I Think I Figured It Out.

Why camp feels broken, I mean. After the horrible events of the past week.

Some background:

I have anxiety. Not just like I get nervous sometimes or PMS really bad or some shit. 

I have a generalized anxiety disorder, for which I take medication, in conjunction with a serious panic disorder, for which I do not. I have struggled with these things since I was six years old.

There are days when I am scared of everything, when nothing feels safe, when even the protection of my own eyelids holds no guarantee of comfort. This happens in unfamiliar places, at school, in my house, in my bed. Both in my loved ones' arms and when I am entirely alone.

I was never scared at camp. I feared nothing, I worried about nothing. I never had anxiety or a panic attack within the 1500 acres of forest which made up my childhood sanctuary. Even as an adult staff member, camp and I made one another invincible.

This is no longer true. It has been indisputably proven to me. My safe place is responsible for the death of a child. I hold every branch, every rock, every blade of grass and leaf and seed and step and granule personally accountable. 

My home has betrayed me. This is unforgivable. But now I am more alone than I have ever been.

And I don't know what to do.

Hey, Just So We're Clear, I'm Going To Punch Humidity.

I'm going to punch it and then when it's all painful and shit I'm going to whip out my pistol and shoot it. Right in the dick.

I might have to get a pistol first. I don't know. Whatever. I'll figure it out.

The World Is A Pretty Awful Place.

A little girl at my camp died yesterday. Trampled by horses. Nine years old.

I wasn't there, of course--but I feel like I was. I don't think I've ever been more heartbroken. Cried myself to sleep last night, and even now there is a lump in my throat. A small one, the kind that stays with you.

The poor family. Her two siblings who were on camp at the time, her parents whose trust they had, maybe effortlessly, granted to the staff there.

But I also hurt for the place. For camp. It feels, honestly, like something is broken. As far away as it is, and as much as I swear it's not part of my life anymore, it's still my home. And it always will be, but it still feels broken. Wrong. Like I'm going to wake up.

And until then all I can do is curl up in my bed, let my face turn ashy, my muscles soft from neglect. My hair will begin to fall out, my skin to wrinkle. I will die a little more with every breath, until I reach bottom. 

Grief is a terrible thing.

Today I Thought That Maybe I Live In Heaven.

Sometimes, when I lay in the grass outside on a beautiful day, I can feel my pores beginning to widen. It's harder to see, but when a breeze catches my hair the strands push my eyelids closed and I just stop and feel. 

And on my arms, the tiny dots grow and widen and I can feel them desperately swallowing the sunlight, the same way whales surface in the ocean and gasp for air after being under for a long time.

And the yellow light swirls into every inch of my body and makes me feel lighter and I smile and stretch and the warmth makes me glow from the inside out, I just know it. I can feel it, and I can feel the robins' eyes on me. They've never seen a glowing girl before.

You Know, This Whole Paula Deen Situation Has Really Got Me Thinking.

Just like I do whenever race is an issue that makes national news. It's such an interesting concept, with so many layers--each of which is hidden because each person can truly see only their own perspective. No matter what.

But we, as Americans, have spent a lot of time trying to right the wrongs of our racist past. We spend billions of dollars each year on public and private programs which attempt to tilt the scale back to some sort of equality, usually aimed at "inner-city youth"--a euphemism for African-American teenagers.* I will not argue against these programs. I firmly believe in them, in fact, and fully support the sentiment behind them.

But race, as a cultural issue in the United States, is tricky. Obviously, it is a social construct. However, even the anti-racist movement is a social construct that marginalizes a sector of the population.

Until relatively recently, race consisted of black and white. Since then, many ethnic populations have tried to bring to light their own situation in which they are neither and thus excluded by both. Because of their efforts, we now have a crude triangle of race: black, white, and everything else.

So let's brainstorm, shall we? Who falls into "everything else"? Latino and Hispanic populations. Native Americans. Asians. Indians. Middle Eastern peoples of various descent. Australian Aboriginals. And within each of these groups, there are more divisions still. Even if you are entirely bigoted, think of it logically: How can we possibly lump these together?

But we do. Every goddamn day. And it's even worse for those of mixed race, whose identity is (god forbid) somewhere along one of the triangle's lines, far enough from the point of self-knowledge that they are excluded from each group though they cling to both.

And this seems obvious, but it isn't. Because there is no way that I truly can make you understand the plight of these people unless you are one. The pain of having your identity continually ripped from you for the sake of convenience to others--or worse, being stretched like a rubber band between two identities, each of which reject you for being too like the other.

And I won't shut up about it. I wish I was the last Third Race child who asked "Mommy, am I black?" because racial dichotomy does not equip me with the language to identify myself. I wish I was the only multiracial one who had ever cried myself to sleep because in the same day I had been told I was "so white" and "not white enough".

I am not the last. I am not the only. And until we, the Great Melting Pot, the Salad Bowl, the Cultural Mosaic, can learn to discuss, accept, and love each sparkling tile which defines us, I will keep screaming. Someone will hear me, someone will join me. We will provide the language, destroy the dichotomy, eliminate the pain. We will learn to love, if it is the last goddamn thing we do.

______________________________________

*The issue of ageism and its intersection with racism is a fascinating one, though will not be addressed here.

Holy Shamoley!

Eat some chicken strips and I can't even type for the eighteen dollars I love you, you beautiful son of a bitch.

Marry me on the fucking Amanda Show, goddamn it.

Don't Make Her Snap Her Fingers in a Z-Formation.

You go, congresswoman.

(If you don't have eight minutes to spare, it gets really good at about 6:00.)

I Feel Good.

Duh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh.

I knew that I would now.

Chocolate is proven to release endorphins. So is physical exercise. So is sex. In high school, I had a friend who swore that her multivariable calculus course gave her a "mathematician's high".

But, like, in all honesty, there is nothing better in the whole world than making someone you care about smile. I'm as corny as Kansas in August, I know, but I'm being serious. Because--if you care about this person enough--the idea that they're happy makes you happy. And with the idea that, in some small way, you are the reason for this person's happiness: you can't help but smile with them. 

Happy happy happy happy happy happy happy.

Literally I Just Love Coldplay So Goddamn Much.

And I think that among some circles (especially in Britain) they're a bit of a running joke, but I just am so obsessed.

You know how when 13-year-old girls listen to Taylor Swift they're all "ZOMG it's like she's just a regular girl who knows exactly what I'm going through with all my angst and budding sexuality"? Thats how I feel about Coldplay. They actually have a song for every single arc on the emotional roller coaster that is my life and I just adore them so goddamn much. And and and oh my god what even I just want to go to the UK already, is that so much to ask?

I mean, yeah, because of how plan tickets cost alllllllll the dollahz. But poop.

Also it is too humid. I am sliding out of this plastic chair because of the combination of the water in the air and, let's be honest, all the butt sweat happening in this general vicinity right now.

I am Indian. I am born of desert people. I'll take 106 degrees and bone dry over 85 and muggy any day of the week. Or year. Or whatever. 

Remember in The Incredibles when they're in the burning building and Bob is like "I thought you could use the water in the air" and Frozone is all "There is no water in this air!" 

Seriously, 88% humidity in Boston is entirely inhumane. Shakes fist at sky. Damn you, greenhouse gasses! 

Yo, Fuck DOMA.

Literally could not be more thrilled with the SCOTUS right now. Badassery five-ever.

And also it's warm and sunny and I won a staff award at work today. All I want to do is lie in the grass and melt into a sugary, golden-brown puddle of happy marshmallow goop. And that is exactly what I intend to do, after I finish seamstress-ing.

Gay marriage and sunny skies. I dare you to find someone having a better day than me right now.

I Have Quite A Few Flaws.

Much like you. And everyone else.

One of mine is a vast discomfort with sexual expression or language. Yes, I believe that a certain level of sexual language is inappropriate and unprofessional and I stand by that--however, any mention of anything remotely sexual in everyday conversation makes me squirm.

But I recognize that sexuality, in all its forms, is a integral aspect of the human experience.

The other day during a diversity activity*, the question was asked: "Please step into the circle if you have ever questioned your sexual orientation."

I alone stepped forward.

Sixteen people remained behind. And honestly, I didn't buy it. Who in this world hasn't had that conversation with themselves?--even if it scared them or made them angry, even if they shut it down almost immediately. By the age of 18, I believe that though everyone may not have become fully self-aware in regards to sexuality, they have certainly wondered about their own and perhaps experimented with their own thoughts and feelings.

However, I totally understand that an inner dialogue about sexuality is a personal experience and may not be one that every person is okay with sharing. But this brings me to my question:

What kind of fucked up world do we live in that people are comfortable making jokes about sex, sexuality and rape, yet cannot have a serious discussion about these things in a pre-determined safe space?

It's not fair. And it makes me sad.

And uncomfortable. You know.

_______________________________________

*If you want to read more about this, one of the students who I led in the activity wrote about it in her blog. She is amazing and brilliant and eternally more talented than I.

(Also she named me Jessica in the post--which is not accurate, but I appreciate the whole protection-y sentiment behind it.)

At Work This Week, I Have Group I.

You don't really need to know what that means and it would take me forever to explain it to you, so suffice it to say that you know I have Group I.

And that because of that, this song has been stuck in my head for literally forty-eight hours.

Girl you know I-I-I

I used to work at a summer camp and one year some little kid named DaQuan was singing it, like, all week. He was eight years old.

We convinced him the lyric was "birthday cake". Not that it really helped, it only encouraged him to sing the whole thing more raucously than before. But we preserved the innocence of a slew of other children, which is what counts. I think.

"What's Going On? You Seem Really Down."

"Yeah, I just found out Josef Stalin was a bad guy."

Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Churning out gems since 1997.

I Just Finished Reading The Hunger Games For, Like, The Eighth Time.

I love that book to pieces. And when I first read it, I was in like 8th grade and fell madly in love with Peeta and sort of just like invested all of my angst into Katniss' struggles for her own and her family's survival--which is, in hindsight, totally ridiculous because I have absolutely no way of even remotely relating to any of that. But I did. It was my favorite book for a really long time.

And I just reread it again, three years since I last did. And of course, I fell in love with it again.

But the most striking difference was in my angsty teen-fiction crush on the heroine's male counterpart.

I remember obsessing, as I imagine every 14-year-old does, over Peeta. Every description of his character, his faults and respective strengths, his appearance was turned over and over in my mind until I had convinced myself that I would never find anyone so perfect as this fictional boy who charmed me through the pages of a hand-me-down paperback.

Reading it again, though, I didn't really have those feelings. Instead--and this is going to sound so goddamn sappy--I realized how lucky I am to have someone who, to me at least, is exactly perfect. Though the character is described as fair and stocky, I couldn't help picturing my own tall, lean, dark boy. Every gushy scene between Katniss and Peeta was translated in my head to an image of a thinner, tougher, prettier me curled into the arms of a man who looks nothing like Peeta and is very, very real.

I didn't realize this, honestly, until about twenty pages from the end. And fifteen pages after that, when things began to turn sour, I closed the book and replaced it on my shelf without marking my place.

Because the truth is, falling in love isn't the moment when you see someone and think how beautiful or funny or smart they are. It isn't the moment when you think I love this person, or even the moment when you decide that someone makes you happy.

Falling in love is the moment when you realize that your life is perfect because of a specific person in it.  It doesn't happen at first sight, but it is sudden and scary and wonderful. The kind of feeling that makes you want to call your parents and cry and cry. And play an Augustana song really loud with your speakers pressed up against the window screen.

Insert Cliche About Friendship Here.

Honestly, though, I think people take Friendship for granted. 

I'm capitalizing Friendship for a reason, which is to distinguish it from friendship, which Wikipedia defines as "a stronger form of interpersonal bond than an acquaintanceship." No shit, Internet.

And by that definition, it really is easy to find and make friends. Find someone who you can tolerate--even whose company you can enjoy--and who conversely tolerates you and perhaps enjoys your company: friendship.

But to find someone with whom you feel connected; with whom you can agree on both serious topics and lighter ones, with whom you can laugh and cry naturally and immediately. With whom you are your honest self. This is cliche, but give it a second of serious thought. Friends like that are so hard to come by, and so difficult to relocate once they've been lost.

Do you have someone like that? And do you tell them how lucky you feel to know them in this way?

If the answer is no, go bake a heartfelt letter of appreciation into an apple pie. Then we'll talk.

I Am Not Fat.

I am not fat. I am beautiful.
I am not fat. I am beautiful.
I am not fat. I am beautiful.

I am beautiful.
I am beautiful.

I am beautiful.

I am fucking beautiful.





(And fuck you, why are fat and beautiful mutually exclusive?)

Goddamn, I Love Hugs So Much.

They are so wonderful. So, so wonderful.

And I always feel a little weird invading someone's personal space unless I know them well or am intoxicated (I get pretty handsy), but sometimes I just go for it and it's always wonderful.

Hugging is an art form, really and truly. They need to be strong and firm, but not tight. They need to be long--though of course too long starts to cross the line into sexual, which is nice too but not always the intent. I personally am I huge fan of waist-hugs rather than shoulder-hugs. Waist-hugs just feel so much more personal. And of course, picking someone up is always nice, mostly because getting picked up in a hug is basically the cherry on top of the Hug Sundae. It's nice to be someone's maraschino cherry once in a while.

This guy I work with claims to give the world's best hugs--apparently he has it in writing. Admittedly, as a connoisseur of All Things Huggy, I demanded one and it was pretty fabulous. Maybe not the world's best, but pretty close. I happen to think my boyfriend gives the world's best hugs, but I'm not going to claim to be an unbiased party.

Today Is THE Most Beautiful Day Ever. Really Though.

I just honestly can't even deal with it. This day is so perfect.

And that's true for a couple of different reasons--the weather, my mood, my family and friends--but without listing them in exhaustive detail I just wanted to say that, for the record, today is This Summer's Best Day Yet.

I do expect them to continue to get better, but this is a pretty excellent one. It all kind of depends on what happens next. I'm a little bit nervous--I'm scared of losing this amazing, free-wheeling feeling of ultimate joy. Which is silly, but there you have it. It's not like I even have anything specific that I'm worried about. I just want so badly to hold on to this.

Also, did you know that Sarah Michelle Gellar was in the Scooby-Doo live action movies? She played Daphne. I didn't recognize her as a Ginger.

This Was, To Be Honest, One Of The Historically Best Nights Ever.

I rarely feel so comfortable around a group of people. So accepted and happy. So much myself. So much in love with my life and the people around me.

Tonight is, in a word, a yellow night.

I'll leave it at that for now.

So This Is My Thing About Twitter.

I'm one of the Tweeters for the social media committee at work--which is a bit of a learning curve, because I don't have a personal Twitter. True, I'm logged onto my boyfriend's account on my computer, but I don't use it except to follow random feminists in the hopes that one day he'll call me up and start talking about heteronormality and the contrast between chivalry and chauvinism*.

I honestly think that Twitter is just sort of silly. Most of the people I know/would follow are not that interesting, if I'm being honest. Some people are great, but that's why I have a Facebook. And anyway, I don't really think that anything worth saying can be said in 140 characters. Obviously. That's why I ramble on so in this blog of mine.

On the other hand though, being tech-savvy is a valuable skill in the modern job market. It is, and it seems silly to say, but being able to use social media and communicate with people is a serious asset. And I understand that, which is why I am now going to learn to use Twitter. I can put it on my list of skills now without having to restrict all my words. Hooray.

___________________________________

*This is actually a fascinating topic, remind me to write a post on it later.

Here Is What Everyone Should Know About Frozen Yogurt.

If you mix in peanut butter, you'll get quite a nice concoction of the two most delicious flavors in the universe.

I love peanut butter. I love it so much.

The first guy I ever kissed didn't like it at all. He was from London and they don't really do peanut butter there, so he kind of thought it was gross--obviously, he was dead wrong, but it is what it is. The first time I kissed him I had just eaten a peanut butter sandwich and when I pulled away I apologized for tasting like it. His line: "I think I could grow to like peanut butter." Dying.

Actually, my whole first kiss situation was kind of awful and adorable and so characteristically me. It was with this guy I had liked for a while, and we had been close friends. Apparently, he liked me too, though I was angstily* oblivious to that fact.

We worked together at a sleep-away camp that I had gone to for years. I loved that camp--I met my current boyfriend there as well, as a matter of fact.

(Oh god. Am I a camp whore?)

First Kiss Guy and I were out with a few friends one night and didn't return to camp until like 1:30 am. The dining hall had been closed for hours, but we broke in anyway and made ourselves a feast of PBJs and popsicles. Our friends left after a little while, and FKG and I walked back to our cabins alone. We stopped in front of the barn, under the streetlight that illuminates where the path splits to Boys' and Girls' Villages. We stood and talked for a few minutes, our hands brushing together.

Out of nowhere, his face was really close to mine. Really close. I could feel his breath on my nose--and I panicked, naturally. Because this is me and I have no social skills. I took a big step back, said loudly, "I think I'm going to go to bed," turned on my heel and began to walk away as quickly as I could.

When I glanced back, he was still standing there, a tall thin shadow under the orange light. I stuck out my tongue and made the loudest farting noise I could muster, and then hurried on my way.

Really, this is so classic me that I could just spit.

Anyway, it wasn't until five minutes later that I realized what I'd done and knocked on a friend's cabin door in a panic. She just looked at me like I was an idiot--maybe I was. Maybe I am. "Go knock on his door, stupid" was the basic gist of her advice.

So I did. And he came down the hallway and opened the door, and I tried to apologize for being so silly but before I could even get the words out he kissed me. Cue the Peanut Butter Anecdote. He said a lot of other cute stuff, too, but honestly I don't really care about it that much anymore.

After we were done, I told him that I really did have to go to bed, so after a quick goodnight I hopped off the porch. Assuming he was inside already, I did a little dance to myself. A voice behind me laughed and asked, "What was that?"

"My happy dance," I mumbled, flushing red, and then really did sprint off to my safe cabin in Girls' Village.

Mic drop. Sharma out.

_________________________________

*Is that even a word? It is today!

I Continue To Make Rather Awkwardly Ceremonious Exits.

And then everyone involved is sort of uncomfortable, and then my life just turns a little tiny bit more awkward, if that was even possible.

Also the reason I don't buy real water bottles is because I keep losing them, and it feels like a waste of money.

Also, how powerful a diuretic is tea? Because right now the smell of it is making need to use the facilities. But I can't because then I am afraid someone will steal/knock over my tea. And I really like tea. And I can't bring it into the bathroom with me because then it will get infected and I will die.

TAINTED LOOOOVE

Some Days I Feel Sad.

That's the quirk about being crazy and positive all the time, I think. There aren't many lows, but the lows I do have are really low.

I just want to leave. Not even to pack up, I'd take nothing with me. And it's not about leaving This Place physically as much as just cutting off all ties and starting fresh. Building my life again from the ground up. Knowing where all the stray threads are and exactly how to cut them off without unraveling everything else.

I want my life to look like this.

Clean and simple and easily comprehendible. Predictable. I don't like surprises. 

I don't like people changing. I don't like when others' moods change and cause mine to change too. I don't like being close enough to people that their feelings affect mine. I like having my mind-space to myself.

Often when I meditate, I find myself alone far under the surface of the ocean. No fish, no humans--literally nothing exists in the world but me and my mind. No one else can ever find me. This is where I am calmest, I think.

Water and sleep. That is how I fix my funk. And when I wake up tomorrow it will be as if I pressed a reset button and everything is new and clean and fresh again. Some days, though, I feel sad. Today is one of those days. 

And that's okay.

What Is Acceptable To Put On Twitter?

Like, in all honesty. I don't get it. Sometimes when I'm feeling feisty I read this Tumblr and I'm genuinely just sitting here wondering why anyone would say this crap on the Internet Machine. For example, this gem in response to a Mexican-American child singing the National Anthem at a basketball game:

Seriously, broski? You put that on the Internet? If you have to be a total bigot, at least do it in the privacy of your own home/offline documents.

And why is it okay to tweet the above, but if I tweeted "omfg explosive diarrhea lololol worst day ever D:" all my friends would probably just like stop talking to me or something. I get where the line is in the real world, but on the Internet? Not so much.

I Am Going To Be Wonderful.

Lately I've Rather Felt As If I've Tumbled Down A Rabbit Hole.

This Is Basically Chronic Anxiety Told In GIFs.

A trigger happens. It usually does something like this:

Then I do something like this:

Then somebody looks at me like this:

Which super does not help. 

And then someone else tries to be nice and does something more along the lines of this:

And I'm just like:

And then I go back to doing something like this:

Until I can find my bubbles, at which point I do this:

And then I feel more like this.

Yaaaaaay.*

_________________________________________

*And then it all begins again. Happy Tuesday to me. 

If You Weren't So Stupid, I Could Have Loved You.

But you're pretty stupid.

This Is My Favorite Song And Here Is Why.

Well I guess I should confess that I am starting to get old
All the latest music fads all passed me by and left me cold
All the kids are talking slang I won't pretend to understand
All my friends are getting married, mortagages and pension plans
And it's obvious my angry adolescent days are done
And I'm happy and I'm settled in the person I've become
But that doesn't mean I'm settled up and sitting out the game
Time may change a lot but some things may stay the same

And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all I will not grow up
And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all yeah I won't grow up

Oh maturity's a wrapped up package deal so it seems
And ditching teenage fantasy means ditching all your dreams
All your friends and peers and family solemnly tell you you will
Have to grow up be an adult yeah be bored and unfulfilled
Oh when no ones yet explained to me exactly what's so great
About slaving 50 years away on something that you hate
Look I'm meekly shuffling down the path of mediocrity
Well if that's your road then take it but it's not the road for me

And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all I will not grow up
And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all yeah I won't grow up
And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all I will not grow up

And if all you ever do with your life
Is photosynthesize
Then you deserve every hour of these sleepless nights
That you waste wondering when you're gonna die

Now I'll play and you sing
The perfect way for the evening to begin
Now I'll play and you sing
The perfect way for the evening to begin

And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all yeah I won't grow up
And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all I will not grow up
And I won't sit down
And I won't shut up
And most of all I will not grow up.

I Am Convinced That Riddle's Diary Is A Metaphor For Internet Pedophilia.

This sounds funny, but let's think about it for a second, seriously.

A young girl, lonely and ignored, finds solace in confessing to an unseen friend via an anonymous communication medium.
The older friend deliberately befriends her, his intentions shady.
When the girl grows attached to the unseen friend, she begins to pursue him--he takes advantage of this and lures her into danger so that his true intention can be carried out.
When they meet in person, he tries to kill her. 

Basically.

And honestly, I didn't think of this while I was first reading it--though that may have been because I was seven years old at the time. But the more I think about it, the clearer it is. After all, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets was published in the late 1990s when the internet was in it's early stages and security was minimal, especially for children and teens.

So, was the beautiful and magnificent J. K. Rowling drawing on the mysterious new world of Internet Pedophilia for a plot line? And was this an abuse of the trauma of many, many children? Or was it a well-intentioned subliminal message meant to protect the children it reached?

I prefer to believe the latter; however, it still gives me chills to think of Rowling's experience and how awful it must be to have motivated her to include a warning in her story.

I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Polka-Dots.

Hello, polka-dots. I laaaaaaaahve you.

Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head
Give a twist, a flick of the wrist
(That's what the showman said.)

Doo-doo-lee-dooooo-do

The thing about polka-dots (especially on clothing) is that they are adorable and awesome and that when I see someone wearing them I almost immediately love them because I can generally assume that that person has similar values to me.

Namely, that value would be loving polka-dots.

This guy I work with has a black and white polka-dot cardigan and it's my favorite and I have shorts that are the same and when we wear them at the same time I get really excited. Like, to a rather unnecessary degree.

But I don't care, because I love them.

What Happens If I'm Abandoned By My Own Ambition?

We Do Not Wave Our Genitals Around To Make A Point.

Really. It's distasteful.

But it is, and on so many levels. I've been a little frustrated lately with the way people around me have been conducting themselves of late in regards to sex.

Personal opinion: sex is a serious topic. Good education about safe sex and safe, healthy relationships is sparse. If we're going to talk about sex, let's talk about it in a constructive, educational way which benefits everyone.

I understand that it is, in all, a cultural thing. My own discomfort with sex as a topic of casual conversation marks me as an American. Honestly, though, I just don't think that these kind of jokes are funny after a certain point. I can laugh about subtle innuendo, but when someone grabs someone else and begins an elaborate sexual pantomime--what is that? Really, what even is that?

I had someone say to me today: "Want a blow-job for support?"

No, frankly, I don't. I understand that it's a joke, but it's not in good taste. Especially not for an acquaintance, especially not for a coworker.

And sex jokes segway straight into rape jokes. And rape jokes are a direct result of The Patriarchy. Rape is a violation which occurs primarily against women. Rape jokes are made primarily by men.* Jokes, in general, are a way to normalize uncommon or unaccepted behaviors. After all, a joke's purpose is defined as being to "reduce the emotional impact of anxiety-provoking situations". A violation of that sort is no doubt anxiety-producing, both for victims and the average person for whom social norms cause rape to be a subject of tension--but do we really need to reduce the emotional impact of rape? Or by reducing that emotional impact with jokes, do we normalize rape to the point that it eventually becomes a part of our everyday life?

How can anyone justify, then, making these jokes? Are we--are we really--at a place as a society where we are ready to normalize not just rape but sex in general into our casual dialogue?

And, considering the potential implications of a culture of overt but undereducated sexuality: Do we actually want to?

________________________________________________

*In my own experience--feel free to comment.

I Am Single-Handedly Bringing the Denim Skirt Back.

And here's how I'm going to do it.

You just can't buy cute denim skirts anywhere anymore. Really. They are all a little uncomfortable and a little frumpy, and also I am a Cheap-Skate, so I decided to make my own using jeans that fit me in middle school but are now too short. Way too short. I was a touch disproportionate as a tween.

WHAT YOU'LL NEED

• Seam ripper
• Old jeans
• Scissors
• Sewing machine

INSTRUCTIONS

• Cut off the jeans to the knee on each side
• Using the seam ripper and scissors, remove the inseam of the pants--be careful not to rip the actual fabric!
• Lay the pants flat and iron them as flat as possible. Anywhere the fabric folds, (especially in the front) make sure the pleat is neat and hidden. 
• Pin the fabric together to form a skirt. Make it as long as possible--you can cut and hem it later.
• Sew the front and back seams up using the sewing machine to make a double seam.
• Try it on and measure how much you want to shorten it!
• Cut and hem as needed. You may either sew a double seam for the hem or surge it

Don't Worry, Internet. I'll Be Back.

My dearest, darlingest Internet,

I've been taking a bit of a break from you lately--no doubt you've noticed. I've been busy. We all have, we're grown adults, and I understand that is no excuse for my behavior.

I had to find myself, Internet. Our relationship had gotten a little intense and I needed to reevaluate my life around us. I searched high and low and came to the following conclusion.

I love you, Internet. Really, there is no one else. There never was. Your enormous beauty, your depth of knowledge, even your flaws. You are a gem like no other.

One more day, and I promise everything will be as it was. Don't worry, Internet. I'll be back.

With all my love,
TSB

If I Can't Express Myself, I Will Certainly Lose Myself.

It Is A Gloomy Day.

A gloomy. Ass. Day.

I don't mind the cold, or even the rain--it's a welcome change from the molasses-like humidity and scorching sunlight of the last few days. The dark is what really gets to me. When I get up and go to work and I'm walking through the city at 8:45 and it still feels like dawn is just breaking? Not okay. You hear me, Weather-Demons? Not. Okay.

And it doesn't help that I walked 12.1 miles yesterday and now every time I take a step my legs wobble unsteadily and my knees cramp up. I look like a goddamn newborn calf. Or Bambi, or some shit like that.

Also, who the hell thought it was a good idea to name a deer Bambi? What does that even mean? Shut up, Disney, you racist fool.

I would like a leg massage, a cozy sweater, and a smoothie. Someone please arrange that. Thanks.