I think they’re probably an odd thing to love about the human body. And I can’t tell you with any great certainty precisely why I love them. I have a few ideas, though.
Growing up, I was always jealous of the girls with freckles. My friend Melissa, a little ginger girl, had an adorable smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. I always wanted those little sun dots. Alas, I do not freckle.
The only dark spots on my skin are the handful of moles that speckle my body. The most noticeable are the ones right above my eyebrows. There’s one on each side- the one on the left is perched elegantly above my eyebrow (much like Angelina Jolie’s beauty mark), while the one on the right is nestled against the top of the brow (makes shaping that particular eyebrow a bit of a bitch). I can’t imagine my face without them. In fact, when I go to make those silly little avatars for the Xbox or Wii… I always have to add a facial mole to them. Considering how I part my hair, I’ve always thought the one above my left eyebrow to be an important part of my face. It’s part of who I am, and I like it.
That’s right. I like my moles. In fact, I have two particular favorites. One is located on my lower back, about an inch above my gluteal cleft. It’s dead center, and (oddly enough) can be perfectly framed by the little keyhole cut-outs common among current frilly bits. Grix once said it was her favorite part of my body.
My absolute favorite mole, however, is located in a place few get to see. I find it adorable and hilarious.
Sweet galleons, my vagina has a beauty mark.
I’m not even kidding. It’s located on the left, just outside of the outer labial lips. A tiny little mole.
I think it’s cool.
And now we all know why, if I ever had the urge to name my vagina, I’d call it Marilyn:
Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve learned to love my own moles that makes me appreciate them on others. They are one of those things I can always remember about a person.
I like moles because they are considered by most to be blemishes. They mar the flesh, they ruin all hope of perfect symmetry of the features (unlike most people, I often find asymmetry quite titillating). They are interlopers on the smooth planes of the skin.
I’m drawn to flaws. Flaws are what make people interesting. I get bored with people so quickly that I don’t want to know what makes them normal and socially upstanding. I want to find out what is in them that goes against the grain, what is broken, what is twisted. If you can love a person, not in spite of their flaws, but for them… well, I think only then do you truly love the person.
And moles are little flaws. Little imperfections. Such a tiny thing, yet something most people either ignore or dislike. But me, I like those things everyone else casts aside. I like the forgotten, the abused, the shunned. So, I suppose it’s no great surprise that I find moles interesting, that I notice them when others don’t, that I love their ability to make a face just slightly off-kilter and unique.
He’s beautiful. He’s a musician. And he has a glorious beard.
I swear, my lady bits are all a-tingle right now.
R.J. introduced me to this song, and we listen to it all the time at work… but I just saw the video today. And there Mr. Poppin is, black leather jacket and all (I’m even digging the serious emo swoop he’s rockin’):
So, I’ve been really good about keeping this a secret. At least, until today, when I made my decision official and shared with a few folks:
I’m moving back to Michigan to finish my degree.
While I was there (by the by, that was the cause of the filler-based last week or so… apologies), I visited with the folks at the MSU Admin office. I wanted to inquire about returning next year. At the time, I was still a bit undecided. That was a big part of why I wanted to take this trip, though- I wanted to determine if this was something I really wanted.
The folks at MSU were more than happy to talk with me, and they are working with me to ensure a smooth transition back to campus. I’ll be in the Honors College again, they said they’d help me get overrides into the classes I need. Overall, it’s the nicest they’ve ever been to me.
Which makes me suspicious…
Oh, I kid. Really, I can’t say I’m surprised. I have an exceptionally good academic record, and they were loathe to lose me the first go ’round.
I suppose… I suppose you might be wondering why. Why, after over a year, have I decided to go right back to where I was. When I left last time, I didn’t anticipate a return. I was in such a terrible place emotionally and psychologically that I couldn’t imagine ever returning. I just wanted to get back on my feet and go somewhere far away from East Lansing.
Thing is, I’ve really matured in the last year. Not that that’s always outwardly evident. I realize that it wasn’t the area and the people so much as the decisions I made and the way I dealt with problems that caused me issue. And this relied heavily on deep-rooted issues from childhood that I had never resolved. You can only push a problem aside for so long before you have to face it… and I kind of had to face all my demons at once. And it crippled me.
But now, demons dealt with and very stable, I realize that I want to finish what I started there. I love MSU. I love East Lansing. It still feels like home. I want to graduate there. I could have enrolled at UW this past year… but when I thought about moving to finish school, I couldn’t bring myself to go somewhere I hated. If I’m paying the money, I’m going where I want to. And that, dear galleons, is MSU.
Will East Lansing be my final destination in life? Of course not. When I told a few friends there that I have plans to eventually amble the Massachusetts way, I wasn’t lying. But that’s in the future. Right now, there’s unfinished business between me and East Lansing. Less with the people (my one major bit of unfinished business, namely my love for a certain boy, I let just slip past while I was there… in the end, our friendship was more important to me than anything else), more with myself and the area. I haven’t yet experienced all the Lansing area has to offer.
And, while people from Michigan might not see East Lansing as anything special, it’s a marked step up from where I grew up. This was the first place I chose to be my home. I chose MSU and East Lansing, out of all the hundreds of colleges and towns that wanted me, because I felt this tug of “rightness” about it. I had never even seen the town until the day before my orientation, but I knew I wanted to go there. And I still want to be there. It’s not forever, but it is going to be for a little while.
You might think I’m going backwards by returning (though isn’t finishing my degree a large step forward?). And maybe you are right. Maybe I’m going back for silly reasons. But I have no better reason to go to Cambridge or New Orleans or Branson, Missouri (beyond that I had a dream once that I moved there… I really don’t want to live in Branson). Wherever I go, I will make my life. And just because some of my friends look on East Lansing with a bit of disdain… well, that’s their problem. When I was back there, I was happier than I’ve been all year. Even when I wasn’t with people. The town calls to me. There’s something in me that’s still tuned to its frequency.
I’m going to continue eastward, but I’m going to do so in stages. Michigan first. Massachusetts later. Once I have my degree, I’ll be better equipped to find the kinds of jobs I’m interested in, anyway. It only makes sense to finish school before I move somewhere new.
Judge me if you must. I felt judged when I left, I suppose it’s only fair I feel judged upon return. But it’s my life, and while I may make some delightful mistakes… they are my mistakes to make. And if this is a mistake, so be it. It’s gonna be a hell of a time.
One of my greatest (unspoken) desires is to have a lover write on my body.
The curve of an ‘s’, the delicate arch of an ‘n’, the spiraling twist of an ‘e’… the written word a sensual torrent of shape, a searing promise of sound. Hidden within the loop of an ‘o’ or the sharp angle of a ‘v’ are deep moans and humming vibrations- the written word is a Pandora’s box of auditory delight.
And I want the sinuous forms, the searing potential, inscribed on my body. I want to see the ink blossom across my skin, feel the words seep into my pores.
I want.
I want him to trace the greatest lines, the most powerful words, onto my flesh.
I want him to write his history, and mine, and ours, down the lines of my thighs. Swirls of poetry around my nipples. Quotations along my collarbones. Theories on the soles of my feet. Song lyrics on my back. Equations spiraling around my belly button. Dreams scratched in striations on my arms. ‘I love you’ in a hundred languages, scattered like constellations.
I will be a tapestry, a kinetic love letter, the truth of romance found in his words and mine and those of others. I will be the sum total of what matters and what doesn’t, what came before and what will be.
An oracle.
A history.
And maybe it is too much to want. To crave. To desire.
And maybe I will have to settle for tattoos of a few chosen words, an echo of what could have been.
And maybe I will always be that tabula rasa. That white blank page. That empty canvas.
You think your day was bad? Today, I got my ass handed to me by an 87-year-old man.
So, in the gigantic bathing area, we have multiple curtained off sections containing special bathtubs to allow us to bathe the residents. We have two different types in our facility, one of which is similar to this:
On this one, the tub can be raised or lowered to accommodate the needs of both residents and care givers. I tend to like it better than the other one. The second model contains a chair… lift… thing (yeah, it’s a technical term, ellipses and all). Here’s a picture of a tub with a chair lift, though ours isn’t much like this one:
Ours has a chair lift, like the above image, but it opens from the front. I like to say it’s front-loading, but no one gets the joke. See, while the whole “opens from the front and has a chair lift that slides in and out of the tub in a super fancy manner” seems awesome, it’s really only useful at the beginning of the bath. After that, the stupid chair lift gets in the way of everything. It sometimes requires maneuvering on a step ladder to do everything you need to. I hate it.
Now let’s segue into the story proper.
I am bathing an 87-year-old man with extremely limited functionality. He’s unresponsive and unable to do anything for himself. He’s also heavy as hell, but then, there are few residents who are light <feel free to inject your own snarky remark about American obesity rates here>.
The bath is over, and I’m ejecting the man from the front-loader. I’m having Chris help me transfer the man onto a horizontal lift (it’s kind of like a gurney, only with hydraulic lifting action), which resembles:
We are going from the chair to the lift when…
The man freaks the fuck out.
This is one of my regular residents. I have never had an issue with him. In fact, he doesn’t really do anything at all. Ever. So today, when he suddenly begins thrashing and flailing wildly, I’m surprised I didn’t drop him in shock.
Though I didn’t drop him, Chris and I can’t continue moving him while the man’s twisting and lashing his limbs about. We get him to the floor as gently as possible, yelling for a nurse. Chris runs out to the nurse’s station, while I try to keep the man from hurting himself. I have two arms. He has four limbs and a head. This proves difficult for me.
During this process, he manages to punch me in the arms and legs several times. This fit of crazy seems to have given him massive amounts of strength, because his hits hurt like hell. I’m having a bitch of a time restraining him. Finally, Chris comes back to help me, and a few seconds later, a nurse runs in and sedates the man.
We get him back to his room, call the doctor, and I continue on with the remaining hour of my shift.
After returning home, I survey the damage. Here’s the worst of it:
I imagine this image is less sexy than you envisioned when reading the title of this post. So sorry to disappoint.
It’s not great picture quality, but you can see the bruising. The big, ugly, painful bruising.
“You know, women shouldn’t swear as much as you do.”
So said a coworker to me today as I cussed a blue streak after an incident involving a rolling cart, my nose, and Newton’s first law. And while I will happily admit that I swear more (and more colorfully) than most women… nay, most people I know, I don’t necessarily see that as a bad thing.
Society, on the other hand, thinks I’m a right twat.
And I have a problem with that. I have a mighty problem with the taboo nature of swears.
Time for a chat, dear galleons. Pull up a chair.
***
Swearing is present in all human languages. Which you may or may not find interesting. I certainly find the notion that swearing is a shared language convention to be of moderate note. Functions similar to swearing have also been observed in chimpanzees. How far the swear share extends through the rest of the world remains unknown, but the possibility remains that animals cuss just as readily as we do.
And just how readily do we swear? Out of the average 15,000- 16,000 words we each utter in a given day, about 80- 90 of them are swears. That’s 0.5% to 0.7% of your daily verbalization.
That’s such a tiny percentage of a person’s daily word utterage that it begs the question: Why do we make such a big fucking deal over a few “dirty” words?
***
Cuss words are some of the most emotionally volatile words available to a person. These words are linked to methods of release. Whether it’s the catharsis of uttering a stream of expletives when in pain or pissed off, or the ragged screams of a few well-chosen profanities while in the throes of sexual rapture, these words are our way of letting off emotional steam.
When we look at why these words are taboo, I think this is where the answer lies- in their emotional explosivity (yeah, it’s not a word, but I like it). In studies on the most infamous group of Tourette’s sufferers (those with coprolalia, the uncontrollable urge to cuss like a sailor), positron emission tomography and functional magnetic resonance imaging were used to examine the brains of the patients. What scientists found was that, when these patients cursed, both primitive (the thalamus and basal ganglia) and advanced (the prefrontal and language cortices) sections of the brain activated at the same time.
Basically, what we have going on is a tug-of-war in the brain. We have our primitive, base side urging us on to give in to our emotions and let the swears fly, while we have our educated, civilized advanced side telling us to quell that desire. Our uptight, prudish need to be seen as classy, sophisticated, advanced individuals pushes us to view cursing (such a base desire) as wrong.
But, by doing this, our society seems to be forgetting why we curse in the first place. “People usually look at the bad uses of swear words rather than why we’ve evolved to use them,” says Timothy Jay, professor of psychology at the Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts in North Adams. “Cursing exists because … it’s how [we] express anger symbolically. It’s much better to swear than to physically hit someone or hurt them in any way. Those people who lost their job at GM need to go to a bar and have a drink and swear. They need to be able to vent their anger.”
***
Now, what constitutes a swear? Depending on the situation and people involved, this can vary. Something as minor as “sucks” can be considered a naughty word to some. On the whole, however, there are a handful of words that most people consider to be “dirty.”
I could rattle some off, but I think it’s time I turn the floor over to the late, great George Carlin. After all, his “seven words” bit is kind of the definitive bit on cussing (and, frankly, always hilarious):
***
Anyway, I’m done playing nice now. Time for the rant.
I loathe the hypocritical nature of the cussing taboo. People are so goddamn quick to punish/judge you for letting “fuck” or “shit” slip, but these same people are then quick to turn around and tell you to find acceptable substitutes.
Which may seem like a way to solve the problem, albeit a pussy way to do so. However, I’ve always thought it was stupid as hell. You’re replacing one word with another… yet the emotion is still there. The new word is now a curse. Is it one of the taboo expletives in society? Perhaps not, but the meaning is the same. If the meaning is the same, what has really changed about the utterance? If we were to honestly, completely, 100% give ourselves over to switching all of our cuss words out for different words, all we would have is a whole new set of words doing the exact same thing.
Words that are taboo simply because of tradition seems silly. Actually, more than that, I find the whole concept of locking off part of our vocabulary distasteful. Who is the one to decide which words are better than others? Who weighs our words?
“People can feel very passionate about language,” said Kate Burridge, a professor of linguistics at Monash University in Melbourne, Australia, “as though it were a cherished artifact that must be protected at all cost against the depravities of barbarians.”
I am a person who is passionate about language. And as such a person, I think using the argument that cuss words impoverish language to be a poor one indeed. Almost laughably absurd, when you consider it logically. How can cursing impoverish language, when what it offers is a unique lexicon for a set of strong emotions?
Though our snotty, civilized selves might rail against it, the fact remains that deep, base emotions like rage and frustration and fear aren’t going anywhere. We’re stuck with them, and to not have a way to express the feelings surrounding us when under the influence of these emotional states… now that seems like a crime against language. If we have language to tame and describe the world, how can we lop off a chunk of it just because we are ashamed of our emotions?
Society, stop acting like a bunch of East Coast WASPs and get your shit together.
I’m not advocating cussing in all aspects of life- each of us has a variety of specialized vocabularies for different situations. The words you use around your friends are different from the ones you use when with your lover, and those are different from the ones you use when speaking with your boss. The jargon of daily life changes depending on who you’re interacting with and where you are. So, while cussing might not belong in the office, it does have it’s own niche in our lives.
Fucking deal with it.
***
And to circle back to the beginning…
It’s true that, on the whole, men cuss more than women. But why should my vocabulary be pigeonholed based on my gender? I already get shafted in so many other areas… just give me this.
Or don’t. What-the-fuck-ever. I’m going to continue dropping strings of expletives like they are bowling balls, and my hands are covered in butter.
Some lovers just rely on their hearts The core remains of what began with a passionate start And they may not want it to end But it will, it’s just a question of when I’ve lived long enough to have learned The closer you get to the fire the more you get burned But that won’t happen to us ‘Cause it’s always been a matter of trust
As you are reading this entry, dear galleons, I can assume you are within a few feet of a computer or cell phone… type… thing with internet access. And I’m willing to bet that, at any given point in the day, you are no more than five feet from some form of communication device.
Social networking. Texting. Calling. Skyping. Emailing. There are a myriad of ways we can get in touch with each other through the use of modern technology, at any hour of the day.
While useful in many situations, constantly being “on the grid” brings a new set of complexities to the already troublesome area of the romantic relationship. Primarily, however, it undermines the foundations of trust that relationships should be based on.
I know that trust isn’t something to be doled out to any handsome bloke who stumbles across your path. But if I were to have any desire to create some kind of real, emotional connection with a guy, I’d have to eventually trust him. He would have to earn that trust, true enough, but I’d have to give it to him at some point if we were ever going to make a real relationship work.
Hur, hur. Give it to him.
Shut it.
Here’s the thing about trust. It does take time to build up to a point where you really trust another person. In the early stages, they have to prove themselves worthy of your trust. But if you want the relationship to work, you do have to give that trust over. And trusting someone means you have to give up some of your relationship insecurities. You have to believe that they will be faithful to you, that they want to be with you, that you have nothing to worry about when they aren’t in your presence.
…For a person who usually prides herself on her ability to describe the world around her, I’m having a ridiculously difficult time describing the concept of trust. Damn abstract concepts, fucking with my shit.
What baffles me about romance in the digital age, however, is the apparent lack of trust inherent in most “relationships.” Couples I know have to be in near constant contact with one another. They text and call and IM every goddamn day. Even if they are only apart for an hour or two, they have to send a text asking what the other person is doing. At all times, both partners just have to be aware of the other’s whereabouts and actions.
Is it just me, or doesn’t this just smack of a lack of trust? Not only that, but it speaks volumes about the insecurities plaguing people in relationships. The ease of contact with another person means nobody has to develop that type of “distance trust.”
Yeah, I’m making up phrases. Surprise, surprise.
It’s easy enough to say you trust your partner when you are around them. At that point, the trust you claim is just a hypothetical. There’s no real need for it, as you can observe everything your lover is up to.
But when you factor in distance of any sort, that’s when trust actually becomes an active force. “Distance trust” is actual trust, not the feigned kind. That’s when you have enough belief in the integrity of your partner to not feel threatened by their contact with other men or women.
When you never have to give your partner that kind of space, though, you never develop any real trust. How could you? Trust in the hypothetical is nothing but a pretty lie you tell yourself to soothe your own insecurities. Real trust can only occur when you actively bludgeon your insecurities into submission, when you develop confidence in yourself and your relationship. None of this can happen, however, if you are never apart from your loved one. Without that distance, without the need for trust to develop into an active, stable force, trust simply cannot happen.
These couples that text each other every five minutes, that have to know exactly what the other one is doing or feeling every minute of every day… these couples cannot possibly be in a relationship built on trust. They are crippled by their own insecurities, which modern technology only helps to enhance.
But it runs deeper than that, this pathological need to know the details of your significant other’s life outside of you. Couples stalk each other online, primarily via social networking sites. They get secondhand confirmation of where their lover was and of who they were with. They can see communication between their partner and a “potential threat” for their womanly/manly affections. Often taken completely out of context, the results of such snooping further fan the fires of fear and insecurity. They spark flames of jealousy and anger.
I can’t offer you proof But you’re gonna face a moment of truth It’s hard when you’re always afraid You just recover when another belief is betrayed
Is there any good that comes of this behavior? If you spend all of your time “checking up” on your partner, it becomes utterly draining. You are emotionally wound up all the fucking time. You worry about every little phrase, every little smiley. Every casual conversation with another woman/man is cause for alarm. And heaven for-fucking-bid they don’t check in with you every hour on the hour. Because who knows what kind of shenanigans they are up to without your ever-vigilant eye hovering over them?
***
You know, I tried to be good about this. I was trying to come at this problem from a mature, objective stance. I wanted to look at the evolution of relationships in juxtaposition with the advances of technology.
But I find I just can’t do it. I want to rant, dammit, so that’s what we’re going to do.
In a specific (but by no means isolated) example, two of my coworkers have been “dating” for about two months. I put dating in quotes because they started out as fuck buddies. I have no idea at what point they actually transitioned into a pseudo-relationship. Even if I give them the full two months, however, it seems extraordinary that they are now engaged. That’s right. Fucking engaged. They barely know each other, have been screwing for a few weeks, and now have decided they want to spend the rest of their lives together (in so far as marriage actually means that these days…)?
That’s not terribly surprising around here, actually, but it never fails to blow my mind. But more on that in a minute (now that I’ve started ranting and rambling, I have a feeling we’re going to go more and more off of my original tech/romance topic).
What really gets me about these two is, like so goddamn many couples I know, their relationship seems to be based on… nothing. On sex, I guess. Really, that’s the only thing substantial about it. Toney first told Sam (as an aside, I really hate working with another Sam… so confusing) he loved her via text message. He couldn’t even say it in person. Which is rather fucked up, albeit completely irrelevant… I just wanted to share that.
These two are constant texters. They text each other at work when they aren’t in the same room together. They text constantly when they aren’t at work. I know, because I’ve seen it (and they tell me about it, like it’s something to be proud of).
What’s really amusing, though, is to see just how insecure they both are. Toney is a huge flirt. I knew him before she started working with us, and he used to try to get into my pants on a nightly basis. After they started doing… whatever it is they were doing, the occasional comment would still slip. He and I had long since established that he had absolutely no chance with me, but the banter was still entertaining.
Sam, however, flipped a nut, even though she knew the flirting was in jest. And Toney’s even worse. He’s forbidden some of the guys at work from speaking to her if he’s not in the room with her. He’s that afraid someone will snatch her away. He also constantly takes her phone and goes through it, seeing who she texted that day. And proceeds to freak out when she texts one of her exes… who lives in Iowa…
I don’t know. I’ve watched their whole “relationship” with equal parts amusement and disdain, but the engagement pretty much tossed the amusement factor out the window. They’re in a relationship for the sake of being in a relationship, and they are getting married because it’s the only way they think they can feel secure in their relationship.
Because, you know, married folks never cheat.
Whenever they talk about their upcoming (and, by upcoming, I mean in fucking March) nuptials, I get irritable and/or bored. Not only do I dislike weddings, but I think this whole thing is a farce and a mockery of what a real relationship should be.
***
Yes, I have a weird code of honor when it comes to relationships. A code built on trust and individuality and people-who-aren’t-fucking-clingy/needy/whiny/think-they-are-a-werewolf.
…I wish I was making that last one up, but I shit you not, the last guy with serious (unrequited) designs on me really did think that. I now have a hard time not laughing at him whenever I see him. Which is pretty much daily.
Good times.
***
I understand insecurity. I think narcissists have the greatest set of insecurities of anyone. Narcissism is a front, a persona we put on to be confident and pulled-together in public. Inside, however, we’re subject to intense self-loathing. Like an emo kid wearing a Halloween mask.
But insecurity is something you can overcome. It takes work. You have to be aware of your problem and actively strive to correct it. It’s hard. It takes months, years until you can squash the worst of your insecurities into the dirt. But it can happen.
I let my own insecurities overwhelm me in the last few years, as a result of many factors. This past year, however, I’ve managed to hammer everything back into place, and I’m more confident in myself, as a person, than I have ever been.
Which is good, because I have a bit of unfinished business in Michiganland that requires me to shed those old insecurities that were holding me back. This trip is my opportunity to make up for all the chances I wasted because I worried I wasn’t good enough.
This time you’ve got nothing to lose You can take it, you can leave it, whatever you choose I won’t hold back anything And I’ll walk away a fool or a king
Fuck the status quo. It’s time to shake things up a little.
***
Speaking of which, I bought my tickets for said trip. I will be in Michigan from March 24-29. I’m practically giddy with excitement.
***
I’m just babbling now.
***
Anyway, in an attempt to get back on track, I just want to say this:
To those folks who spend all their free time worrying about their partner’s whereabouts and actions… where do you find the energy? Man, I’m entirely too lazy for jealousy. If he leaves me, he fucking leaves me. There’s not much I can do about it if I’m being myself and giving my all to the relationship. If he’s not happy and won’t talk about it, we’re not going to work anyway. If he’s out scamming on another chick, our relationship is obviously unstable and should end anyway. I’m not going to waste my time worrying about who he’s talking to. If he wants to talk to his ex, fine. There’s a reason he/she is an ex, after all. I’m not going to bother feeling threatened by the past.
Seriously, I’m a fundamentally lazy person. Jealousy requires tons of energy. So if you people want to fill your life with stress and worry, fucking go for it. I, for one, will never understand you.
I’ll be over here, totally content in myself and enjoying life.
Hope your ulcer treats you well.
***
Wow, this post did not go the way I intended. At all.
Sorry.
To wrap it up, props to Billy Joel for the song lyrics I stole and peppered throughout this disaster of a post:
Okay, so, I thought the title was clever, seeing as masturbation helps one achieve a form of nirvana. Eh? Eh? Guess it’s only funny if you are a late-80′s grunge fan…
Not too long ago, I rambled on about sex dolls, a standard of the male masturbatory toolkit. I felt it only fair that we give equal time to self-pleasuring devices of the ladies.
So… let’s talk vibrators.
***
We begin, as before, with a history lesson. A sexy history lesson.
It’s a warm summer’s eve in ancient Greece (it’s so much fun when I get to start off this way). But the πλανήτης aren’t the only things a wanderin’ tonight. With the menfolk off fighting Sparta again, the women of Athens are plagued with an itch they just can’t scratch.
Or can they?
The men of ancient Greece used to gift their womens with phallic objects made of stone, wood, or leather. And in the land where olive oil runs like water (all praise to Athena, yo), lubrication was never in short supply. So when the men marched off to fight neighboring nations (or city-states), the ladies curled up with little wooden Lysander. So the men slept easier, knowing their wives’ uteruses weren’t straying, and the women slept easier because… well, because they were relaxed.
The Greeks, bless ‘em, were a lot of fun in terms of sexual history. While they might not have been the first to make dildos (there are finds that suggest phallic masturbatory aids have been around since the Ice Age), they were the first to mention them in literature and to portray images of them in their art.
[You know, one day, I think we're going to do a post on art and sexuality... I've got a wealth of good material from my art history days.]
Continuing on, while dildos are all fine and dandy, you are going to find that, these days, most of these toys also tend to require batteries. Vibration is considered a necessity in the formula for a perfect lady love stick.
The first of these electro-phallic wonders was created in 1869 by a British physician named George Taylor. But this wasn’t like the Hello Kitty cutesy contraptions littering the sock drawers of ladies’ dormitories the world over. Instead, this was a steam powered monstrosity known as the Manipulator:
With all the sex appeal of a gutted train engine, we can safely assume this was not something women were ordering out of their Sears and Roebuck catalogs with their pocket money.
In fact, this hell device wasn’t created with the idea of female pleasure in mind. Instead, it was created as a medical tool to aid in the treatment of female “hysteria.” While billed as a form of madness, this “hysteria” really boiled down to a deep, intense need for a lady to orgasm. In those days, sexual repression had been perfected into an art form.
This forced repression began early on in the schools for young women where the matrons would glove the hands of their pupils at night in their dormitories to prevent them from masturbating. Anyone caught caving in to their carnal desires would have the further embarrassment of having their hands strapped to their beds while they slept.
Such insanity continued into their adult years. People didn’t talk about sex. “Sexual communication” between partners was nonexistent. In fact, it really didn’t matter if the lady got off at all. Sex wasn’t about pleasure- it was about baby makin’. Period.
Naturally, these women were carnally frustrated. This frustration came to be known as “hysteria.” According to the 2nd century anatomist Galen, hysteria was caused by the retention of “female semen,” which could get into the blood and corrupt it. So clearly, it had to be periodically let loose through “paroxysm” (…an orgasm).
And how did the doctors have to do that? Why, by massaging the female genitals, of course. But all that vigorous and distasteful rubbing was tiring for the poor doctors (who had never built up their forearm muscles properly because of all that repressed carnal energy). Thus, the vibrator was born.
From there, the vibrator quickly became an item one could purchase for the home. Looking slightly less like a robotic torture device, these home vibrators were offered up as cures for headaches, wrinkles, and neuralgia. Such as this delightfully named gizmo:
“The Victor was manufactured by Keystone Electric of Philadelphia in 1903. The left side was a vibrator, the speed of which was controlled by the lever in the middle of the console, the one over the (unlabeled) mother-of-pearl speed indicators. The right side was a pneumatic attachment, which, like a vacuum cleaner, could either inhale or exhale. It could, as it were, either blow or suck, depending on the user’s requirements.”
Fantastic.
Anyway, from here, as society started to loosen up a little in regards to sex, vibrators became more and more popular. In 1998, when the rabbit vibe made an appearance on the (bafflingly) popular Sex and the City, demand for the electric abomination skyrocketed.
What? I hate rabbits (and certainly don’t want one near my lady bits… have I ever mentioned that “lady bits” sounds like a salad topping?).
***
These days, vibrators come in all shapes and sizes.
Vibrators are exceptionally useful in the sex therapy business, recommended to women who have trouble getting off during sex (you hear that, Sofia?) because vibrators are more powerful than manual stimulation and are easy to use.
There’s a lot of speculation/worry that frequent use of vibrators can deaden the genital tissue to the less powerful sensation of manual stimulation. This has never been verified, for the record. It is true that, when using a vibrator, a woman using a setting that is too intense can experience numbness in the clitoris, though this usually means she’s pressing the vibrator too hard on the sensitive nub (remember, for best results, you need to actually move the fucking thing around). If ladies are having issues, they need to dial down the setting on their little friend. Not because it can damage the clitoris (it can’t do anything serious), but because those women aren’t getting the pleasure they should out of their devices.
***
Now, I’ve been among the throng who have made jokes about the vibrate setting on my cell phone (particularly when said device goes off while sitting in my lap). Still… when it comes to non-traditional means of getting your vibe on, there are a multitude of options.
Your cell phone, while seemingly convenient, probably isn’t the best option. This is because you can’t get a lasting, sustained vibe out of your average cell phone. And spotty vibration is just frustrating (both for you and the person trying to call you).
A classic is the ol’ washer or dryer. Hop on a humming clothes cleaning machine and ride that puppy out to orgasm. Of course, it’s not exactly easy to get in a satisfactory position (not unless you are super flexible, in which case you should probably just go to the local bar, do the splits, and take your pick of the men who will be lining up to fold you into erotic pretzels). And if you live in an apartment building, you better hope it’s not “laundry night” for anyone else… manus turbare interruptus is an unpleasant situation.
There’s also driving/riding a bike down a bumpy road… but this proves dangerous, as you still have to steer. Still, it’s doable.
But, for female gamers, there’s yet another solution (gamer girls, come on, you know what I’m talking about). Since the advent of the rumble feature on controllers, lady geeks have had an easily accessible means of getting their rocks off. Of course, that rumbling vibration has proven to be just as intermittent as the cell phone’s. Plus, it’s hard to angle that controller just right and manage to play the damn game at the same time.
However, I hear there’s a new product that can help. Rez is a Japanese PS2 game that comes with a trance vibrator accessory. The game itself is a music shooter, where you fly down neon corridors shooting space/machine beings in time to techno music, like Tron on ecstasy. A stoner’s delight, right? Add in the pulsing trance vibrator, though, and you have every gamer girl’s fantasy. As you move through the levels, the vibration gets more and more intense.
A female gamer described the sensations she had while her boyfriend played the game, and she, well, gave the trance vibrator a cozy home:
“Pretty soon the levels and the images onscreen were just a faint blur to me. I knocked off my glasses and leaned back. I was in a daze. From far away, it seemed, I could hear Justin saying things like, “I made it to the next level!” and “This is cool!” but I was lost in my own little trance vibrating world.”
Like this girl, I just don’t see what other purpose this trance vibrator device could have. I mean, hell, the thing comes with a “protective glove” you can take off and wash.
Sounds like another bullet point on the Pro list of “Why Sam Should Buy A PS2.”
***
Of course, I have never tried any of the above methods of vibratory experimentation. And I certainly haven’t tried all of them.
Another long post, galleons. I’d apologize, but thinking about what I’m going to say in these is pretty much the most interesting part of my 12-hour shifts. So either enjoy the product of my bored brain… or leave.
Before lapsing into unconsciousness last night, I did my usual blog check to see who had updated. I was on a friend’s blog when I noticed something that gave me pause: he claimed to be a cultured individual (and I’m not saying he’s not, for the record).
This is why I enjoy reading his blog, despite the fact that he’d probably prefer I didn’t- it usually gives me something to think about (though not in the manner he intended, I imagine).
Because, when I thought it over, I realized I’d never had someone in my acquaintance refer to themselves as “cultured” before. And it’s not a matter of the pretension of declaring something like that, because pretension is often just the jealous person’s go-to phrase for what is really a statement of fact. I think it’s because there’s no longer a useful definition about what makes an individual cultured or refined.
But every word, every phrase, must have a definition. And as a self-styled verbiphage, I feel it is my duty to discover the rather elusive definition of the cultured individual.
***
We’ll start in the hallowed haven of the written word, the Delphic oracle of the definition.
The dictionary.
As ever, I begin with the dictionary that came on Ghiert (and is, without a doubt, my absolute favorite application on my computer). Here, cultured is defined as “characterized by refined taste and manners and good education.” Refined taste? Seems a bit… vague. As does the idea of a good education (more on that in a bit).
Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language also states that the concept of being cultured is, “characterized by mental and moral training.”
The Random House Unabridged Dictionary adds, “…the quality in a person…that arises from a concern for what is regarded as excellent in arts, letters, manners, scholarly pursuits, etc…development or improvement of the mind by education or training.”
Let my argument commence.
***
I believe that the prevailing American (and western European, to a degree) concept of the cultured individual has its roots in the late 19th century need to make social distinction between the “old money” and the “nouveaux riches.”
The 19th century, as most of you should know, was the time of the Industrial Revolution:
I find the idea of taking a post about being a refined individual and peppering it with crude humor to be deliciously amusing.
As a result of the changes to manufacturing, mining, technology, agriculture, etc. that marked the Industrial Revolution, the accumulation of wealth also underwent a transformation. In the time preceding the 19th century, the upper class was comprised almost solely of nobility. Wealth was inherited, passed through families along with titles and estates. Even in America, where the traditional nobility was banned by federal mandate, the upper class was still comprised of old families that could trace their roots back to European nobility. Their wealth had been handed down with their name, creating a pool of old money in the new world.
But the Industrial Revolution allowed for the entrepreneurial, ambitious, and slightly lucky to amass great wealth in just one or two lifetimes. These were lower or middle class citizens, who, through a fortuitous and/or calculated set of decisions and opportunities, had risen to the tops of their fields, garnered immense wealth, and were suddenly thrust into the world of the upper class. And the old money was not pleased by this.
We’ll get back to that in a moment.
During the time of the Industrial Revolution, Romanticism was sweeping the world of the arts. While it began as a revolt against the Age of Enlightment’s social and political norms, it soon became a reaction against the rationalization of nature that dominated the Industrial Revolution. These were the days of William Blake, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and John Keats. The Romantic artists railed against the “dark Satanic mills” (Blake) of this industrial period. They valued, among other things, the importance of nature in art. This reversion to a more nature-based ideal even extended into music. The Romantic period for music showed a marked increase in the inclusion of earthy folk music and focused on passionate, emotional pieces of music. Across the board, artists of the Romantic period scorned the rigid framework, the harsh monotony, the factory feel of the Industrial Revolution.
And here is where the old money found its refuge. The upper class fractured, splitting into those who came from generations of wealth and breeding and those who had previously belonged to a lower social class. While the new money would garb themselves in the trappings of the rich, the old money scorned them as lacking the polish and refinement good bloodlines and a noble upbringing brought. Old money, always steeped in the world of art and music (for who else could afford to be patrons?), now relied on their knowledge of the world, of music, of literature, of foreign politics, to distinguish themselves from the new money. New money, wearing all the frippery of the upper class and mingling in the same circles, lacked that knowledge of other cultures, of art, of politics. Through this, the old money maintained their need for elitism.
And it is this image invoked by most Americans and Europeans when the term “cultured” is used- the image of the refined, elegant noble. The old money.
***
While bits of that world still linger in our own (from old families like the Rockafellers and Kennedys to the continued practice of debutantes in the South), our society has changed in the years since the Industrial Revolution. And it seems as if the old ideas of the “cultured” individual no longer fit.
Let’s look at this a piece at a time:
Education
In the past, education was a luxury only afforded to the rich. As it is today, education was costly. Because of the cost of education (money not only lost by paying the institution one was attending, but also by not working, like the rest of the world), only upper crust families could afford to educate their children. As such, education became a staple of the cultured individual. In a world of the ignorant, the educated were intelligent, articulate, and worldly.
Remember, knowledge is power. It’s always been something we, as a people, covet, even as we fear it (Eve and the apple, anyone?). The educated have always garnered respect among the uneducated, their knowledge wielding a special type of power over the masses.
In the modern age, however, most people have an education. And not just a high school education, either. Young people study at colleges and universities in every state across the nation and in thousands of universities abroad. Education is no longer a rarity- it is a standard.
Even more amazing are the learning opportunities beyond the classroom. We are wealthy in a way the world has never been in the past. We have books. Mass produced, mass distributed books. And thanks to those lovely institutions called “libraries,” these books are available to everyone, from the dirt poor to the fabulously rich. We can buy books, we can check them out. Books, which used to be so highly prized before the invention of the printing press (ah, the days of monks meticulously copying books by hand), are now ripped, torn, battered, thrown away, and given away on a whim. They are everywhere. Everyone has access to them and all the knowledge they contain.
And, of course, there’s the internet. The internet takes libraries and grants them a big ol’ 1-Up:
The internet is home to the knowledge housed in libraries, but it also houses professional papers, professorial lectures, interviews, documentaries… When used correctly, the internet opens the doors to unlimited educational opportunities.
So, in this world of boundless information, how can we distinguish the “well-educated” people who are on their way to becoming truly cultured? After all, education is about more than a degree. I know plenty of people with degrees who are not very well-educated at all.
Is it about where one got one’s degree? Do you have to attend a nationally ranked high school and an Ivy League university and study to Ph.D. level in order to be considered “well-educated?” I think most people would balk at that definition. You can have a truly remarkable education at a school that is not “the best in the nation.” After all, much of the education process is not about teaching something, but about inspiring students to go out and learn on their own. To pursue their own, individualized education.
A degree is not much of an indicator of whether one is well-educated or not. It is a great indicator that you spent 3+ years studying enough of a particular subject in order to pass the tests. That you showed up to enough classes to pass.
But even if you truly devoted yourself to your studies, if you actually learned while in college (instead of just memorized and bullshitted), you still might not be “well-educated.” Why? Because a well-educated individual needs to be knowledgeable about more than just one subject matter. The well-educated are polymaths, Renaissance men. They know about a wide range of subjects. They know how they interact.
These are the people who are “cultured,” regardless of their degrees.
Appreciation For the Arts
The common idea of the cultured individual is someone who listens to Mozart while staring contemplatively at a Monet masterpiece, then settling in for an evening of reading John Donne.
But… why?
I’m an avid reader (as I’m sure you’ve noticed if you’ve ever paid terribly close attention to how often that “Currently Reading” list on the sidebar changes). As such, I’ve read many of the novels and poems considered to be classics. And, frankly, I can say that I’ve disliked many of them. Does a dislike for classic literature immediately preclude a person from being considered cultured?
I say nay, and not just because I don’t want to be left out of the running to one day be considered cultured. I disagree because I think that artistic appreciation is about more than simply liking the classics.
Don’t get me wrong, classical music and opera are things I enjoy. Put on the aria from Madame Butterfly or Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade and I’m in heaven. But I like them for them. Take Scheherazade. I find it to be exquisitely crafted and nearly poetic. The strings alone (that violin breaks my heart with its beauty) are so subtly arranged as to creep up on a person and break through their emotional barriers. The piece is grand in scope, while maintaining the intimacy of Scheherazade in the sultan’s chambers late at night. I cry every time I hear this piece. It’s sensuous and truly moving. That is why I love this piece, not because it is considered classically excellent, but because I find it to be technically stellar… and it moves me.
Of course, the fact that I find it technically impressive means that I agree with those who consider it a classic. Sometimes I agree with the quality of a piece of classic art. Sometimes I do not.
Charles fucking Dickens comes to mind.
But just because I don’t like everything that’s considered a “classic” doesn’t mean I don’t respect these works. I don’t enjoy many pieces of classic literature. But I understand why they are considered important. I know why they are classics. And I respect them for it. I dislike the writing style of Lord of the Flies, for example, but I think its look at the darkest parts of humanity and our base nature is apt. So long as you respect the classics, it’s not necessary to always like them.
And being cultured is about more than knowing/liking the classics. It’s about experiencing the breadth of each artistic discipline. Cultured people don’t just listen to sonatas and concertos. Their music collections run the gambit, from folk to funk, jazz to showtunes, rock to rap, country to Tuvan throat singing. In order to appreciate music, you have to listen to music. All kinds of music. Hear how each style is arranged, how vocal stylings differ. You learn what differentiates Dixieland from contemporary jazz.
To be cultured is to experience culture. As many aspects as you can.
If you scoff at the idea of modern music/art/literature being considered part of a cultured individual’s regular listening, you are a fool. Not only is truly spectacular music/art/literature being produced every year, but remember that one day, some of these pieces will be considered those paradigm-shifting, revolutionary classics of our age. Experience them now. Be a part of the changes they create in the world around you.
Vincent van Gogh is considered to be one of the greatest artists of all time. His bold brushstrokes and vivid use of color have inspired artists for ages. However, when he was alive, he was practically unknown. The artistic community did not see his work as impressive in any regard. It was only after his death that van Gogh’s work began to rise to prominence.
Proof positive that it’s important to experience your modern arts in addition to your classics. Quality is quality, regardless of the era it was created in. Society often doesn’t realize this until later (ah, hindsight), but the cultured individual should be able to make this distinction, society be damned.
When it comes to artistic appreciation, the cultured person learns about each artistic discipline. They know why they like particular pieces. And they can tell you. You don’t have to like the classics, but you do need to respect them. And you need to be able to articulate why you like or dislike particular pieces. It’s not simply “a matter of taste.” You have reasons you don’t like certain things. Have opinions. Know your opinions. Be able to articulate said opinions. Cultured individuals don’t always agree on matters of artistic appreciation, but they are able to defend their own opinions eloquently.
Besides, these disparities in opinion are what spark intelligent debate. And that’s a damn staple of the cultured person’s communication.
Experiencing Other Cultures
More so than anything else, travel seems to be the golden ticket into the ranks of the cultured. People who travel consider themselves to be more worldly and experienced than those who do not. They are an elite group.
The thing is, travel is very useful in the pursuit of becoming cultured. This is because there’s no better way to learn about another culture than to experience it in person.
Or so I hear.
Anyway, traveling is not the only way to learn about other cultures. Talking to people from other countries, reading, listening to their music, learning their languages, studying their religions and folk tales… these are other ways to learn about other cultures. Just because you don’t have the money or ability to travel doesn’t mean you can’t learn about these places. That you can’t experience parts of them. Foreign films, culturally-specific music, folk tales… they all reveal what is important to the people of these lands, what they appreciate, what makes them unique and incredible.
But for the love of Feynman, if you get the chance to travel, do so. Travel is the best way to experience these places. But that’s the rub- it’s not just about traveling. It’s about experiencing things while you are there. Talk to the locals. Go to the markets. Admire the architecture. Learn about their traditions. If you can, attend their festivals. Visit their natural wonders.
These experiences open up your mind and broaden your thinking. They allow you to understand the people of foreign lands, to understand their political issues (and teach why your knee-jerk “simple” solution, made by an American brain, might not work in their culture). Learn their religions and practices. When you strive to understand another culture, another people, you end up learning a lot about people in general. It allows you to think about your world from a new perspective.
That’s what makes a person cultured- the acquisition and application of the knowledge gained from these experiences.
Food/Drink
Cultured people do not take their dates out to the local bar and grill for a romantic night out. Why? Because they understand good cuisine.
If you can’t tell a cup of instant coffee from a freshly roasted, burr-ground cup of organic coffee, your palate isn’t terribly refined. Ah, there’s that phrase. A “refined palate.” What the hell does that mean?
It means that you’ve trained your taste buds to recognize subtle differences in flavor. These subtleties are what take a drink or a dish from good to exceptional. This isn’t something you can inherently do. This is something you have to learn.
Which means you have to eat. You have to sample all kinds of food, from all different cultures. It also helps if you cook and can learn how various flavors combine. We all have to eat. But we have the option to make it sensual and exciting. We don’t just have to shovel food into our gullets. A good meal is a journey. An experience all its own.
Because we all share the need to eat, we can all appreciate a truly exquisite meal. Food helps set a mood. From a romantic dinner to a backyard barbeque, there are ways to make your meals memorable and tasty.
Every culture specializes in a different type of cuisine. They each combine ingredients in fascinating, unique ways. Cultured people strive to try a wide range of cuisine styles. That is how you train your palate.
The same is true of wine (another staple of the widely-held definition of what makes a person cultured is their appreciation for a fine wine). Vinification, like cooking, is both art and science. It takes skill. It takes finesse.
French wines are renowned for their quality. After all, the French have been making wine for ages. They’ve honed their craft. However, they aren’t the only place to go for a good wine. California and Australia have some amazing wine. But you only know that if you train your taste buds to discern the differences between various vintages and wineries. And certainly between the different types of wine.
If you are not a wine fan, that’s fine. It’s about acquiring that refined palate. In whatever you eat and drink. You can learn to tell quality brandy from the cheap stuff. You want quality vodka in your martinis (I’m not a gin martini fan… sorry). You know what makes tea or coffee taste rich.
Again, I think it’s less about conforming to the standard ideal of what a cultured person eats/drinks, and more about cultivating your own personal tastes. By experiencing a wide variety of foods and beverages, you form opinions on what you like. And you can say why.
Having informed opinions and being able to defend them and share your knowledge with others- that’s what being cultured is really about. Isn’t it?
***
But the dictionary definitions of being “cultured” also state that a person should be refined. Lacking in vulgarity. Elegant and poised.
Hmm…
It’s true that your public persona is part of the puzzle that makes up the cultured individual. You are taken seriously as an intellectual when think before you speak, when you explain your opinions eloquently, when you politely listen to the opinions of others (before debating them… civilly, of course). There’s an air of polish about these people. They are confident in themselves without being arrogant. They are well-spoken. They are polite.
I actually do think that it’s important to create that type of public persona. Part of being a cultured individual is knowing how to interact with people. To foster an air of sophistication. Because, if you are cultured, you are sophisticated, in your experiences and your tastes. You should portray that in how you present yourself to people.
Of course, that’s just your public persona. You can be cultured and still cuss like a sailor in your downtime. And while you should probably look put together in public, in the comfort of your home you can relax in sweats and a ratty t-shirt, if the mood strikes you.
You can be cultured and still be a dork. Or a nerd. Or a jock. Or a serial killer.
Take Hannibal Lecter. He’s certainly a cultured man… he just also happens to kill and eat people:
That put together, cultured persona you put on is not the only part of your personality, after all. It’s only one part. So it’s possible to be uncouth in your downtime and still be a very cultured person. People are complex. There is so much more to them than the face they show the world. Or to their friends. Or lovers. Or colleagues.
But yes, if you want to be taken seriously, if you want to be considered a cultured person, it’s important that you learn how to move in “polite society.” As I said, understanding how to interact with people is an important part of being cultured, after all.
***
So… I’ve spent this entire post examining various facets of a concept in order to find a definition, and I’ve found that a succinct, simple definition might not exist. Or, if it does, I haven’t found it yet.
But I think we’ve found the blueprint for being a cultured individual in modern society. And that’s a start.
***
Here’s the million dollar question (that you may or may not be asking yourself right now):
Do I consider myself cultured?
The answer is, sadly, no.
I don’t.
Considering how full of myself I am, that might surprise you. Remember, there are facets to each person.
It’s something I aspire to. But I just don’t think I’ve experienced enough. I don’t think I know enough. There’s so much out there, and I’ve barely made a dent.
I do, however, like to think that I’m firmly on the path to becoming cultured. But I really don’t think it’s a label I could currently affix to myself with any degree of comfort.
I mean, really… did you read the comics I threw in here? *grin*
Talking during a movie has never really bothered me. Part of that is because I am often guilty of it. I also think that most people are capable of rudimentary multitasking and can continue to follow the narrative of the film while still acknowledging someone has spoken. Or, if all else fails… hit fucking rewind after the person has finished speaking and catch whatever it is you think you missed.
Then again, if it does bother you… tough titties, I guess. I’m an insensitive lout. Deal.
However, there is one type of movie talking that I just cannot abide. The person who, every three minutes, asks, “What just happened? Is he her brother? Did she just follow him into the cave? Is that John Travolta’s wife?”
Hello, asshole. Are you watching this movie? Yes? Then you should already fucking know the answers to 99% of your inane questions. And as for the actor questions… grab your goddamn laptop and get on IMDB if it’s bothering you that much.
I am piss poor at being able to identify actors. So asking me is the stupidest thing a person can do.
And yet they keep doing it.
Here’s the thing: I’m not going to explain to you every moment of the movie we are both supposedly watching as if you are a blind orphan child. What makes you think that I have answers that you apparently lack? Do you think I’m watching the film on a higher plane? That I can see things you mere mortals cannot?
Or are you not watching the film? Okay, if you aren’t paying attention to the movie, what are you doing? You’re just sitting there, eating popcorn and staring at the screen. I’m having a hard time figuring out what you could possibly be doing instead of watching the movie flickering away on that screen.
And if you aren’t watching the movie, what’s the point of asking me what’s going on? If you want to watch the movie, watch the movie. If you don’t… do something else. Something that doesn’t bother me.
This irritant gets cranked into overdrive when you are the one that selected the movie. A movie I have absolutely no desire to see (and will probably walk away from twenty minutes in). You know I don’t give a shit. You see the book open in my hands. Yet still, you seem to think I’m enraptured with this bullshit chick flick or generic action film.
So to you, movie questioners, I have this to say:
I will not sit and give you a running commentary of the film we are watching. Even if I want to see the movie, I will physically leave the room if you don’t shut the fuck up. If you spent half as much time actually listening to and watching the movie instead of asking me all these goddamn questions, you’d know what was going on in the fucking movie. Sit down, shut up, and watch the stupid film you decided we just had to watch (regardless of my feeling on the matter).
As an aside: I have a vagina. I am a woman. These are facts that I cannot escape. I am capable of feeling emotions. Another fact I cannot escape. However, I do not like chick flicks. There are a small handful of rom-coms that I enjoy. I will admit to that. But that doesn’t mean that I have any desire to sit down and watch whatever shitty lady movie you’ve rented this week. No, I’m not going to give it a chance. It is just another formulaic, unrealistic, pathetic excuse for a movie. I want nothing to do with it. Accept this fact and move on.
