Friday, October 3rd, 2008

Subject: My Dad can beat up your teenage son Posted by: l_stboy. Time: 5:01 pm.

Originally posted by geniealisa on October 2, 2008, here. At 11:30 last night I got an email from my mother with the subject of “Robbery” and the only line in it saying “are you up?”. I called and Mom said that someone tried to rob my father in their front yard but that he overpowered the kid and took his gun from him. Apparently the only injury he sustained was a dislocated shoulder. It’s just another example of how my father continually amazes me. He had gone out to make sure the cars were locked, armed only with his trusty flashlight (it’s really more of a spotlight). When he was out at the street he noticed three teenagers walking down the middle of the road. Once he had made it back to the middle of the front yard, he heard the “whump whump whump” of someone trying to stop after a sprint. He turned and there was a kid, maybe 15, hopping around and waving his extended arm in his face. My father’s first reaction was confusion at what his problem was. Then he saw there was a handgun at the end of that extended arm and confusion turned to rage. My father made a noise like a grizzly bear, shined his trusty spotlight right in the kid’s face and lunged for him. In the scuffle the light hit the ground just before Daddy and the kid hit the ground. He managed to get both of his hands on the gun so the kid let go. At that point, he had the kid pinned behind him on the ground and had turned the gun over his own right shoulder, trying to fire it at the kid with his thumb. That’s when he realized the chamber was empty and wouldn’t fire. That’s also when the kid realized he was in way over his head and took off in a sprint. My mother had heard the commotion and came out just as they had hit the ground but all she could do was scream angrily from the front porch. After the kid took off, my parents just stood in the middle of the street and called 911. Then Mom came inside to email me. When I first heard all of this, I was furious. I wanted to take a baseball bat to the punk who tried to ruin it for everyone in MY neighborhood. That worthless criminal was in the front yard of my childhood home. I had been out walking my dog not an hour before this thug had accosted my father. What if it had been my mother out there? Who does this kid think he is? After talking to my father more, I was actually more angry at their next door neighbor. He was in his conversion van in the driveway next to this scuffle and DIDN’T DO A GODDAMN THING. He can’t call 911? He can’t peek out the window to see if maybe my father is making a noise from the Edge because he’s wrestling with some kid one fourth his age 30 FEET AWAY. Fuck him. So to recap, I’ll be taking a 9 iron with me on my evening walks, my parents are getting a new light in the front yard, their neighbor is a coward and my father is a one man Neighborhod Watch Machine. As Rich noted, the kid tried to rob an old man and that old man kicked his ass and took his gun from him in front of his friends. Short of peeing on him I’m not sure my father could have shamed the little shithead any more.

Subject: Check your motherfucking privilege at the goddamned door. Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 9:47 pm. Mood: does this look like happy?. Music: none, but I could use some Zap Mama..

Originally posted by kittikattie, here. No Eljay cut. Page Down. Someone is flailwhining on my list. I'm not impressed. My Shayshay started a post on privilege--the same one I did in fact, WRT Tim Wise and White Political Privilege. I, however, have taken care of a lot of privilege drama on my list (which is 50% me and 50% people on my list like witchsista and karnythia who also will call a person out on that ish). So when I get rantypanties, either people get outraged with me, sit back and learn quietly from watching me, or they go and bitch about me being a big old bitch but not to my face. Anyways, some people got really upset on ShayShay's Eljay and made it all about them and then got so upset that they had to be told to stop being asshats. I witnessed it, I got in it, and I saw the whiny mcwhining and sulky mcsulking. And I am not happy. At fucking all. I'm not being nice. I'm really not in the mood to be nice. That Femmus Noirum Enragious side of me is out, as well as a bit of that momma dragon that doesn't like seeing her prettygirl upset. And my prettygirl is upset. She's thinking she did wrong, because she discussed a topic and some people decided that they had to just take it personal and go sulk about how they aren't privileged because XYZ because clearly if you don't have one privilege, you don't have them all. NO. BAD. go sit in the fucking corner and think about what you did. I'm not responding direct to the privileged people anymore because I'm fucking tired. Because I'm not about to deal wit more privilege flailing, I'm walking away--not because I have the privilege of doing so, but because I know I'm going to encounter this shit again and I have to start walking because this pile of Hot Wet Mess is getting me stuck and I will have to do it again and this turn around the merry go round is over. and other people are getting off but here I am bolted down to the same horse I was on yesterday and before I'm even ready more people are going to get on the merry go round and this whole thing is going to spin around again. And just like every little privilege flail I see, the people who have been called on it are making it all about how they don't like it and they're just not perfect and aboo hoo hoo de fucking hoo. They just can't handle the situation. They're just so upset. Give them a hug and a blankie and a goddamn glass of warm milk. This is why so many anti-racist activists don't bother with so many people. Because they tell things other people don;t like hearing, and they go and run and cry about how they just want to learn but it's so hard because all those mean ass minorities are just not being nice about it and I’ve never had privilege I'm a woman/queer/never got into Harvard/don't have a yacht and a McMansion. Privilege is not silver spoons and brass spittoons and more money than J. K. Rowling and if you think that, then fuck you. Privilege is walking into a store and not being followed because you're perceived as stealing something because of your age or color. It's walking up to a building and being able to get into that building because you can walk up the stairs. It's pulling into a disabled parking spot because you just need to get a quick thing--and a disabled person meanwhile is circling the lot again, losing spoons because you couldn't walk five more feet. It's "nude" colored tights matching your skin. It's people assuming I'm straight because I'm married to a man when I walk down the street. It's not having "lady" appended to your occupation or hobby. (I got bored and looked at Vermont Bears the other night. The boy bears? Doctor or Golfer. The ladies? Lady golfer. Lady doctor. What does that mean? That the default is MALE.) It's getting your religious holidays off as federal holidays while I have to take my vacation time for Beltane and shift my schedule for Yule and Jewish kids have to get notes for Yom Kippur. It's not being asked "what are you" when you're multiracial or "where are you from" and when you answer "Toronto" being pressed "No really, where are you from?" until you say "Korea" because Asian people aren't really from North America. It's not being the black friend or Asian friend or gay friend, but just the friend. It's not being characterized as brave and noble for living your goddamn life as a disabled person. Privilege is people not using your culture as a sports mascot and then acting like it's the end of the world when said sports mascot is finally retired because OMG IT WASNT OFFENDING ME AND I MATTER NOT NATIVES and meanwhile a native girl is learning that her people were ignorant shit diggers till Mighty Whitey came over and civilized her people. It's having history point at your kind of people as what made this nation good--while black people get mentioned during February, slavery, and Civil rights, Natives get mentioned at the beginning and Thanksgiving, Latinos are mentioned as being there when America took the Southwest for themselves, and Asians maybe get a shot out in May and during World War 2. It's making a dolly album celebrating the day America blew up two Japanese cities and getting upset when you're told that this is not a day to enjoy. Privilege is not being seen as dirty because you are poor and all poor people are dirty. It's being able to walk into a store and know you have the money for it. It's not being called out when the checker goes "You can't buy that with food stamps" and fucking announcing it over the loudspeaker so everyone looks at you with that look that not only are you wasting their time, but their tax money. It's growing up as a little girl and becoming a woman without even thinking about it while somewhere, there is a little boy who is going to grow up into a woman and then still be called "him" if she's murdered by someone who uses a tranny-panic defense and gets off on it. It's new clothes more often than used ones and being able to wash clothing with a washer and dryer instead of washing your underwear in the tub because it's that or dirty panties. Privilege is being sexually desirable with your hair and extra 20 pounds because you're a man. It's having clothes made for your body type and your body type being perceived as attractive. It's being able to buy a cake and soda for your child's birthday and when you pay for it with the little bit of cash you have because you want that kid to smile, people don't see you in the store, shoot you dirty looks, then march off to a childfree board and talk about that dirty moo wasting money on her fuckfruit and how people on welfare need to eat what you think they should eat. It's not being seen as having too many babies because you're too poor/black/Latino/whatever. It's getting your promotions and college entries and not being there for diversity or being told you got in over some good white kid who now has to go to his second pick. Privilege is having health care, food, shelter, and spare money that you don't have to think about before you spend it. It's being able to get married without having to live in only the specific states and countries that allow it. It's not being told that you asked for it if you're raped or abused and not being told you can just go away and you're not strong enough. It's not having your race mistaken by other people or being seen as white when you're not. It's being listened to when other people are not being heard. It's people not making your body a battle ground for their morality around reproduction. It's not being seen as too stupid to evacuate from a hurricane because you can't afford to walk away. It's being able to love the person you love--and because it's one person of the opposite sex, and not two or three or seven of varying genders, seen as right. Privilege is naming all your black dolls the most stereotypical names you can come up with for black children and thinking that this isn't somehow bad because at least you bought them. It's having most of the Disney princesses look like you. It's commercials with your wavy hair flowing and your smooth pale skin. It's not having to hear why there isn't White Entertainment TV and why there's no Ivory magazine and why can't people just not be gay in public, and then being expected to answer. It's not being expected to identify with white, male, and/or straight protagonists in stories but having any other person be a "niche" and maybe suffering having your book sorted by who you are, not what you write. It's being the norm, not the other. It's having society back you up when it won't back up the queer, the people of color, the disabled, the non-male, the non Christian, and the other. It's all this and too much more that I can't get into lest I type all day and all of the night. It's expecting the people without privilege to choke back how they feel so you're not upset and accommodate your butthurt so that you're not as uncomfortable when you learn. That's privilege. And you can't scrub it off, you can't make it better by crying, you can't guilt yourself out of it. I'm a strong anti-homophobic activist, and I still get perceived as a straight woman, and that's privilege I can't wash off me. And I handle that burden WHILE I'M WORKING ON IT. When my privilege gets checked--and I got checked harsh once by using the word "dyke" as an insult and I should have fucking KNOWN better but I didn't think and I deserved that check--I take my hit and I grow. I accept I am privileged and work so other people are not disenfranchised and hate my privilege all the while and work while I'm hating it. Having privilege is not making you into a bad person. What makes it bad is when your reaction to learning something you don't like hearing is to cry in your e-pillow and act like it's all about you and your hurt feelings. So what do you do because it's just so goddamn hard to hear something you don't like? What do you do when you're privileged? You sit down and you shut the hell up for once in your life and learn yourself. You listen--and by listen I don't mean think about your defense while someone's talking to you and how you're going to bicker with them. You go pick up a book somewhere and read some shit. You look for resources that aren't me or those like me. There are books. There are websites. There are entire sociological discussions around privilege and if you pick up your fingers and start working you'll find answers without having to get them handed to you in little tasty bite sides morsels of thinkystuff from people who are tired of being the go-to person for your education when they didn't ask to be. You stop talking about how much you are hurt by this and how you can't handle this and going on and on about your upsetness one time that didn't affect you but you saw it and but boy you got mad where's my merit badge for racism 101 and pity-partying over on your journal and getting hugs and wanting to build a little bitty circle of feel good "I’m a good person hug me wahhhhh" BULLSHIT because you want people to babystep your ass through the 'isms so you can have it all on a platter to learn about. You don't white guilt and poor me I'm so burdened I try and I just feel so bad mess. You don't make it about you. You don't White Woman Syndrome everywhere and cry about what you did that was so noble like you should get a fucking cookie for not lynching me or bashing me or telling a sexist joke. And you damn well don't ask us to hold your hands or you'll never learn and that if we don't you won't learn. It is not the burden of the oppressed to lift your foot off our necks--it's your job to pick up your goddamn feet. No one held my hand when I was called a nigger to my face at the age of six. No one held my hand when I came out of either closet. No one held my hand when I was told girls can't be firemen because the word has "man" in it. No one held my hand when I lost 10 points a paper for turning it in before the white children. No one held my hand when I realized that the best I could hope for by debasing myself around white people was being told that I was one of the quality negroes--but then told that I had better still know my place. No one held my hand when I was told by my best friend at the time that I couldn't touch her new doll because I was black and dirty and would mess up the blond hair. No one held my hand when a girl got in my face and told me to pray I didn't go to hell because of my devil star. No one held my hand when I realized that I liked girls a little more than I liked boys and that people were not going to like me because of this. People without privilege don't get their hands held when they learn that they aren't privileged. They get kicked in the teeth with it from very early on. And those of us without that bubble of privilege--people of color, queer people, transgendered, women, all of us that aren't privileged or can't pass as such--are getting really fucking tired of people wanting their hands held and spoon-fed shit we have to look at every other damn day because it's too hard to learn shit yourself and you won't even TRY. Stop asking us to carry your ass across the river, because you're scared of the water and don't want to get yourself wet. We're neck deep in this shit and we aren't your stepping stones to enlightenment. I might be 40 pounds overweight but I'm not your fucking Buddha. --Tasha

Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 10:33 pm. Mood: tired.

Originally posted by suesniffsglue, here. Post is locked; comments will be enabled so the author can receive feedback. My heart is pounding because I haven’t talked to him in so long. My stomach flips over and over itself and my forehead is covered in sweat. I think I will puke. I sit in a dark room quiet because I have trouble with my senses when I get overwhelmed. I need it to be quiet and I need it to be dark. I need it to feel small. I am so hungry and I feel like I might pass out because I haven’t eaten enough in days but I know that if I eat now I’ll throw up. There’s no beating around the bush. I don’t want to talk to him because he scares me, but I know it’s moments when I’m brought to my knees that I have no other choice. “God?” I whisper. His response is immediate. “Yes,” he says, and my eyes shift to the left where I feel he is sitting. “What’s wrong?” he asks. I stumble, I stutter. He is used to this from me. My words are clumsy. He lets me sit and he reaches into my heart to feel my insides. He frowns. “Your heart is beating heavy today. It feels like some of those stitches came loose.” I nod. “I thought we fixed that,” he tells me, still feeling around. “These holes, they should have healed by now.” He studies me close, my face. It is wet and warm and my lips shake and my eyes dart all around the room, unable to focus. “What happened?” I tell him. I tell him about finding videos on my computer. “I didn’t mean to, God. I just wanted to make some damn squash and wanted to find a recipe. I never would have thought typing ‘recipes.com’ would lead to ‘redtube’ instead.” He nods. “What did you think when you found it?” I pause, unsure how to explain. “At first,” I tell him, “I was amused. It wasn’t a big deal. I’ve seen porn before. Who hasn’t? I get bored, everyone gets bored. But then right there it said each link—Asian models, some Japanese skank getting fucked—” God interrupts. “I know you’re upset,” he says calmly, “but you don’t have to call her a skank. I made her, too.” “Sorry. Anyway. That and some white girl. I watched the videos.” “Why?” he asks. “Because I’m a freak,” I tell him. “Curiosity, I guess. I wanted to see what he likes, because sometimes I feel like I don’t know. I know he has issues with sex, that’s what he tells me, but it confuses me. I know he likes to have sex with me, but he still won’t explain it all to me. I thought maybe he just doesn’t like me. Then I watch these videos and just get confused. You know how my brain works.” He laughs. “Oh yes, you brain—it’s quite a piece of work.” I can’t deny it. “Yeah,” I say. “Well, it just works over time I guess. It started racing and racing, trying to put everything together. Why that one? Why did he pick that one? Does he like her hair? Does he like her boobs? Does he wish I looked like that in that position? Is that what he pictures instead of me? We never even have sex in that position. Is it because I wouldn’t look like that? I’m not Asian! What am I going to do; for Christ’s sake, I’m not Asian!” I realize I’ve begun yelling. “Breathe,” he tells me, the mantra given to me from God for my whole life. I breathe. The air tastes heavy and I’m afraid I will choke. He waits a moment before beginning again. “You obsess,” he says. “Yes,” I tell him. “I obsess. I will worry about this forever. This will be burned into my head with everything else I can’t let go of. Every time we have sex I’m going to be afraid he—he’s thinking of something else.” I pause before continuing, because it’s hard to admit these things. “I’m afraid that he doesn’t really want to have sex with me sometimes. I’m afraid I make it so easy because I think about sex at least in the back of my head all the time! I’m always up for it. Always. I go to sleep hoping maybe we won’t actually fall asleep, or we’ll wake up in the middle of the night, or we’ll wake up early enough in the morning. I concern myself with it sitting on the couch. Every second of every day, it’s on my mind.” God raises an eyebrow. “Well,” he says, “that sounds like a problem, but not necessarily his.” I go on. “My solution is to stop.” God stares at me for a beat. “Stop sex? I don’t buy it.” “I feel like I have to. I feel like he likes me less for it. I feel like he’d be happier if I just left him alone and let him come to me when he felt like it.” “Well,” says God, “tell me something. Do you always initiate it?” I think about it. “No. I wait for him to. But I always want him to. I think I need to make myself not want him to” “Do you feel like changing yourself in that way is really going to be better?” God asks me. I can’t answer. I don’t know the answer. God understands my silence and changes the subject. “Tell me something.” I look up. This can’t be good and I don’t want him to ask me anything else. I am regretting bringing this to his attention, to anyone’s attention. I should have kept my mouth shut and let it go. “He feels bad now, doesn’t he.” God says. It is not a question, but a statement. “Yeah,” I say. “Why?” This takes much thought. When I finally have my answer formulated I realize I’ve been rocking, hands over my ears. I put my hands instead in my lap, bundled in fists, and take a deep breath. “He feels bad because he feels like I think he’s a bad person.” “Do you?” God asks. “No.” “So what is the problem then?” I want to scream because I hate explaining this and I am mad at God for making me because he knows. He knows this about me and he shouldn’t make me explain it. “Look,” he says, “don’t get mad at me. You knew this would come up.” I cry, but it is silent and my voice is quiet and strong. “Because of what I do to people, that’s the problem.” God takes my chin in his hands and makes me look at him. “And that is?” Deep breath, breathe, breathe, remember to breathe. “I want heroes and villains,” I tell him. “I see blacks and whites. I’ve made him so good and I always do that to people. I don’t see the things that would maybe be harder for me to understand and because of that, I can’t process them when they come out.” He nods. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re right.” “He has these amazing instincts,” I continue, “about me, I mean. I think he knows that about me, so he told me one thing when something different was the truth. But he didn’t realize how easily my head explodes when it can’t process something like that. It doesn’t make sense to me and it’s like my brain fails. It falls apart. I fall apart.” God takes my hands. “We can fix it. It’s just more stitches.” “How many more stitches could there be? My heart is just a hybrid of thread and mush.” “There’s room for more stitches. There is always room.” I have one more worry. “Do I have to tell him this?” I ask. God looks at me. “What do you think?” “Yes?” “Yeah. You have to tell him all of it. He’ll understand.” My stomach flips. He’s going to think I’m crazy. God senses my apprehension. “You need to come clean sooner or later. You never come all the way clean. Give him a shot. Maybe he has some extra thread we can use.” I know inside that I’ll never take anyone else’s thread because I fear it’s too much to ask, but I agree to at least give him the credit of taking my words as close to his heart as I can. It’s a start.

Comments: Read 8 or Add Your Own.

Subject: OHNOZ Posted by: interactiveleaf. Time: 3:38 pm. Mood: annoyed.

Oh, INTERNETS! Look what you did! How could you? What were you thinking? In the history of serial killers, no one can begin to compete with you, O Dreaded Internet. Why, you've killed: Literature, Art, the Record Industry, social interaction, decency, copyright, marriage, the Publishing Industry, Our Children's Innocence, and possibly God. You must get up very early in the morning. And now, you've added Classical Music to your body count. I was listening to NPR this afternoon and while it usually takes a great deal to make me roll my eyes in a car with no one present to feel my pain, my pupils spun around like freaking pinwheels as four middle-aged white people bitched and complained about how the internet and "rock music" killed classical music. One whined that this was the "Golden Age" of classical music, but no one cares, somehow! He then went on to list the ways you can listen to classical music as evidence for the Golden Age. Which...is your problem, right there. Golden Ages are for composition, not for consumption. It's a Golden Age for iTunes, but I'm gonna have to go with Austria in the 18th-19th century, when people were, you know, writing timeless, immortal music. The problem is not the internet, it's that classical composition has migrated, and the snobs just don't want to follow. More on that in a moment. At this point the critics--to a man print venue orchestral music critics, and the fact that the nation can host more than four of these is proof that classical music is diong just fine--began to complain that no one knows how to listen to music anymore, they just listen while driving or working, instead of "crossing Europe to hear a single performance of Mahler," as, I guess, God intended. Allow me to take out my iPod earbuds and do my best California Girl. WHATever. It was really hard to hear you guys over the ROAR of your raging privilege. It is a good thing that we can all hear Mahler any time we please--nothing ever, ever takes the place of live music, but come on. Most of us can't afford orchestra tickets full stop, let alone crossing a continent for a single concert. And Mahler? Your problem again! You can only name Philip Glass--you know, the everyman's composer--as any kind of force in instrumental music today, yet castigate people for being too fat and stupid to take a spiritual journey across a continent to hear music that hasn't been relevant in 75 years. Beautiful, yes. I love Mahler, as I am emo and that's what emo kids do. But relevant? Hardly. It boggles me that these morons can be paid to wring their hands over the fact that no one pays attention to their geekery over what they claim is a thriving, exciting medium, yet continually , mechanically reference the same four composers, all white, all male, all dead, all over-performed to the point where many of us cannot listen to them anymore because saturation has robbed them of all meaning. Yet they still make their living commentating on performances of these same pieces, over and over. (They also bemoaned the death of music criticism for about 20 minutes. This was particularly awesome as they chided each other about writing so that we poor commoners could understand music on a fraction of the scale they do, all the while I was muttering: just wait till I get to my blog, motherfuckers! The blogosphere has made such painful condescension on their parts unnecessary, and they can go back to being the Pick-a-Little Ladies they are. God, are all New Yorker columnists this prone to gasbaggery?) Guys, seriously? Classical music is dead, if it is dead, because it is not longer a vigorous art form. It is not supplying what Beethoven and Mozart and Mahler and Dvorak supplied, and rock music has surpassed it in invention, open-mindedness, and experimentation. Hell, rock music features plenty of classical music. Is it sad that it has been surpassed? Maybe. But in fact, symphonic music is alive and well and bustling--just in a place that these snobs would never deign to mention. Movie soundtracks. This is where the great composers of our time are, you pretentious fuckmittens. Jon Williams, Hans Zimmer, Danny Elfman--their best work, with film subtracted, is as stirring and brazen, sorrowful and complex, technically brilliant and tonally subtle as anything in the classical section, with very, very few exceptions. Not to mention video game soundtracks--Nobuo Uematsu (Final Fantasy) is an absolute master. No accident that orchestral performances of soundtracks are among the most popular concerts. But to admit that that is where the money, and therefore the talent, has gone, is to wallow in the mud with the rest of us instead of crossing the Alps for Mahler. And the funny thing is, if there's a young Beethoven out there, it's a skinny girl with a cello in an apartment in Minneapolis, bowing her heart out. And guess what she's doing? She's recording her work and uploading it. The next generation of composers will be born from, thrive in, and live on through the Big Bad Internet that killed all your friends. Of course, saying NPR is out of touch is like saying Cleveland might have a pollution problem. But seriously, it's a dangerous world--watch your babies, lock up your daughters, hide your valuables--THE INTERNETS WILL KILL AGAIN. Originally posted by yuki_onna, here.

Subject: Se Habla Amor? Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 9:51 pm.

Originally posted by theferret, here. Everyone hears “love” in their own, unique language. What makes your partner feel safe and cared for can often be a bunch of phrases and habits that make absolutely no sense to you. We’ve all heard the story of the wife who left her husband because he didn’t pick up his socks. It sounds dumb – but for that wife, part of the phrase “I love you” meant “I’ll keep the floor clean for you.” Likewise, sometimes, speaking love involves nonsensical phrases like, “I’m sorry I hurt you” when it should be perfectly apparent that nobody means to hurt anybody. Learning what things tell your partner “I love you” is what often makes the difference between a long-term marriage and an early divorce. What nobody mentions is how totally awkward and clumsy it is to speak that language when you're starting out.... As I discovered the first time I cleaned the kitchen for Gini. There I was, scrubbing a counter that was already spotless as far as I was concerned. I was putting away a stack of cooking magazines that were conveniently placed for me, but turned the kitchen into a hellion of clutter for Gini. It felt stupid. Not only was I cleaning a kitchen that was already clean, but I had the nagging feeling I was giving in to some crazy power play of hers. Was this love, I wondered? Jumping through hoops for the amusement of others? I felt like a trained monkey. This wasn’t love at all. Yet for Gini, who grew up in a dysfunctional household where she was forced against her will to be the responsible mom at the age of eight, “housework” means love to her. And my definition of “clean” was a lot grungier than anything she was comfortable with. When she got home, I showed her my work – biting back a sarcastic comment lest I ruin the effect of this artificial love – and the strangest thing happened: She hugged me. “Love” comes in the form of hugs, flowers, and little kisses on the back of the neck when you pass each other in the hallway – not household chores, which is just the stuff you do. Yet the happy little sigh that Gini let out when she saw the squeaky-clean kitchen told me that to her, this smell of 409 was better than a bouquet of flowers. I still felt stupid, cleaning the kitchen for the next few months. I kept wondering whether I was being used. After all, in no circumstances could I imagine feeling warm and fuzzy watching my lover vacuum the carpet. But given enough time, I came to realize that yeah, cleaning’s what strums her heartstrings. And though even to this day, I don’t feel it inside, I have enough experience with Gini to know that if I do my chores, I will make her happy, and her happiness is something that in turn makes me feel loved. It’s a nice little feedback loop. Likewise, I have a friend with a wife who hates it when he says, “I think you feel this way….” To him, saying “I think you feel this way” is a form of respect; he wants to leave open the possibility that he’s wrong, and it’s certainly clear that this is just his opinion. But to his wife? “I think you feel” quashes her, invalidates all her arguments. Instead, she prefers the phrase “I hear that you’re feeling…” That’s a pretty arbitrary distinction. To most people, there wouldn’t be a whole bunch of meaningful distinction between the two phrases – in fact, another person else might actually be insulted by the “I hear…” phrasing. To her, though, “I hear” makes he feel that she has more permission to correct him. So he had to learn to say it that way. Over and over again. And it was tough for him to speak in someone else’s words when he started out. It’s weird, peppering your speech with these artificial phrasings that mean the exact same thing to you – yanking out your preferred wordings to replace them with things you’d never say. It doesn’t feel like you speaking. Before when you talked you were effortlessly running across a field – and now you’re bobbling across an unfamiliar territory on fresh ice skates, avoiding thin ice in place where you can’t even see where it is. You’re feeling your way through words one at a time. Who wants to talk in awkwardly measured phrases, trying like hell with each next word to remember some random preference like, “Say ‘I hear’ and not ‘You feel’?” If you’re not careful, you can feel resentful at them for making you talk funny. But you have to learn to do it, because these crazy little phrases tell her that you respect her. It’s her language of love. And like any language, you’re going to fumble for a bit as you try to remember that it’s not “Thanks” but “Gracias” over here in foreign ol’ partner-land. That’s the crazy thing about love, sometimes. You get together with your partner because you already speak some of the same love-languages, but everyone has hidden things that mean love specifically to them. They only become issues when those love habits aren’t things that you’d naturally do. If you don’t see a need to email your partner every day when you’re out of town, there’s nothing wrong with that. But if “love” to your partner is taking the time at the end of every day to compose an email to send a little bundle of snuggles over the Internet, well… That can eventually be a kind of dealbreaker. You never speak the language 100%, of course. As a mature adult, it’s your job to not take everything so damn personally. Really, if I don’t clean the kitchen, it is part of Gini’s job to go, “Well, he’s just a messy person, it’s not an assault on my being that he left his dishes in the sink – it’s just who he is.” At the same time, though, it’s often not that big a deal for me to put my cereal bowl in the dishwasher when I’m done. And every time I do, it’s like I’m sending Gini a little Valentine’s Day card – one of a thousand words I speak to her daily that say, “You’re more precious than gold to me.” I don’t hear that love. But I speak it. And she knows it’s more precious because I went out of my way to say it. Good enough for me.

Subject: Why I Love the G Train. Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 10:16 pm.

Originally posted by theuglyvolvo, here. Track was the only time in my life I have worn gold polyester shorts. I loved every part of sprinting but the gunshot-- crouching on the track in pre-launch, waiting for someone to tell us to begin running. The moment before a race begins is an intense silence, hovering over the absolute stillness of 6 people who are capable of moving very fast and wafting amongst an array of dormant leg muscles and resting heartbeats that will jump to life in the next four seconds. "Potential energy," my science teacher would call it. I remember crouching in those ridiculous shorts next to any number of girls from other schools, wearing equally ridiculous shorts in a variety of ridiculous colors. If you could harness the energy released at the start of the race, it could easily power a small town for several days, as long as no one left lights on in rooms when they weren't home or played Nintendo at all hours of the night or owned more than one refrigerator. And if I could go back to my high school track team and change one thing-- ok, if I could change one thing I would have made myself realize earlier on that I would never be any good at the hurdles, thus saving me the cost of several pairs of new glasses. And if I could change two things I would never have taken the insoles out of my New Balance sneakers (what was I thinking?), leading to an avulsion fracture at Rockland Community College, 4 weeks on crutches and permanent knee damage... but if I could change THREE things, I would get rid of the starting gun, and begin each race to the sound of a voice going, "Oh my god the train's here-- get it! Hold the door! The train! Get the train!!" The G train is half the length of regular New York City subways, meaning that if it is pulling into the station as you are walking down the stairs, you have about 100 meters to run before you can wedge your hand into the last door of the final car. The G train is driven (I believe) by retired SS guards who often take great pleasure in closing the door in your face and making you wait for the next train, which will usually arrive in the following 8 or 9 months. I have lived off the G train for three years and for the first two I defeatedly jogged toward the conductor, weakly signaling with my hand for him to hold the door. "Stop!" I would say, shuffling along in my ballet flats, toting a gym bag full of magazines and Trident. "Hold the train." Often I would go on the assumption that I would miss the train and wouldn't bother running at all. I would walk dejectedly along the platform, streams of people passing me in the opposite direction as I watched the doors close and the train putter off into the tunnel. And it was not until late last year that I walked down the stairs, already 20 minutes behind schedule and saw the train stopping at the far end of the station. "That train has come to a full stop and you have just stepped onto the platform," said the part of my brain that deals in common sense. "There is no way you will make that train." "You can make that train," said another, normally dormant part of my brain. Run! And without more than a split second to consider whether one argument had more of a basis in reality, or that my being late was nearly inevitable, or how ridiculous I would look sprinting through a subway station in my Issac Mizrahi for Target shoes, I ran. I have always loved to run. But not just to run-- to run really fast. The sort of running that never comes into play in everyday life unless you live in the sort of place where you are regularly chased by lions. As I ran for the train I could feel my arms pumping and my legs burning through the soggy, packaged croissant I had eaten for breakfast. I passed a woman dragging a child and a man jogging. I passed a second woman and two kids in school uniforms. I felt their eyes on me but kept my eyes on the train. I was running faster than I had ever seen anyone run inside a train station. "I am coming, goddammit!" I wanted to say, but I had no energy left to speak. My heart was racing. Having used all my inherent energy I began the interior monologue that marked the end of all my races. "Brain to legs-- keep moving the legs! Brain to legs-- do not stop running! Increase speed. Divert all excess energy to the GODDAMN LEGS! THE LEGS, GODDAMMIT!" I bounded the last few paces to the train door and the driver leaned his head out the window. "Good running," he said. And wide-eyed, I panted at him, which I assume he knows meant "thank you," before walking into the last car of his train. I sat down among a plethora of children and business people and families, sweating, my heart running fast enough to power the train. Other people stared at me with an emotion I was unable to discern. I wiped my sweaty forehead with my sleeve. I felt wonderful. If I were to go back and re-choreograph my entire high-school track team, I would do away with the gun. They would begin running after descending a set of stairs leading to the track. They would take two or three seconds to realize it was a race, before their bodies kicked in and began sprinting toward a set of taillights that were placed one to two hundred meters away. The school uniforms would be discarded and replaced with individual costumes. The boys would be wearing suits or collared shirts with ties. Many would run with messenger bags strung across their backs or Metrocards in their hands. The girls would wear skirts or pants suits-- quick drying business casual, with their dress scarves flying up around their faces. They clutch laptops under the arms of their silk blouses. Some run while eating Luna bars. Times are decided accordingly. The other day I stepped out of the stairwell alongside another girl, both of us registering that the train had just pulled into the station. We began to run. And it was the first time, since I have started running, that I was running alongside someone, and that the objective was not only to make the train, but to win. To arrive there before this other girl, in her maroon sweater vest and pearl earrings and tan skirt. Not having pegged her as a sprinter, it made the run all that more exhilarating, she in her school uniform-type ensemble (thought she was clearly in her mid twenties or early thirties) running side-by-side with me in my khakis and floral shirt from Ann Taylor Loft. It was the sort of running that would look ridiculous on a treadmill, if it is even possible, but would look perfectly acceptable in a Gatorade commercial. Both wearing flats, sprinting on our toes, we arrived at the train simultaneously. "Good game," I wanted to say to her, slapping her a high five, but instead I sat down in one of the few available seats to rest. I was thankful for my khakis, as sitting on a train in scant gold track shorts would have made me a.) a target for either ridicule or violent crime, or b.) the recipient of at least 30 diseases. And I was thankful for my run since, on a train full of heavy-lidded administrators and comatose office mates, it had rendered me, for a brief exhilarating moment, awake.

Subject: To The Girl On Ninth and Pike Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 3:13 pm. Mood: thoughtful. Music: TV - video game my fiance is playing.

Originally posted by kittiekattie, here. To the Girl that met us on Ninth and Pike last night-- I wonder a little, twenty-four or so hours after the fact, why you came up to me and my fiance. You appeared from almost nowhere as I waited to see if the last two actors from Avenue Q would come out of the Stage Door and scribble quickly on my fuzzy orange fur-covered book that I bought as a souvenir (thirty-five bucks, tax included) for watching puppets and people act out one of my favorite musicals. You caught his attention before mine, and I looked over at you. There were bags under your eyes that looked like you hadn't slept warmly and cozily in a while. Your messy blond hair hair was dirty and lank, in the way white people hair does when the oils build up. Your layered, rumpled clothes hung loose and unkempt on you, along with your half-empty backpack. You were a small thing. A scrawny, unkempt young white girl--maybe only five foot three inches tall if that, coming up to my boy's chest (and mine, but my heels are about four inches tall), wobbling on your feet. I'm only average at guessing ages, as my work at the Guess Your Weight Scale at Astroworld was over ten years ago and it's not like they trained us in that. But you couldn't have been older than me and were probably younger--somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. Twenty, at the max. You may have come up to us because we were standing apart from the rest of the people fawning over the actors of the musical I'd just seen, as I can be very shy in large groups. We were dressed pretty classy as well--him in his maroon button down dress shirt and new black slacks that he'd picked up the day before at my behest, me in a new black dress and top that I'd gotten to have something a little more nice for my regular Goth Day because I was taught to dress up for live performances. I'd even put on my garter belt for this and stockings. Or maybe we were the only black people standing there. Whatever the reason, it was us you came to. Your eyes barely met mine or my fiance's, mostly staring at the ground and occasionally flicking up to look at us. You mumbled something incoherent about needing a little bit of money to get a room for the night, and that even a dollar or two would bring you that much closer to a warm bed. Your voice was soft, a little scared, a little hopeful. You shuffled back and forth, rocking and twitching as you begged for a bit of humanity to be shown towards you. My fiance didn't move towards his wallet. I did. I dug around in my tote holding my programs, got out my sparkly pink MLP Wallet and started digging through the bills, holding it close to my chest in a way that years of living in inner-city Houston have trained me to do even in the no-so-crime-ridden Seattle. I had a single dollar bill, but I'd gotten it at A-kon and it's my Kitty Face Washington Dollar that someone threw in our kitty, and I kinda want to keep it. And I didn't want to hand you the twenty. The ten was in the bottom of the tote, anyways--I'd broke my other twenty getting the nicer, non-ad filled program book with pictures. I gave you the five, meeting your eyes as I did so. You muttered a half-heard thanks and scampered down Ninth towards the front of the Paramount. I said to myself that I'd done a good deed and my fiance nodded, though I could see he thought what I'd done was more than a little ridiculous. After a few more minutes we decided the last two actors weren't coming out to sign anything and headed for the car along with the last few stragglers. On the way back to the garage, my fiance said that you were probably lying about what you were going to use the money for. And I agreed with him, even as my legs were screaming in pain as we tottled up the hill to the garage where we'd parked in the cooling evening. And I joked that I'd done a good deed to cover the year, and in my head thought about Nicky, the Green Erniesque puppet that had been begging for change on stage a bit ago from Princton. Five dollars. It was a lot, when you think about it, to give a random person on the street. Most panhandlers get loose change, a dollar here and there, and mostly condescending looks from people who think that being poor or on the streets is a crime to be locked up for, or mutter "get a job" as they shuffle past, not even making eye contact with the person sitting on the corner or standing on the freeway exit with a ragged cardboard sign that begs for help. Most people on the streets see nothing. Meanwhile, people will hiss under their breath that those on the lowest tier of society should get on welfare (but not too long, they'll just have babies and be lazy) or that the poor are a drain on their well-earned tax dollars even as they contemplate sinking into deeper, pointless debt to keep up with the Joneses without a second thought. After all, that seventy-two inch flat screen LCD projection TV won't buy itself so you can watch your "Sex and the City" DVDs on it. I handed you that money without worrying about it, really. What would I have used it for that made it more worthy for me to have over you? I'd just spent 50 bucks on stuff at a theatre show where I'd paid 120+ for seats for me and my fiance to watch Avenue Q for two hours. I, even in my meager bottom of the rung just got hired full time tech support job, make more in a week than you touch in a month panhandling. I have a warm home, food in my fridge, more clothes than I need, books overflowing my creaking shelves and piling on my floor, and ten $100 dolls not including their clothing and trappings--while eyeing a 300 dollar one to add to my hobby. I took an expensive trip to Texas and covered a nice hotel for me and my mom and sisters in Little Rock. Even that night, I came in, had yogurt for a closing meal since it was too late to eat leftover pizza, and surfed the internet on my old-but-nice computer. I weighed myself on my Wii Balance Board and lamented it was calling me fat and lazy and added some Pokemon to Pokemon Ranch. Then, I washed my makeup off with warm water, read my book for a bit, and climbed into my warm bed in my apartment with my fiance. I slept good and comfortable for six hours before getting up grumbly, having breakfast, packing a lunch, and being taken to my job in a nice, running car that I don't even drive. Something tells me you have none of that. You touched me. I could not begrudge you that money when you came up to me. I gave you about twenty minutes worth of my work, without blinking or feeling any reluctance. And I won't feel bad about it, about handing over five dollars to a homeless stranger that for all I know used it to buy some meth. Because there but the love of Athene go I. So you go with that five dollars. Maybe you used it to get some food at McDonald's and it was the first hot meal you'd had in a while. Maybe you got the room, with several others, and slept indoors again. Maybe you spent it on drugs that get you through your day to day existence on the streets of Downtown Seattle. But even if you used it to get high or stoned or tweaked, or actually did use it for what you claimed to talk me out of it, it was yours now, and I gave it freely. May the gods watch over you. Hell, I've got enough My Little Ponies anyways. --Neth

Subject: thoughts on my dad... Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 9:32 pm. Mood: thoughtful. Music: basement jaxx - stop 4 love.

Originally posted by stagger_lee77, here. for my birthday, my stepmother is sending me a card from her and dad. always interesting, because it's not like my dad is there to sign it. enclosed in this card is a picture of my father and me from the last time i visited him. she told me this because it was important to her. my father's last taste of freedom was in june, 2003. ironically, he lost his freedom while i was fighting for "freedom". now he's serving a sentence of life without parole for first degree murder. in other words, he will die in prison. the last time i saw him in street clothes was january, 2005, at his murder trial. the next time i will see him in street clothes? barring the impossible (like winning an appeal or a new trial), it will be at his funeral. i have no shame. when people ask me about my parents, i tell the truth: my mother and my father are both batshit insane. why lie about it? in some ways, my father was a ghost. he wasn't around much when my parents were still married partially because of his military career and mostly because he was a womanizer. they separated when i was about 13 or 14. by that time, mom became a born again christian and drove the whole family crazy with her ranting and raving. dad went on a fishing trip one day and never came home again. he said he couldn't compete with jesus. he never fought for custody of my brother or me. he left us with a woman that was an unfit parent. if he hadn't been a ghost dad, maybe he would have known that and fought for us. somehow, i seriously doubt it. some of you know the story; some of you don't. i didn't know my father was charged with murder until five months after he was charged. i found out by accident; my grandfather died right before thanksgiving 2003. the red cross message i received read something like "service member's grandfather confirmed dead by funeral home. service member's mother requests the service member's presence. service member's father charged with first degree murder." the whole thing read like my dad killed him, which wasn't the case at all. it was awesome and no one wanted to tell me about the red cross message... turned out that that was two messages combined. my mother did send a red cross message when my dad got arrested but somehow i never got it. the really bad thing about all of this was this was the first time i spoke to my mother since i came home from the war. i hadn't been to my hometown since may 2001. at that point, my mom pissed me off so much that i told her, "the next time i come home, someone better be dead." i couldn't remember the last time i saw my dad. it had to have been before i left for korea. there was no deliberate silent treatment like i gave my mom. somewhere in all of that, life happened. he was always a hard man to find; he was busy getting remarried over and over and over again, and i was too busy trying to "find myself". that pretty much means that both of us were too busy chasing women to find the time to talk to each other. i think i got a couple of letters from him when i was in korea and that was it. i had already heard that he shot himself in the face. i don't know what i was expecting to see when i first saw him. the first thing he said to me was, "it's not so fun when people shoot back, is it?" here he was, dealing with his bad situation, and he actually thought to ask me about mine. you know the rest; he was tried, convicted, and sentenced. there's a lot of things he doesn't know about or just doesn't understand. there are some incidents from growing up with my crazy mother... he's better off not knowing all of the details. i get frustrated because some of them might not have happened if he wasn't a ghost father. and there's no point in telling him the details now because he will just get frustrated with himself. is my father a good man? a lot of people would say no. but he means well. as far as i know, he's never judged me for some of the things i've done like my mother has. he says he always knew i was queer. he's never had a problem with it. as long as i'm happy, he's happy... although when he found out about kim, he said something to the effect of, "so i'm not getting grandchildren, am i?" (i don't think it's dawned on him that we could have kids if we got a sperm donor, ya know?) for what it's worth, he asks about my brother even though he has made it a point not to attempt to visit the man. i think he realizes the mistakes he's made. i just don't think he will ever seek forgiveness for those mistakes. i don't know that it would do any good.

Subject: on the subway Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 10:37 pm.

Originally posted by rm, here. I watched a man hit on a woman on the subway today, and it disturbed me. I only noticed it at first because he had been originally sitting next to me, and I was a little taken aback when he jumped out of his seat to take an equally cramped one across from me -- I know I can be off-putting but really. But then I saw him hold out his hand and introduce himself to the pretty Filipina woman he had sat down next to. What surprised me was how receptive she was to him, immediately taking out her headphones, smiling at him, taking his hand. He wasn't bad looking, but he also wasn't anything memorable, not like her with perfect skin and a perfect smile and not knowing it all in a t-shirt and sweater. What I do remember about him was his clothes, which were expensive and foppish in a non-appealing way: grey suit, nearly slick with the expense of its fabric; pink pin-stripped shirt with a white colar; ice blue-grey tie; hair clearly brittle from product and a smile that to me read as forced as the rest of it. He kept wringing his hands. Now, of course, who wouldn't? He'd done something ridiculously ballsy, but something about his manner and clothes told me he was practiced in some manner for this -- either he'd taken a class on doing just this sort of thing, or had the easy false charm one expects from a broker (you don't like the man, but he makes you money, and he hits all the right notes so laughing at his jokes isn't too hard). She was glowing, but she was also calculating. As much as she was enjoying the attention -- and he was doing all the right things, asking her about what she does and letting her talk about it passionately while he listened in a manner that was almost aggressive and certainly suited to more dark than a subway car offers -- she was also calculating. The clothes were expensive and she knew it and the look on her face wasn't that of someone who had hit the jackpot for felt chemistry with this man, but of someone who couldn't help by wonder what life would be like if it were just a little bit easier, if an $81 monthly Metrocard didn't have to be a critical line in her budget that determined how much she could spend on groceries each week. It reminded me of the man who once hit on me in Gramercy Tavern with "I find a woman isn't resolved about her father until she cuts off her hair" -- mine was short then, and I was wearing leather pants and a long-sleeved black sweater. The man called me at 7am the next day, invited me to his place across the small park between us and fed me berries and yogurt as he showed me artifacts that he had stolen from various Asian nations. It remains one of the most disturbing and mysterious incidents of my life; it felt like he wanted to keep me in a glass on his mantle and while that held no appeal my mind frantically flipped through everything it knew to figure out how to earn his approval and the ease of his money. It was very strange, and I remember the fellow wore an inordinately expensive pendant of his astrological sign wrought in gold with gems. It was tasteful, as far as such things go, but it was his fucking astrological sign. Really now! The man hitting on the girl on the subway had the same vibe. And he took out his business card, wrote his more personal contact information on it for her, and then got off when it was his stop, shaking her hand again and carrying his $200 napsack -- he hikes on the weekend and is very concerned about his health. I wonder if they will have breakfast. I wonder how long a fantasy of ease will amuse her. I wonder if she'll be scared or find a perfectly wonderful and explicable human being beneath this man's smile and suit or if she too will be left with a story of ultimately benign but unfathomable predation not quite glimpsed.

Subject: The rust on the body/scraping away the paint. Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 1:26 am. Music: Mos Def.

Originally posted by baskcen, here. Criminals. That used to be a title you earned, far as I remember. Thinking back to my less respectable days, we used to get pissed off when pundits or lovely citizens referred to muggers and rapists as criminals. We didn't think they deserved the title. Anybody could mug, and rapists were the greatest cowards society could dig up. Most dutiful citizens laugh at the notion of "honor amongst thieves," but to some of us that meant something. How else could you get anything done? It didn't matter if you were just getting weed every week for you and your buddies, or if you were running blow as a part-time job; if you couldn't trust who you were dealing with, paranoia runs high and the risk is too great unless you're stupid enough to keep going. You see, there are different levels of cretins, and some couldn't care less but others wanted to climb the ladder. Most of us were just having a good time or making a little extra cash, but in order to do so you have to plug into the world of full-time criminals one way or another. Maybe you did errands for them, maybe you were a customer, or maybe you just knew who they were through recognition. There are two kinds of lawbreakers: those who were just having fun, and those with ambition. The former are dangerous because of their stupidity, and the latter are dangerous because you never know what can happen when you're with them. In a city-area of 100,000, give or take, you have all sorts of people. There are areas of town you can meander about without any significant risk of being bothered, and you have a couple small areas of town you just shouldn't be past dark. It's not like a multi-million person metropolis where there are miles and miles of no-walk neighborhoods - you can hedge your bets a bit. Push the boundaries. This is what separates the people who just want to have a bit of fun, and those with ambition. If you're a college kid just out to get high, you know someone who knows someone who runs in those neighborhoods. Maybe if you are a ballsy college kid, you try to cut down that line of people by one, so then you just know someone - then you're somebody, damn it. Nevermind the fact that you get scared shitless every time you're in those neighborhoods in the middle of the day telling your buddies how the guy you know has connections around here. These are the types of kids you never do business with unless your ignorant, or you're the guy they know. Everybody's ignorant at some point, and you just show up at the parties where grass is growing and people don't even bother dusting their tables after the last party. Most don't consider this too be foolish - hell, we're in the big time now, we can afford to show off a bit. It usually takes time or an incident for a kid to wise up a bit and realize that everyone they know is absolutely retarded and they should never do anything illegal with them again - incidents such as unacceptable arrests, fights, fires, or the worst (save two) - a huge mess someone made when they tried to fuck over someone else. Once these things start happening, a even a half-witted evildoer will realize it's time to be smart about sin, or give it up entirely. Once a person reaches this point and decide to keep going in a smarter way, they start to keep their senses out for credentials. Who knows who, who's dealt with who, and, most importantly, how many people around this person get arrested. It's still early enough in the game that you don't even think about death, because you're still just having fun - but in a smarter way. For those ambition fellows, it doesn't take too long to realize how much money is being spent on a weekly basis between you and your friends. You begin to wonder how come you couldn't just move up the chain a little, and save yourself a bit of money. This is when you begin to look around at the people you know or know of, and wonder what you'd like to do. You've got the guys that break into homes to ease the pain of payment, but that's too little gain for far too much risk. Not to mention the fact that it just doesn't sound like much fun. Then you hear about so and so's friend who boosted a car and got away with it, but that's probably not true and never believe anyone who says it is. Even if it were true, anybody stupid enough to tell their friends they're boosting cars should never be associated with, in any illegal way. So you're left with two primary options: running and dealing. The former pays well, but is irregular. You know a guy who needs you to drive him somewhere, or if you really get going, deliver something somewhere. This is relatively low on the risk level, assuming you aren't stupid enough to try to screw anybody. The only other thing that could go wrong is the off-chance that something goes wrong with delivery, such as cops or the person who hired you is trying to screw the person you're delivering to. And this is why the whole idea of trusting who you work with is important - it doesn't matter if they are trying to screw someone over, as long as you can always believe it won't be you. Dealing is a whole different ballgame, one with degrees that vary as much as Minnesota weather. You can be a campus dealer who just unloads a few extras here and there to pay for your own addictions, or you can actually try to make a name for yourself. The former is fine as long as you aren't stupid with who you're selling to - rule number two of dealing is you never sell to ignorant people. Sell it to the half-ignorant people who sell to the ignorant people. That way you never deal with stupid kids getting caught and dropping your name, or being stupid enough to hand out your information to other stupid people who will then call you begging for product. The half-ignorant middle man will never give up your name, because he wants his slice for his troubles. And the number one rule of dealing, which most small-time ambitious kids break and crumble from, is never do what you sell. This is what brought me down, and what will bring down virtually every single small-time criminal unless they are either very lucky, or very talented. I was very lucky for a time, but it ran out. I never was very talented at being a middle-man; I should have stuck with driving. But me being the half-ignorant kid I was, I tried to make a small name for myself by selling exactly what I was addicted to. So I start off making extra money by selling what I wasn't addicted to, so I could have the resources to get larger amounts of what I was addicted to. It worked out great until I started making enough to bring in a new line of product (pun so intended), and I thought I was doing well. Several dozen people knew who I was and how to contact me, and I was predicted great sales and great profit. The only problem was that by the time I would start selling a new delivery, I had already used up three-quarters of my stock. It only takes weeks for this to become such a problem that you are selling the original piddly crap just to maintain your own habit. Not only is this a problem because you are now spending all your money as before, but you are also within reach of such large amounts of your muse that you are three to four times the user you were. At this point one realizes how stupid one has been, and you try to bail. When a reliable customer tries to bail from a supplier in the regular business world, what do they do? Send salespeople to try to convince them otherwise. Well, this isn't regular business, and they don't send salespeople. This is the point when you realize so few people become full-time criminals, because not only does it not typically (that's a very loose "typically") pay well, but it's extremely hard to retire. Not only are your customers, how shall we say, appreciative of your product, but your suppliers are very "grateful" of your business. So not only do you have strung out customers hounding you day and night for a fix, but you also have to pay your way out of your position. But remember, you are heavily addicted yourself at this point, so you don't have the money to pay your way out. And if you are still in regular contact with family and non-using friends, they are beginning to realize your an addict of some sort. Not only will they try to intervene in your using, but at times they may even try to intervene in your business and come rather close to getting you killed. It's somewhere around this point that you hate yourself for your ambitions, and why couldn't you just have stayed an ignorant kid who likes to have fun. But then you realize your nose is in danger of falling off and you have to wear long-sleeved shirts more often, and why did you even have to be a stupid kid who wants to have fun? It would be nice if there was a nice, clean paragraph that can sum all of this up, but there really isn't. Friends start dying and going to jail, you may have a gun pointed at you a few times, you may overdose and nearly die yourself, and you may even start carrying a gun yourself (which, by the way, is probably the biggest indicator that you need to get yourself out. Right now.). Friends and associates used to always talk about how scared they were when they first started getting involved in the seedier side of society, but nothing is scarier then trying to get out of it. I eventually did, but the last downfall you realize is how much baggage you will always carry because of that period of your life. When you are there, you dream about getting out and how peaceful it will be. You'll be just like anybody else, and your life can go on. It's true your life sometimes goes on, but you'll never be like everybody else. Once a criminal, always a criminal. Once an addict, always an addict. There may be exceptions, but I've never met one. Your mindset is permanently changed, and your person is permanently scarred, sometimes literally. It's true I'm no longer addicted to anything but cigarettes, and I haven't done anything significantly illegal in a very long time. But if anyone cracked open my head and took a glance inside, they'd see the mind of a criminal and an addict. No matter how well my life turns out and how good of a person I become, that'll never change.

Subject: blogging againt torture Posted by: rosefox. Time: 1:23 am.

Originally posted by erzebet on March 30 2008, here. Once upon a time, and it was a very long time ago, there was a young woman. She was married, far too young, but married still, to a man not much her senior. For whatever reason (take your pick), he used to beat her. Now, I use the word "beat" loosely, because what he did was very much more than that. I won't trouble you, dear reader, with most of the nasty details. Suffice it to say that he used his fist more than any other appendage and seemed to enjoy himself very much in doing so. Some would say that what he did to her on a daily basis was torture. I would not. I would say it was habit, on both of their parts. It wasn't long, however, before things began to change. One night during a party, she was on one side of a highway and he was on the other. It was a large party. You may know the kind, those that sprawl between and among houses and properties and even onto the neighboring farmers' crops. She was crossing the road toward him as he was crossing toward her. They met in the middle, directly on the yellow line, where he punched her on the cheek so hard that she fell to the ground. He left her there, on that yellow line, and went back to the party while she lay on the tarmac, praying a car would not come. I would go so far as to say this was not torture either, but what happened next certainly was. Next, at home, he punched her again. This time she was out cold. Then, he carried her into the basement. The basement was a damp and dank room with a set of wobbly not-quite-stairs leading down into its murky depths. There was a leaky pipe, you see, the sewage pipe and the landlord had yet to fix it. What this meant was that there were several inches of wasted water on the floor. There was no light. He carried her down there and I imagine it was quite a struggle for him. I imagine he found the whole ordeal quite disgusting. He stripped her naked and left here there, tied up, and then locked her in. For twenty four hours she sat in the dark, in that stink, with her hands tied behind her back. When we think of torture these days we most likely think of Iraq. This story did not take place in Iraq, it happened in small-town America. It may not equal the horrors those souls endure over there, but "over there" is a relative phrase, sometimes, depending on where one is standing. When I sit back and consider that this is but one tiny story among a thousand, million much larger and far more horrific stories, I can not fathom how anyone can say that humanity as a whole has evolved. If this is evolution, I say we have a long way to go before we dare call ourselves humans. The only thing we are being is terribly cruel. I can not say I am blogging against torture. My words will not stop any one person from inflicting any pain on another. I am blogging about torture, because it happens every day and I am unable to carry on as though it doesn't. And why, I ask myself daily, does it happen? What is it in the human psyche that allows for these things? There are no answers to my questions, at least not yet. Thankfully, the story I've told did have a happy ending. One day she discovered that bullies are easy to face once one loses one's fear. She loaded her shotgun, aimed it at his head and told him to get out of her house. He did, in quite a big hurry. I wish such resolution could be so simple for all.

Subject: More on death Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 11:45 pm. Mood: thoughtful.

Originally posted by boundfate, here. I remember puppies, lots of puppies. We always had a litter or two and my dad would bring one or two from the litter up to my room on weekend mornings and put them in my bed to wake up next to. Mom was always afraid I would roll on them but dad never was and I was careful – nothing is better to wake up next to when you’re a little girl than a puppy who has just opened his eyes for the first time. We would also have them in the house even younger if a mom ran out of milk or had too many pups to care for. Sometimes those pups wouldn’t make it – they would be sick and dad would try to save them. He would give them shots of penicillin and even do puppy CPR – I’ve seen my father bring animals back from the dead. But sometimes even his miracles weren’t enough and then they were buried in the back yard. Mom tried to hide it from me and even dad wouldn’t let me come help but he didn’t hide the fact they were in the ground. We would cry over the dead puppy and then focus on the living ones. That was how life worked. Growing up dad put dogs down that weren’t up to becoming field champions. I would argue for them to get more time but it usually didn’t work. One day they were just gone – destroyed so that there was room for the next generation. We didn’t talk about it but I knew and dad only tried to lie about giving them away once. I caught him in the lie and that was the end of that. In hunting season each year there were dead deer hanging from barn rafters and barn cats licking up the blood drops before they were shooed away – the clearest demonstration of the circle of life you could have. I learned that the response to the glassy deer eyes open in death was a silent prayer of thanks for their sacrifice so we could have deer stew. Dad took the hoe to the snakes that would curl up on the warm pavement on cool autumn mornings and I tried to understand why some of the women thought a snakes death was more acceptable than a dog’s death. They were both alive – right? Dad always treated things like that – he would take any life that needed taking but he never minimized the fact that he was taking life. The cats killed ground moles and rats – their payment for room and board. My family shot the stray cats that threatened our cats and the starlings that tried to eat our garden. My brother would tie the dead starlings up by their feet and hang them from the tomato poles – a few dead would keep others away and therefore save them the same fate. You always buried or burned the bodies though – that was respect. The more important the animal was to you the more care you took with body disposal. And then, when I was three, there was the kitten incident. My brother had told me that kittens could fly, but that they hid their wings and would only use them when forced. He thought it was a funny lie – I believed him completely. I worshiped my brother and a side effect of growing up so rural and with no children my own age around is that I didn’t yet understand lies for the sake of lying. So I believed and promptly set out to watch a kitten fly. I cornered some barn kittens, too young to be able to escape a kid with a purpose. I picked the prettiest one – it was calico like her mom. I clearly remember bringing the kitten into the house (already a no-no) and walking up half a flight of stairs to the landing. I gave the kitten a couple more pets and kissed it on the forehead, and I whispered to it that I wanted to see its wings and that it just needed to show me those wings. Then I hurled it like a football down the steps where it fell into the wall. Mom came running in the same time I went running down the steps. Once I realized it was hurt I started crying – trying to explain to mom that the stupid cat should have used its wings and why didn’t it? A neighbor came over and put the cat out of its misery – its neck was broken from the impact. My mom screamed at me that I was the spawn of Satan and I just cried harder – mom didn’t know what my brother had told me. When dad came home my brother had filled him in. He held me while I told him everything and cried it out in his arms. That day I learned many important lessons. I learned that actions have consequences – that what we do has real meaning on those around us. I learned that sometimes people lie – even people we love – and that it doesn’t have to make sense for them to do it. I learned that dad would love me no matter what. And I learned that things die, and that life goes on. I apologized to the momma cat the next day, to my mom, to the neighbor who buried it as well. No one tried to lie to me, tried to tell me that the kitten was still alive or happy in heaven or whatever things some adults feel justified in telling kids. No one tried to make the pain of killing something easier to bear because it was an accident. They all forgave me and loved me and continued to allow me around puppies and kittens because they knew why I had done what I had. But they didn’t lie to me. My family gifted me with honesty. When the time came and people started dying in droves around dad (he was in his 60s and his friends worked in cancer causing factories) the lesson was easy to extrapolate. People fear death because of their own regrets – because they haven’t made decisions they can hold up in the mirror and sleep with at night. They fear their own inadequacies once someone who helped them is gone. Dad taught me with his every step that he could accept death because he accepted his life – he was comfortable in his own skin. It didn’t change his grief or loneliness, but it made him able to understand his own role and how small it is in the grand scheme of life. The lessons he gave me growing up serve me just as well today – lessons I learned by how he lived his life – not words. Thank you daddy.

Subject: A ramble about what beautiful is. Posted by: rednikki. Time: 12:04 am.

(Original post made by angelcityblues March 24, 2007 at 6:13pm.) I had the dubious honor of pushing my grandmother's wheelchair for the first time this weekend. In doing so, I got a lesson in what beauty really is. Let me back up here. She's been at the recovery center about a month, regaining her strength, resisting the cafeteria food, and generally wishing she were at home. Which we all do, but really, that's not the point. The point is, my grandmother is going to be 96 on the 19th of April and honestly, every day that we had her, and healthy, past the age of 75 is a remarkable blessing that I will forever remain grateful for. I arrived around 3:30pm on Saturday, right smack in the middle of the center's Easter holiday party. They had a great guy in there playing oldies music on the digital piano, and some family members had come, and some of the staff were there helping to entertain. There were cookies, and punch, and all manner of Easter-induced silliness. I was handed a pair of bunny ears upon my arrival and I happily wore them, indulging in a round of the bunny-hop with the able-bodied staff and family members until my knee gave out and I had to sit down. We sang, they danced, and it was generally a really good time. People think of elder-care facilities as these horrible, depressing places, and they can be, in a way, but I assure you, there's no decor like joy to make a room feel alive, warm, and welcome. We had cookies with Mary, the one-step-away-from-God caregiver that my mother and uncle have hired to help with the specifics of long-term elder care, and chatted for a half hour before she had to leave. So I spent another hour or so with my grandmother, visiting. She asked if she could show me around and I said, of course, and off we swished down the hall, out to the garden, complete with koi pond and lovely greenery, past all the residents soaking up a few rays, and settled into a flagstone-paved corner under an umbrella, for me, and sun, for my grandmother, who wanted to be in the bright sunshine. I took note of how much she wiggles her toes now. Ever since I went to see her in the hospital some weeks back, I've noticed it. I think it's a means of sensory input; it throws your sense of spatial relation off to be sitting that much, to be that immobile all the time, so toe-wiggling, along with head-rolling, does help. We sat in the sun and had a long chat, where I finally uttered the sentence I've been wanting to say to her since all of this started: Yeah, but you know what? You've done so much taking care of all of us for seventy years. It's time that we all took care of you. We like doing it. It makes us happy to do it. Honest. We wouldn't have it any other way. And she did not argue with me. I know that this is all very, very hard for her; difficult in a way that I haven't quite managed to understand just yet, because I am not going to be 96 inside of a month, confronting two ideas: "How on earth did I make it this far?" and "How much longer do I have?" I think the elderly confront those thoughts a lot more than those of us who are much younger do, only because they are closer to it than we are (at least, through what might be considered a normal trajectory of human life). So when I look at all of those people in the recovery center (I see a lot of them, two or three to a room, as I walk down the halls of the center, some heads turning to see where the clack clack clack of the heels is coming from). I see their age, and I sometimes see a sense of the loss of time there, of uncertainty, and I think perhaps that that's what people react so negatively to when faced with a place like that; so many of the elderly, together in one place, knowing that for many of them, their time is near, and they must think about it, and see it, all at once, in a way you don't in the course of your usual day. When I walk by all these wonderful people, I see that they, too, are thinking about those questions, a lot more often than I, and I am developing an empathy for that. I imagine my parents and the rest of my family are as well. I don't think it's any secret that we live in a recklessly ageist society, one that holds up youth and so-called beauty like some kind of trophy, as if being twenty-five, blemish- and cellulite- and wrinkle-free as something to aspire to, and you're defective, nay, irrelevant if you don't keep up. It has created an entire society of people willing to do anything, including cutting up their bodies, and each other, in order to keep some semblance of that outward appearance of youth intact. It has created industries, destroyed families, and otherwise diverted attention from things that matter far more than stretch marks and clothes horses. I believe I mentioned a while back my note of my mother's comment, "I don't want to live that long, because I have realized how it is, and how irrelevant you become." I look at how my own generation, and the one behind me, rips each other apart, hurling razor-sharp barbs about fat and crooked and ugly around like they're the final authority on what makes a woman beautiful, what makes a woman strong, and whole, and worthwhile, as if fat is the worst thing a woman can be (how about ignorant, or shallow, or vain, or selfish, or cruel?). They're beautiful, to someone, and in their own right. Maybe not to you. Or you. But they are to someone, and they were, once, to that boyfriend of yours, who was once theirs. To their parents. To their friends. To their nearest and dearest. They are beautiful to someone who sees through their physical flaws, maybe to their personalities, or their brains, or maybe even their bodies, flawed as they are. I'm part of a generation of damaged egos, women who have been told they're too fat, their hair is too flat, their lips too thin, their thighs too jiggly, their waistlines too thick, their legs too stumpy, their breasts too small. Is it any wonder that after that much bashing, from their own kind, even, that they'd do anything to get out from under that, to deliberately rip other women apart or rip them off, only to deny their complicity in their own destruction later? That they'd pursue cosmetics and plastic surgery consultations like any other trappings of adulthood, like you'd purchase a car or research options for a retirement account? I'm part of a generation that somehow believes that they only way you're relevant is if you have hot pictures to showcase on MySpace, that your relevance is further bolstered by having equally "hot" friends, and that fame is merely an extension of your youthful birthright. Where people collect portfolios of friends like business cards that show who they've done business with. Visual representations of some kind of substance; of what? What do you see except bright colors and crazy outfits? What does it say about you? What does it say about what you value? Or what I value? Or what we, collectively, value? I'm sorry, but I didn't need my master's degree to find out that my hotness factor determines my value. The recovery center's residents are mostly women; some men, but I'd say a good 80% of the people there are women. Some of the most vulnerable people on this earth - the physically fragile, the old, the weak. No longer worthwhile, no longer beautiful. To you, maybe, or to you. Guess what? We're all going to be old someday. We are all in that one together, so we may as well get used to it. I walked through that center this weekend, pushing my grandmother's wheelchair, two more times; once to get her out of the facility to the car, so we could take her to my aunt's house for brunch, and to get her out of the car and back to the center. Each of those times, I nodded at the staff who stopped and smiled as we passed, at all of the residents who smiled and waved as we passed. People stared as we went by; at us, at my grandmother and I, as we whirred down the hallway. I know I'm pretty striking looking because of what I look like; the rooster-flavored hair, the black clothes and the pointy shoes. We all know, intimately at this point, what my self-image issues are, and what my issues with the image-obsessed are, so I'm not getting into those now. So we come to the point where I disagree with my mother. What is relevant, in the context of all of this, is that this weekend is the only time that I've ever felt that I am, at some level, beautiful; but it had absolutely nothing to do with my weight, or my hair, or the fact that I have somehow avoided crow's feet but got stretch marks in spades. What makes me beautiful is her; the love that we share, visible even in the bright sun of an Easter weekend. The combined beauty of two women, sharing that love in our little day-to-day interaction, pushing her wheelchair down the hallway; two generations, under the same sun, that makes us both so. It's the brightest, most flattering light in the world. You can't photograph it, watermark it, credit the MUA and wardrobe, and upload it to your Model Mayhem profile. It just is. And it is in that that we remain relevant. And that's the story of how I became a beauty queen.

Comments: Add Your Own.

Subject: 'cause breaking up is hard to do Posted by: l_stboy. Time: 10:09 am.

Originally posted by devilfish on March 10, 2008, here Dear Academia, We both know this isn't really working out. But even so, I've been looking at you lately and thinking of all the things I love about you. There are so many little things I often take for granted, like being able to walk over to the tuna research center on any given morning and borrow a few thawed squid. Free access to almost any journal online, and a librarian who'll find anything I can't. The opportunity to mess about in boats. Somewhere to store my dive gear. I'm grateful for these small conveniences you've given me. And for the big gifts, too, like the trip to Ecuador and the new computer. Academia, even if I leave you, I want to remember the good times. I just have my doubts whether it can ever work out between us. You've got so much baggage, and yes, you've acknowledged some of it, and you're in therapy, and I'm proud of you. But I still have to look out for myself. I don't want to get sucked into your issues and messed up for the rest of my life. Academia, maybe we can take a break? I need a little time to see other careers before I commit. I think I got involved with you too young: I just rushed into this without taking any time to explore all the options. I can hear you now, asking if I've met someone else. Well, yes and no. I haven't been cheating on you, academia, I haven't gotten paid to do anything else. But you know I've been friends with writing for years, since before I met you. Even when you've been at your neediest, sapping all my energy and attention, I still made time for writing. And when you and I had our big fights, writing was there for me. I'd always thought of writing as a hobby, but lately I've been wondering if I could make it a career. You can't blame me for wondering! I need to give it a try, at least. Even if I leave you for writing, academia, I want to stay friends. After all, I'd be a science writer! We could still see quite a lot of each other. And maybe it would be a better relationship, with less pressure. We could just relax and have fun whenever we get together. You've probably seen this coming for a while. I haven't always been kind in the things I've said about you. But I wasn't sure how to break it to you. Now I'm writing this letter to let you know how I'm feeling, but that I'm not going to end it just yet. You still have a shot at keeping me, if you want. I'm applying for a fellowship that will fund my last two years of grad school, and comes packaged with a recruiting program for the professoriate. Workshops, training, mentoring, that sort of thing. So here's my offer: If I get the funding, I'll go into it with an open mind. I'll let them try to recruit me. Make yourself tempting, academia, and I'll seriously consider a commitment. Deal? Oh, and don't be mad at writing. Sometimes it's all I've got to keep me sane. Love, Danna

Subject: When Lions Don't Roar Posted by: supremegoddess1. Time: 11:44 pm.

Originally posted by n_decisive, here. I have removed the voting link to avoid bias. LJ Idol Topic #19: "Hear Me Roar!" I've known her for a long, long time; I've known her so long that it has to have been before she ever recognized herself that we met. When she was a baby, her mother would take her to a laundromat in the heart of California's wine country. There, women with espresso eyes, locks like trailing blackbird feathers and caramel skin would look at her and coo over her white-blonde hair and her huge blue eyes. "¡Que linda!" they'd say, over and over again, "¡Que suerte, Señora, ella es muy bonita!" It made her mother happy to hear this. I'm certain it did, because when she told the tale to me, her face softened and her eyes danced. The Latinas would spend the afternoon entertaining and being entertained by the little girl. This, too, made her mother happy, for she could pretend for just a little while that the baby wasn't hers. She could do what needed to be done without any fussing. How nice those days were for her mother; the women reassured her that her child wasn't ugly, which is what her own mother had said to her when she first saw her new granddaughter. The girl grew older-she was, perhaps, eight- and one day, her mother told her the story of the laundromat. When she was older still, but not by much, her mother told her what her grandmother had said when the girl was an infant: "She's the ugliest baby I've ever seen. I think she must be retarded." At first, the young lady cried because it was such an awful thing to have said of any newborn child, and it was especially hurtful because it was about her. Eventually, her thinking changed; what kind of mother would say such a thing to their child? What kind? She learned the basics of the birds and the bees that same year. Her sister had told her how things worked because the girl and her brother had discovered a pair of bloodied underwear in their parent's pickup. Then came the night one not-so-distant summer when the lesson was delivered more graphically. The girl, her sister, and her step-sister all shared a bedroom. One night, when her parents had gone away together and left her stepsister in charge because she was the oldest, there was a party. When the party was over her stepsister and her boyfriend came upstairs to go to bed. She couldn't tell what they were doing at first, but when they were no longer clothed and their shadows made strange motions against the attic walls, she became uncomfortable. Although she hid her head beneath her pillow and turned away from their side of the room, she could still hear them, sighing and moaning in the moonlight. "That must be sex," she thought, "It sounds awful." Something else happened that year to catch her attention and her emotion- her step-father had a heart attack and passed away. He was 38. Within two years, her mother would leave her and her brother with their grandparents. She "needed to find herself," the girl heard her mother say, and, "She couldn't do it towing kids along with her." Not two years later, on New Year's Day, her mother and grandmother would chat on the phone. The girl would notice the look on her grandma's face and see that something she'd been told was bothering her. She would take the receiver when prompted to do so, and would hold it to her ear. This is what she would hear: "Happy New Year, honey," came her mother's voice from the other side of somewhere, "Congratulate me!" "Happy New Year. Congratulate you on what?" She asked her mom, not really wanting an answer. "I got married! Isn't that great?" She handed the phone back to her grandmother and went to her room. What kind of mother remarries without telling their children first- without having them there with her? By the time the notion of sex entered her mind again of necessity, her mother had returned. The girl, her brother, their mom and their second stepfather were back living in the house they'd shared with the first new father. The girl had her first period, so her mother filled in the the rest of the details of reproduction. She was thirteen. She learned how to use those awful menstrual belts because her mother felt she was too young for tampons. The hygiene portion of the lesson was short; the birth control aspects long, intimidating, and over-enthusiastic. She understood that if she needed contraception, her mother would get it for her. She tucked that away, though, because she was a virgin and intended to remain one until she married. A few nights later, during one of her mother's drunken rages, her mom screeched at her saying, "You should be thankful to even be alive. The doctor told me to abort you!" When the girl's sobbing had finally subsided, she lay upon her bed begging the ceiling to answer her question: "What kind of mother?" She knew she'd get no answer. She never did. She wished she'd never been born. She wished she were dead. Another weekend where her parents went away only this time, the girl and her brother held the party. It was just a small one: there were only six people there. One of the boys her brother invited was the son of her parents' best friends, and she'd had a crush on him for a long time. At some point, they ended up kissing. They'd continued to kiss through the rest of the evening. Tiring of beer, the boys got some pot from her parents' greenhouse and lit their bongs. She got high off the fumes- dizzy- and felt like she was going to pass out. She'd never had so much to drink in her life and the smell of the smoke was making her nauseous. She told everyone goodnight and went up to her bed. The girl had the strangest dreams that night. The boy was there in her bed, and they were kissing. It was nice, but then it started to hurt, a lot, and she was crying in her dream and telling him to stop. When she woke up the next morning, she was bleeding. She was also confused, because her period had ended just a few day before and anyway, this didn't look like that. Her brother came trudging down the stairs. Grinning at her, he bade her a good morning and went looking for food. "You two seemed to be having fun last night." He was still smiling. "Next time, you might want to shut the door." The girl flew up the stairs. In her dream, he'd dropped his wallet on the floor. She remembered that. At first, she didn't see it, but when she lifted the blankets off the floor, it lay there, and she knew what he had done. She knew what her intoxication had kept her from stopping. Years of saving herself and it was gone, just like that, just like in the bad dream she'd had where she'd been telling him "no" over and over again. She told her mother what had happened. Her mother wanted to get her on the pill. The girl refused, saying it wouldn't be happening again and that she couldn't stand the site of him any longer. Two weeks later, she came home from the movies and he was there with his parents. She said hello to them and went right up to bed, wondering yet again what kind of mother she had. She met a boy during the summer between her Junior and Senior years of high school. Her school didn't offer enough classes for her to meet their enrollment standards and wouldn't allow her to have a free period. She had enough credits to graduate early, but she wouldn't be allowed to go through the graduation ceremony if she did so. She was certain she had the locker that the boy who stole her virginity had used the year before. It was all too much. She transfered to another school where she'd be allowed to go through commencement even if she exercised her right to graduate early. She already had friends where she was going, including the boy she'd met that summer. The two of them fell in love. She- figuring that she might as well find out what she'd been missing before she'd lost her virginity- and he- being tired of being a virgin- let things progress at nature's pace. The nature of teens in lust and the minds of teens in love gave her cause to ask her mother for birth control. Several times, the girl scheduled an appointment at Planned Parenthood and her mother agreed to take her. Several times, her mom failed to be home when it was time to go. The girl asked her boyfriend to buy some condoms, but he was a minister's son