Let her be.
March 31, 2009
Walk over mountains
Stride through pouring rain
Smile up
Let the sun rays splash down
Maybe you’ll be back some day.
Just when you think you have no-one.
The sun comes up
And you’re not alone any more.
The city, she loves you.
I think I missed that part of my adolescent years where I had the chance to be frivolous and carefree about taking my place as a ‘woman.’ Could’ve been that 32-y-o I was dating at 16, or perhaps the 21-y-o with the child, that I looked after as his replacement mother, at 18, for a year or so.
Who knows.
Something went awry that left me without a few key life skills, I’ve come to realise, the least of which being that all too feminine drive to come across as a sex object for the attraction of men. Despite what some men and women might have you believe, I’m actually not that interested in the sexual attention of anyone, at all. I understand the advantages of having a nice smile, but the rest is up to the good graces of the sex-charged societal backflip that we seem to be living within, that makes any woman, honest or otherwise, into a walking, breathing potential cock hole, most of the time.
To be honest, there hasn’t ever really been a time when I’ve had much attention from men, until recently. Up until now, I’ve had these pseudo-masculine figureheads that I’ve loved so dearly that have all turned out to be extremely protective boyfriends who refuse to let another man glance at my goods, ever, without severe consequences. All these years I haven’t had to worry about my looks, what I come across as, how other men and women perceive me, because I’ve been spoken for.
But the single world is cut throat, I’m coming to realise. Since I’ve been single now for a whole year and a half, I’ve come to realise some interesting tid-bits about the nature of many women. I live in this single world of ours, but I’m definitely not used to the smell yet.
I never had any sisters, and my best friends have always been guys. I grew up with four brothers, a backyard full of cars and the smell of oil and sweat loitering about my bathroom every moment of every day. Mechanics shops, to me, feel a lot like home. These days I can race a car up the Spit, and win, with the right wheels, but I can’t walk in cork shoes for the life of me. I can rig a safe electrical connection between a back shed out a kitchen window, through a back room, over the clothes line and down past the garage … but I can’t hold another girl’s hand during a scary movie, when I know she’d love nothing more than a little comfort.
Let’s pretend for a moment that I’m at a party, sinking a beer at a table on a back veranda, under the stars … looking down at the clothes line past the railing, that holds in a decent amount of room to swing a few chairs around on the deck. In this instance, I am sitting at the table with the guys, sinking this beer of mine, and shouting stories about the good old days.
I will not, and I do not mention this lightly, I will not, and never will this be revoked, I will not ever sit on another girl’s lap and pose for the boys with my finger in my mouth, with come-get-me eyes and a sly smile to suggest that there’s something I got, that he wants.
Never in my life, is that girl me.
On the contrary, the mental process behind such a display actually confuses the hell out of me. My place, in this instance, is sitting at that table with the boys in their jeans, elbows on the bench top, lips pursed and eye brows raised, smirking slightly at the girls being silly for us, us guys, … wondering, not so strangely, what went wrong in my life, that left me sitting here, on this side. Sitting on the other side, staring at the girls while they touch each other and pretend to kiss, and then giggle about how they almost kissed and then oh my god, who wants us to do it!? I would sit there, staring at them, feeling nothing for these women but contempt. Jealousy that they have a skill that I don’t understand, that I will never possess. A skill that these girls have, to stop my conversation about movies and shoes with the blokes, and take their attention away for a seemingly ludicrous ritual of ‘play’ and flirtation.
If only I was a lesbian, they all say. And I’ll admit, I’ve said a few times. If only I was a lesbian, things would be so much easier.
But
you know what
I’m just, not.
I’m just a woman that was taught to value her hands instead of her cunt.
Which is a shame, really, because the world isn’t really set up for women like me.
Prom Queen
March 13, 2009
Life is belief, routine, and change.
Every moment in life is struggle, everything brings a different level of the personal challenge we each face, of continuation, of movement, and the challenge of keeping going.
The hardest part is motivation. Keeping the motivation you need to upkeep the continuation.
Self-reeducating norms, redefining your own norms. Deciding that at any given moment the next moment will be either different, or the same.
My norm is to sit, placid in front of science-fiction shows. Anything else in my life I consider to be ‘different.’ My norm used to be music and art, learning and beauty, and cultural mind expansion. All of the rest of things, now, are either extremely challenging, or overwhelmingly powerful, and in most cases of the later, unsettlelingly beautiful.
My existence is so neutral, so passive, in this way, that any piece of life I end up only ever mentally and physically gauging as extreme. Any stimuli what-so-ever has only registering as extreme, due to extreme passivity being my norm.
– A night on the town is nothing. To most.
A night on the town is different to that, to me. It’s new, it’s meaningful, it serves a purpose, it has new levels of comprehension and learning, and requires extra and inautomatic motivation from within my being somewhere. I do not organically set myself in motion.
To me, a night on the town is difficult. To me, a night on the town, can be everything.
It didn’t used to be this way. Once I was the prom queen. Murwillumbah High School, 2003 Queen of the prom. I still don’t know how I won that title.
This is it.
March 9, 2009
xkcd. This, right here, is it.
Shot Gun
March 5, 2009
Shot gun blast through the heart, bulk pulp punch through the back. Splat.
Adrenaline gland kicks a brave surge, see you later.
Clarification moment of a fear you’d rather forget.
Feet wet from the puddle of your own piss that snuck out
while you were thinking about
what would happen
if that mother fucker
did
what you thought he was going to do.
