sweetlove

it's sweet to feel this way about you again, brand new love, like I can't wait to get your skinny arms around me and your elbows in my ribs, hip bones giving me bruises in more secret places. I don't know what brought it on exactly but I like it. and we're not doing anything new, and you still say the same things and act the same way so maybe it was me. it could have started when we spent the day in your house watching a stupid fake kung-fu movie series and eating sandwiches. it could have started when I was mad at you the whole night because you hurt my feeligns, and then we hit a bunny on the road and you felt sad about hurting the bunny and me. it could have started when we spent the whole night after thanksgiving together and got kabobs. it doesn't matter and I don't know if it will last. but it's here now, even when you're not and that means something.

this is my body: covered in skin and not all of it you can see

I probably shouldn't be sitting on my bed topless after sending my boyfriend a semi naked picture of myself—my parents have this weird thing about not knocking before they come in. I sent the picture because I miss him, but I'm still naked from the waist up because I like it this way. I've been trying out that new self love thing after playing a constant game of badgering Ryan with questions of "doIlookgoodamIfatdoyoulikeme" questions over the past couple of weeks—months, maybe?—followed by exasperated sighs and an hungry thing in my brain that never gets filled with the "yesyoulookfinestopworrying." I'm letting the hair grow on my body, especially the hair that I'm not supposed to like or want, trying to figure out what made me not want it in the first place. I'm not changing my clothes when I think a shirt or my pants emphasize a part of me that I don't like. I'm trying to eat well and eat what I want at the same time.

I wouldn't say that I'm suffering anything more than routine insecurity. But I'm over it. Ryan asked me if I felt oppressed in my daily life as a woman— I have to say that the hardest thing for me is the lack of control over the narrative about my body. I'm supposed to balance this pressure to be this specific something while knowing that it really doesn't matter how I look in the end. If I'm 130 pounds or 180 pounds I can still get violated, and I'd be given reasons related to my body as an explanation: "your body was too irresistible," or, "you're too fat for anyone else to fuck." And there'd be nothing I could do or say because in the end my body belongs to a patriarchal society that tells me how to look, what to lose, and what to keep—both on my body and inside it.

So, it's like, what the fuck am I doing all this work for anyway? Who or what am I supposed to love so much that I hate myself? What am I sacrificing my mental well-being for? Shit. It's not worth it.

It's not such an easy transition from an epiphany to an ultimate dismantling of the invisible structure that fuels my insecurities. But I can just start appreciating what my body is, and what is has, and what it is capable of. I'm tired of tweaking when I really don't want to, tired of the rashes and the tight pants with no pockets that leave denim marks on my skin, tired of feeling like no matter what I'm wearing I'm still not entitled to complete control over my body. There are things I will change, and things that will remain the same, but I'm finished asking for validation from a place where I will never find it and don't need it.

resigned

When you leaned down to kiss me with your mouth slightly open I thought that things could be like they were before. That we could want each other in the same way, need each other in the same way. But we don't. We still need. We still want. But maybe not each other. I'm so tired now, of hoping to go back, of trying to retrieve feelings that have changed, shifted into something that isn't destruction or anger or grief but just comfort and safety. Maybe that's what it all boils down to in the end.

I don't want to tie you down, or shack you up with me

I've figured out what they meant when they told me I should get married and have kids. To find the one you're supposed to spend the Rest Of Your Life With means letting things fall a little bit. Letting everything sort of just cave in like poorly constructed plaster walls, slightly sagging, slightly mildewed, but still standing. Letting everything devolve into something you're mildly content with, with someone you can still take some comfort in. Finding your "best friend" or your "life mate," someone who stopped writing or thinking poems about you a long time ago but still cares about you in a vague way they can't really explain. And you have to decide whether you want to feel a little achey from time to time—like something isn't quite right but you're not sure what until you watch this movie, or read that book— or incredibly lonely; and you know that feeling when it comes, because it hits you in the jaw and holds you down and says to you, Look at me. Look at me. 

People think getting married can fix that. They think they won't have to make a choice because a piece of paper and a party ensures you a life without doubts. But those people spend the rest of their life blind and groping for something that won't come, through beach getaways and birthday celebrations. Through dinner tables. Through babies.

And I'll listen to your music, and wear that shirt you like, and I'll tell myself not to take it so seriously when you don't seem to care that much. Because I know that for now, it's easier to ice a wound than to pour peroxide directly into it. That it's better to feel a little achey, better to feel a just a bit of a nudge of pain when I read that book, or see this movie, than to feel so terrifyingly, gapingly alone.

last night on earth

This whole summer I felt so restless, and I thought going back to D.C. would fix it, a little bit. Now it's time to go back and I already feel like I have nothing waiting there for me. Nothing I want to grab a hold of, to keep, to remember, to savor. It's like my whole life is just doing shit temporarily before I move to the next place. Like everything and everyone I've loved is just a placeholder until I figure out where the fuck I'm supposed to be. 

I want to join the rover on Mars. I could blast up and never have to talk to anyone ever again. Never have to decide what to give up, because I would be giving up everything. Just kick up red dust and breathe evenly within my space suit; make it habitable, find life forms. I wouldn't have to ask the same question over and over because there'd be nobody to ask, and all the really important inquiries have already been solved.  

vagina monologue

Between the Jezebel articles about advertisements for douches, and the Michigan House of Representatives unwillingness to accept the correct word for the female anatomy, vaginas have been getting a lot of hate for no reason. Today, Twitter informed me that June 22nd 2012 also doubls as No Panty Day. (Can there be a singular panty? These are the questions that define us). #NoPantyDay was trending on Twitter, and because I hate myself, I decided to check it out. What I got was a lot of slut shaming (yuck, put on underwear you bunch of whores!) and inaccurate and harmful assessments of vaginal appearance and odor ("It's going to smell like hot flounder today"). Men and women alike seemed deeply offended by the body part that over half the world's population possesses, as well as the only one with the power to push out your fucking evil spawn. Vaginas actually rule, but because of structural sexism and partiarchy and blahblahblah, women are made to feel like shit for having one, and are told to disguise it—usually as a weird bald thing that smells like marigolds. 

Well I'm over it. I'd like to dispel some misconceptions and respond to all the lame ass shit that typically comes from men and is perpetrated by women. Straight men (and gay men, whatever, you guys should be informed too), these are a few common views that are awful and that you should avoid always:

Vaginas smell like fish! Yuck, gross!

God, this one is still around? Listen, I never even knew where that came from because for 19 years of my short life, I had never had personal experience with this age-old misconception. Until I got bacterial vaginosis, the common and uncomfortable vaginal infection of which one of the side effects is a fishy odor. BV, like other bacterial infections, is usually caused by an outside, unclean factor, such as fingers, toys, or, oh, I don't know, A PENIS, throwing off its pH. 

So it's very likely that YOU gave me BV, assclown. You're responsible for the hot flounder smell! This is bullshit! Vaginas are not inherently dirty. They're a fucking self cleaning machine. Do you know what that means? It means they clean themselves. THEY CLEAN. THEMSELVES. That shit is fabulous. Not to demonize other genitalia, but I'm pretty sure that my vagina is way cleaner than your dick and balls, nestled in the armpit of your sweat stained boxer-briefs that you haven't changed in three days. It's not my fault that I'm built in a way that traps your bullshit sweaty junk bacteria and then manifests it uncomfortably. My vagina is basically just taking one for the team, so don't try to fucking tell me that I've got an inherent fishy smell about me cause I'm not hearing it. SELF CLEANING MACHINE!

Douching is the way to go because your vagina is super gross!

Ladies, this advice is more for you since there are all sorts of other ladies telling you to be "fresh." Your vagina is swiffering itself and it doesn't need any fucking magnolia scented chemicals to throw off its pH and give you, hey, what is it, oh right BACTERIAL VAGINOSIS (*douching has been proven by the CDC as a cause of BV). Douching is a crime against vaginal health, y'all. Stop putting unnatural shit up there, lay off the thong underwear, make sure anything going inside you is reasonably clean, and drink water. And stop believing men who tell you that vaginas are smelly. Do they have one? Do they know anything about anatomy? Since when did they become the reliable expert on what is normal and what is not for female sex organs? Bullshit. 

"VAGINAS ARE HORRIBLE AND GROSS YUCK I WILL NEVER PUT MY FACE NEAR IT IF I CAN HELP IT"

See, a lot straight guys living proof of this weirdo Puritannical and patriarchal society we live in. I know this because I've heard from dudes that vaginas smell bad, and from girls who've heard it from dudes that vaginas smell bad and are now convinced that this is true. I have a straight female friend who once told me she has a paralyzing fear of receiving oral sex because she's afraid the guy going down on her won't like the smell. Upon hearing this, I told her that guys didn't really hate the smell and that that was bullshit made up by the Summers Eve folks to get you to buy their bullshit. Apparently, I've just been hanging out with more enlightened guys. She told me she knew that they did, because her ex boyfriends friends used to complain about their girlfriends' odor. First of all, what kind of dudes night out is this? Do I sit around with my girlfriends talking about my the way my boyfriend's penis smells? Um, not really, because that would be fucking weird and never relevant to any conversation ever. But still, she swore it was true and that it was the reason she was so insecure. 

Jesus fucking Christ. I have to wear deodorant, shave my underarms, wear perfume, wash my hair five times a week, and make sure that my feet never smell weird. Is nothing sacred anymore? Now I have to monitor the way my vagina naturally smells? This is bullshit. Dudes, if your girl's vag really does smell like an ocean creature let a bitch know that she might wanna go to the doctor cause chances are your smelly foreskin gave her a bacterial infection. Otherwise, if it doesn't exactly smell like a garden of roses down there— well, you heard it here first, but girls are actually human beings and not femme bots with a bouquet between their legs. Guess what guys? Y'all hardly EVER smell good, but are we assholes about it? No. And if you're really so offended by my sweat that you won't eat me out, then find something else to fuck.

Periods are awful! I'm not trying to deal with that! Yuck!

You know what, I have hardly anything to say about this, except that you should read this brilliant piece by Gloria Steinem called "If Men Could Menstruate" [http://www.haverford.edu/psych/ddavis/p109g/steinem.menstruate.html].

So, it's scary when blood comes out of my vagina? Well, you know what comes out of your penis? Millions of potential babies. That's some fucking disturbing shit. Ain't nobody got time for that. Pregnancy scares are way worse than a surprise period. Also, your jizz is sticky and annoying, and if it gets in my hair my day is literally ruined. The uteran lining that comes out of my body is completely clean and, if you happen to get it on yourself, won't make you feel like you stuck your dick in tree sap. If you're really threatened by a monthly period, then you should pretty much just go fuck yourself, since no one else will. I mean, come on. 

Your vagina looks weird GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FREAK!

A new awesome way to put women down is to comment on and mandate the way their vagina looks. And, of course since no one sees it besides your sexual partners and yourself, this is obviously really really important to the rest of the world. Labiaplasty, Brazilian waxes, vaginal tightening creams...who is this shit really for? I can't even see my labia without a hand mirror, I'm really not trying to get a rash in the most sensitive skin area on my body, and one time I saw an advert for tightening cream that opened with "Want sex to feel like it did the first time?" Scurrrch, NO, I don't, that shit hurt like a motherfucker. Seems like this is all for guys who watch mainstream porn—which, honestly, is responsible for a shit ton of sociological decisions—and have decided that the women they are intimate with should match up. Again, if you're still wanting me to look awesome all the time, then I really don't have time or money to "fix up" a part of my body that one person besides me sees. Lay off, assholes, I really can only do so much.

The point is, women should be healthy and unashamed of their anatomy. It's bizarre to me that our society hates vaginas so much, even though we couldn't get much done without them. And, dudes, when push comes to shove, it's like, you're having sex with someone. If you detest that persons natural sexual state, then maybe you should take a step back and look at your own preferences and perceptions of the world around you a little more closely. Before you judge my anatomy, educate yourself JUST A LITTLE BIT, because God knows sex-ed focused on the female sex organs for a total of two seconds. Just be aware, be considerate, be open, and don't be a jerk who relies on gross cultural standards that have sexist roots. Be better than that. I know you're all capable. 

long distance love song

I wrote this while I was in India, but I know it still applies. I've said all these things in less articulate and eloquent ways, but it's still worth it to write it down.

It’s a funny thing, loving someone from far away. After a while it’s like you’re living with this dull ache that you almost forget to notice. Like an old injury that’s always been there, but flares up right before it rains. And every time I eat a great meal or learn something new or realize something silly or interesting the air feels humid and the clouds start to gather and I can smell the moisture before it hits the earth. And it hurts. How can it be that in a place where it’s sunny all the time my bones still crack and my muscles still twinge?
And it’s frustrating, exhausting, to be in a place that I want to be able love with everything I have but just can’t manage to. Because I’ll never love a place enough to forget what it’s like to be with you. Anywhere I go I find things that you would love, that you would share, that would mean something to you. I see visions of you in the ruins of Hampi, the okra from the Mess Hall, the mosumbi juice at the juice stand, the Nilgiri Hills. In the way that I talk and in the way that I see. And it’s on days like today, when the sun is just as hot as it always is, that I feel the storm coming.
And then I start thinking. Because I want to feel like I’m something more than the mountains or the rivers, that a place isn’t really a place without me. And it’s bold to want to be more indelible than the crevices in the stone that has stood for thousands of years, than the water that has managed to cut through that stone like glass. But I think you’ll forgive me for my audacity.

being honest

I realized a few weeks ago that I have been lying to myself for almost ten years. It's not a big deal. It's not even about anything huge or emotional, which makes the lie even stupider.

When I was in sixth grade reality smacked me in the face in the form of an essay titled "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up." Retardedly unimaginative, this topic question did nothing but terrify dumb kids into haphazardly choosing a profession and then defiantly and staunchly committing to for the rest of their lives for no other reason than the fact that they had always been told to stick to their commitments. Oh, no, wait, that was just me.

My neuroses about being somewhat successful coupled with the steady understanding that being a "writer" wasn't really going to cut it lead to my decision, made at the depressingly young age of eleven, that a more practical career choice would be journalism. I had read a narrative from the ever-enlightening Chicken Noodle Soup for the (Pre)Teen Soul—my source of knowledge on all things tween, such as the embarrassment of not being allowed to shave your legs and weird family members who touched you—about a girl who had found the power of the tape recorder. While writing my paper I recalled this, and decided that transitioning to writing about the purgatory of middle school to writing about important things strangers do would ultimately be a great (read lucrative, not stupid, not pointless, etc.) life choice.

Other than my bizarrely early capitalist tendencies, no doubt unconsciously instilled in me by my parents (who are wonderful and have only wanted me to be happy, but also grew up poor and thus want me to be successful), I am not really sure why I thought journalism would be a good profession. I am not particularly aggressive and don't really like bothering people, nor do I have an insatiable need to GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THINGS and TELL THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED TO KNOW. In fact, as I've continued my education and have taken classes studying the American media, I've found a number of things that I hate about journalism.

Still, once I decided that I was going to be a roving reporter, I was relieved. Now that I had resolved the question that adults had been asking me since I learned how to form coherent sentences, I could enter the world. So what if it wasn't exactly currently my dream to become a journalist? I was sure that, along the way, I would learn that becoming a journalist, was in fact my life's desire.

I worked for my high-school newspaper for a little while—that sucked. I attributed this to the fact that everyone working on the paper was a brain-dead loser, which was absolutely true, but didn't change the fact that I still didn't feel like I was supposed to feel. I pushed this away, obviously, but when it came time to choose a college I decided against going to University of Missouri—the best school for journalism in the country—even though I had gotten in and received a scholarship. I knew that if I realized, or if I finally admitted, that I didn't necessarily want to be a journalist, there would be nothing for me in Missouri.

When I got to American, I figured that I'd work for The Eagle, which, instead of exciting me, filled me with apprehension and weirdness. I went to a few pitch meetings—even covered something for them—but my article never ended up being published. I didn't go back. This isn't a huge deal objectively. A lot of journalism students I know at AU haven't or don't write for The Eagle. But then again, maybe they're all questioning their career choices too. Maybe the only real journalists at AU are the staff of The Eagle. I really hope not, but maybe.

The past few months have been some of the most enlightening of my life. This is the first semester of college where I didn't take any comm classes, and it was one of the best of my academic career. Writing 62 pages of research papers for various classes really blew, but for the first time I actually felt like I was learning something of substance, rather than a skill or a routine.

That's something I want to do forever. I want to learn and I want to write and I want to be happy, at least a little bit, and I don't think being a reporter will give me that. I have been pretending that it will because it's almost too embarrassing to admit that I've been lukewarm on the idea since its genesis.

Here's a secret: I used to think that the only thing I was good at was school. Writing papers, synthesizing information, memorizing things, making teachers like me—I have all of that bullshit down pat. But school's for people who force themselves to be enthusiastic about a profession that they don't actually care about, and I don't want to be that person anymore. I don't regret majoring in Journalism at AU: I want to write in some capacity and it's important to know how to do that. The classes I've taken and experience I've gained at AU will only benefit me in the future. But I love writing and I want to do it in a way that won't make me anxious, won't make me second guess myself. I want to do it in a way that will force me to confront shit, that will help me learn something significant, help me share something real. Help me come to terms with the fact that I can do and be something beyond the structure of an educational institution.

So now when people ask me what I want to be, I tell them I want to write, "in some way." And I'm finally being honest, which is worth something, in my opinion. We lie to ourselves constantly; writing this means that I'm getting somewhere, even if it's all internally.

And, you know, whatever. Fuck it. I'm in my twenties and I'm supposed to be all fucked up and not know what I want to to do. I'll never have a chance to question myself like this ever again. I guess I'll revel in it, and maybe one day they'll make an HBO show based on my boring, clichéd life.

knife

I had this knife and it was perfect. It was sharp and it was dangerous and when I was little my Dad told me not to play with ones just like it. But I found it anyway. It was like my kirpan, and it was everything.

I used it to cut vegetables, threads off of my skirt, my thumb once when I was showing it to someone else for the first time. I flung the edge against a brick wall, just for fun. I launched it into the same wall in anger. I spent hours whittling a stick into a match just looking for the perfect carve. In the end I found nothing but empty air in my hands.

I noticed the blade becoming dull. Desperate, I took it to the knife-sharpener, and he fixed it, for a few days. It didn't cut the same way, though—couldn't. My celery and carrots became nothing but strings, my hems destroyed and unraveled. I didn't dare slam it against anything, but I wanted to. I wanted to see if it could cut stone. I looked for sticks to carve but the edge couldn't even tame wood anymore.

I'm worried now. I'm having trouble slicing marmalade. But I don't want to let it go. No other blade will gleam quite like this one. Other knives won't let me throw them as far away as possible, stick them deep, deep into the earth, cut through a cloth just to hear that sound it makes when it rips in half.

In the end, nothing I have stays sharp for very long. The harder I try to keep things like they were, the easier it becomes for them to ebb. Into butter knives.

emotional avalanche: better than I could say it

"'I love your body,' I said, 'probably too much. I dream about your knees and elbows. I could fuck just your knees and elbows for the rest of my life and be satisfied. Like, I love it how your knees are the widest points on your legs, and how your arms seem all stretched out and too long for your body. You look like an over enthusiastic line drawing. I just… I want to have revolutionary sex with you every day for the rest of my life. And I’m not even really sure what I mean by that, but, well, it sounded good in my head. Sometimes I jerk off thinking about you jerking off. It’s like I worship you or something. God, I’m such a loser. It’s just that… I swear, I’ve never met someone who seems so above life, if that makes any sense. It’s hard for me to explain. It’s like… so for example, you move your hands when you talk, right? Making casual gestures–the sort of ordinary movements that everyone makes all the time. But when you do it it feels different: better, more spiritual. It feels like there should be an orchestra accompanying your every movement. It’s like you’re not real or something. When you open your mouth to speak I half expect pearls to come out of your mouth instead of words. Ugh… maybe I’m making too much out of this. It’s just that, you’re really beautiful in an end of the world kind of way. Is any of this making sense to you? Like even when I squint my eyes so hard that your face is no longer a face, and you just become this messy, flesh-colored smudge, even then I think you’re the most beautiful smudge on the face of the earth.'"

Karley Sciortino:  http://slutever.com/emotional-avalanche/

Only a few people know about this blog I keep and I didn't think they'd feel off-put about this kind of sexual and weird post because they're the best people on the earth. I wanted to share this because it meant something to me the first, and the second, and the third time I read it. That's important. I've read every page of 'Slutever' and it's embarrassing and exciting and hilarious and most of all it says, fuck it, isn't this what the Internet is here for? Let's stop pretending to be coy. Here's my life, and fuck you if you don't like it. It's brave and stupid and naive and annoying and unapologetic, all at once.

I'm too cynical, and too aware of my own cynicism to articulate what this means to me. Sometimes I wish that I could accept the fact that I, too, can feel lame connections to people I don't know over the Internet, and that it's not incredibly stupid. I also wish that I could get over my initial reaction of wanting to push my conventional, unexceptional feelings under a large table. Then, maybe, I can work on not trivializing my feelings. And once I finish writing this, maybe I can be brave enough to not delete everything and start again until I found the voice I want to use.

So maybe this post is about not caring, and not making things look pretty. Or maybe this post is about nothing. And maybe the four people who read this will be like, hey, what's up with your writing, it really sucks lately. Or maybe that's just me talking.

But hey, here's what a first draft looks like, everyone. Enjoy it, I guess.

The Fourteenth of February

Last night I dreamt that we were talking to each-other in that long distance style, that "Can you hear me?," "Your face is frozen," "Hello?" style, that new decade technology that we're already bored with style. All of a sudden I realized that if I reached forward, I would be able to touch you. And I did and I could feel your real, honest-to-God skin stretched over your frame. And then all of a sudden you pulled me in to you and I couldn't tell you how it happened, but it did. I was so happy because finally we were close and it was the culmination of every perfect moment I've ever had, and it smelled like sweat, and deodorant, and woodsmoke and leaves. And my leg wasn't in this silly brace, and I had never gotten hit by that car, so I wrapped my legs around you. Maybe it's just my broken blues wishing me out of this foreign bed and over to you, but it was the best dream-moment I've ever had. Then it slipped out of my consciousness as quickly as it came, and the dream took its own turn, evading my desires, pushing me into the spiral of nonsensicals that dreams live for.

I woke up, and Valentine's Day was over. Time runs out very fast.