I was in the shower thinking about the ironic predestined (not predetermined—- predestined/bound by the nature of myself//my life) tendency of my life when I saw the shape of a wolf’s head (clear as can be// anyone would have seen it) displayed within the stones of my shower wall. If I stare at it, it looks like the wolf is looking at another wolf, (in the distance) who is looking at another wolf (further beyond). This is not the reason there is a wolf tattooed on my body. I’ve lived here for two years and just now noticed it, despite how clear it is.
You know, I’m a lazy motherfucker sometimes. Especially when it comes to writing. It’s hard to turn my thoughts into words. It never ever comes out the way that I want it to.
But when I come here and type what I’m feeling, there is a motif that outweighs my laziness. It’s always pain. I do this to relieve anger and sorrow.
Today my best friend told me that she didn’t care to see things the way that I do. Since she doesn’t care to, I’ll have to write about it in my online private diary like any adult would.
Bloggers are coming out of no where these days. They see it as using the modern world to make fame or money, easier. Blogging is easy for these people. They just find something that they feel any type of way about and target an audience that they know will feel the same way. They target the people that just stroll through facebook and find articles that sound agreeable to them. This way, it is sure that they will get read. They don’t target environments that wouldn’t feel the same way. They wouldn’t write a scholarly article that requires research and reflection. Especially since writing this article may lead to no gratification but would be done purely for the sake of bettering the world. That article wouldn’t get a million shares on facebook. It wouldn’t even go on facebook.
With that being said, I was on facebook yesterday. I saw a friend share a blog post labeled, “I’m not a feminist, and that is okay.”
Whew, just a copy and paste of that bad boy gets me heated.
The article starts with her being in class and answering no, when someone asks if shes a feminist. She says that they try to explain it to her and that she understands but does not agree. I’m not sure what these people are explaining to her, but I know that feminism is such a broad and emotional topic, no one could possibly explain it during a couple minutes of class mingling. You have to experience something to understand. Whether that something be experienced first hand, by someone you know or even through much reading and informative environments. You have to feel empathy dwelling.
To begin, she quotes something that seems to be something that a “feminist” must have asked her.
“Why are women considered the more domestic and nurturing ones?” Come on, guys. Speak slowly.
She answers with a predictable response reminding us that women are more nurturing because they carried a child and she reminds us that it is okay to be a mother and take care of the home. She also says that feminists would not have you believing these things.
Okay. Of course women are more nurturing. We are literally capable of feeding a small human from our titty. That’s pretty bad ass. We are also able to care for children, our home, our husband and have a full time job. OR not have a job. That’s the thing. The things that women are capable of that men aren’t is more feminine (and by this I don’t mean society’s definition of feminine that must satisfy certain gender roles to fit) than anything. Feminists will not tell you that doing any of that is not feminine or not okay.
The main problem here is that there is this huge, false stigma attached to the word feminist or feminism that makes certain people automatically run the opposite way. Stop attaching a bad stigma to that word. Do you believe in equal rights? Yeah, everyone does. That’s not what it’s about. If you believe in equal rights and you want to have a family and take care of your home and husband, you can still be a feminist. You’re a feminist if you realize that you have choice. Stop being afraid to fall into a category that the people that sometime surround you do not understand.
Being a feminist is not:
This is the most common incorrect assumption. Men just happen to be the only other recognized gender. They are actually effected by it just as strongly, just not to the same extent or in the same way. Men are effected by what feminists are fighting, right at birth. When they are put into a society that through much discrete influence, makes it alright to do things that belittle the opposite recognized gender. I don’t hate men. I feel just as deeply for them because they often can’t even see the harm. IT’S NOT ANY MAN OR WOMAN’S FAULT.
being allergic to ancient gender roles.
I cook and clean more than any woman I know. And I love doing it. I want to mother a child one day. None of these things make any person less of a feminist. It actually makes them more feminine. In the ways of society AND in a loud proud feminist kind of way. What women are capable of doing is amazing. Feminist aren’t trying to convince you not to do these things. They are just reminding you that you have a choice.
ignoring “how far” women have come.
Speaking of choice..yes, at one point in time women HAD to fulfill the stay at home mom role. They also had to fuck their husbands any time he wanted it. Women have come a long way. But why did we have to come any way at all? Why couldn’t we always have had choice? We may have gained more rights and are being taken more seriously but that would have never happened if it weren’t for “feminists.” Maybe you are content because you haven’t experienced any trauma.You can vote. You see no issues worth discussing. Just because something hasn’t dramatically effected you (to your awareness) does not mean that it isn’t a problem.
arguing or taking offense to petty things.
You may run across someone who has experienced parts of modern culture that stand strongly for equal rights. This person passionately spoke when the opportunity was given. But it is also likely that this person doesn’t grasp things in a way that positively influences the issue that they seem to be arguing for.They may however have experienced something so painful it’s difficult to live without fighting the source for that pain. A chatterbox feminist could come off as judgemental or pushy. That is why you can’t force people to see things in a certain light. You can however, write about it in your online diary.
Once someone realizes that society’s definition of feminist is just as wrong as society’s definition of feminism and they realize that caring about feminist issues or merely admitting that it IS A THING doesn’t sign them up for a horrible life altering position, then they will care about it at least enough to not share uneducated blog posts concerning very real issues. They will at least care about it when they realize that caring about these issues shows love for people in their life that may have been through some fucked up shit because of the objectification (effecting men and women) of women in society. When they realize the way society sees women, whether awake or passed out on their own fucking couch, they’ll understand. They’ll care about the reason that horrible things happen and know that it is also the reason that little can be done about it. It will anger them, maybe not to the extent of being one of those “feminatzis” that people talk so badly of but at least enough to speak up when it’s brought up. Being aware of the issue isn’t for us, now. It’s for the better of the future. For our children, that you can still have even if you are a feminist.
When you’re eighteen, about to begin college, it’s not very scary. You are surrounded by people all doing this, thing, for the first time. None of you have an idea of what to expect, so it doesn’t really matter. It’s in a way, exciting. That’s probably why it’s not hard to manipulate kids into going to college right after high school. It’s fresh, and you get to know what you believe freedom feels like.
When you’re 23 and attempting to take two classes for the first time in a year or so, it’s so much harder. You already know what to expect. It is exciting to learn. It is not however exciting to learn about something that you’re no longer interested in. It does not make you feel free at all. Nothing about your planner becomes free. You have to work less and school more, making your wallet less free. And its so God damn expensive. I’m in debt for something I don’t even care about.
I’ve never been good at college. Ever. I care way too much about my professor’s opinion of my work, instead of simply trying to pass. This is not a good quality to have in school. I know this. You need to get your shit done and hope you learn a little doing it. If you start to care too much about your subject, you’ll lose interest in it. You’ll see something you don’t like about it and chose something else you’re interested in. No one else seems to care as much. My fucking pride ruins everything.
So, today is the day before the very first day of the year 2017.
I don’t find importance in holidays but NYE is actually more than a holiday or whatever. It fucks with your head, your past, your future and makes you think about time more than anyone should; and time itself in every form fucks hard with me.
I can’t predict how long to give myself to run errands before work. I’m either way early or a little late. I never start things with the right amount of time to finish them because I start so early (due to anxiety of time) that I forget I need to do it and procrastinate, regardless. I am so lost in every moment I not only suck at moderating time but I can barely recall much of my past.
But this year is going to have an awkward mental start for me not only because of these things but because I am hoping 2016 was the worst year of my life. I’m 23– hoping this year will be the worst of my life, high hopes?
But, I’m afraid that because I didn’t do anything to help myself this year, the worst may be yet to come. Because no matter how often I have found myself believing that the year following the death of my brother MUST be the hardest year of my life, I have to face facts.
I’ve been ignoring my sorrow for over 365 days.
I am 99% sure that only one consecutive week this year did I stay sober, and celebrated the fact on day 7. So have I even mourned? Who’s to say?
I don’t believe there will ever be an endpoint to THAT kind of sorrow.
Never did I lay around, cry and/or talk to someone about what happened, unless you count the time I was shit faced at the bar and secluded myself from my friends after breaking out in tears I didn’t feel coming and just assumed they were because of my brother.
That’s how out of touch I am with what’s going on in my head. Was I even crying because of my brother that night? Or was I just mourning in general and because that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, it gets the blame instantly.
That kind of sorrow doesn’t disappear. I fucking hate it. It doesn’t make me sad to talk about my brother with anyone, but if he’s brought up in conversation I instantly regret it because of how it makes others feel. Who wants pity? But the problem is, I think there is an unsaid expectation from bystanders for traumatic event recovery. As if it’s similar to romantic heart breaks, which will ALWAYS disappear with time. So in a couple years, I’m still gonna be fucked up in the head and no one else is gonna realize why.
Or maybe that’s an excuse. Maybe I should have already found a way to accept it and already be a strong successful women by now, who grew from her pain.
Not only did I maintain a constant state of fuck up for this last trip around the sun–
Ya girl fucked about 15 different people this year. That’s about the SAME amount of people who I had slept with before 2016. I don’t really care, or I wouldn’t have kept doing it. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to pay for an abortion or deal with a disease this year. Other than a couple UTIs I’m walking into 2017 with a squeaky clean pussy. Knocking on wood or whatever because I had sex this morning in my usual form of taking no precautions.
This post just went from serious and reflective to a real joke, real quick.
Let’s look back at it.
On January 1st 2016, I smoked a blunt alone in the rain by the river in Savannah.
Erin and I drove to Savannah to go out for new years and had a blast. She was ready for us to go to bed, in my car. I wasn’t. I traded a bicycle taxi a cigarette for a ride to the water. I sat under an umbrella by the river and smoked a blunt. I was so content. Even though my phone was dead, I didn’t find my car until 7 am and was walking around for hours in the rain, I was happy to start my year that way.
I spent a full day in jail.
I slept, read, and folded jumpsuits for what felt like an extremely long time.
Donald Trump was elected as president.
And everyone in the country began to see the truest of colors of those they know and love(d) because of it.
I almost brought a girl home.
She thought I was so gay and so experienced, until I told her otherwise. I thought she was so gay and experienced, until she suddenly appeared at a party weeks later and grabbed the arm of a man I was about to climb like a tree, asking, “you ready babe?”
My chiweenie turned two.
But Boethius will always be my lil six pound baby.
My parents moved out of the house I lived in for seven years.
My mom says they needed to downsize now and prepare for their old age and my dad’s Parkinsons. Now I don’t have a bedroom to go home to.
I tried cocaine for the first time.
And proceeded to do it any time this year it was offered to me because who wouldn’t? That shits expensive.
I blew all of my money on taking a spring break drive to NYC with Erin. Among many adventures I was able to walk through central park at sunset. I loved every bit of it.
I saw both Hop Along and Manchester Orchestra in concert.
and was in absolute bliss.
I lost my religion.
I lost my career plans.
Not because I lost my religion, but because I was going to school in order to be a religion professor.
I was in the weddings of both of my very first best friends.
My cousin who is nine days younger than me and my Britt. Both of who I am not very close to and have very little in common with now, both of who began to realize that this year (to be fair, I changed. They didn’t at all).
I made this on Britt’s bachelorette trip to a bomb as beach house (planned by yours truly).
I tried LSD.
It was good. It was with Zach, Johnson and Daniel. (All of which I have slept with at different periods of time, multiple times.)
I successfully participated in anal.
and liked it.
I had some things important and valuable stolen for the first time since my fundraising candy was stolen in high school.
They took $120 of probation money, 3 iphones and my planner. But they didn’t take the drugs and my back pack was taken to the police department where they ALSO didn’t notice that hash oil in my wallet.
I learned what it meant to have great sex.
also learning that it takes two, baby.
I got through with my year of probation for my arrest.
I think I’m done? Still haven’t heard from my PO..
I received the first of many to come living room tattoos.
I have the Picasso dachshund tattooed on the back of my leg (where my chiweenie sleeps). It has more than once been mistaken as a penis, which makes it even greater.
I voted for the first time.
I’ve never been registered in the college towns I’ve lived in. But I became an Athens resident this year and with motivation from the Donald, I was with her.
It’s November 5, 2016. I’ve decided that because I’ve been throwing an internal pity party for the past year (as of last week), I need to take note of the things I want to accomplish, and when I want to have them accomplished by. My intent is for this to help keep me focused on what I want to happen instead of what’s dragging me down.
All this time I’ve felt like I was being strong by not showing my emotion, until they dramatically revealed themselves in my habits.
A year and a half ago, I was living alone. I was the biggest introvert, with occasional ex boyfriend problems. I smoked a lot of pot, I guess. But I wasn’t so into drinking as I had been before and as I have been lately. You couldn’t make me go out, though. I didn’t care to spend my money on alcohol, and didn’t care to be around the people. I would sleep around, but only when the opportunity clearly and randomly presented itself. I was content.
In the past year or so I have~
moved in with four other people, a couple of which have altered, and lots of animals.
been on probation for a year, paying $120 every other week until a couple of months ago.
spent $300 a month on a car payment until a couple of months ago.
lost the only other black sheep in my family.
lost my religion.
lost my purpose and plan.
have developed an immunity to tears.
become completely out of touch with my emotions.
By December, I need to~
have my online class for the Spring set up and be mentally prepared for it.
have saved enough money to afford Christmas, my credit card paid off, and a savings account started to a decent extent.
have a good amount of the things I don’t use gone from my possession.
be on the way to developing much better habits.
Be ready to move out, carrying the smallest amount of things with me.
laying in bed
listening to manchester orchestra
smoking a bowl
attempting to suppress the anxiety I feel
about Britt’s wedding Saturday and everything to do with it
along with the concerns I have with my recent actions;
the men that have been in this bed the past month
the amount of times I’ve been fucked up driving
to lay in theirs’.
How we interact when you really want me
is something that proceeds to haunt me.
You hit the bowl then a long slow kiss
and instantly you’re at my hips.
You hold my hands above my head
and make your way between my legs.
I know it feels so good for you
cause your size, just squeezed through.
So you know it feels so good for me
when you hold my legs from beneath my knees.
All of me is shown attention
my bottom lip you bite with passion.
For days I’m stuck in a daze
for I got all that I crave.
I forget that when it’s over
I can’t fight that craving sober.