poeticdesires

Category: Rant

  • 1.25.17 Random Blackness

    – Today I started binge-ing A Different World, beginning at Season 2. It is still fabulous. I am a lot like Freddie, so much so it almost hurts. Except she is way louder than I am. Everything that she says and feels lines up pretty close to my personality, but, like the Birdcage, I keep it all inside.

    – Every time Eryka Badu’s Tyrone comes on my radio, I feel like I am going to church. There are usually exaltations and finger snaps interspersed with my singing along. Preach, Sister Badu, preach.

    – In a little over a week, I’m heading out on another Broadway road trip. Two of my black friends and I are going to NYC again. We’ve got tickets to see Mel B in Chicago. We’re also going to enter a bunch of lotteries to possibly see other shows. [Hamilton, of course, as well as Aladdin, Lion King, Great Comet, Dear Evan Hansen, Book of Mormon, Kinky Boots, and On Your Feet are my current list of possibles. (BroadwayForBrokePeople.com; I do my research.)] I’m really looking forward to the show, but I’m also stoked to be around black folks for an extended period of time. It’ll be exciting and relaxing; it’s how we do.

    – Much of my day is spent around a lot of white people. Like, a lot. The majority of my coworkers are white. The majority of my fares when I’m driving are white. So much whiteness throughout my day. That shit is exhausting. The thing that angers me about it is they have no idea because for them it’s normal. Of course everyone looks like me. That’s just the way it is. To sort of paraphrase James Baldwin, to be black in America is to be in a constant state of anger, exasperation, and exhaustion.

  • Men

    This is a rant.

    It is by no means what I wanted to be my first blog back since a necessary hiatus for school. It is not what I wanted to be doing right now. My finals are on Tuesday.  I need to study.  But even after I stripped off my work clothes, slipped into my comfy pj’s, and curled up on the couch in the family room, I still found myself so full of GAH!!! that I had to write this.

    Privilege, to some, is a dirty word. I don’t like getting into conversations about privilege because they always get sidetracked, or people get offended, or for any number of reasons why it is a sticky subject I’d rather not get caught on.

    But my day, all six hours of it thus far, has been dripping with the kind of male privilege and misogyny and oh-my-god-I-hate-the-world that life can only bring when you least expect it.

    It started when I was leaning against a wall before my 8am gig. It was 7:48am, and, though I could hear the rumble of people in the truck, I had no urge to help unload before I was on the clock. I don’t work for free.

    So I was dicking around on my phone, reading my Twitter timeline, trying to not be tired even though I’d only gotten 4.5hrs of sleep. Then one of the truck drivers tried to start a conversation with me. Mind you, I was ten to fifteen feet away engrossed in my smart phone. One would think body language alone would be a clue that I didn’t want anything to do with anyone for the next eleven minutes. I gave one and two word responses, never looking up from my phone, and he thankfully took the hint.

    Ten minutes later, I pulled out my work gloves. The second truck driver, who did chat with the first driver, noted as I was getting ready that someone had said good morning gentlemen, so they must not have noticed me.

    “Whatever. I’m usually the only woman, or maybe one of two, on a crew. I honestly don’t care.”

    And I didn’t. I wanted to get the job done and go home. I was tired and annoyed and knew that if anyone else tried to talk to me I would probably snap at them. I get very bitchy when I’m tired.

    So we got the gear inside and started working. As I suspected, I was in fact the only woman on my crew; no big deal.

    We got about half the gear setup when I noticed two senior guys on the crew chatting. And then I heard the crux of what they were going back and forth about. And I just had to laugh.

    I knew both guys from other gigs and liked both guys, but they were pretty much opposite ends of the political spectrum. My gig was in DC, so their talk had shifted into politics. One was spewing one side’s talking points, the other was countering with his side’s views, and then the two came to a moderate middle ground.

    I chuckled as I caught a sentence fragment here or there because all I could think of was how ridiculous it seemed to me. Two better-off-then-most white men coming to a compromise on political views, yet I knew they would probably never get to the heart of so many economical, political, and social woes other people who don’t look like them face every day. The white male well-off privilege in that moment was so ridiculous I had to giggle, or else I’d scream. And my bank account would not have appreciated the screaming.

    Later on, as we were close to finishing up, I helped some guys with a simple project. I don’t know how or why it happened, because I wasn’t paying attention to their chit-chat, but some guy offhandly said something to the effect of, “Who doesn’t like girls kissing? I love lesbians. Don’t all women love lesbians?” Thankfully his comments were not directed towards me.  I rolled my eyes and kept working.

    We finished up soon after that. I was happy to be done early.

    I walked to my Metro stop and took my spot on the platform, waiting for my train.

    “Excuse me, Miss.” A young guy about ten feet away from me was trying to talk to me. “Hi, I…  Why did you scrinch up your face like that?”

    “When I’m on the Metro, I feel like I’m in my own little bubble, so I don’t talk to people.”

    “Well, I just wanted to say your beautiful, and could I have your number?”

    “Thank you, that’s very sweet, and I appreciate your asking, but I have no interest right now, so I’m going to have to say no.”

    “Well, how could I go about getting your number?”

    “Um, I usually meet people through my friends and at social gatherings they set up, so I don’t meet people randomly in public.”

    “Well how am I, oh what’s your name?”

    “I don’t feel comfortable giving my name to someone I just met on the Metro.”

    “Well how is someone suppose to meet you or get to know you if you put up these walls?”

    “I get that, but I don’t feel comfortable right now, so thank you for the offer, but no.”

    I walked about twenty feet down the platform, putting about ten people between us.

    It would have been fine if he had stopped after the first try. If he had just said, “Oh, okay” after I gave my no. But he didn’t. He pushed. And kept pushing. And even though there were at least one hundred people on that platform, I did not feel safe with only ten feet between us.

    I know logically he probably would not have done anything, but that made me no less rattled. I tried to study for my Bio final, but even after I’d gotten on the train on a different car than his, I found myself worried that he would reappear and try his advance again. Or maybe do something more than talk.

    This is not the blog I wanted to write. I wanted to wait until Tuesday evening after finals when I knew I had time and brain space to write something sexy or fun. A girl in a dress has been dancing around my mind lately. But instead that was my half day. And now all I want to do is yell at someone, or cry while I punch a pillow, or curl up on my couch and watch Young Justice cartoons while eating Chinese delivery. That last options is probably going to happen after I hit post.

    The past thousand words is a skewed perspective.  There were other guys today who were nice to me in the non-creepiest of ways.  One guy offered me a cookie during our break.  Another guy and I enjoyed chatting randomly about cars.  I actually enjoy working with the white guys from the political conversation, even as I wonder if they will ever understand what I go through every day.  It’s hard for the nice moments to stick when the shitty ones have such a strong effect.

    I work in an industry and live in a country where a black female is expected to be many things. But I refuse to placate some desired male ego for “them digits” or to smile because you tell me to or to be timid and pleasing because that’s how you think I should be.

    When I’m tired, I’m bitchy. Deal with it.

    No, I do not enjoy seeing drunk girls kiss. In fact, it annoys me and kind of offends me.

    And no, I am not going to give my phone number to some random because he asked for it, especially not when he makes me regret having put my knife in my backpack instead of in my pocket.

  • Grumpy

    ~ a rant ~



    I am not a morning person. My Mom loves to tell the story of me saying that to her one day in the car while driving me to middle school.

    And it’s true.

    I hate waking up early. Especially for work. Especially if I didn’t get enough sleep the night before.

    On occasions where multiple days in a row I have not gotten enough sleep, I’ll slapped my smart phone’s alarm to snooze and yell, “I hate this shit” to no one in particular.

    When I’m tired, I can go from zero to bitch in the blink of an eye. When I’m that exhausted, all I want is to be left alone. I can usually survive work if I’m given a task I can do by myself or if I’ve paired with someone or someones who don’t talk to me.

    Seriously, don’t talk to me when I’m tired. I don’t have the patience to deal with people when I’m tired. If you must talk, keep it to short sentences. Trying to strike up a conversation with me will only issue evil thoughts about your torture and death.

    The worst, and what I find happens most often when I’m tired, are the people (in particular men) who try to make me smile or laugh. Try to cheer me up.

    When I’m tired, I don’t want to be cheered up. I want to be left the fuck alone. And I find it irritating when people try to foist their happiness on me. I’m allowed to feel like shit. I’m allowed to be moody, grumpy even.

    My general disposition is no concern of yours. I don’t owe you a smile. I barely owe you acknowledgement. I don’t have to be happy. And when some random thinks he’s going to cheer up my day with his winning personality, all I want to do is shove his care and concern down his throat.

    I’ve noticed how bad it can get lately. 6am Load Ins and 1am Load Outs will do that.

    Unfortunately, no one wins when trying to catch me in a good mood. If I start my day early, I won’t be good til I’ve slept. And that means a nap. And naps for me happen as infrequently as you might have guessed.

    There is only one exception to my tired grumpy self: events. At an event, I can run on three hours of sleep and be happy and chipper. I run off of adrenaline. What new thing will I learn about or see today? Events allow for naps. And orgasms. And a good beating or two. At an event, grumpy I almost never am.

    But in real life. If I haven’t gotten enough sleep. If I’m over worker and under rested. It’s best to steer clear of me. Neither of us will like me when I’m grumpy.

  • Three Guys At Work

    The 1st guy

    “To make these fit, there’s a trick. You have to marry them together.”
    “I wouldn’t call it marrying. I’d more say they were…”

    I was tired. You could probably even say cranky. My day started with a 6am setup. Continued with a 3pm focus call. And now ended with a 10pm breakdown that didn’t actually start til 11pm. I just wanted to go home. But we had to get shit done.

    And he was new. So I got it. He was trying to be playful. Trying to make me smile. But, tonight, that wasn’t going to happen until the truck was packed, I’d initialed my timesheet, and was walking back to my car.

    “Please, not tonight. No vulgar jokes tonight. Normally I’d roll with it, let it ride, but just not tonight.”
    “It’s just marrying seems too permanent for their situation.”
    “Yeah. Right.”

    I finished piling the lights in the bin and moved onto another project.

    The 2nd guy


    “No. Stop. Don’t put those in there. They don’t go in there.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the four with bases go in there. Those go with the others with clamps.”
    “Fine. You don’t have to get an attitude about it.”

    I don’t like him. Not anymore.

    At a certain point I did. I thought he was a decent tech, a decent crew lead. And then I worked with him once where I was his crew lead. He was passive aggressive. A couple of times he outright ignored me when I asked him questions. Thankfully I haven’t had to deal with him as my crew since.

    And, since, I haven’t liked him at all.

    So, when I was trying to tell him why he was making a mistake. When I tried to point out his error. When I tried to go against his laziness (because that’s what it was). When I tried to instruct him in the proper way to pack that particular case, since I’d been there all day (one of only three who had), he said I was giving him “attitude”.

    I was just happy I didn’t curse him out right there. Though, to be fair, I’m too nice. Even to people who don’t deserve it. I’ll turn my back and mutter expletives to myself before I stand face-to-face with you, telling you how I really feel. I view that as being polite. I’m sure some of them see it as being weak. And to that, I say, fuck them. My Mom raised me right.

    I spoke maybe three words to that guy for the rest of the gig.

    In my opinion, his problem is that he’s pretty. Very pretty, in fact, so people will often let him have his way. Even when he’s wrong. But, lately, not just I have noticed when he fucks up. And he’s getting on more than just my nerves.

    The 3rd guy


    “Ooo, are you taking that home?”

    He carried a small vase of purple tulips left behind by the florists. He held it up by his face and playfully stroked the buds.

    “Would you like one?”
    “Normally I don’t accept gig flowers, but sure.”

    He picked one out of the vase and gave it to me. Another female employee walked over and commented on the flowers. He offered her one as well, which she accepted.

    We pushed the last few cases towards the freight elevator.

    As we waited behind another company, the group was finally in good spirits. Though we had started late, we were close to finished, having worked really hard to get everything broken down.

    When we reached the truck, and pushed the last case on, a wave of relief washed over me. Long day done.

    Everyone congregated by the crew lead and waited to initial our timesheetsReacher novel (which I could barely put down all day), in my hands. The purple against the white and red of the cover looked almost artistic. I smiled to myself, happy I’d brought the book inside to help pass the time of the hour wait before we started, and now knowing I’d be able to get back to it soon.

    After everyone initialed, we slowly disbursed.

    “What are you going to do with them,” I asked him, referring to his small vase of tulips.
    “I don’t know. Hey, do you want them?”

    He held it out for me.

    “Um, sure.”

    I took the vase, put my flower back inside it.

    I smiled, and remembered, Not every guy I work with is an asshole.

  • Holla

    I suppose I was overdue. It hadn’t happened in awhile.

    Monday I’m working (happens a lot when I’m working, or on my way to work). My job’s tedious and annoying. I’m wearing an ugly orange vest and carrying around two orange flags. I’m a spotter for a forklift as we maneuver gear around in a high foot traffic area.

    Most people are following my instructions and walking a safe distance around the lift. Some people I have to yell at because they are so absorbed in their iPhoneAndroidMusicThing that they almost decapitate themselves.

    So as I’m blocking people from hurting themselves, one older black gentleman walks by, looks me up and down, and yells, “Oh yeah girl, make that money. Make that money, girl.”

    I’m startled for a moment. It’s been sometime since I’ve been catcalled. As is my normal way, I ignore him and go on with my day.

    Then last night, Tuesday night, the next night, I’m walking towards my load out. Monday was a hard day. Today is no better. 6am load in. 3pm touch ups. 10pm out. I’m tired. I didn’t get enough sleep.

    Monday was draining. Tuesday is taking its toll. By the time I’m walking towards my strike, I just want to finish the gig and collapse into my bed.

    As I walk through the parking lot to the main entrance, I see two guys by a 26′ box truck. They’re working with another company. I put a car between myself and the two men as I make my way towards the front. They’re chatting amicably, and I get this feeling. Sure enough, as I walk by, a high pitched shrill whistle rings through the air.

    I’m not startled. I am slightly annoyed. But I was expecting it. I keep walking.

    I don’t get it. Cat calls (from randoms on the street) have never caught my attention except in negative fashion. Why do guys do it? What’s the point?

    In my experience as a “shorty”, cat calls are the exact opposite way of engendering my affection. At best, I ignore them and go about my day. At worst, I loathe the person hooting in my direction and wish a thousand plagues on their lives.

    Has a cat call ever worked? I can’t honestly think of one person I know who has responded to a cat call with a phone number. Laughs, maybe. A smile, possibly. But, for me, absolute loathing.

    Twice in two days. A record for me solo.

    Once, though, when I went on a high school trip to Puerto Rico, our group encountered cat calls multiple times a day. Then again, we were a group of eight sixteen and seventeen year old girls in the middle of a Latin cultural Mecca. To not be cat called would’ve been odd.

  • Groan

    Waking up and my elbow aches because, in the middle of the night, I turned over and ended up sleeping on it funny. And now that I’m awake, I can’t just drift back into a snooze-ful slumber because the pain, though not debilitating, is annoying enough to distract me.

    Trying to snooze for an hour, only to finally give up, brush my teeth, and hop back into bed.

    Gray sky outside is foreboding. I wonder if it will rain. No running today.

    I sit up on my bed, pull out my netbook, and look up information for an open call for submissions. Jotting down the requirements, ideas for my story pop into my head. Revisiting an idea I had yet to flush out, I realize it’s perfect. I start typing.

    And then I stop. The ache in my arm is gone, replaced now with a desire to go back to sleep. But I know it will not be in my best interest; too many things to do before work.

    And then I remember how I felt the night before as I tried to go to sleep. And I realize, “Shit, I have to dealing with feelings. Stupid stupid feelings. There went my morning.”

    I open my netbook back up. I type more, no longer caring about cadence or developing a story. I type my thoughts, all the feelings, until I have pages on my screen of the things I tried to ignore. All the things I hoped would be lost in my dreams.

    I read the words back. I edit, add to, and save the document.

    I do it again for other feelings, less impactful thoughts that still warrant some time. I flush it all out before I have to be more productive. I run out of time for more fun writing.

    I get up. I throw on work clothes. I eat food. I watch a touch of NetFlix. I mend my work pants cause I don’t want to buy new ones yet. I leave for work.

    Outside today. I find a parking spot not effected by rush hour. I wait til closer to my call time. I keep a look out for meter maids. I try not to bake in my car. I pay the meter. I walk to the site. I work.

    And work.

    And work.

    Four hours, what I was slated for, turns into five. And six.

    I get really pissed. I cancel my dinner plans. I reschedule for Wednesday. I try to not yell at people who are being stupid. I remind myself I’m angry because my blood sugar has dropped. And I’m working outside. And my job sucks sometimes. I breathe.

    I end work at the 6.5hr mark. I try not to be mad anymore since I am on my way home.

    I drive a friend to their car. I buy fast food, cause at this point I really don’t give a shit.

    I sit on my couch with a roommate watching Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic be awesome. I feel better about my life.

    I finish my food. I finish the show. I clean up some in the kitchen. I drag my ass upstairs to my bedroom.

    And then I realize, after I start taking off my disgusting work clothes, that my clean clothes are downstairs in the dryer. GROAN. No bed just yet.

    I drag my ass downstairs. I retrieve my clothes. I come back upstairs.

    Brush my teeth. Get into bed. Open my netbook. Type. Wish I had more time to write, but a 6am call looms.

    The good news: I learned today I was accepted into community college. Maybe less groaning in my future?

  • Frustrated

    I hated my job tonight.

    The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

    I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

    And then I learned I didn’t because of one small lapse.

    The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn’t want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

    I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just… If only I’d… Why didn’t he just…

    You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

    Now I’m just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn’t do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren’t-you-so-cute-but-you’re-wrong-and-I’m-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

    I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I’ll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I’ll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I’ll need this job to get by.

    I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don’t. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can’t get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, “Enough is enough?”

    Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don’t want that.

    I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

    So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

    I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

    Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don’t live to work; I work to live.

    This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

  • Cute

    I am sick and tired of one word I hear all the time: cute.

    People often use that word to describe me. People, during first introductions, will use it. People who have never known each other will utter the exact same sentence to compliment my looks.

    “You are cute.”

    I get it. I totally get it. The smile. The curls. The school girl outfits. The cheeks. The dimples. Especially the dimples.

    I’m not saying I’m not cute. That would be a denial of a basic fact. That is not why I’m writing this.

    It’s just.

    I know one might be happy to be called such a sweet description. There are far worse things a person could be called. But sometimes that word makes me want to bash my head up against a wall.

    I hear it all the time. ALL THE TIME.

    No one has, or of yet, called me that word during sex. (If they had, our fun would’ve ended far too soon.) But for a person who is so sexual, for a footloose and fancy free slut like me, cute can feel less than apt.

    Why not sexy? Or provocative? Or enchanting?

    Why not engaging? Or just plain hot?

    Cute seems so small, almost dismissive, in comparison to just about any other compliment when it comes to looks.

    Curvaceous. Cunning. Coy.

    I could just as easily be called any of the descriptors I’ve used thus far. Yet, it is cute I always get.

    Cute makes its way into conversation as offhand comments, out of context interjections, never falling from my lips.

    Once someone who I found to be drop dead sexy called me cute during our initial flirtation. In that instance, I didn’t fault them. Nor did their words take away from the fact I wanted them to do any and everything to me. Still, it was a slight sting to the moment, a paper cut on the edge of an unforgettable encounter.

    There have been times when cute was far away, not existing in my world. The one moment I keep going back to was about a year ago. As the Gent and I were fucking, he looked down on me, I looked up at him, and he called me beautiful.  As he drove his cock in and out of me, I believed him. For those precious breaths, I felt special. I felt sexy and gorgeous and irresistible. I felt beautiful. But those moments are too few and far between.

    I can’t run away from the word. I can’t deny its existence, much like one can’t deny the face staring back at them in the mirror. I see it everyday. I see why people use that word to describe me. It is appropriate. It is a part of who I am, and how the world perceives me, whether I like it or not.

    It is a four letter word I’ve learned to live with, though if I never hear it again it will be too soon.

    Fuck it, I’m cute.

    However, I would love it if the world saw, and knew, I was more than just that little word.

  • Bubble

    So… this is the blog I didn’t post on Friday. The feelings-rich not-fun bad things blog.

    This is a rant. This is not sexy or funny. This post is going to touch on some horrible shit that’s been happening in our country lately. I give this warning in case you don’t want to read something like this today, or from me, or ever. 

    [Trigger Warning]

    I live in a bubble. It is a bubble of my own making, my own choosing.

    I think it is both a characteristic of my personality and a self preservation device that I tend to see the best in people. I tend to believe the world is a happier, safer, more loving place than I know it to be.

    I choose to don rose colored glasses in my everyday because to not do so would have me confront the horrible nature of the world around us all the time, and, frankly, who the fuck wants that?

    But life always has a way of breaking my bubble, no more so than in the past month.

    When the shooting happened in Newtown, I was at work. I’d been awake since 4:30am and had been working since 5am. The particular facility I was working in that day had poor cell phone service for my carrier, so I had not bothered to check Twitter or social media.

    During a break, though, around 10am, one of my coworkers, who did have cell service, popped on Twitter. And then the words “school shooting” and “little kids” came out of her mouth. She is a mother of a child close in age to the children who were killed that day. She was alarmed, scared. I was numb.

    I went on with my work day, which would last longer than anyone liked. I got about thirty minutes of sleep that night, not because of concern from the news but because my next gig started at 6am. I didn’t have time to think, really think, about the news as it trickled into my existance. I had to work.

    The following day, after another eighteen hours of work, eight hours of sleep, and four more hours of work, I found myself in a restaurant with some coworkers eating burgers and barely noticing the President talking about the shooting.

    I did, however, have my PDA/hand moment, so I guess my subconscious was tuning in while my id made me push through my job.

    As the holidays came, as I saw family and friends, as I felt myself overjoyed by immersion back into my community, it was easy to blow my bubble back up. The shooting had deflated it, but not quite collapsed the structure. Frankly, “school shooting” is a phrase I’ve heard many times since I was a kid, since Columbine, and another elementary school shooting, and metal detectors, and all the rest you know.

    And then, a few days ago, I was on Twitter. And I happened to click on a link. And I read about the rape in Stuebenville.

    Pop.

    The bubble, which had withstood the shooting mostly because of exhaustion and forced ignorance, finally burst.

    And now I’m hearing all those things I was trying to ignore. Now I am noticing how angry I am. How frustrated I am with our govenment. How much I want to scream at the head of the NRA for his fucked up speech. How much I want to scream at this country’s rape culture. How scared I am for my four year old niece and the world she was brought into.

    I had an appointment with my GYN today. If you’ve read this blog for a while, you will know I have less than stellar thoughts concerning her, but I keep going back because it’s convient. Sometimes I hate how much I put up with because it’s convient.

    And, as per usual, when I mentioned I wanted an STI screening because it’s been six months, and I’ve had two new “sexual” partners since last seeing her, I could just feel the judging going on in her mind. At least this time she didn’t talk. This time she just pursed her lips, mumbled “mmm hmm”, and proceeded to take the cultures.

    But it’s her reaction, that judgement, the belief in the denegration of slut, that is part of the basis for some of the evils in our world.

    Now my GYN is far from evil, just a judgemental prude. But it’s the culture of judgement. Of slut shaming. Of believing “she wanted it but just couldn’t say it”. Believing that some rape isn’t really rape. Believing that there is an inappropriate way of expressing my sexuality with another consenting adult, or an inappropriate amount of sex that I’m having with an inappropriate amount of people, that is more than rage-making.

    Some people have been permeating the thought that if gun laws had been less severe, the Jews could’ve protected themselves against Hitler. Really? Really!?! Read a fucking history book, go visit the Holocaust museum (I have), and shut the fuck up.

    These folks also have a problem with a national registry of guns.  I have to ask, Do you own and drive a car legally?  With the title, tags, and… registration?  Does your car still have its VIN branded on multiple parts of its body?  Then shut the fuck up.

    I don’t know what it will take to curb the evils of gun violence and sexual violence in this country, but I know what won’t. Ignoring the problems won’t solve them, but will instead make them worse.

    Believing that more guns solve the situation is a level of lunacy I am not willing to even entertain.

    Shame around sex, talking about it, teaching it to our children, will only make sexual violence more pervasive.

    What happened to compromise? What happened to working together? Oh, right… It’s much easier to get elected when you rail against a problem than when you fix it.

    Sex is not the enemy; violence is. Sex is not the enemy; rape is. Sex is not the enemy.

    Consent counts. Consent, in fact, is all that matters when it comes to sex. No means no. And being too drunk to walk is not an invitation into someone’s pants.

    When a coach defends his rapist players instead of standing up for their victim, instead of trying to figure out what went wrong, it’s obvious that he is part of the problem. When it takes Anonymous to help pull forth the truth, when people are willing to live Tweet this horrendous crime instead of coming to the aid of the victim, I don’t know what to think about this country except disgust.

    In India, a woman was gang raped and people rioted in the streets. In America, children were killed. In America, a girl was gang raped while people blogged about it. And we are arguing about semantics?

    Land of the free and home of the brave…? Complete and total bullshit.

  • Must Eat Pussy

    I have not been on OKCupid for long, but in my brief stint I have grown disheartened, disillusioned, and dis, I mean pissed, off in general by the crop of folk migrating my way.

    It seems so simple, and yet it also seems to be the hardest thing in the world: a person who I find attractive sending me a coherent thoughtful message.

    As such, I have decided to soon augment my profile with some information that will hopefully weed out unsuitable applicants who come upon my page. Of course they may just ignore my words all together, but at least I tried a little harder.

    Henceforth, here are some of the basic standards I intend to hold up as the introductory requirements for me even considering someone for possible dates.

    1) Thou shalt not be a douche.

    You can be an asshole, if you are a fun lovable asshole. There are assholes in my life that have done some asshole-ish things to me, but I asked for it. Assholes can make things way more interesting, can push you to be more honest than you might want to be. Fun lovable assholes are good.

    You can be geeky. In fact, I would prefer you at least be a little bit geeky. Geeky is fucking awesome. We can geek out about Battlestar Galactica or Harry Potter or the Avengers. We can share our geekiness with each other and marvel in all the geeky awesomeness that we are. Geekiness is a plus.

    You can be passionate, ecstatic, full of life and energy. You can run around ready to teach and learn and grow and shape the people around you and reshape yourself.

    You can be quiet, reserved, yet a totally great person I want to be around. You don’t need to be loud or boisterous. Just being yourself is great in and out itself, without all the bells and whistles.

    But a douche… 

    A douche brings everyone down. A douche turns awesome to awkward. A douche takes the party from YAY! to meh. I will find it very hard to like you, let alone date you, if you are a douche. No douches accepted; please keep it moving if you are a douche.

    2) Thou shalt not be a hermit.

    My last “relationship” involved me with an anti-social individual. Most of our time was spent at either my place or his (or ours when we moved in together). I tried to be happy with it just being us, or me leaving to go do things alone with my friends. All the time. Never with him. But I was lying to myself.

    I’m not saying I’ll expect us to do everything together, because no. But we will do some things together. 

    I can, at times, be a little social butterfly. Yes, I go to quite a few events and visit my friends all over this great planet. But if I had a partner, a person I was fully committed to, I would make more than enough time for us, just us. And then I would want you to come along for the ride, experiencing some of the fun stuff with me.

    I want a travel companion, a concert buddy, a hotel roommate, a lover, and a friend.

    3) Thou shalt talk.

    Not only was my Ex anti-social, he didn’t talk about his feelings. Ever. Very big problem.

    I’m not saying I expect us to go into marathon gab sessions where we explore the inner reaches of our moral code, dissect the influence of our parents and siblings on who we are, and finally realize the thing that has held us back from true enlightenment.

    But I do expect us to talk. Tell me if something upsets you. Makes you happy. How was your day? I want to know that. Is there something bothering you? Something you want to expound on that makes you happy.

    Talk. Because if you don’t then we will have problems because…

    4) We shall be poly.

    I am poly. I am poly. I don’t stop being poly just because I don’t currently have any partners, nor will I cease to be poly because the immensity of your love with fill me to the brim with all the blahblahblah.

    No. I am poly.

    I have the great capacity to love many people, and would love to have multiple special important lovers in my life. I want partners, dammit, and the idea of denying myself a full rich life because someone wants to change my mind or, worse still, change me, is heartbreaking. And a definite dealbreaker.

    I am all for us going slow, not jumping into a W configuration with random semi-permanent offshoots. But if poly is not a possibility for you, if merely the idea of multiple caring emotionally invested lovers does not compute, we shouldn’t even start.

    Inevitably, when I tell you about this person I met, or this friendship that is developing into something more, and you tense up, or turn cold, we will be done. You will make an ultimatum or remain quiet until one day blowing up at me, and that will be it. And what would our time together have been for if you lied to both me and yourself from the beginning.

    & 5) Thou shalt meet the basics and fucking exceed them.

    – You have a job or are actively searching for steady employment.

    – You own your own car or have the ability to transport yourself without my assistance.

    – You do not live with your parents. (Roommates, great. Parents, no.)

    – You can write grammatically correct sentences, which will then form a coherent paragraph, possibly leading to multiple thoughts encompassed in a short essay.

    – YOU READS BOOKS! Not a sports page. Not a magazine. But a book. (Bonus points if you know the reference. If not, your welcome.)

    – You have the ability to engage in intelligent thoughtful conversation on a range of topics and issues. (For example: You know the difference between Iran and Iraq. And you can find them on a map.)

    – You are not an ultra-conservative Republican. No. Just no. Trust me; no.

    – You are kinky, or you are kink aware and accepting, realizing I will need to find my kink elsewhere.

    – You wholeheartedly accept gay people, their civil right to marriage and families. 

    – You are pro-choice.

    – You enjoy whit and humor, both high and low brow.

    – You practice basic hygiene rituals. (See above link.)

    – MUST EAT PUSSY! This is a dealbreaker. Seriously, if you don’t eat pussy, don’t even say hi. Don’t try to be funny or witty or baby step around it. No. Just don’t. So. Fucking. Annoying.

    If you can abide by all of the above, and then some, then maybe, MAYBE you can date a poetic.

    Because that’s another thing.  Just because you meet the minimum doesn’t mean we’ll click.  It doesn’t mean I’ll find you attractive or you, after inspecting the goods, will find me attractive.  And that’s okay. 

    But, for the love of all that is good, the fact that people can’t even meet the minimum is rage-making.

    /rant