poeticdesires

Category: Rant

  • Rambling

    Back to your regularly scheduled kinky hotness soon.  Today, though, I need to just type and see what appears on my screen.

    I’m on a beach vacation with my best friend and her family.  They love me; I love them; it’s been good.  However, for most of my time spent here, my body has existed absent my mind.  Too many thoughts have been rattling around inside my head, hence this post.

    Typos
    I.  HATE.  TYPOS!!!  After re-reading a recent post (DOF 2011: Sunday Part 1) and finding a bunch of mistakes and clunky language, I went back and revised/rewrote quite a bit of the entry. 

    Encouraged by these fixes, I then found myself re-reading some of the very first posts I wrote for this blog.  I made it through almost the entire first year before I saw it, plan as day.  Where there should have been ‘piles’, I wrote ‘pills.’   

    ANGER!!! 

    FRUSTRATION!!! 

    That post was three years old.  Three years of my mistake existing on the internet and me not doing a damn thing to fix it.

    As a writer, for me, there is nothing so grating, so irritating, so downright blood-in-the-eyes inspiring as a spelling mistake, dropped punctuation, or stunted word flow. 

    I enjoy what I do.  I love spinning tales.  But it is the simple mistake that is currently haunting my creative thoughts.

    For every post I create, I spend half my time writing and the other half revising.  I read each post at least twice, beginning to end, looking for errors and breaks in flow.  I try my damnedest to write a post worthy of reading.  But, even with all my efforts, without fail, for every blog I write and read, and re-read, there will be at least one little mistake, one misspelling, a ‘their’ instead of ‘they’re,’ an ‘out’ instead of an ‘our,’ a fucking dropped coma or repetitive word that makes me want to throw my fucking laptop across the room.

    Woo-Saa…Woo-Saa…Woo-Saa…

    But, I endeavor on, even though I know it will be highly ironic, and incredibly maddening, when I find the typo in this blog.

    Fear 
    I live a fairly open life.  I write about my adventures on the interwebs and talk about my extra-curricular life to family, friends, and folks at work. 

    Granted, I have it easy.  People in my job either are very interested and amused or they genuinely don’t give a shit.  I have yet, thankfully, to run into someone who is adamantly against whom I am and what I do.  Of the friends and family who know, they’re either also in the scene or love me more than their objections to my life.

    Still, when a friend made a suggestion recently, I found myself taken aback and almost ready to flee.  Okay, maybe not literally run away from my then current location, but a jittery feeling crept up inside.

    I have been writing for almost as long as I could read.  I still remember being seven or eight and showing Ella my pink notebook (don’t ask me why it was that color; I am not a fan of pink).  In it, I’d written maybe half a dozen to a dozen poems. 

    In elementary school, I wrote action adventures similar to the Indiana Jones movies and Stephen King’s The Stand.  Middle school was journaling.  High school was erotica.  College, what else but plays.  I have been a writer my entire life.  I’ve just never been paid for it.

    But, recently, a friend read my blog and told me, “You’re quite a talented blogger.  You could easily turn that into a book.” 

    At the time, I didn’t know why this took me aback.  I thought maybe because it was seemingly out of the blue.  Maybe because I hadn’t been critiqued on my work for so long; I’d forgotten people actually had opinions.  Maybe because I had hung my hope on finishing my thriller novel, which I haven’t touched in a year.  Maybe because my friend has published work; I highly respect his opinions.  I didn’t know why, but, in the same instance, I was both flattered and fearful.

    In my head, their comment meant two things:
    1- I really have been dragging my feet on getting published. 
    2- Why has my ass been dragging on finishing my works and getting published?

    And just as soon as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer: FEAR.  The little hater.  The inner demon.  Self doubt.  Insecurity.  It didn’t just pervade my thoughts while living my kinky life.  I think it permeates all aspects of my life.  And that shit needs to stop.

    In my head, I’d been telling myself my writing wasn’t good enough.  It was good, but who would publish it?  Who would buy it?  Who would read it?  And if they did, wouldn’t I be judged on how I lived? 

    Yah know what, fuck ’em.

    I could do it.  I could be a published writer.  Granted, this is not how I’d expected or anticipated it.  If anything, it’s better.  I love writing about my life, the little details, reliving the moments that touched me so and still leave impressions to this day.  Why not share my life with the world and maybe somehow spin making a living out of it? 

    My kink life, my work life, my entire adult life has been about making myself be brave when all I want to do is run and hide under the table.  Time to man up.

    Three
    Currently there are three people in my life I would literally do anything for.  I haven’t told them; they don’t need to know.  I care for them deeply and am so ecstatic to have them in my life, whatever way they can be, that my feelings towards them need to stay in my head.  I don’t need my mental shit ruining my friendships.

    But, and there is always is a but, sometimes it really fucking sucks. 

    They never mean to, but the slightest indication this way or that from any of them holds an emotional sway over me I’m not always happy about.

    For instance, one day recently I wasn’t feeling my best.  One short text message from one of them and my mood turned on a fucking dime, plastering a smile on my face for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  I was feeling okay one night this week and a phone call from another sent me over the moon.  I was in a fairly good mood earlier, but a text from the last one rubbed me the wrong way.  Now, I’m feeling less than myself.

    I don’t know what to do about this.  I don’t think there is anything I can do.  I am certainly not extricating them from my life; they mean too much to me.  Even with the emotional swings, to not have any of them would hurt more than any unintentional comment or gesture on their part.

    And none of this is their fault; it’s just the way my mind works.  I get attached and have to work my way through it. 

    Reminding myself others are not as perceptive as I am helps.  Also, that people are not as sensitive and don’t remember every little detail or interaction like I do.  And, reminding myself these people care about me deeply too, even when my little hater is shouting doubts.

    Habete fidem; desine fatigo.

    Have faith; stop worrying.
    ~

    So yeah, my head’s a bit of a mess.  It doesn’t help that I’ve barely worked this month.  My money is fine; the recent move severely decreased my bills.  It is the actual act of working that I’ve, almost, missed.  There is just something about the physical nature of what I do that gets me out of my head.  When I have to make sure lights aren’t going to fall on people and truss towers aren’t going to tip over, the worries of my life come into perspective.

    It also doesn’t help that I haven’t rigged since I’ve been on this vacation.  I didn’t realize how meditative, how calming and centering my rope time is until it was gone.  Binding myself, lifting myself in the air, and settling into the feel of my body in that unnatural state is much more fulfilling than I ever imagined.  I should have known when, during the ‘Hot Ball Of Crazy’ era, one of my stress reliefs was self-bondage.  Rope holds a special place for me.  I’m just now beginning to acknowledge and embrace this. 

    Fuck, what I would give for a good hard point and no threat of cops or creeps coming by.  Or even three six foot bamboo sticks and a closet.  I could make that shit work.

    But no.  I have to wait til Saturday. 

    Three days.

  • Night Owl

    It’s 3:27am and I’m awake. This is not insomnia; I’m just awake. Not really sleepy, cause I took a nap around 10pm til 11:45pm, but I think I’ll make myself sleep soon.

    So, I moved, mostly. About a third of my shit is around me now, in a house I’m sharing with three friends, who happen to all be in a relationship, and another friend who is riding our couch for the summer. Yup, we’re that house.

    I forget lots of things, as displayed in previous posts. Tonight’s forgetting: most people don’t randomly stay up nights just fucking around on their phones. To be fair, before this move, I would’ve been watching random cable TV, which I think is a little more normal.

    So, um, yeah. There are people here. I can’t just stomp around, dancing randomly to my Thriller album (vinyl; yup, I’m cool). Staying up requires me to be semi-quiet, thereby muffling my outbursts of laughter. And it’s dark, like making me uncomfortable dark. (Yes, I admit it: I’m an adult who’s scared of the dark. Bite me.)

    So, compromise. That thing I haven’t had to do for a year. We meet again, fucker.

    My job, by nature, gives me an odd schedule and weird sleeping habits. I was able to stay up at camp (a long post to come about that later) til 5/6am every night cause I’m used to running on little to no sleep. Oh, and of course the adrenaline helped.

    But now that I’m living with people who have 9-5 jobs, I have to remember to tip toe at night, come in through the side door because they bolted the front (yeah, that will need to change; fucking pissy arrangement there), and try to be, fuck, considerate.

    Living with friends is fun… right?

  • Remind Yourself You’re Awesome

    Cause if you don’t, you could end up like I was tonight: swimming in a pool of jealousy, self doubt, worry, and general crapitude.

    The only things that kept me from running home, curling up into a ball, and crying myself into an uneasy sleep were the four Margarita’s I drank. As I attempted to sober up, my drunken giddiness kept me talking, kept me engaged, and helped me fight my little hater.

    I find my life is really hard during this time of year. With my job, it’s feast or famine. Since the feast has officially started, I’ve thrown myself into gigs, working over a week without a day off. But, as I’m making good money, it always feels like I’m loosing out on time with the people that matter most to me. If I don’t schedule it, I can go a month or more without seeing anyone outside work. I start to doubt my connections, my confidence wanes, and the little hater inside me is pleased as punch.

    Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m single. Don’t get me wrong; I will not run into a relationship just because sometimes I’m a little lonely. But I must acknowledge the fact that my unease tonight would not have been as severe if I had someone to go home to. Having said that, there is no one, NO ONE, in my life currently who I can imagine filling that role. So, for the foreseeable future, I’ve gotta figure this shit out on my own.

    Thankfully, I didn’t run away. In the end, I had a good time. And I’ve had confirmation of my awesomeness over and over again, including tonight. For now, that’s enough.

  • VD, or My Distorted Views On Feb. 14th

    I am a late bloomer. I didn’t loose my virginity, or have my first relationship, til I was 22. So, for the majority of my life, February 14th was not a welcome day.

    In grade school, I received cards from all my classmates, but was then picked on when I created a card for a boy I liked. Everyone else made theirs for a parent. His name was Noel. I don’t remember anything about him, except for that incident.

    In middle school, it was all about being chosen to receive a card. In my class of twenty, I got about five.

    Because I went to an all girls Catholic high school, somehow it was less painful. I don’t even remember cards, but there was candy and heart decorations.

    I can’t remember VD at all in college. Then again, with classes, two jobs, and shows, most of my days were a blur.

    Now, as an adult, my experiences haven’t improved. Stores push you to buy things. Television shoves the love narrative on you. And, if you’re single, the general thought is you’re to be pitied or there must be something wrong with you.

    Frankly, I call bullshit on the entire notion of VD.

    Even when I was in a relationship, I never liked VD. My Ex didn’t believe in gift giving, nor did he ever say he loved me. (I know, what a dick.) I thought things would be different because I finally had someone. And they were: I felt worse. What was the point in celebrating our love when he couldn’t even say the words?

    Now that I’m single again, I had planned to hang out with friends. But life is a son-of-a-bitch and my plans were cancelled. So I’m stuck alone on a Monday with nothing to do, except resent the world for about 24hrs.

    Happy VD; hope you don’t choke on your candy.

  • Eight Days

    He came home, because he forgot his lunch, and started fucking talking.

    Seriously?  He was still on the clock at work, and I was just trying to hold it all together.

    In about fifteen minutes, I’m leaving to have lunch with my father.  It’s a little early (as in date wise), but it’s for my birthday, which my ex still couldn’t remember correctly.

    He keeps saying he’s hurt.  He keeps saying he doesn’t understand.  I kept telling him it’s over; he is not the man I hoped he would be. 
    .
    I told him how each time he said “I appreciate you” instead of “I love you”, it hurt.  I told him because he didn’t give me daily emotional recognition and reassurance, I often felt less than “appreciated”.

    I told him, because of his financial issues, I felt like the adult in the relationship.  He disagreed, but of course gave no explanation to back up his view.

    I know July 15th is only eight days away, but it feels like forever.

    And all this, from just before Memorial Day til just after my birthday.  Talk about a shitty start to the summer.

  • Blowing Into The Wind

    At times, I feel like a little old lady.  I DVR & watch CBS Sunday Morning and 60 Minutes, wanting to stay informed, but also realizing there are so many people in my generation who either don’t have a DVR to record and watch these two shows or who just don’t care.  But I do it anyway as one of the multitude of ways I gather information for my general knowledge.

    And I’m glad I do because often I’m surprised by just how much I can learn on any given show.  In fact, only fifteen minutes ago, I barely knew anything about “the Narrative,” but 60 Minutes is an awfully good show. 

    Since I barely knew anything, I’m guessing others may be in the same boat, or I may be the last one among my circle of internet influence to come into this knowledge.  Either way, I’m going to talk about it a little.

    “The Narrative” is what Muslims, often well off and highly educated individuals, are told about the United States and, by extension, “the West”, to convert them to radicalized views.  They are told we invaded Iraq because it is a country of Muslims and we attacked ourselves on 9-11 as a reason to invade Afghanistan.  (Yup, they are Truthers.)  They’re told the CIA secretly setup Al Qaeda (which with Charlie Wilson’s war is an easy lie to pass).   They’re told the West wants to destroy the Islamic faith by attacking countries to do so, and the only way to stop the US is to attack them on all fronts possible.

    As you might expect, I was taken aback by this.  I knew some of this already, the trying to destroy Islam through wars part, but I had no idea of the extent of the mania.  It reminded me of the mental manipulation cult followers or domestic terror organizations (Waco, KKK, Weathermen, etc.) use to convert their members.  And then it dawned on me: Al Qaeda is a religious and extremist cult, gone international.  It is the KKK, but more effective.  And, just like with the KKK, the best way to counter their actions is through our own actions and the truth. 

    In the 60 Minutes piece, a gentleman named Maajid Nawaz was profiled.  Nawaz is British and was once a member of the Party of Liberation, a group with members from Indonesia to London that doesn’t advocate terrorism, but is deeply anti-Western and committed to spreading the Narrative. 

    Nawaz joined the Party of Liberation in college and recruited others to “fight against the West.”  It wasn’t until he was arrested in Egypt and sentenced to prison time that he was converted back…by the assassins of Anwar Sadat and the leaders of the Muslim brotherhood.  In the twenty years since they were locked up, these men had abandoned their radical beliefs.  Nawaz thought they had sold out, and tried to bring them back into the fold.  But in trying to re-convert them, his own views and beliefs were brought into doubt.  These assassins and former leaders showed Nawaz his views were not true Islam, but closer to fascism than anything else. 

    After Nawaz left prison, he set up a think tank in London and has been traveling all over the world holding talks and workshops to counteract the Narrative, and, in essence, take back all the things he’d done when he was young.  

    60 Minutes showed a clip of him standing at the head of a long rectangular table talking to people around my age about the West and railing against the Narrative.  He asked them if they knew how many Muslims lived in the US, if they knew how many mosques were in the US, if they knew the President’s father was Muslim.  He argued that the US went into Iraq for the wrong reasons, but those reasons had little to do with religion and more to do with money and oil.  He acknowledged the US has killed civilians with drone attacks, but asked why suicide bombers, who’ve killed thousands of Muslims, are just given a free pass.  To me, he was very convincing.  To the attendees, I don’t know.

    I mention all this as a jumping off point for my bigger questions: Why haven’t we done more to counteract the Narrative?  Why aren’t we out there in the Muslim world, everyday, talking to them and railing against all the lies?  Why isn’t their a specific counterintelligence program just for this? 

    The reporter, Leslie Stahl, likened Nawaz’s efforts to “tilting at windmills” or “blowing into the wind.”  Instead of his window fan, why not give Nawaz some jet engines?  The way to stop Al Qaeda and the attacks is to cut off the flow of followers, to choke their supply of suicide bombers, to shine the light of truth on their veil of lies every day, every minute, every second we are still here. 

    If a campaign of influence, an anti-Narrative initiative, isn’t currently being implemented, why not start now, this very day?  I’m just a passionate progressive American, but even I can think of multiple ways to push the truth out their into the ether.  I’m sure there is someone else, with higher credentials than mine, that can do more and think of more ways to push back against the lies. 

    I know we all live with the knowledge now that taking a plane ride or a train ride could be the last act we ever do.  When in the area, I frequently use the DC Metro system.  I haven’t been scared to use it, even though I know it would be a perfect target for terrorism.  At rush hour, thousands of people cycle in and out, often hundreds per line of train cars. 

    I’m not sacred to use Metro because I refuse to live a life of fear.  It’s when you change your life, or refuse to do something out of fear, that the terrorists win.  But why not stop them before they convert college students looking to fit in, to find their place, to know who they are.  If people really knew our country, with its beauties and its flaws (and oh do we have many of them), maybe we all could be a little safer and a little less scared. 

  • The Fat Note

    I got my first fat note the other day.  For those of you who don’t know what a fat note is, pull up a chair and learn.

    A fat note is when someone, either anonymously or not, sends you a letter in the mail telling you about a new diet craze or a way another person was able to shed lots of pounds.  Yes, people actually do this.  I once witnessed my mother receive an anonymous fat note, with a newspaper article attached. 

    I received my first fat note from, of all people, my father, about a week ago.  At the time, I just ignored it.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I let the emotions seethed inside me until I finally let out some of my frustration to my SO (though thankfully not at him).  And my SO, at times the more practical and level headed in our relationship, told me to tell my father everything I was laying before him.

    So what did I do….?  You guessed it, I ignored the fat note.  That is, until my father just called me.  Like just now.  His fat note concerned the latest craze in weight loss cure-all, the acacia berry diet. 

    I have never been one to subscribe to diet trends.  I know why I’m the weight I am: 1) I do not live an active lifestyle (translation: I’m a lazy bitch who rarely exercises.) & 2) I do not practice portion control (translation: I often don’t give a shit about what, or how much, I eat.). 

    I know what I have to do to loose weight.  1) Live a more active lifestyle (translation: Get my ass of the couch and go for a walk, or do the yoga DVD that sits on top of my DVD player but gets ignored, or dance around the apartment til I’m a sweaty mess.) & 2) Maintain portion control (translation: Stop eating Burger King & Taco Bell & Mama Lucia for dinner (al)most every night.  Just because they are less than five minutes away and practically on your way home does NOT mean you should take them up on their offers.  You buy food; eat it more often.)

    Of course, everything comes down to execution.  With my, at times, erratic schedule, I stop caring about what I eat if it gives me an hour extra sleep.  If I’m going on a gig that will last all day, sometimes I rely on the food places around the venue rather than pack my own meal.  And, unfortunately, my SO is not a good influence.  There have been times when I’ve eaten dinner, he’s come home late, and on the way back calls me and asks what I want from BK or Taco Hell.  And I (al)most always cave in, asking for a small fry & small drink, or a small sandwich & drink, thinking the smaller portion is better.  What would really be better is if I just said no.  But self control is not my greatest strength.

    I recently heard a scientific study proved junk/fast food is as addictive as any narcotic (heroine, cocaine, etc.).  I believe them.  Just the thought of fast food can linger in mind for days.  I’ve actually said to myself on a Monday, “You can have so&so fast food if you wait until Friday.”  I did this, thinking I would forget about my craving.  But that didn’t happen.  My ass remembered my thought and then indulged my craving.

    This is most definitely not how I want to live my life.  I don’t like how I look, don’t like how I feel.  Shopping for clothes just doesn’t happen, unless I need something for work, because I know the sizes won’t fit.  Trying to find an outfit for my friends’ wedding was an ordeal, a sad & frustrating ordeal.  And don’t get me started about swim suits.

    I want to make a change, but my father’s good intentions do not help.  He wants me to come by and pick up the acacia berry juice he bought for me, tomorrow.  And I will go because I love him.  But there needs to be some recognition that there is no magical pill, or magical drink, that’s going to help me loose 60 to 100 pounds.  Only I can do it.  It’s just hard to do.

  • In Other News

    So, anybody read the paper or watched the news lately?  Because if you haven’t, you’ve been missing out on “Armageddon” and “Waterloo” NOT occurring.  What did happen was the President saw the center piece of his political agenda get passed, and people scared to death by the Republican Party started acting crazy. 

    A few ‘for instances’:
    1) Rep. Barney Frank being called a faggot,
    2) multiple African American Representatives, including one who sturggled through the Civil Rights movement, being called niggers,
    3) bricks thrown through offices of Representatives, &
    4) Representatives and their families threatened with violence and death, including the posting of actual addresses (though not all of them accurate) and a protest planned at one Representative’s house (his actual home state residence, where his wife and kids live).

    Yes, America, this is the country we live in.  The President signed a piece of legislation that covers 30 million more Americans, providing health insurance to people like me who would have difficulty getting it otherwise, and people are acting crazy.  “Death Panels” and “pulling the plug on Grandma” are coming home to roost.

    I actually didn’t want to spend this post on the passing of the bill, momentous as it is, because so many people are talking about it already.  But, when such violent acts occurr and it seems no one on the Right is actually, sincerely, trying to stop it, I get angry. 

    People were called unAmerican when they opposed the Iraq War, but you didn’t see us throw bricks through windows or threaten death to House members.  And yet the Right has the nerve to compare Tea Party protesters swarming the Captiol steps, spitting on a Representative and yelling out hateful epithets, to the war protests on the Left.  How naive can you be?

    Here is the biggest difference between the Left’s protests then and the Right’s protests now: Americans died in Iraq because of Bush Administration lies & people were tortured and died due to their deceits, while people would die every day due to Obama Administration inaction on healthcare.  And yet, the Right implicitly condones the actions of its outlayers.  It all just makes me sick. 

    After what I’ve seen of the Republican party this past 15 months, I don’t understand how anyone can morally live with themselves and be on the Right.  The Left has worked to stimulate the economy, tried to allow gays to openly serve in the military, signed S-CHIP into law, passed a Fair Pay Act, and genuinely worked to make this country better.  The Right has opposed them at every turn.  The party of No thinks the efforts the Left put forth are too over-reaching, believes the actions go too far, sees the problems of this country as too big to fix with just legislation.  Republicans, if you didn’t think you could do the job, why did you bother getting elected?  Government is for the big boys, not the babies.  Go ahead and keep crying in the corner.  Let the adults do the real work of running the country.

    I was proud of my President Sunday; I was proud of the Congress and especially Nancy Pelosi for getting the bill passed.  No, I was not happy about the Executive Order, nor was I pleased there wasn’t a Public Option or a Medicare Buy-In (my preferred choice, considering I’m currently paying through COBRA about the same amount it would cost me).  But, and this is a huge but, our lives are so much better today than they were last week.  When I have a child(ren?), I will be able to tell them about how, in the past, Mommy was without insurance and she had to pay $1700 to fix one tooth.  Or how Daddy owed a hospital $10,000 because he had an appendicitis.  And I will be able to say how happy I am my child(ren?) will never have to face those difficulities. 

  • Politics & Prom Part II

    The ACLU is suing the Mississippi school board to reinstate the prom, saying now that the dance was taken away from the entire school, they must fight for the rights of all the students to have their senior prom.

    LINK: ACLU files suit against Mississippi school for canceling prom

    This case has stuck with me since I first read it. I couldn’t help but think back on my experiences in high school, the injustice I witnessed first hand, and the continuing grief I have for not doing anything about it.

    I went to an all girls Catholic School. During my senior year, a set of twins were our class President & VP. They were awesome people, liked by most in the class. But they had a problem: their parents didn’t finishing paying for their tuition for the year.

    I remember getting fitted for my graduation dress, all of us in a line waiting our turn, and overhearing the conversation of one of the twins about the situation. The faculty had threatened to not allow her & her sister into prom unless their tuition was paid in full by the day of the event. I couldn’t understand this logic. The twins paid for their prom experience themselves: tickets, dresses, hair, limo. They wanted to have fun with their friends. Why were they being punished for the faults of their parents?

    My senior prom was pretty fun. I looked smoking hot (I’d been participating in a local exercise campaign our new gym teacher had sponsored). I laughed and spent time with my friends. I danced and took pictures of everyone (including the teacher I had a crush on). It was a great night.

    But, when I went to use the restroom, I happened to have a clear view of the front sign in table, a mere fifty feet away. The twins had arrived: beautiful, dates on their arms, wanting to go join their friends in the fun. Our principle, not the nicest of people (as most principles tend to be), physically stood in their way, keeping them from entering the ballroom.

    And I just stood there, speechless. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t believe it was happening. We went to a Catholic School, which supposedly preached the love of God and the compassion of Jesus. Yet, over a petty money dispute, what could have been one of the best nights of their lives was taken away from two wonderful girls.

    To this day, I regret not doing something, not standing up for them in their time of need. If only trying to distract the principle, or trying to convince her to let them in. Why didn’t we band together as a class and try to pay their balance? Why didn’t we demand they be let in? Why didn’t we do something?

    The simplest and easiest answer I have is we were stupid teenagers who didn’t know better. But part of me doesn’t believe that. Part of me knows it’s because, when you’re that age, you’re selfish. Only your life matters. No one wants to hear about the sorrows of others. (I didn’t tell my friends about all my family members who died when I was in school. I figured no one wanted to hear it.)

    The twins didn’t come to either of the graduation ceremonies (we had two). I haven’t seen them or spoken to them about the incident.

    I just don’t understand how schools can be like this: concerned with their own selfish interests and not looking out for their students, all of their students.

  • Politics & Prom

    I just finished reading an article on USAToday about an 18 year old Mississippi lesbian who, after being denied the right to bring her girlfriend to prom, contacted her ACLU chapter for help, only for the school board to find the pussy/asshole way around the situation: they canceled the prom for the school and suggested people set up a “private prom”.

    LINK: Mississippi prom canceled after lesbian’s date request

    There are so many things about this ordeal that infuriates me. So, I’m making a list.

    1) Why is it so bad if this girl brings her date to prom? Why do people even care? I get that it’s the south & hatred and bigotry live on, but really? We have to take a stand over the prom? Do they really think their society will be up ended and catastrophically changed just because a lesbian wants to share a night of fun with her girlfriend? She’s a senior and is probably leaving to go off to college, or somewhere else a little more inviting, in less than two months. Can’t they just let this slide?

    2) What if she just wanted to bring her friend from another school? Would the policy still count? I know when I was a teenager, the only two dates I ever brought to dances were friends. There was no romantic involvement whatsoever. So what if? Would their bigoted policy still take effect? If not, I smell lawsuit. If yes, I’m angered even more.

    3) I HATE that the school had the balls to basically tell the parents and students, “Have your own party, cause then you can admit or deny whoever you want. Keep discrimination alive!” It infuriates me to no end when people promote hatred/discrimination/phobia of ‘the other’ and pass it off as ‘a choice.’ Sure, it’s a choice for you to be assholes, but that doesn’t mean you should be. I hope someone organizes a prom and then invites the lesbian and her girlfriend to come, just to stick it to the school.

    & 4) The dumbest part of the story, just for its shear misogyny: A dress? Really? The girl was being denied access to the dance not just because she wanted to bring her girlfriend, but also because she wanted to wear a tuxedo. Can someone explain to me why this is important, AT ALL?!? The way I see it, if she buys the ticket, that girl should able to roll up in a tank top, shorts, and flip flops. How can attire matter in any way, shape or form, as long as no one is naked?

    It’s story like this that get me fired up about our country. How are we suppose to be ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave’ or ‘have equal protection under the law’ when homophobia and misogyny are somehow ingrained in society?

    This is not what I believe in. This is not the America I want to live in.