Sundays

Certain silences feel like the air-space between two magnets of the same polarity, forced together.

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Chaotic neutral 

Last night I had a realization while peeing, as one does.

When there’s an argument between my logic and my heart, my logic wins most of the time because I need, if nothing else,to live honestly. When the battle between the two, between my heart and brain is more than I’m prepared to process, I  “Yolo”Or “make poor life choices”, depending on who you ask. Sometimes both. This happens rarely but when it does, it’s a mess. ūü߆ 

Maybe at some point in my life I won’t be a constant, daily work in progress. Does anyone ever get there? This is a legitimate question.

Who invited all the damn crows

I dream almost every night, and for the past 3 months  I’ve tried with  a reasonable success rate to write down what happens when I’m asleep. This means that a black leather book lives beside my bed, it’s heart  filled with tiny scribbles of varying legibility, the messages running the gamut from seemingly symbol-Laden- probable gibberish, to complex storylines that feel like ghosts around the edges of my waking life. 
I write down my dreams in this book while my brain is in that hazy, San Francisco Fog State between asleep and awake  so I often have to go back and rewrite when fully awake. I feel like one’s brain starts to forget what happens in dream worlds very quickly so it’s important to do it as soon as possible.

Some patterns have emerged. I’ll highlight a few of them.

  • I dream about fully fleshed – out people with names. Sometimes I know them, often I don’t. 
  • I dream about sex  with women. (don’t we all) 
  • I dream in muted colours 
  • I have no idea what my face looks like, but I am very small, my hands remain the same: long, thin, and boney. Sometimes I am aware of my hair, which is long and in my way
  • I dream the same dreams often . Some of these dreams have been recurring since I was a child.
  • There are, so far as I can see, 5 worlds  that are connected to each other but don’t exist in the same time. They seem to be connected with a subway line of sorts that I can exit at any point, and the train is also a part of different times. My   real-life fascination with fashion seems to mean that my brain is created wardrobe as an identifier for time-period.The worlds are as follows :
  • An apartment where a number of people who reoccur in these dreams live. I don’t know how many floors it has but it seems endless and is More or less in the present. Sometimes there’s a fire pit in the common area. It’s very gray and always night. 
  • My own childhood time-period,during the late summer. 
  • A junkyard (I guess) but in a sort of soup ladle  shape, basically hanging in nothingness. 
  • The weird-ass Subway 
  • An old west construct.(this makes no sense because I have zero attachment to the Olde West, western films,ect. Even while I’m having the dream, I feel like “wtf is this corny ass shit”. 
  • Somewhere that that feels very old,  is slightly cold but not so cold that I am uncomfortable, and has no noticeable buildings. I have been inside structures on this world, but I couldn’t tell you what they look like from the outside. This is the one that bothers me because when I’m awake I feel like I remember it randomly and it makes me feel as that I’m out of time. It seems to be nothing  but trees and cliffs and I feel very very small, physically.

 Some other noticeable patterns are these:( at this point I’m going to point out that I practice lucid dreaming so I have decent amount of control in some situations. I’m not great at it and I’m off and lazy and don’t try to use it) 

  • So many crows, why all the crows. Who invited those  assholes. 
  • I am completely capable of using the internet in my dreams. Or at least my phone. I don’t see the face of it or anything but I know that I’m using it
  • Sometimes there are clear messages that are just one sentence. Sometimes these repeat themselves and they always make no sense within the context of what’s Happening
  • The most noticeable is this. I am helping people in my dreams. I am always helping people do something, find something,  get somewhere, Etc. Sometimes I know them, usually I don’t. And often times it’s something sad. I realized  this a long time ago: That often the dreams that I dream don’t feel like my own. They feel like something I am doing for someone else,  whether or not I want to.

I’ll write more about this later. But I wanted to get the outline of how I’m dreaming out there first before writing about this further here. This probably seems strange to you, all this listening to what happens when I’m asleep  but as long as I can remember I have been dreaming dreams that that are big and strange and pointed and recurring.

Its 6:30 right now and I’m slightly jet-lagged. I desperately want to grind coffee but I also don’t want to wake up Alvin who is so peacefully asleep in the other room. I think I’ll probably just poked my head in there and see if he’s on his phone or not and if he is, then all bets are off. I’m grinding. It’s the second day of the new year, and I’m wishing  that you’re having the best  start to your year  possible ,  and maybe, maybe, I’m dreaming about you.

Not a “chill feminist” no more

At many points this year I’ve gone out of my way to not allow my feelings and emotions take control of my words . I’ve been even tempered and listened to your opposing view-point.

This is not one of those times.

You. Male friends, Male humans in my life, men: *Dick-Havers; If your response to this parade of touchy-feel-y,grabb-y, cock-rubbing rich men losing their  jobs and status after years of sexually abusing and harassing women because our culture permitted and encouraged it has been to use the term “Witchhunt”, or to worry about the repercussions to men like you, There’s not a place for you in at the table of my heart. Get the fuck out. Take your defensive questions and “what if” queries with you and get the fuck away from me. YOU live a totally different life than myself and other female-identifying/passing people. Do women engage in sexually abusive behaviour? YES. Do I personally know some women who have engaged in sexually controlling or abusive behaviour? Yes, I see you, female friends who’ve engaged in that behaviour and That’s bullshit, but it’s not the conversation we’re having right now because it’s not the norm. It’s a response to the abusive normal that we, as Women,live with every day.

We Have been forced to feast on scraps under tables we should have had equal seating at.

We are constantly being preyed on. 

Let the bodies fall. There’s no shortage of talented Women, Better men, POC of all genders and queer folks fucking thirsty to step in to the gaps left by the Men who’ve been ousted from their places of power after years of rape-y bullshit.

Male friend, If you’re WORRIED right now, you’re part of the problem. Get with us or get. The. Fuck. Out.

*Not all men have dicks. Not all people with dicks are men. But it’s the men that have dicks that are making a world difficult right now

Bunions! 

 

 

Back on October 19th I had a surgery to correct a bunion.

Over the past couple of years, it’s become increasingly painful to wear shoes, and the swelling from the bunion caused reduced flexibility in my foot along with burning and aching if I stood for more than 3 hours. I couldn’t wear heels  at all.

Now, I deserve this bunion. It represents a handful years of dancing on feet bent in unnatural positions and more than a dozen years running back and forth serving assholes and stunners  like you drinks in strip-bars, gay clubs and dive-bars. I have insurance now so I, with urging, decided to have my foot-golum corrected.

There exist a  few different surgeries to correct bunions. One’s mostly cosmetic and involves shaving down the Sticky-out-y bit we generally associate with bunions. I didn’t have that one. In the  particular surgery I had ( called an Osteotomy) the surgeon  basically cuts your toe in half and pins it back together. Basically. I’m not a foot-scientist,nor am I going to deprive you of the joy of googling the procedure. I went into the whole thing thinking I’d be *healed up in about three weeks, and just go back to work. LOLNO

I won’t be able to go back to standing on my feet all day until around the 7th, per Doctors orders.

The surgery only took about an hour: They put me to sleep, did the damn thing and I woke up about sixty minutes later, said some weird stuff and went home with drugs.  I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon, but I know My girl Sarah showed up later that night, slightly toasted after drinks with her dad, I put myself to sleep, and woke up the next day in a world of fucking pain, as if someone had sawed  my food open and filled it with hot shards of murder. Sarah and I drank coffee. I called my DR. and informed him that the drugs for pain (hydrocodone) were not stopping the burning murder-shards. He changed the drugs.  I stayed on pain-killers for two weeks, at which point I was literally sick of them and dying (not literally) to poop normally again. By that point (around the 1st), the swelling was gross, but the pain had died down, I followed up with my foot-scientist and he told me to come back in two more weeks and put me in a flat shoe and told me I still couldn’t drive.My soul begins to atrophy along with my muscles. I read a lot, I whine more.  I do one hundred foot-bendy exercises a day.Two weeks after that, (about 4 days ago) I went to another follow-up, and He tells me I can’t wear normal shoes yet, nor can I drive. I disagree, and now I’m stuffing my still weird-shaped foot into the only 3 pairs of shoes that fit; Uggs (stfu, Uggs are fine, we can stop hating them now) a pair of platform Tevas, and my solitary pair of Nike trainers. I’m driving. The joint in my toe isn’t activated by the activity. In short, I’m very glad I did this. At this point, the pain in the joint is less than it was before the surgery and it’s noticeably smaller.  I can walk now, with mild discomfort and many breaks. There’s no way in hell I could put in even a six-hour work day at this point, though. My doctor’s conservative estimate of my going back to work on the 7th-ish is totally valid. If you need bunion surgery, get it. Yes, it takes over a month to recover from: Admittedly, it hurts quite a lot while healing, but there’s a rod holding my Growing-back-together toe in place, FFS. The worst part of the whole thing is the solitude: The sitting with myself, the house, every day. The not being able to really go anywhere alone. That’s my problem . I can’t sit still or in stillness, but I learned to do so.

Alvin, if you’re reading this… I couldn’t have done this without you. Literally. Thankyouthankyou and I’m sorry I’ve been a whiney dick. You’re everything. A Bunn-ion, even.

My ass is asleep, you guys.

Bai

*heel pun here.

Not your sacred Sad-girl.

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My generation seems to hold its sadness sacred and romantic. I’m one of those Millennials whose adolescence held awkward court in the early 00’s.

We spent our teen years with Fallout Boy and As I lay Dying and in basements of our grandparents homes with Bob Dylan and Quiet Riot on Vinyl and in my case, hiding behind my insanely religious step-fathers shitty house listening to Nirvana on CDs borrowed from older friends who, in hindsight, someone really should have made sure I wasn’t alone with, but I’m wandering off topic. We started studying for SATS at 13. We went to therapists because our parents/guardians didn’t want us as emotionally inept as they were. We learned about sex in chat-rooms, lying about A/S/L.

We got good at talking about our feelings with people who might have been nothing like us. Somewhere along the way, for different reasons, we got really good at dying. Really good at falling in love with our own sadness and desperation and romanticizing the silver ribbons of scar-tissue on our wrists and upper-arms and thighs.

A decent portion of us left institutions of higher learning and fell into the dark maw of economic collapse because Fuck us, right?

We Stayed in the university towns we moved to and tended bars, went back to the places we were from and opened vintage stores and Occupied Wall Street. We went into our Fields and became Vegan leaders of today who participate in less damaging consumerism. We took Jobs in the Tech-sector and made shitloads of money we lovingly toss into burning man. We also became the new, Hip face of the Alt-right too, unfortunately, and a myriad of self-serving shitty things. We became adults who strive to make the world something it wasn’t when we arrived. We done good for Hipster Scum, you know?

Maybe it’s time to stop romanticizing our sadness for other people’s consumption. I am not proud of the scars I walk around with, in the same way I’m not proud of the terrible Self-Tanner and Black-eyeliner and dresses over jeans and liking Dane Cook. I want to shine brightly until I blink away, something I never thought I’d feel when I was younger.

As usual, I don’t have a suitable ending here.

I love you, scars and all.

D

A brief and not at all comprehensive list of nicknames

The following is a list of commonly used nicknames for our cat,in no order in particular. 

I’m responsible for nearly all of them. 

  1. Party-squirrel. 
  2. Fuzzy smudgens 
  3. Dr. Toes 
  4. Dr. Pants 
  5. Professor toez 
  6. The dark lord 
  7. Squirrelly-beans 
  8. BUN. (confusing, seeing as I also call Alvin this) 
  9. Asshole 
  10. Squishybeanz 
  11. Chubby-nubbins 
  12. His lordship 
  13. Puca 

You’re welcome, people of the internet. 

#gotosleep 

Thoughts on the usage of”what’s your objective opinion¬† “

I think what’s happening when someone asks for an *objective opinion is an untethering of you, the asked, from the protection and safety of polite social niceties. You’ll notice I said “protection and safety”,not “crushing niceness” or whatever. Maybe this is key in how I think about this. Whether or not we claim to like them, polite social norms often protect us from saying what¬† we really think in situations where it doesn’t matter¬† what we really think.
When a friend asks for an objective opinion, they are asking to cut you free to possibly¬†¬†hurt them. They are cutting you free from safety to tell them that their paper isn’t up to standards, that their wardrobe could use improving, that their kid is a shit, that they are going bald, or maybe they are really codependent. They’re setting you loose to give an honest opinion from your heart, and they are not saying that nothing you say will be held against you.

They’re not giving you permission to be cruel.

This isn’t coming out of anywhere in particular. Occasionally I just spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about word usage and why we think the things that we mean, may not mean exactly what we think they do. (could I have said that more confusingly? V unlikely)

I love you. Be nice to each other.
* I don’t really think there’s such a thing as a genuinely objective opinion.

Enjoy these here ūüćĆ ūü¶Ü

Me too. 

Two days ago when so many people stood up and said “Me, too” on Facebook, I was one of them. And then 2 hours later I took that post down. The reason I took it down is because on some level I still feel some shame or some confusion regarding some¬† of the things that have happened to me. So instead of explaining¬† that shit anymore I’m going to say this.

I believe You. 

It doesn’t matter¬† what the circumstances were, I don’t care if you should have been more sober. I don’t care if you weren’t as in control of yourself as you wish you had been. I don’t care if you were a sex worker and you couldn’t talk to anybody else about it at the time, and you’re still confused about it. It doesn’t matter¬† the circumstances were that led to your sexual assault(s).¬†

Me. Too. I believe you and I love you. 

Fuck nuance, fuck what you should have done differently, It shouldn’t have happened, and I believe you.

Throwing hopeful stones 

When I am in the air and you look up,  I’m thinking of you. Not *exactly *you, but someone like you. Maybe purely based on odds, I think of exactly the human you are. Stranger things happen daily,I  assure you. 

My point I’m rambling towards is this:  when I’m on a plane,  I think of someone on the ground hoping to get out of where or whatever they’re going through, because I used to be a little person  looking up at planes and jets and vapor trails, hoping someone was thinking about me. Hoping some window opened up a wider world,throwing my thoughts ( and prayers to any form of god who might pick up the signal) into the unknown blue.

I keep my heart open when I fly so that maybe (if there’s as much strange magic as I believe there is) if you think up to the sky and I think down, my open heart can catch your hopes and carry them a little farther.

You never know.