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Dear Person That Keeps Texting Me, 

I’m writing to you here, because I know what you do with men that won’t stop bothering you, which you are. You deprive them of all contact. However, one of my many flaws is that I tend to always want to have the last word, so here it is. 

1. I never led you on that I’d be that friend that goes out constantly. I “go out” in the traditional sense maybe a few times a year. I don’t have the money to do it often, and even if I did, I have much more worthwhile ways to blow my money that last longer and don’t cause me social anxiety like being around you does. You just sit there. 

1a. You lost all contact privileges or hope to speak to me again when you sent me a text threatening, and I quote: “To show up and pull me out [of my] house” and my girlfriend too. I don’t take that as a joke. You’d know that if you listened to half of what I said about why I cut off contact with obnoxious people in the past. You do not use words like “pull” or “force” in reference to taking me out of my home. It may seem a small linguistic thing to most, but to me it says one thing: “You are something for me to control and I can make you do what I want you to by force if necessary.” Needless to say, I don’t care for that. It’s made me legitimately scared you’ll somehow get my new address and show up here. 

2. You didn’t help your case by sending me baiting, passive aggressive texts to me about “finding a picture of me in my costume on the internet on reddit” and to “Text him if I want to hang out or if you hate me and never want to hang out ever” That’s creepy. Creepy as fuck. And I checked, it’s not true. So it’s playing on most sensible human’s fears of having their picture posted on the internet without their permission. You’re using fear tactics and guilt. That smacks of what I mentioned in 1a. You honestly believe you have the right to try and manipulate and force me to do what you want me to do. 

3. The very fact I feel somewhat guilty about this is something that disgusts me: As a female, I’m told I should be nice to boys and not to hurt their feelings. That I’m the bitch that lead them on, it’s all my fault if their feelings are hurt. Well, guess what, you’re a 30+ goddamn year old man. Your itty bitty feelings are not my problem. They never should have been my problem. Maybe I should have responded a long time ago with something “mean.” I think, “maybe this is on me in part.” And then I remember you’re a 30+ year old man that’s been married before (divorced) with two kids. You should know better. 

4. You’ve repeatedly made it obvious you don’t listen to what I say. I tell you I want at least a week’s notice for plans, you keep texting me about “hanging out” tomorrow. Or tonight.

4a. And you keep mentioning drinking. Constantly. That’s a massive red flag to me, and to any female raised in the “always watch your drink” days of our society. You want me inebriated. You don’t want me, you want to feed me alcohol to see what I’ll do. I’m not your fucking toy. Further, it makes me wonder why you want me incapacitated so I can’t leave, because I’m a decent fucking human being and I don’t drink and drive. Ever. And you want to meet at your home. I’m not comfortable with that, for all the fucking reasons I just listed. 

4b. Further on the I’m not your toy– your frequent texts of commands to “amuse you” show a lot about how you view me and women in general. 

5. You started down this road when you showed you had no sense of boundaries by texting me in the middle of a flash flood warning and severe thunderstorm to “come watch your kids” because your “sump pump blew out.” this tells me two things: I’m a potential babysitter and you have no regard for my personal safety or your kids’. I don’t even know where you live. 

5a. I don’t care if you apologized later, the fact you did it in the first place tells me a whole lot. This also refers back to 4: You don’t listen to what I say. I told you, multiple times, I hate kids. I hate kids. In plain English, I have told you “I loathe children.” I won’t even learn yours’ names, because that is how little I fucking care. And you blatantly ignore it. 

6. You used me as a resource for your dating woes to the point it was pathetic, and further illustrated your lack of boundaries. I’m not a stereotypical woman. The fact you seem to believe me to be a resource to “Solve the mystery of what women think” proves you believe me to be so on some level. This refers back to 4 as well: You don’t listen to what I say. I’m a stereotype. I’m a woman. Ergo, I do what women do. I’ve told you, repeatedly, that isn’t the case. I’ve also demonstrated it in my actions. You’ve blatantly ignored that. 

7. You’re my former supervisor. That adds a whole other level of creepy to all of this. 

8. I don’t have to fucking justify to you, or anyone, why I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t owe you any explanation. My high school self, before all this stupid bullshit and work and college, and a fuckwit ex boyfriend or two, would have laughed at you and said “Fine, bitch, cry into your pillow.” You know what? She’s making a fucking comeback. She gave no fucks. She was a royal cunt at times, but she stood her ground and didn’t give a fuck what people she upset if she was doing something she knew was right. 

9. I’m deleting your text so I’m not tempted to respond, because the sooner you learn you can’t manipulate and order around your friends, female or not, the better. 

Have a nice day, and a very merry go fuck yourself from me to you. 

 

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I’m pissed off. I’ve had a shitty, SHITTY couple of fucking weeks, and nothing seems to be getting better– in fact, more things keep going wrong. So I’m going to rant about a few things that are bothering me. Feel free to skip this post, because it really just is a bunch of angry snarling.  Ready? 1. I don’t care about your fucking kids.  Do not send me pictures of them, do not talk about them at great length, do not expect me to coo over them. I don’t fucking care. Your fuck trophy, as it were, is not of any interest to me, nor is the idiotic craft of the day they did at camp, nor anything else. Children are about as smart as dogs up until they’re ten, and even after that, the dog is better behaved. Do not try to fucking guilt me into doing anything using them. If someone snatched them off the street in front of me, I’d call the police, but that’s all I’d do. Do not expect me to watch them. Do not say I’ll change my mind when they’re my own. I’m not having them. Period. End of discussion. Yours are not going to convince me otherwise. Why do I bring this up? Because people keep sending me pictures of their larvae, or larvae they enjoy being around, and expecting me to find it as enthralling and adorable as they do. They’re not. And they get all fucking weirded out when I have nothing to say, because what do you say about to a misshapen little creature that can’t figure out the complexities of a sliding glass door. There has been ONE person that has a kid that respects this limit of mine. She sent me ONE picture, and that’s when the kid was born. And that was the end of it. Follow her example. 2. Do your own fucking job, and do not expect me to do your job.  I love helping out. I do. I’m happy to do it. But not when it impacts my work. I should not be doing the lion’s share of your job while you’re off chatting and fucking around. Further, do not expect me to be happy if you change what I’m doing every five fucking minutes and I can never finish anything. And do not expect me to accomplish anything if you will not let me. 3. If someone commits suicide, there’s a reason for it.  I never said it was a good reason, but there’s a reason. Depression is an evil disease. And chances are, if someone killed themselves and you “can’t imagine why they would do that/what could be so awful/what they were thinking,” chances are you’ve never been depressed. I’m not even going to bother going into the way it twists and distorts the world, but let it be said something that is not necessarily a good choice seems the only solution at times. Anyway, if you have no experience with suicide/depression, here’s what the proper thing to do in that situation is: SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH. Don’t fucking go on, especially to anyone that knows anything about mental illness, about how much it “hurts” you that they offed themselves. Don’t go on about how they should have “reached out.” Chances are, if you had no idea there was anything wrong, you were part of the problem. Or, at the very least, you were not of any help. So, shut the fuck up. In addition, the proper response to someone dying via suicide that you supposedly care about is not to pat yourselves on the back about how sorry you are and how much you were a great family/friend/whatever and you can’t fathom why they would want to leave you. It’s also not to fucking complain about making the trip to the funeral, it’s not to gossip about who’s having a baby. Oh, and it’s also not to share the life plan that YOU had for the deceased, and lament that now you’ll never see that plan completed. The proper response is to mourn, you self-centered twats. TL;DR: If you didn’t know, you’re part of the problem, kindly fuck off. 4. I can’t have male friends.  I can’t. Want to know why? Because they, apparently, all think I’m supposed to be their fucking girlfriend without the sex. Or with it! Most of them think that if I REALLY got to know them, I’d want to fuck them instead! That I would explain, “Oh ho ho! Silly me, I don’t love my girlfriend! Please, stick your cock in my mouth and I’ll make you a sandwich after clad only in a maid outfit! Tee hee!” Let me explain something to you men, the few of you that are reading this: I am bisexual, but that does not mean you have a chance. I am not going to be your frat buddy that you send nonstop jokes about tits back and forth with. I am happy to provide a female perspective for you, but I am also not the end all and be all of what womanhood is. I’m actually a very poor example, given how gender fucked I am. If I laugh at your jokes, I am not flirting with you. If I talk to you, I am not flirting with you. If I text you, I am not flirting with you. If I message you, I am not flirting with you. If I am nice to you, I do not have feelings for you. You have no chance, none at all. AT. ALL. FUCKING. STOP. Now, this all sounds extremely arrogant. I know it does. But over the past five years of my life, I’ve discovered I’m not allowed to talk to men without them saying things that make me very uncomfortable. Such as that “They have feelings for me, and just want to be honest.” Or, “they were thinking about, in an alternate universe, how good we’d be together.” Or feel the need to ask me to rate their attractiveness. Or make inappropriate comments/ask questions repeatedly that I have declined to answer about my sex life, body, and person in general. I fully admit this could just be a symptom of where I am in the Midwest. I sincerely hope it is. I will stop fucking talking to you, and I will not tell you why. I’m an asshole, I know, and that’s a classic “girl” move. I know this. But I don’t feel like explaining to you every fucking thing you’re doing wrong. Chances are, by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it’s a long list. I want to have male friends. Badly. For me to rage quit, you have to have pissed me off in quite an extraordinary way. And furthermore, if you’re not smart enough to know that you shouldn’t say those things to people, I don’t think you’re going to comprehend what I’m going to tell you to begin with. Protip: If a person changes a subject, DROP IT. Further, when I am welcoming comments and critiques on my body, I will ask for them, or be dressed as a literal whore. And now, I feel somewhat better, or at least less like punching a fucking wall. Thanks for reading.

People frustrate me.

Those of you that read this blog, way back in the day when I had the time and energy to post on it regularly, know this. I made a post about how I prefer to not be nasty to people if I have nothing in common with them, I much prefer to simply let us naturally drift apart. This works pretty well for most people.

Emphasis on most.

Kids, if someone hasn’t seen you in a while, the correct way to reconnect with them is thus: You send them a message, or a text saying something to the equivalent of “Hey! I was thinking of you the other day and just wanted to see how you were doing. Hope life’s treating you well!” What’s great about this is they have the option to not respond if they so choose. They also have the option to respond with a goddamn novel about their life up to that point. It’s low pressure and low cost energy wise to both parties.

The incorrect ways to reconnect with someone are many and varied, so let me tell you about the one most frequently used upon me: The Pounce.

I will be out in a store– grocery store, book store, clothing store, doesn’t matter– and someone will notice me. They will not say “Hey! Fancy meeting you here, how are you? Good? I’m good. We should catch up sometime, ciao!” and leave me the fuck alone.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s the polite reaction, is it not? You’re doing something, I’m doing something, neither of us planned this social call, we planned to do other things. By virtue of my being there and you being there, we’re ruining each others’ experience that we initially planned. Right? I thought so.

Instead, what I always fucking get is as follows:

OMG, I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER. HAVE YOU MISSED ME?” 

I don’t feel comfortable appraising your social worth in front of you. It only leads to you being upset because, invariably, you’re not important enough for your tastes. “Er… hello there. Long time no see. How are you?”

Through out this, I will be steadfastly staying in my spot, paused in what I am doing. I will not turn toward the individual. I want a quick interaction. I give no indication of wanting any further conversation than common courtesy.

I’M SO GOOD, YOU HAVE NO IDEA. ARE YOU GOOD?” 

Yes, I am, thank you for asking. I’m glad you’re doing well too!” I smile, nod, and go back to what I was doing. I thought, and still think, this is the universal sign for “end of conversation.”

Apparently, I am dead wrong.

“SO I’VE BEEN TRYING TO GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU.” 

Oh, here we go.

“OMG I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER, WE SHOULD GET TOGETHER SOMETIME.” 

At this point, I will have to take a step away, because invariably, they will find the need to intrude into my personal space to force my attention back on them.

“Yes, that could be fun.” Yes, I know it’s a lie. I shouldn’t lie. But I really don’t like being rude or out and out hurtful. That, and I really don’t like the fucking scene people create when you tell them to go away. They usually glare and huff and are a bitch to you the rest of the time you’re wherever you are, so invariably you have to make effort to avoid them or you have to leave. I don’t want to leave. I didn’t bring this goddamn interaction on us, they did. It’s their fault. Childish to assign blame, I realize, but all the same, one of us caused this. It wasn’t me.

Here, I will usually check my phone, or take note of something announced over the speaker if it is something like a store closing, special event, or other such excuse to leave. I’ll smile politely, and say: “It was great seeing you, but I hadn’t realized what time it was/the store’s closing/I don’t want to get caught in the crowd for the event/etc. I’ve got to go.”

Now, in reflection on these interaction, I always realize I should have firmly affixed a “Good bye!” here and turned on my heel and left. I view it as rude, but other people tell me it’s being “assertive.” I notice it’s only “assertive” when they do it, never when it’s done to them. Otherwise, it’s rude. Thus, I’m disinclined to follow their advice, because again, I don’t like drama, I don’t like scenes, and I really don’t like people texting me and messaging me and being dicks to me going “WHY WERE YOU SUCH A BITCH TO X?” But it’s also more than that: It’s not that I don’t like you. I just don’t want to have an extended conversation with you at this moment. Let me take a brief moment to explain something about introverts like myself on the extreme end of the spectrum:

We plan our social interactions down to the moment. We think “Okay, if I can arrive by this time, I can leave by this time without seeming rude.” It’s nothing against you, we don’t hate you, we’ll have fun while we’re there, even! But being around people is tiring. It’s tiring for different people for different reasons. Usually my problem is that with any given person, I have a set of conversation topics I can’t go near, I have a set of facets to my personality I cannot express, and I have to filter everything I say to such a degree it is mentally exhausting. “GET NEW FRIENDS THEN” you say. Well, I do. They’re mostly over the internet. Why? Because I live in a fucking place where there are almost no people like me, that’s why. I have to make do with what I’ve got until I can move elsewhere, like all the precious few people that are like me are. I do like some interaction with people. I get lonely like everyone else. So I have to make do with what I have. Thus, I have to put up with all this garbage if I want to interact with anyone other than my partner. Point is, I don’t like pissing people off because I can tolerate so precious few of them to begin with. If I want to fucking leave, it has nothing to do with you. Contrary to popular belief, extroverts, the entire goddamn world is not a reaction to you.

Now, to get back to that tricky “being assertive” by saying “goodbye,” I was raised that you don’t fucking impose yourself upon other people. Thus, if someone says they have to go, their body is angled away from you, and they look about to leave, you say “Oh! Sorry to hold you up. See you later.” I was, apparently, the only person raised this way in the last fucking half a century. If someone says they need to leave now, the correct response is:

BUT I JUST SAW YOU, WE NEED TO GET TOGETHER. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE TO GO? I DON’T HAVE TO GO. I’M NOT BUSY. WE NEED TO GET TOGETHER.” 

If you’re someone like this: Fuck you. Either you’re oblivious to both body language and verbal communication, or you’re outright ignoring it. There’s no excuse for being that oblivious past the age of thirteen or so unless you so happen to be actually clinically diagnosed on the autism spectrum. In that case, you get a pass, and I’ll adjust my interaction with you accordingly. If you’re a mentally healthy human being, you’re just being rude and inconsiderate. I’ve give you every polite indication that I want to end the conversation. I’m not going to tell you to fuck off, because I think that as another human being you deserve to have courtesy extended to you.

Here in the interaction is where I start to get truly upset at the person in question, for all of the reasons above. It’s even worse if I’m actually out with another person at the time– I’m not only upset you’re wasting my time, but you’re wasting someone else’s that I chose to be with and making us both uncomfortable.

“Some other time. I have to go, I’m sorry.” Why the fuck should I have to apologize to you? Oh yes, because I’m an idiot. And my idea that I should be polite to everyone is outdated, because the rest of the fucking world doesn’t follow it. I keep forgetting people are surprised when I tell them “thank you.”

And yet, I’m giving the other goddamn person an opportunity to realize they’re being a knob and exit the conversation gracefully. Fucking take it, you ass. Thankfully, about 50% do. The other 50% will physically follow me when I leave. You think I’m kidding. I’m not. Their response is:

OH WELL I’LL WALK YOU OUT. WE NEED TO DO SOMETHING! DOES YOUR NUMBER STILL WORK? LET ME TEXT YOUR PHONE RIGHT HERE TO MAKE SURE IT GOES OFF AND STILL WORKS.” 

Guys, I sincerely wish I was making this up. I’m not. After these interactions, when I finally escape them by going “No, I have to go, I’m getting in my car, I will talk to you later” I, frankly, feel violated. I had to physically get up and leave somewhere because another person would not leave me alone. That’s not a nice feeling. It’s no better than having to leave a bar because you’re being sexually harassed, being talked down to for your appearance, being made uncomfortable because you hold a different belief or value system than the majority at a totally unrelated event. I’ve been harassed in a lot of different ways. I worked for a call center. I’ve had men ask me to send them pictures of me, I’ve had people talk about their porn habits explicitly, I’ve had people call me stupid and horrible things. They all hurt and make me uncomfortable. It’s much of the reason why I quit. I’ve had people follow me from class to class and I’ve had problems being catcalled, on the street, in my car, and in any public space. I’ve had problems being sexually harassed by a guy on a loudspeaker attached to his truck while I’m in my car. All of these things make  me uncomfortable and upset, and makes me want to avoid going out. I shouldn’t have to keep myself sequestered in my apartment to avoid having my personal mental or physical space infringed upon in an upsetting manner.

But all that, I can shake off. It may take me a while, but I can. Frankly, it hurts a whole lot more that someone that actually knows me and calls themselves my friend would make me that uncomfortable by forcing themselves on me. It hurts, because it makes me feel used and stepped on. And more than that, it makes me feel stupid because I was the one stupid enough to give you the time of day in the first place. That’s the worst part, I get told “WELL BE ASSERTIVE,” “YOU’RE EXPECTING THEM TO BE PSYCHIC,” “YOU NEED TO SPEAK UP!”

If you knew anything about me at all, I wouldn’t have to. You know when your friends are upset, even before they say anything. It’ll come through, even in their text messages and IM’s. Anyone does.

But I’m the one that needs to change here. I need to be assertive. It’s all my fault. Just like it’s all my fault for wearing shorts on a 90 degree day while I’m moving boxes to a new apartment and sitting in my car at a stop light with the window down. It’s my fault for giving you an opening.

Yeah, got it. Thanks.

On Writing

I am currently impossibly high. No drugs. No anything. My problem is writing. I’d stopped writing fiction for a while– lost the time, lost the inspiration. I’ve picked up the pen again and remembered why I tend not to write around other people.

Writing is both a mental and physical process. We think, we hit the keys, move the pen, the issue is that on top of it, when I’m in the head state of a character, something happens when I’m in a good place. I’m removed from all of this. I feel everything they do, from chill of the air where they’re being kept captive to the scent of the tea and the wool of their coat against their neck. My thought and speech patterns mesh and combine with theirs and physiological responses start to match. You can see where this could be problematic– on the anger side, I look like I’m ready to murder someone. On the sad, I feel as hopeless as they do.

My favorite flavor of this intoxication is young love. Not love between two idiot teenagers, but that sense of affection moving into something that pushes irrational impulses in the most rational of human beings. Those days where you fret about what the hell they think is wrong with you, if they know, if you even know what in fuck’s name is wrong with you. This is especially fun with cerebral characters because I identify with them so– While they’re looking up the physiological symptoms of arousal, I was the person that when someone asked if I truly liked the guy I was dating at the time, I of course said yes… but I also went home and thought for about a half hour, checking my pulse, for pupil dilation with him held in my mind.  You probably don’t believe that anyone could be that dense about their own emotions and responses to stimuli, but I was. I saw pictures of love, I could act the parts just fine, I was happy with this person, but if someone is staring at me going “but you LIKE him, right?” I don’t know how I’m supposed to know without some type of concrete indicator.

I’m better now, granted, but it takes me back to those moments where I tended to be completely oblivious to internal cues of emotion. Depending on the situation, it can take me back to the horror and cursing everything that I was apparently in love with this person because I simply didn’t know what to do. I knew external cues, but I could only know what was demonstrated to me. I didn’t know how to demonstrate any type of affection without being false. I eventually settled on giving gifts– it seemed to work and is one of the most common expressions, almost everyone gets that you like them if you give them a present, correlating how much you like them with how much value they perceive the gift to have.  Even a socially awkward penguin like me could manage that much.

Going back to those moments where one has no idea what to do to show affections, deciding if one should even try to show their affections is amusing, nerve-wracking, and difficult. It’s nice to say “Ha! I know that now!” but it also never fails to show how far I have left to go. Gifts, apparently, aren’t the end all and be all of affection– after a while they become a careless short hand. That leaves being affectionate by other means, words, actions, and when you’re still cripplingly anxious that you’ll do something wrong at times, it just makes you want to hide. It makes you lose hope for your character– how the hell can you get them through this? If the ending is to be happy, shouldn’t they at least be able to stammer that they care for someone, even if it feels like speaking Mandrin? And what if they’re interacting with someone much more normal? What then? What the hell does a more normal person think when the general affection consists of less kissing, hugging, and flattery and more of mutual company, perhaps sitting a bit closer together, and trying your best to remember the odd things that make them happy? What does a normal person think when you’re a writer, you love romance, but when it comes to love letters and poems you come up with “Roses are red, violets are a purplish color, not blue, and I hate everyone in the world but you?”

I’m not sure. Still not, three years into a relationship. All I know is I have an extremely wonderful, tolerant person by my side that acts as a wonderful consultant when I’m staring at a problem like this one. It’s nice having a model when my character manages to find someone that is tolerant of their being as much of an idiot as I am with romance or more:

“This scene isn’t right. All of them end with the other one upset. I know I’m doing some bit wrong– it all feels rushed.”

She’ll listen as I talk through it, and then: “Foreplay, maybe?”

“Uh.”

“Explain?”

“Yeah. Explain it to the person with no concept here. My brain goes from A to B. You know that, and for that I’m sorry.”

The truly fabulous part is that instead of sighing like the long suffering girlfriend with an idiot for a partner, she’ll just start laughing. She’ll explain. Again. She’ll help me with the scene. I’ll file away the knowledge for future reference, forget bits or think I have it wrong, and then it all seems to start again. I’ll write embarrassingly personal fiction and blogs on the internet all while awkward penguin-ing at her any time I try to do any explanation of my own emotions in any form other than indirectly and in text. Joys of being /dating a writer, I suppose. Everything makes sense on the page and in meat-space we bumble about, trying to think of what the hell we had a character do to solve this same problem and looking insane.

To think, this is my drug and passion. Sometimes I think it would be easier and more socially acceptable to have a drinking habit.

Layered Drinks

Holy shit. You go away for a couple of decades and they change everything.

In any case, here we are, and as promised, here is how you mix layered drinks:

1. Either find a recipe or build one of your own, consulting a chart like this to ensure that the liquors you want to layer have different enough densities that they actually WILL layer without being an utter pain in the ass. It’s supposedly possible to layer liquors with the same density, but it’s very difficult. Write your recipe down in order of density so you don’t have to keep running back to the chart.

2. Now, gather up the liquor and find yourself a glass. The wider the top, the better. You have to fit a teaspoon or bar spoon in there.

3. Okay, so consult that shiny chart again to see which liquor is the heaviest. That’s the one we’ll start with.

4a.There are a couple of ways to layer drinks. One is using a bar spoon, holding the scoopy bit of the spoon in your hand and pouring the liquor down the handle with the end of the handle inside the glass so that the liquor runs slowly down that twisty handle to keep the likely hood of breaking the surface tension when it meets the other liquor down. However, realizing not everyone HAS a bar spoon, we’ll use the “back of spoon” method.The other way can be found here.

4b. Take your spoon and put the scoopy bit convex side up in the glass, just above the bottom. Steadily pour the heaviest liquor over the back of the spoon so it spreads out and makes a nice even layer in the bottom, moving up as the level of the layer rises so the spoon doesn’t break the surface. Technically it probably isn’t necessary to pour the bottom layer, but it makes for good practice for the other layers.

5. Now, to avoid mixing the alcohols and messing up your efforts, wipe off the spoon. Again, not strictly necessary, but makes good sense to me. I’m a neat freak with food.

6. Check the chart to find the second densest liquor and repeat the above trick with the spoon, pouring slowly over the back so that you don’t break the surface tension of the bottom layer. Do it correctly and you’ll find this layer should float mysteriously above the bottom one, content to exist as its own entity rather than getting all chummy with the other liquor.

7. Continue the pattern until the drink is complete, keeping in mind that the thinner the layer, the easier it will be to break.

There you have it, how to make drinks so fancy the liquors snobbishly refuse to associate with one another, just in time for the holidays so you can impress everyone on New Years and knock back your failed experiments during Christmas so you can cope with your family.

 

Internet Forever

I love the internet, and today I’m reminded of why. Everyone isn’t American here. On the front page of WordPress, there was ONE mention of what anniversary is occurring today in America, which is a stark contrast to the world I’ve been living in for the past month:

Watch the first ten seconds. I’d hate to spoil it for you. The rest is hilarious too, but that’s all you need.

Now, I don’t respond well to bullshit, and that’s what all this “patriotism” is. How was your life really affected that day? It became more of a pain in the ass to fly.

That’s it.

Nothing else, unless you were in that event or knew someone in it.

So shut the hell up with your “patriotism” and “remembrance.” I’m not patriotic, I’m not going to lie. I don’t have particular pride in my country, nor do I believe any country is really worse than my country. It’s a place to live. If I was patriotic as these people claim to be, I’d enlist. I’d  be out busting my ass for my country. But I’m not. Neither are they.

I understand that the event shook America to the core, that thousands of lives were meaninglessly destroyed, I understand that rallying together after a crisis of this magnitude is better than the alternative of panic. The issue is that the tragedy is exploited, used to fuel political campaigns, used for public relations boosts, used as gruesome shock entertainment, as a real life horror movie to drive up ratings.

Take a moment of silence to reflect. Light a candle for their souls, if that helps you– If you’re still grieving, grieve however helps you without hurting yourself or anyone else. After that moment, get up and move on. Watch some cute cat videos. Figure out what political party you support. Go make some art. Go kiss someone, just be sure they don’t mind first.

But do not take up my television, radio, workplace, and streets with false sympathy for people you never knew and never will know, claiming that it is patriotic.I’m fairly confident they wouldn’t want your bullshit and neither do I. It doesn’t change what happened, and it doesn’t change that you’re only caring because you’re forcing yourself to manufacture sympathy for some particular end. It is not patriotism or honoring the dead. It’s bullshit.

VIVA LA INTERNETS, the only place where it’s okay to be what people consider being an asshole, so long as it’s true or a convincing facsimile. No one set of mores holds true here.

This announcement brought to you by my annoyance. Have some wonder at the world instead of fear and manufactured sympathy, and remember there is something outside of here…

 

Anonymous

And now for a post on current events that will probably get me on a terrorist watch list for refusing to see things in black and white:

Anonymous.

No, not the state of being a faceless being in a crowd. Something related, but much different. This is Anonymous with a capital A.

Before I begin I would like to make something very clear. I am not a member of Anonymous, nor do I represent them in any way, shape, or form. I’m not here to somehow unmask their inner workings. I haven’t the foggiest how they work or gather, I can only see what they do, claim to do, or is attributed to them, just like anyone else observing a group from the outside.

What I want to discuss is the group’s pseudo acceptance on the realm of the interwebs. Anonymous is a group that has been said to hack security firms, data bases, and well known companies as well as government entities. They sound like the epitome of all things that are tearing the room apart, but that’s only if you don’t know the OTHER side of their internet lore– they’ve used their collective powers to hunt down child molesters and animal abusers as well.  Anonymous is the greatest example of chaotic neutral I’ve found in the real world.

For those that don’t have experience with Dungeons and Dragons, allow me to explain what I mean by Chaotic Neutral, courtesy of Wikipedia:

Chaotic Neutral is called the “Anarchist” or “Free Spirit” alignment. A character of this alignment is an individualist who follows his or her own heart, and generally shirks rules and traditions. Although they promote the ideals of freedom, it is their own freedom that comes first. Good and Evil come second to their need to be free, and the only reliable thing about them is how totally unreliable they are. Chaotic Neutral characters are free-spirited and do not enjoy the unnecessary suffering of others, but if they join a team, it is because that team’s goals happen to coincide with their own at the moment. They invariably resent taking orders and can be very selfish in their pursuit of personal goals. A Chaotic Neutral character does not have to be an aimless wanderer; they may have a specific goal in mind, but their methods of achieving that goal are often disorganized, unorthodox, or entirely unpredictable.

Anonymous fascinates me, mostly due to the fact their particular brand of vigilantism is not outright rejected but, instead, accepted on a larger scale than I thought possible.

Anonymous is a sign of our times… they are anyone and everyone. You are anonymous, if you follow their cause. In a small way, perhaps, but you are still a part of their “movement,” as it were. We’re a generation of kids bored at home while our parents worked three jobs to pay for houses too large for their salaries and treated us like we were precious glass, not human beings that could take a round in the school of life unaided.  Is it really any surprise that out of a generation neglected, yet over protected, would emerge a group convinced of it’s own invincibility and so loosely organized that they are like roaches, impossible to destroy because when you smash one, three more crop up in its place?

I’ve read what little the mainstream media has said on Anonymous. What is most amazing is their absolute inability to believe that a group can not have some evil mastermind behind it all, that instead it is just a mob following whatever idea sounds best at the time, be it good, ill, or something else in between. The media are convinced there has to be some sort of hierarchy, that nothing else can exist but an ordered system that merely appears chaotic as some sort of grand ruse. They are also throwing around the word terrorism, per usual, because it’s what they use to describe anything that they want people to run screaming from. This is amusing in two ways: One, I can think of nothing more terrifying than something you cannot possibly predict. Thus, for once, calling them terrorists is more accurate than normal. However, terrorism, as used by the American media,  implies a predictability– terrorists are  just evil people out to do evil things because they hate America and all things good and shiny. Small problem: Anonymous hates everyone. It has nothing to do with nationality or any other characteristics, mostly it’s all about whose day they want to ruin today because it sounded like a way to pass the time. Sometimes their actions have a higher point, sometimes not. Sometimes their means are their end. Sometimes they’re saving a kitten from being lit on fire, and sometimes they’re stealing secret files.

All that is really known about Anonymous is that they are a force to be reckoned with, and that a saying often paired with them rings true as the eyes, ears, and vigilantes of the internet: We are Anonymous. We do not forgive. Expect us.

The Results…

So, I had a test on Monday to finally, definitively prove that I have gastroparesis, rather than simply having a diagnosis of exclusion. I got the tentative results today, and that they’re that my digestion does seem to indeed be a bit slow. That’s fine. I was hoping maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t turn out that way, but that’s okay. However, then the nurse said she needed to talk to the doctor about something, to double-check the test. Never a good sign.

But, fine. Means I just have to wait for a phone call, right? Shiny. However, instead of stopping there, the nurse said something else: “We’ll discuss if Reglan would be an option–”

Reglan is a drug for treating gastroparesis, and not a reason or this particular reaction all by itself. I was going to look into the option of drugs as a last ditch option. However, Reglan is the one and only drug I have found online for this condition that had a universal response of “OMG WTF HOLYSHIT DON’T DO IT!” Why, you ask? Not only because it usually doesn’t seem to help, but also because of this little side note on this drug, courtesy of the U.S. National Library of Medicine :

Receiving metoclopramide injection may cause you to develop a muscle problem called tardive dyskinesia. If you develop tardive dyskinesia, you will move your muscles, especially the muscles in your face in unusual ways. You will not be able to control or stop these movements. Tardive dyskinesia may not go away even after you stop receiving metoclopramide injection. The longer you receive metoclopramide injection , the greater the risk that you will develop tardive dyskinesia. Therefore, your doctor will probably tell you not to receive metoclopramide injection for longer than 12 weeks. The risk that you will develop tardive dyskinesia is also greater if you are taking medications for mental illness, if you have diabetes, or if you are elderly, especially if you are a woman.”

Now, I’m not elderly, but the simple fact I have XX chromosomes is clearly a risk factor, as well as the fact that I’m bonkers (especially if I ever need to go back on meds again). Uncontrollable tics? I fucking flail and twitch enough, you goddamn bastards, I don’t need any fucking help. In short, go fuck yourself and your dangerous, debilitating drug. One of the few things I like about myself on the outside is my face, and that’s not even all the time. I’ll be goddamned if you take my fucking food, my sense of normalcy in life, and what little I can occasionally like about myself with it. Go to hell. Go to hell and fucking die.

Thus, I’m in the market for a nutritionist. If any of you know good resources for such things, please do hit me up with some linkage. The regularly scheduled blogging, rather than the “boo hoo, I’m sick” diary will start back up soon.

 

 

… and I Feel Good.

Self Challenge: Blog Post in 10 Minutes, including editing.

So, have any of you ever had an object in your house you just associate with negativity? Maybe it’s a gift from the mother in law you hate, or the picture your roommate has of your ex-boyfriend because they’re still friends with them. Maybe it’s a memento of a past you don’t want to remember.

I killed one of those today. Man, does it feel good.

Okay, so, I was finishing up building a shelving unit for DVDs, organizing DVDs, and generally trying to organize shit. I came across an old journal from high school. A journal in which I was dating “the fag” as he has been so named by my friends, due to the fact that, well, he has to be gay. How do I know this, you ask? He refused a blow job. Twice. Apparently, the rule is that you’re gay if you do that.

Hey, I didn’t make the rule, don’t look at me. My friends looked it up in their copies of the man handbook.

In any case, I found this journal. This journal makes me generally pissed every time I see it. I didn’t like who I was then– the fucker really didn’t like that my cock was bigger than his in almost every aspect, save in the fact he actually had one. I maintain I’m more a man than he shall ever be– I can fix my own shit and take responsibilities for my actions without whining to my mom, AND I can keep a job. Fuck him in the face.

So, while I was unwisely head-bobbing to Ke$ha and rotting my brain (goddamn you, Lora) I stared at that journal.

I also stared at the tool kit that held an X-acto knife.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if those two things met?

So, I picked up the journal and hacked and slashed my way through it. I had promised myself a long time ago I wouldn’t destroy records of my writing, no matter how shitty, but I don’t fucking care. I hate that fucking journal, I hate who I was when I was with him, I love who I am now, even if I do have more broken circuits than a R.O.B that was found at a garage sale for twenty-five cents. Fuck him, fuck the past, and fuck the promise I made in the past. I didn’t want that trash in my goddamned house, not with my new life and my new girlfriend. Fuck that past self. Fuck her in the face.

I wanted to burn the pages, but I can’t do that in my apartment due to fire code. I also don’t have a fire proof bucket. So, I took it to the sink and soaked that wad of papers to a mess of smeared writing, balled it up and threw it in the bathroom trash. I then took the bathroom trash and hurled it into the dumpster outside of my apartment.

That was about ten minutes ago now. I still want to throw my head back and cackle. It feels great to finally not have that in the apartment, and to not have any more ties to that jackoff what so ever.

I’m not sure what I’m going to use the rest of the journal for. There were an awful lot of blank pages. I might do something with it, I might trash the whole thing. I don’t really know. I may fill it with lesbian erotica, which would be hilariously fitting. Or gay erotica. Either, really.

All I know is I feel a lot lighter, and now it doesn’t piss me off to see that journal. Not as much. Almost not at all. The only thing that’s upsetting me now is wondering why the hell I didn’t do that sooner.

So, I found this in the news: The Iranian Women’s Soccer team has been banned from competing in the Olympics for failing to adhere to the dress code set down by FIFA, the Fédération Internationale de Football Association. Or, for us Yanks, the International Federation of Association Football.

Since nobody clicks links on blogs, here’s a quick sum-up: The Iranian Women’s team is required by Iranian law to be covered from hair/neck down to the feet “according to the state’s interpretation of Shiite Islamic tenets,” according to the Washington Post. FIFA has banned anything that goes around the player’s neck (including neck warmers) from being worn during games for safety reasons that I REALLY hope I don’t have to explain to you. (However, in case I do, here you are: Getting yanked backwards by the neck is BAD. If done hard enough, your neck could break. What does that result in? Paralysis or death. these are the exact same reasons you weren’t allowed to wear necklaces in PE as a kid.)

The Iranian women’s team re-designed headscarves for themselves that fit tightly around the head and neck, reducing the chance of them getting caught during a game. However, they still go AROUND the neck. Thus, FIFA said “Sorry, but it’s against regulations. It’s a safety hazard. You can’t play.” Seems simple enough, eh?

Well, apparently not. People are ALL up in arms that it’s religious discrimination, or discrimination against Iranians, that it’s a stupid rule to impose Western ways upon players, etc. No, people, it’s not. It’s safety. NO ONE can wear anything around their neck. Period. It doesn’t matter what religion you are, what country you’re from, or what sex you are, it’s a safety issue, and FIFA wants all the players to not be injured unnecessarily during games. What we have here is a clear case of “BUT I’M SPECIAL,” which crops up all too often in this world of ours.

Religion is not a trump card to any rule, or something to receive special treatment over, people. And while I’m at it, neither is being gay, a minority, having tits, having a disability, or having blonde hair. This is especially true in this case– this is a safety issue. This is not a “this isn’t allowed because I say so” issue.

“But it isn’t fair!”

No, in this case it is. Being fair is applying the same rule to everyone, no matter what, without bias or favoritism. And while we’re on the subject of what’s fair and what isn’t, I’m going to make myself grievously unpopular. Ready?

Affirmative action is not fair. It is bullshit. It is bullshit, hypocrisy, and idiocy all rolled into one.

“But without it, people who might otherwise not be hired because of prejudice wouldn’t be hired!”

You know what? If it’s a private business, that’s their priority. If they only want to hired big breasted Caucasian women with green eyes and red hair, they can do that. If they want to have a penis size requirement, fine. I really don’t give a fuck. If you don’t want to hire me because I’m a woman, that’s fine. I don’t want to work for you anyway. If someone does not want you there, they will find a way to make your life hell, no matter how many laws the government tries to put in place to prevent it. They can force you to quit by cutting your hours, by making your job unnecessarily difficult, you name it. If you can’t somehow prove they did it, they’ll get away with it. That may not be fair, but that’s the way things are. The world is not fair. You know what else isn’t fair?

Expecting to be hired because of your chromosomes instead of your qualifications.

It’s not fair when a straight man is hired simply because he’s straight, and it’s not fair when a gay man is hired simply because he’s gay. In my tiny ideal world, we would all be resumes with no names, just numbers, when we go into the job pool. Then the employers would only see what we’d done, what we could do, and how well we were qualified. We wouldn’t be kicked out of the interviewing process because we have a nose ring, and we wouldn’t be kept in the process because we fit some “requirement” for a percentage of staff that has to have brown hair, regardless if they are qualified or not. Of course, this doesn’t take care of the problem of discrimination once you’re hired, but at least it takes the bullshit out of the hiring process that is supposedly to make things “fair” when it actually just rigs it against certain people, which is supposedly what it was going to fix. Demanding equal treatment and then turning around and demanding special treatment because of some slight against you, real or imagined, is hypocrisy.

It seems what fairness actually is has been skewed in the present society, very possibly due to the attitude I discovered in my “Don’t Yell at Me, I’m Organizationally Disabled” post. Everyone else should be expected to be able to meet the expectations or shut up, but they should be given special pardon from such rigorous standards because they’re ADD when their Playstation is too close by. That sort of thing. It comes from knowing your weaknesses and assuming that no one else has any, or, conversely, knowing your strengths and assuming everyone else is just lazy and/or weak. It also comes from assuming the most evil motivation possible for every single slight against you and/or something you support. That’s how suddenly this ruling by FIFA has nothing to do with safety, it’s all about hating on Islam. It doesn’t matter why the ruling was actually made, the worst way it could be construed is that it was put into place to discriminate against anyone wearing a headscarf. Or a scarf. Or a necklace. Or anything that goes around the neck. It’s all because the people in charge are mean, hateful people that make arbitrary rules. That whole safety thing? Psh. Injuries never happen in sports! They made that up!

Bah.

Perhaps I’m just a horrible, terrible person that is rationalizing hate. Those that trip across this blog that vehemently oppose the Iranian women’s team being disqualified and support affirmative action may very well think so. Or on the other side, perhaps I’m being far too idealistic, and evil, evil shadows are lurking everywhere waiting to fuck me over for arbitrary reasons, so I should always assume the worst and protect myself accordingly. On one side I have people who think they’re entitled to something because they’re different, and on the other people who think they’re being fucked over because they’re different.

They can have fun fighting over which philosophy is correct. When so much of the world is honestly random chance, there’s not much point, but whatever gets you to sleep at night. However, whatever you do, don’t take your entitlement or paranoia and call catering to either being “fair.”

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