I am not the sum of the facts I have accumulated over my life but I am someone who compulsively accumulates facts. Molasses is my favorite coffee sweetener. If I’m not careful, I start to feel envious for the tiny girls who get fucked up real loud and have 7 shrinks who all prescribe them fast pills that make your eyes wide and waist waspy and have the runs for a week. I get dressed up and feel great about going to party but too often my hand hits the door knob and I collapse onto the floor and read books, alone, all Friday night. I’m a shitty house keeper except for once a month when I channel an wrathful goddess who takes her anger against the world out on the bathroom grout.
I don’t see why my sexual skills can’t be seen in the same light as music or writing or athletic skills and I don’t see why bartering between my prowess and yours is wrong. Just because fucking is something I really like to do does not mean it’s the only thing I can do and the only reason you would say that is to put me down and I think you’re an asshole for it. I hate driving because because look at the abandoned building over there and why is that car so close to me and when are these road stripes going to be repainted and I’m better off walking or taking the bus or driving your passenger seat.
It doesn’t count as book hoarding when I can and will remove “bad books” that might contaminate the rest of my growing herd with its bad writing and shallow ideas. There is curation and purpose in my library. I arrange my books onto shelves as dinner parties and thought clusters. I never had too much of a fondness for dolls or stuffed animals but I swear my books can feel and breathe and I care about them very much and want them to know they are loved and in good hands. Except bad books, which I hope people don’t take very seriously. Also, I prefer used bookstores and freeboxes because readings and books tours aren’t managed like rock shows yet. I’d be a groupie if they were.
Queer boys and drag queens taught me how to put on my makeup and taught me how to embody the notion that all the world IS a stage. I don’t like eating breakfast unless it’s served at 2PM. I never get around to mending anything but that won’t keep me from wearing it. I don’t know how to work a shopping mall but second hand shopping invigorates me.
I’m shit at people and that means I’m not a very good “joiner.” I love spending time in interest niches and clusters but my energy is cultivated in near isolation. Being a stranger is liberating, getting so close it feels like the lines on my hand run into those of the people I love keeps me connected to the planet, but acquaintanceship is a leaky kayak in whitewater for my psyche.
I have always hated talking on telephones, even when I was a little girl and the only people who had cell phones were drug dealers and rockstars. Going to an all girls school made me question whether or not I was a girl until I realized years later that “girl” was just a collective hunch. I had cybersex with strangers when I was 12 and I pretended to be a teenage bisexual boy. I’ve neither read nor seen the Harry Potter books or movies because I’m abstinent. Sometimes I’m certain that my friends are just biding their time before getting together to pour pigs blood all over until I remind myself to stop microwaving cold coffee so much and to change my panties.
You could literally drop me into a disaster zone or the middle of nature with a backpack and a tent and I would thank you gladly and run into the fray brimming with excitement but suburbia makes my skin crawl and I have to keep the windows up and the doors locked for a white knuckle ride. No, really.
I was obsessed with batteries and electrical currents in the 3rd grade. I would beg my parents for batteries and wire and I rigged up long and elaborate buzzers, lights, and booby traps in my room before abandoning the idea like a ghost town.
My hair has been pretty much every color under the rainbow, hawked, buzzed, long, short, jet black, and bleached out. My “natural color” is a really ashy blonde that is neither bright nor dark. It’s straight because it’s baby fine and gets bleached out easily by sun and swimming pools and then darkens in the winter. I’m suspicious of drinking. I’ve always been one who gets ill from drinking easily so regular drinking was not something I ever developed but the less I’m near alcohol the happier I am and in my heart of hearts I think we’d have a better world if there was a cannabis club in the place of every bar because I’m increasingly suspicious of booze and other sugars.
I’m contemplating volunteering at my city zoo.
For awhile I worked as a 3rd party proposition player in a really shitty casino that straddled the border of Native American reservation land. The physical location bent the time-space continuum and weird regulations around the approved bureaucracy of the casino abounded and this meant I sat with $30K in casino chips that belonged to an entity known as THE CORPORATION and oversaw blackjack to make sure that the bank’s interests were protected. The fact that this money was totally linked to some mafia or another wasn’t exactly nor spoken about and it was sketchy shit posting as legitimate. Shady as shit with an Armani tie. I worked 10PM-6AM and had Tuesday and Wednesday as a weekend.
Still: I saw my feminist icon there at 4AM on a Friday like a vision in the form of an elderly devout Catholic woman who stood at maybe 5 ft even and gambled for God. Whatever she won, she gave right to her church and like a good Catholic she accepted the losses into her own budget. She played blackjack and was no slouch at Texas Hold ‘Em. One night, a drunker patron grabbed her ass at the poker table. “If you do that again, I will punch you!” she exclaimed. He grabbed her again. She jumped up and decked him in the face, her fist flying from her small frame up into the air like Superman taking flight while shouting, “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
Cryptozoology makes me smile. I once spent hours listening to the owner, founder, and curator of The Bigfoot Museum tell me about the local reports of Bigfoot sightings in detail and I really wanted to hear them. There’s truth in those stories and whether or not it’s a giant bipedal primate or something from the collective unconscious is irrelevant to actively listening to something weird without judgement. No reason to be an asshole; it’s much more fun to reach out and connect.
Porn is like an invisible face tattoo. It freaks polite society out but then again a lot of sifting work is really done for you. You totally filter through several species of anal retentive twat sores when you’re convicted by the court of popular opinion of being a freak. Among the people who really don’t care that you’re a whore there are still several types of very toxic and insidious assholes to watch out for and there’s still a current of moral self righteous behavior but the people you’re around will be more grounded than a yogi about the fact that bodies have functions and everybody poops and talking about that with others will help you find peace with this truth.
I owe a lot of people a lot of thank you notes. Flipping out about why I’ve been given a gift or a kindness is my own hurricane to manage and has nothing to do with their generosity. I want to work out my beauty-finding skills because my negatively critical muscles are making me look like I’ve got ‘roid rage.
I secretly hump the inseam of my skinny jeans. Especially on public transit. No, I don’t want to talk to you, leave me alone go away, I’m busy jerking off to urban sky line and my novel. Go fuck your hand.
I knew that anti-porn feminists were full of shit because I’ve loved slasher flicks since I was a child and if you’re a geek who has no friends and eccentric habits and you vaguely keep count of the overall death kill counts in the slasher genre as a whole you would notice that way more dudes are killed and it reminds me of the way that men are often beheaded in pornography, too. Film is an articulation of someone’s interior landscape and it will reveal portions of the collective unconscious, especially if it hits a stride with the public, but it’s really nuanced and it has a lot of &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&s in it.
So far as I am concerned, “sanity” is “heterosexuality.” There’s more than one way to love and fuck. There’s way more than one way to think and feel. Don’t get too invested in your own perspective and start confusing it with objective reality. Rashomon, motherfucker.
I am not heterosexual. I may not know what I am but it’s not that. Thanks Foucault! I also think that sadomasochism plays a much bigger role in everyday social life and family structure than anyone cares to admit and I support BDSM spaces because they help us identify and articulate the erotic so we can stop using it as a weapon against each other. I’m way more of an SM theorist than a leather player specifically these days.
There was totally a moment when I thought, “Dammit, I am poly. I hope this doesn’t mean I have to go to pancake breakfast.” Everything is awkward and nothing is cool. Everything is cool and nothing is awkward. Life’s password is yes.
Wearing bras makes me fall down. I’m a hedonistic hermit. I prefer to watch the party from a distance and I’m glad that it’s happening and that people are having fun.
I think I’m experiencing a vegan coming of consciousness and I’m feeling conflicted about it because it’s going to take work and serious brainstorming to implement it into my budget cause I am broke as shit.
Sometimes I think I’m just a slot machine of weird shit that never stops spinning and kind of likes it when someone grabs me by the arm to try their luck.
This might be an exorcism.