. I have to put up with enough in this world as a woman that I don’t need the responsibility of keeping a man interested in me weighing down on my shoulders. For God’s sake, was I put on this earth to lick boots? I think not.

Now, I get the whole “empowerment” purpose of this novel (well, actually, I don’t, but I understand how a certain brand of “today’s woman” is all about feeling empowered by keeping a man wrapped around her finger via sexual prowess). Gather up the hoes! Teach them the rules of dating! Teach them how to be the compass in the rocky waters of Relationshipdom! Have them bring their men to their knees!  But, um, NO. Because I have tits therefore it is my job to prance around the kitchen in a feathered boa thong, cooking up crazy-ass exotic dishes that leave his stomach full, but his dick wanting more? No ma’am. While these things are fun and sexy, they are not the reason a man (or whoever) should stay with you – because you keep them interested, because you keep them wanting more. Why isn’t it the other way around or why isn’t it the Intellectual Pursuit Manual? Or better yet: Focus On Yourself: The Guide to Putting Your Needs Above Your Man’s? Because nobody would buy that book.

A review for the book on amazon reads: Similarly, in Chapter 10, Preparation Meets Opportunity, Karrine recommends that any single woman looking for love should prepare for her man now – get fit, keep your place neat, and act as though you’re in love and you’ll attract the man that you want. She does point out that getting ready extends beyond your looks to cover educational, financial and emotional preparation.

That’s right, woman: LIE YOUR ASS OFF. ACT YOUR ASS OFF. WORK THE FAT ON YOUR ASS OFF. You want a man? Well get in the gym and start getting that body that a man will pay attention to. You want a man? Go clean your apartment because no man will want you if you keep a messy flat. You want a man? Well you better have a degree because he can’t take a Denny’s waitress home to Ma. WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE? Am I the only one who sees how degrading and limiting and boxing and … rapacious this is? Little girls ride this subway, for crying out loud.

And it’s so deceiving. BE A VIXEN, it says, GET THE MAN YOU WANT. In my head, a real vixen would get the man she wants without having to do anything. Oh, hello. You want to take me out? What’s your name again? But the definition of vixen seems to be adopted/adapted here to be something so not even close to what usually comes to mind when I hear “vixen.” But, yeah, okay Karrine. If by vixen you mean: lie to yourself, lie about yourself, change yourself, and forget yourself – all for a man’s approval, adoration, acceptance, and interest – then, okay, your book rocks and you’ve successfully reached your thesis.  But then, as Natalie Imbruglia says, “We’re fine til I think of the problem…”

By promoting this book, by writing this book, in my opinion, is keeping the woman down, is watering stereotypes and oppressions,  glorifying the world’s age-old expectations of a woman, all the while feeding her seductive lies about how, in following Karrine’s rules, she will be the one in power. WRONG. You don’t gain womanly power by altering yourself, refining yourself for a man. Wrongiddy Wrong Wrong Wrong.

And, for the record, in case this needs clearing up, this isn’t Angiesyounglover, The Lesbian speaking. This is me, The Woman, talking. Maybe it’s me, but in today’s society I feel that the woman is not valued. The woman is not cherished. The woman is not respected. We are shells and only shells. Take our bodies, use them for your pleasure, and don’t stop until you’ve had enough, even if I haven’t. What about me?

inside my mind

•July 15, 2009 • 5 Comments

I’m walking all the way down to the end of the platform because when the train comes, there are less people on the end cars and I want a seat today.

The train is here. I step onto the train. No seats. I stand up against the wall. There are so many men sitting down. Honestly, they don’t need to be sitting. One of them should offer up a seat.

A man offers me my seat. (Can he hear me?) It’s one of those seats that fold up in case a wheelchair should need to pull up into the corner. When he offers me the seat, he slides over and says, “Would you like to sit?” But he doesn’t get all the way up, just slides over…Does that mean he wants me to squish into that little space or would he give the entire foot? Not wanting to ask if he could better articulate the offer on the table, and not wanting to risk being squished, I decline.

“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure.”

Did I smile when I said that? I wish I had said something like I’ve been sitting all day, it feels good to stand! even though that’s 100% bull shit. I mean, I have been sitting all day, but I like sitting. I’m lazy. I should have smiled. Did I say thank you? I should have said thank you. Is it too late to say, Thank you, I’ve just been sitting all day so it feels good to stand? It’s too late, right?

I like when men offer their seats to women. But I really hate men. I don’t understand this contradiction. I like when men offer their seats to women because it shows that all men aren’t shit. But if a man gives his seat to a lady doesn’t that mean that men think that women need the help, need their help? No. Fuck that. I don’t need your seat.

But I really want your seat.

I see an old man all the way at the other end of the train looking at me. Is he looking at me? He’s squinting so I can’t really tell. Why is he looking at me? Is it because of my Def Leppard shirt? Does he think I’m too young to appreciate Def Leppard? No, he probably doesn’t even know who they are. Jungle music, he probably thinks. Is he looking at me because I am a woman standing amongst a bunch of seated men, and in his day this would be a travesty? I love you, old man, though I don’t know you. You look like you need a hug. Stop looking at me. I don’t need your seat.

A woman comes onto the train carrying a bunch of bags. The man that offered me my seat does not offer it to her. Why? Why did he offer it to me and not her? I am only carrying one bag. Is it because she has short hair and I have long hair? Is it because I have bigger boobs than her? Is it because he likes Def Leppard? I decide that I hate this man. You can’t just offer up your seat to one person and not the other. Equal opportunity sexism! Stick to your guns, dammit.

A man gets up and exits the train. A free seat! First impluse is to take it. No. Can’t do that. If the guy that offered me my seat sees me take this seat he will wonder why I took that seat and not his. He will think I took that guy’s seat because that guy is white and that I declined his seat because he is black. I don’t want to be thought of as a racist. I stand.

A tiny bead-like piece of candy rolls down the train and hits my shoe and then rolls back the other way. How funny. Could you imagine if humans could roll like that? If that was how they got from point A to point B, by rolling? Oo, and if we were sugar-coated, too? I would lick myself all day.

Man, my legs really are bothering me. They are always acting up, especially when I try to go to bed. They always feel like they need to be strethced out or cracked or ripped out of their sockets. Why didn’t I take that man’s offer in the first place? There are so many free seats now! But I can’t just take them, that dude will think I’m racist. I’m the only one standing. How silly is that? So stupid and stubborn that I can’t just sit. Fuck him! Fuck the man! He doesn’t know me. I don’t owe him anything.

I look at him. His eyes are closed. Is he sleeping? Maybe if he is sleeping then I can move down the train car to another spot and when he wakes up he will think that I got off or something. No, can’t do that. Oh this is ridiculous! I need to sit because I need to get reading on Huckleberry Finn because I have to have it finished by Monday. This is no longer about you anymore, man. This is between me and Huck.

Oh, is it my stop already? Damn. Whatever.

Did I lock my door before I left this morning?

it’s a braid thing

•July 11, 2009 • 7 Comments

Maybe it’s because I’m super bored with my hair, or maybe it’s because I hate headbands and their never-failing ability to anger the pressure points behind my ears (I know, personal issue, right?). So lately I’ve been making my own headbands out of…my own hair. I tried this last spring on my friend Amanda, but haven’t pursued it since. Until now, that is. It’s not the typical sidebraid that Lauren Conrad’s known for, and not a complete wrap around of a long length braid like Miss Thing or anything, but, perhaps, a happy combination of both. Below are 3 different ways I’ve tried it.

1. Basic

It starts as a side braid, somewhere behind or before your ear, french braiding (or corn-rowing [pulling under, instead of over, like in a french braid] like I have done in the picture) it up until you get to the point right before your eyebrow arch starts. At this point, just braid the strand normally for about two and a half inches or so…

It starts as a side braid, somewhere behind or before your ear, french braiding (or the opposite - pulling under, instead of over, like in a french braid - like I have done in the picture) it up until you get to the point right before your eyebrow arch starts. At this point, just braid the strand normally for about two and a half inches or so...

...and you pull that plain, un-corn-rowed braid over the loose hair (the hair that a headband would normally push back).

...and you pull that plain, unfrenched braid over the loose hair (the hair that a headband would normally push back). I've noticed that this loose hair can get in the way while your slung over sideways trying to braid up the side of your head, so usually I pin it back with bobby pins until the next step.

Once you've headbanded a bulk of the lose hair, then start corn-rowing back down the other side of your head - starting either towards the end of the arch of your other eyebrow, or wherever you can get back in the groove, and continue the braiding all the way down the other side of your head. Once you have no more head to braid off of, just braid the remainder regularly and messy-bun it for security.

Once you've headbanded a bulk of the loose hair, then start french braiding back down the other side of your head - starting either towards the end of the arch of your other eyebrow, or wherever you can get back in the groove, and continue the braiding all the way down the other side of your head (It's around this time where you can unbobby pin the loose hair). Once you have no more head to braid off of, just braid the remainder regularly and messy-bun it for security, as you can see I've done in the first picture.

 

Another view: you can see where regular braid stops and the french braiding down the side starts.

Another view: you can see where the regular braid stops and the french braiding down the side starts.

 

 

2. Basic, but with a part

When I started this one, I, at first, wanted to keep my hair down - like people usually do with headbands.
When I started this one, I, at first, wanted to keep my hair down – like people usually do with headbands.
But for this one, I wanted a part. Mine is, again, a little hack jobby, but it's summer and it's too hot to trot. The steps are the same as the first example, but when you pin back the loose hair while you're french braiding up the sides, you make a part and bobby pin them separately in opposite directions.
But for this one, I wanted a part. Mine is a little hack jobby, but it’s summer and it’s too hot to trot. The steps are the same as the first example, but when you pin back the loose hair while you’re french braiding up the sides, you make a part and bobby pin them separately in opposite directions.
Pulling the hair back, you can see that it starts off the same way, but when you have your hair down, like in the picture above, you are able to cover up that part up. Whatever floats your boat, yo.

Pulling the hair back, you can see that it starts off the same way, but when you have your hair down, like in the last picture, you are able to cover that part up. Whatever floats your boat, yo.

From above you can see the whole part feel...a little Swedish beer maidish, no? (Like that's ever a bad thing!) When you stop the french braiding part on the first side, just pull the 2.5 inches of regular braid over the parted bobby pinned sections.

From above you can see the whole part feel...a little German beer maidish, no? (Like that's ever a bad thing!) When you stop the french braiding part on the first side, just pull the 2.5 inches of regular braid over the parted bobby pinned sections.

Once you've comfortably started french braiding down the other side of your head, you can undo the bobby pins. Secure the braid in a bun, or, like above, just leave your hair down (For me and my layers, this proved to be not such a good idea, as I had little wing-like pieces looking to fly me away. Not hot!).

Once you've comfortably started french braiding down the other side of your head, you can undo the bobby pins. Secure the braid in a bun, or, like in the first picture of this section, just leave your hair down (For me and my layers, this proved to be not such a good idea, as I had little wing-like pieces looking to fly me away. Not hot!). If putting it up, maybe bobby pin the hair on the crown of your head in a little poof, to make it look like you got some volume. That is, if you dont have a BUMP IT on hand...oy!

 

 

3. Basic with wrap-around hair securer thing

Same drill. By now you should be a pro! French braid up the side until you hit the forehead area, then braid the piece for a few inches and pull it across a clump of loose hair.

Same drill. By now you should be a pro! French braid up the side until you hit the forehead area, then braid the piece for a few inches and pull it across a clump of loose hair.

After you have pulled the braid over the loose hair, start latching the braid into a french braid down the side. Continue it until you reach past the ear point, then just braid it regularly. Braid the entire strand of hair.

After you have pulled the braid over the loose hair, start latching the braid into a french braid down the side. Continue it until you reach past the ear point, then just braid it regularly. Braid the entire strand of hair.

The braid should be able to reach all the way around the back of head, holding and securing your mass of hair.

The braid should be able to reach all the way around the back of head, holding and securing your mass of hair.

Like this! See? It serves as a barrette, almost. But, as you can see, my layers start to sneak out from under the braid. Nothing a little hairspray can't govern.

Like this! See? It serves as a barrette, almost. But, as you can see, my layers start to sneak out from under the braid. Nothing a little hairspray can't govern.

But, ah! How to secure the braid? What I did was to french braid the ends of the regular braid into little strands under my hair. This was messy and almost didn't work, but I managed to pull it tight. I didn't get a great picture of it, but as you can see, the braid kind of curves under. After awhile of fucking around with that noise, I braided the remainder of it regularly and pony-tailed the end to a regular, loose strand of hair underneath...so you can't see and everyone thinks you're a braid goddess, when in fact, if they were to lift all your hair up, they'd see the ghetto-ness. But, shhh.

But, ah! How to secure the braid? What I did was to french braid the ends of the regular braid into little strands under my hair. This was messy and almost didn't work, but I managed to pull it tight. I didn't get a great picture of it, but as you can see, the braid kind of curves under. After awhile of fucking around with that noise, I braided the remainder of it regularly and pony-tailed the end to a regular, loose strand of hair underneath...so you can't see and everyone thinks you're a braid goddess, when in fact, if they were to lift all your hair up, they'd see the ghetto-ness. But, shhh.

And that’s that. Of course, if you can’t french braid or braid your own hair, this is probably all gobbly gook to you. Even if you can, I still probably sound like the Rain Man. So, uh…well, at least you got to glimpse my Italian schnoz!

tell me it gets better

•July 9, 2009 • 9 Comments

Sitting here at NowI’mPissed’s Brooklyn apartment, I just experienced a real-life metaphor of my life. See, I’m pup/house-sitting for her for five days and I get the whole apartment to myself. Located in the Prospect Park area, this apartment is delightful in many ways: it has two floors, two bedrooms, an impressive size flat-screen television, quaint backyard, and two lovely dogs. I feel like an all-the-way grown up person here; I’m taking care of the dogs, I’ve stocked up the fridge with food for the week, and I’m being careful with all major appliances I’m using. But as I’m sitting here, my dad calls me and starts, out of nowhere, drilling me on my spiritual life: Are you tithing at church regularly? Are you going to church regularly? Where are you in Psalms? (We’re reading along in the Bible together) As I hung up the phone and chic, adult Brooklyn life deflated, I started to feel the walls of my life closing in on me. See, the Brooklyn life, while amazing, is just playing house. I am not paying the bills for this apartment, I do not have a job to be able to afford this apartment (or any apartment, for that matter), and my dad calling was a wakeup call, a reminder, saying: I STILL OWN YOU. My life, as a gay woman, is just playing house. While I may be out to my friends here and while I may live life as a gay woman here, I’m still not out. I’m in. I am so in.

My mother and my father (especially my father) are very conservative, very Christian. I, too, am Christian. I love God and I believe in Him. But I am gay. God loves me, I know that, and though he may not agree with my lifestyle (or maybe he does…who really knows?), I know that I am not going to go to hell for it. My parents, on the other hand, would find my homosexuality to be an end of the world ordeal. They would shun me, say I’m not walking with the Lord, say that I’m falling away, say that I’m this and that and they will probably disown me – my father, moreso than my mother. My parents have been divorced ever since I was a baby, and my mom has since remarried and had another daughter who has recently come out of the closet as bisexual. So, I think my mother would digest this better than him, but still, it would devastate her.

Which is why I’ve decided to wait until I’ve graduated college and gotten on my own two feet financially. As of now, my father pays for school, pays for my dorms, and gives me money each month for transportation and food. I’m a dog walker for some extra money, but that would never be enough to live on should I tell my dad about my sexuality and he cuts me loose.

His phone call today jilted me into reality of how under his control I am and will be for some time. I want to scratch my nails down my face, I want to cry, I want to scream. I feel so suffocated and there is just no way out. I actually just stepped outside into the backyard to catch my breath, to breathe in the fresh air because I feel like the walls are closing in on me. Each day, I can take it less and less and I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can do is wait.  But the light at the end of the tunnel is so far away, and it’s not getting any closer. Sometimes I want to just say, FUCK IT, and spill the beans, but I know I have to wait. I want to establish myself, I want to be a writer, an editor, a publisher – something in that realm – and until I am sitting at a desk, working for the man, I will be living for my father. Funny, huh?

So tell me, does it get better? Does freedom, when finally achieved, feel as good as I’m imagining it feels, as I’m hoping and anticipating? Because it better be. Though I’m dreading the email I plan to dually send to my mother and my father, outlining the last couple years of my life and what I’ve really been doing with my time and who I’ve been with, I know that directly after it (save for the months of hearing them tell me how I’m deceitful, sneaky, lying, immoral…), I will be free and living for myself.  But until then, I will be enduring anxiety attacks, blotchy red spots all over my neck and chest, and anxiousness for the life I hope will develop into some sort of successful resemblance of my “playing house” life. Until then, it’s all dress up.