Girl on girl hate…. or maybe just fear?

Girl on girl hate.... or maybe just fear?

I am at a transfer seminar held by my honors program at the community college I have finished my last two years of high school at. The counselors ask us to go around the group and introduce ourselves with what we want to study in the future.
Biochemistry, psychology, engineering, English…

“I’m going to major in Journalism with a minor in Women’s Studies!”

My gaze, once flitting over the quotes on all of the inspirational posters around the room, reels to lock on the source of this sentence. This girl, who has single-handedly stolen my answer.

Her hair was in a ponytail, the kind that is teased and then the rubber-band is covered serenely by a piece of your hair as if to cover some indiscretion. She is dressed head to toe in Nordstrom. How do I know this you ask? Because in my town there are only two stores who sell the type of clothes she was wearing and it was definitely not Banana Republic.

Black leggings, black equestrian style leather boots, a perfectly fitted blazer, and the clincher, a shockingly white peplum shirt. I think peplum shirts are the inside joke of the fashion industry because they look almost inevitably ghastly on everyone who buys into the trend. They seem to be worn best when it is acknowledged that they obscure any hour-glass shape, not enhance it. Except her of course, she has magically escaped the peplum fate. Her make-up is undoubtedly expensive and quite demure on her tiny little head, which is attached to a 5 foot 5 inch body that is probably supported by size 6 feet.

Now, you are probably thinking I am completely mental to be taking such notice of this girl, which is probably the case, but I will explain my indignation anyway.

This sort of girl is everything that rubs me the wrong way because she is everything that I am not. My mommy does not buy any of my clothes for me anymore, let alone the fitted blazers I salivate over at Nordstrom, and eventually plod away from. I rarely have time to manicure my nails and I wouldn’t spend it on that if I did. I would NEVER wear leggings as pants. My appearance is fairly far from demure. I bet she listens to Adele and the Lana del Rey when she’s feeling deep. My voice could be described as low, dry perhaps while she rambled about her aspirations in a high-pitched girly, entitled tone that gave off yuppy like smoke signals.

When asked what sort of Women’s organizations she volunteered for, she said she hadn’t done any volunteering for women specifically, but did plenty of work around her church.

So why does she bother me so much? (Or the idea of her, as it’s obvious I’m just judging her based on what I’ve seen in my lifetime. Read: I don’t actually know her.)

Because she is everything I am not, everything I have rejected as superficial and soulless and commercial, and yet I have this terrible vision when I heard her proclaim my dreams as her own.

She’s going to be more successful than me.

The perfect clothes, stylish but certainly predictable, the upper middle-class mentality, the brisk entitlement, the pretty little face and cute little body.

It’s exactly what society wants in it’s women. She won’t make anyone uncomfortable. She has the naive will of someone who has always gotten what she wants.

I on the other hand, enjoy making people uncomfortable. I’m confrontational. I’m almost six feet tall and often much taller than that in heels. I feel like I am suffocating when I’m placed in large groups of people like her, and expected to talk to them. I feel better in any fringe group, no matter how polarized from myself.

And something inside me hates her for not being an individual, for not struggling with the same questions I do about what it means to be a woman. For taking no issue with exploiting the benefits of adhering to structure at the cost of becoming a slave to it.

I state again, I don’t know her. She may not be like this at all. But when I see women who present themselves like her, I suddenly feel panic spiking erratically as I am faced with the physical representation of what could very well beat me to my dreams.


Epiphany on the Damascus Road

Epiphany on the Damascus Road

I was brushing my teeth this morning and thinking about some of the arguments people bring up when trying to persuade me to Christianity.
One that is infrequently used is the examples of people who converted to Christianity when before being clearly opposed- they really must have had contact to convince them to convert right?
Well that brought me to Saul. And I was thinking, maybe he wanted to convert for a long time but realized that he had been a terrible persecutor of the Christians and didn’t think they would accept him unless their God practically told them to? So he decided that when he was out on the road he would pretend to see God and go temporarily blind. Perhaps he soothed his conscience by justifying it as, unless he convinced them to accept him, he would never be able to do the work of this God who seemed more appealing to him.
Perhaps, like me, he was one of those people he wanted a cause he could be a bit of a martyr for.
Now, I almost feel bad for him.
Seems plausible though right?

Amateur Beat Poetry

Well I realized today, after some disbelief, that my new laptop comes with Garageband, at around 9pm. It is 3 in the morning now and I am addicted. For my first project I played around with some of my poetry and my boyfriend’s poetry and voice and just the samples from the app. If you are interested in listening to it and giving me some pointers on how to better incorporate poetry with sound, please comment! 🙂

PS- It’s rather dark and weird, just a heads up.

First Attempts at Beat Poetry

What is mystery?

What is mystery?

I want a cigarette.
I am crouched on my deck, wrapped in blankets, admiring the night sky. And nothing sounds better than smoke in my mouth, billowing out it tepid tendrils.
Smoke is the breezy signature of contemplation. The rubber stamp of creative destruction. It’s one of those topics no one grows tired of writing about, fire, smoke, the color of the sky, the waves, sky scrapers… these things which inspire in us a feeling that so violently desires to be expressed, but refuses to take exact form. Smoke, a constantly moving, dissipating substance, cannot be pinned down in words. My desire to watch it escape hot from my lips is not like sexual desire, which is something I want to satisfy quickly, but an ache in my chest. It is like the way I feel when I look over the ocean, that the world is infinite, and I am playing with my own mortality like a god.
Cancer seems like something contrived by the puritans. Those who enjoy the devil on their lips will die, the bodies that god gave them rebelling, eating itself in spiteful, joyous sacrifice. It seems terribly unfair that there are consequences to feeling too deeply. We watch the spirals drift from the fires we built, and we want to feel it, we want it inside of us. This desire, which is ignited by smoke and the roofs of buildings and endless oceans, is best described as the desire to feel something beyond the moment.
The world is an endless expanse of potential emotions that feel so intense we search for a way to make them feel sharper, clearer, as if in this clarity we will see our purpose. Perhaps our purpose is merely to flit about our lives, trying to decipher this feeling. Some claim it is the touch of divinity, others claim it is merely the chemicals in our bodies, but these answers do not satisfy me. What experience of emotion can I have that will leave me feeling satisfied, craving no more?
We ask ourselves this question, and like good scientists, begin experimenting, process of elimination. Why do people climb mountains, spend millions, act desperately? It may be that we are all searching for rock bottom. A hard surface to scrape until there is something solid beneath us, to make us bleed. We feel that if we can find the edges that define our world we can live between them. Perhaps, there are none, and the willful plunge in one direction does nothing but give a person so much emotion that they cannot stop falling, and never finding the edge, tumble until they can’t take more. It would be so much easier if we could find the limits of our world, and yet we know in our hearts that it is both the boundlessness of our desires and the experiences that are their manifestations that makes life what we live every day. I want to smoke.

Masculine makeup?

Masculine makeup?

Is masculine makeup a contradiction in terms, or should we simply look to a definition of masculine loosened from the confines of traditional societal values?
A few months ago, I tried to date my Dad’s friend’s son. It didn’t work out, primarily I think because I didn’t feel like he was masculine enough to date me. Not literally on those terms, I just felt like he was more gay than straight and it made me feel undesirable and unappreciated. That in and of itself is funny. Why should someone who is also attracted to men make a woman feel unappreciated? Needless to say my whole reaction to the situation was extremely closed minded in retrospect.
Regardless, recently we became friends again. I do makeup for theater productions, and with my usually dogged persistence, I persuaded him to let me do his make up. I just blurred imperfections and accentuated his eyes. I found him so alluring!
And why not? Why can’t sultry, kohl lined eyes be sexy and mysterious on men as well as women? Our society practically mandates that sexy, polished women must wear makeup, and yet unless you are dressing up as a pirate, it’s considered effeminate for males.
I don’t think everyone should wear make-up all the time, but I certainly think that the balls it takes to pull off the look with confidence should be taken into account when society judges men who wear makeup.
He’s going to let me do his makeup again soon, and I’m going to be proud to walk around downtown with him in our conservative, certainly diversity lacking town. Do any other ladies (or guys) find straight (or bi) men more attractive with makeup?

Objectification perpetuating cartoons??

Objectification perpetuating cartoons??

So long story short, a few months ago my ex-boyfriend was unpacking his bag at our lake house and pulled out the shirt pictured.
“Isn’t this a sweet shirt I just got?” He asked, which honestly must have been a rhetorical question.
 I think I stared for a few seconds.
“No. Thats a walking poster for sexual objectification.”
“I just like her tattoos.” Bullshit response. *cough*
“No, you like it because you think people will think you’re cool for having a sexually objectified girl on your shirt.” (Aren’t I fun to date?)
“That’s just what society says makes women hot. Women are sexy when they are in objectifying poses, men are sexy when they look powerful. That’s not my fault.”
“Just because that’s what society dictates doesn’t mean you need to perpetuate the double standard.”
The argument ended somewhere around there with me insanely irritated that my concerns were blown off, and him retorting I could basically shove my opinion up my ass because he “liked the tattoos.”
 I burst out laughing at my luck when I found it left at my house. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t notice… or didn’t have the guts to ask for it back.

At first I was going to throw it away, but I thought about it, it seemed to me that if a girl wore the shirt, it wouldn’t be offensive in the same way.
 I suppose that’s because I feel like when some guys look at women in overly sexual poses, they get this attitude like it’s for them, or that she is a slut and an object. While on the other hand, I know that when I at least look at really sexual women, I just think they are really sexual, the end. Kind of like the difference between a teenage boy having porn posters on his wall, versus if I, a heterosexual woman, had them. For me it would be art and an pride in female sexuality, not objectification. (Maybe I should get some?)
The more I mulled over it (is it funny how important this issue became?) the more I thought that if I wore the shirt, I could reverse it’s message from sexual objectification to sexual liberation.

 In the end, I decided it was stupid that a sexual pose often equates to objectification. Lame that society says it’s okay to equate strong sexuality in females to sluttiness, while the same people don’t say a really sexual guy (Channing as Magic Mike anyone?) is less of a person for his performance.

So I wrote TAKING BACK OUR SEXUALITY on her back (hard to see), because I don’t think it’s right that people don’t respect sexual women. 
I don’t think it’s okay that when I wear fishnets people look at me like I must suck dick for a living.
 And I don’t think it’s okay that for whatever reason I was so incredibly offended by the shirt in the first place.
What do you think? Am I setting a double standard by thinking it’s offensive for a guy to wear this shirt in today’s political climate but not a girl? Am I hurting more than helping by thinking women should be as sexual as they want and make it loud they are more than an object?