A Venting of Spleen

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The response I am not going to post on Facebook because I don’t know you from Adam (or Eve) and because it’s not my place to hijack someone’s post, however political, to skewer your insipid and self-righteous opinion of the presidential election.  It is not fully sourced and linked.  I accept that and intend to come back and add lots of links.  I may or may not do that as I need to post and be free of this.

However, my blood pressure is at unhealthy levels, and I have to reply to this somewhere so…here we go.

In what world is the manner in which Donald Trump conducts himself as a presidential candidate one that we can elevate above Hillary Clinton?  How can you smugly call a woman who has spent her life in public service a bitch simply by rattling off a list of debunked issues and topics and laugh at those of us who haven’t done their research?

Research what?  How? Sit in front of Fox News and pat ourselves on the fucking back for absorbing the scant moisture available in their partisan vomit?  If you researched anything whatsoever, you’d know that there is no way that Donald Trump is an acceptable candidate for the highest office in the land.  For the expression of American ideals. For anything anyone would want untouched by smarm, self-interest, and profiteering.

Is the Hillary Clinton perfect?  Nope.  Is she the single best presidential candidate we could hope for?  No.  But she is a woman who can take our country forward without driving us all screaming into a ditch and set us on fire with the force of the crash. She is fully capable of handling all that comes with this most delicate of jobs. She can do this because she has political experience which she has used throughout her career to do considerable good – good including the Clinton Foundation  that has saved millions of lives.  A woman who doesn’t look at 50% of her constituency as worthless unless they have sexual appeal.  She has plans for the nation, plans that can be reviewed on her website.  These are tangible truths.

When your choice that you so proudly herald as A CAPSLOCK WORTHY alternative is involved in an ongoing child rape investigation, has destroyed the families who attempted to improve themselves via his university scheme, has shamed, has belittled every single swathe of culture and life in this country save for the much maligned rich white male, I don’t accept your smug delight that comes with it.   You don’t have any particular reason to justify your opinion beyond the handed-down, self-assured delusion of following the party line.  As if somehow that protects you from any stray dissent or evolution of thought reaching in and making you question how marvelous Donald J. Trump might actually be when it comes to anything other than filling up another reality TV slot.   I don’t accept you hitting my friend with this patronizing tone and the silence reverberating back at you like a great well of applause.  It’s not applause, it’s the abyss gagging on your flawed and dangerous condescension and retching it back up at you.

I don’t accept your insinuation that voting for Hillary Clinton is not something I could do after any level of research and personal education.  I’ve been in this, our seemingly shared universe, all this time.  So dumping out those old chestnuts of OOOOH Benghazi or OOOH emails, as if somehow you have the secret knowledge of malice aforethought on the part of Hillary Clinton that you have decided to keep to yourself, you clever, clever girl, is not going to somehow repudiate my choice.  Just because whatever you’ve cooked up is entirely self-fabricated to keep your delusion from oozing at its seams, as zero charges have ever been brought.  If you know something the rest of us don’t, rather than the filthy, slanderous impressions of someone who has nothing more than time to sit on her thumbs and rotate, call a press conference.  Tell us all!

Otherwise, keep your sick down your own gullet, because you’re stinking up the joint.

Here’s a fact: “Many people say” is an unacceptable burden of proof for a fact.

If Donald Trump is elected President, this is going to be devastating to the lives of people of color, women who are going to impacted by his choices for the judiciary, anyone who is related to anyone who lives in a foreign country, anyone doesn’t want their president to have ever laughingly called a woman a pig.  It’s going to take years off our lives.  It’s going send shockwaves through otherwise solid ground.

And the only reason that could be acceptable to you, random woman on the internet is if you are somehow in that mystical fucking Brigadoon where you don’t know any of us who fall into those categories or you just don’t give a shit.

This is all fine if you don’t give a shit if anyone’s life is savaged over the next four years so long as you can march along waving a flag for your own oblivion, unscathed by a world brought low by racism, sexism, homophobia and economic mismanagement on every level.  You’re cheering for that shit to start growing in the bones of our nation.  We’re already struggling like hell to get it out of the blood as it is.

It’s embarrassing as fuck that we can put a former Secretary of State on the same scale as this orange, maggoty ball of mucus and sigh to ourselves, well, I don’t know.  By saying that it’s too close to call, you’re not maligning a really talented, hard-working, and serviceable candidate, you’re just saying you’re incapable of critical thought.  You fail at rational decision making.  It’s not apples and oranges.  You can make a fruit salad out of, either.  For you, it’s apples and stale Cheeto crumbs you scraped off the floor.  One is not a viable choice, however much you shake your fist and laugh at me for going ahead with my apples.

Of course, you get to vote.  Of course, you get the satisfaction of none of this ever so much as flickering the dim 40watt that hangs between your eyes.  Nobody would suggest otherwise, random woman on the Internet.

You want to be right far more than you would ever care about America, so don’t worry.  We’ll just sit you down in front of the TV, don’t worry, we’ll get it on Fox for you, and you can just paste that shit-eating grin right back on through November 8th when we’ll kindly take it back.

Just shut the fuck up about Hillary Clinton.

The One-Eyed Man Is King

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Five hundred words.  Not a problem. Not on N7Day – which I am currently celebrating while listening to the 2+ hour youtube compilation of the Kaidan/Femshep romance

I tell you this because I have spent some portion of the day reading Brene Brown and thinking a bit about ownership of my story and how I make things so much harder for myself because I like to have things both ways and pretend things are not as fully, as completely, as total as they often are.  I get a little bit ashamed of the truly truths when I write them or say them out loud.  It’s kept me out of conversations I would have loved to have been in because I didn’t want to be seen as geeky as I am by certain crowds and

The things she writes about…how you can’t have a fulfilling life if you’re not authentically living and being in the world.  It’s so simple, but when you think about how shifting into that world of self-acceptance and truth-telling and not gussying up your day to day so that you become pre-digested and homogenized for anyone who might be reading the blurb on the back of your book and deciding whether or not you’re worthy of the thirty seconds of time allotted for the both of you to communicate before parting, THAT is scary.  That is something I don’t even think about how scary that is…for me to be me without analyzing you first and seeing what version with what tweaks is going to make everyone okay.

Because me is a lot of really random things, excessive, wanton, weirdo things.  And some days of the month the Communists march about in my square.  And I’ll eat a cupcake because I feel embarrassed about leaving it or throwing it out because someone paid good money for these apology cupcakes and the sugar will make me even more moody and stupid that I’ll think I can solve it by eating more and then I will eat something I habitually eat and feel gross and breathless again and stress and drink and make big promises to never be that way again, and then I’ll realize the unlikelihood of never doing anything again except perhaps address my foibles sanely and the cycle will begin anew.  I am ashamed that I do not exist with greater control over these things, but I get some kick out of surviving myself that I am not so ashamed of, maybe even proud that all of these problems and things I do poorly have yet to destroy me.  I’m a goddamned shame cockroach.

And I am a full-on, complete and total fangirl for Mass Effect.  For a hundred thousand things, but surely for that and I think that romance is really lovely and has a complexity that is often ignored.  Not that there’s anything wrong with adoring Garrus or Liara or any of the other options, I just feel really soothed and satisfied by a good Kaidan romance.   So off to France with Napoleon, my coloring books, and that whispery voice in my ear.

Beauty Bar: Day One Hundred Twenty-Nine

749045_97677585So here’s an enormous topic to tackle tonight.  Body image.  Or, I guess, the absence of one.

At last night’s event, new boss took a ton of pictures, including one of me sitting at the ticket desk and sent them over this morning where I dutifully updated our facebook page with an album of them.  I hesitated over posting mine with the rest, eventually deciding that nobody would even look at these photos, and added mine to album.  This, I did not realize, as the last photo posted, meant that my mug would be on our company’s main page as the photo header.  I’m sure there’s something to be done about that, if only via uploading another photo of anything, but I have to be alerted to the fact that I feel pretty intense about getting it off of there.

But life is busy, busy to the point of insanity, y’know, and I didn’t and haven’t gotten back to doing anything about it.

Now everyone is telling me it’s such a nice picture of me and liking it (not everyone, not like it’s gone viral or anything), but people are walking into my office and telling me it’s a nice picture, people who don’t even follow our page and I look at it and I feel…so….I feel like it’s NOT a nice picture and it shouldn’t even…register on anyone’s eyeballs.  I look at it and I see flaws, I see, this lumpy placidness that overtakes me at any work function and I want to disown.  I see the reason I’ve always been passed over.   To me, when someone tells me it’s a nice picture, or beautiful, my immediate reaction, without filter, is that they’re lying.

And I reblog and laud and cheer all of these pro-beauty is whatever it is campaigns.

Somehow, I am the exception to the rule.

I can do something about it, I guess.  I mean, I know I can, it’s just am I willing?  I’ve been exercising for a week doing 30 minutes a day.  I know it would matter more if I wasn’t also eating cream puffs and hamburgers.  I have been thinking if I could just do it between now and Italy in October, take whatever results from that and decide if low-carb/dieting is worth it or if I should just fucking give up the ghost.  That’s more drastic than I mean, I just feel very…but at the same time, it’s always going to be my marginal face.  I don’t even want to get into the inert space that is where I keep my feelings for how I present myself in the world lately.  I don’t think I could get out of that vacuum if I let myself get sucked up.

Here’s what’s what: There was this outlandishly strong hailstorm that seemed like it was going to shatter our skylights, then I dropped my phone and my 9pm coffee all over my lap,  I drank my mother’s idea of a margarita which is a glass of limey tasting tequila, I missed out on the funeral of one of our dear volunteers because we didn’t have anyone to watch the shop, and tomorrow, and I thought about what might have been so hard I opened my eyes and was confused he wasn’t there.

 

 

Persist Until Something Happens

And so it begins.

I am done.  I’ve done the necessary thing.  I’ve found the bottom.  Maybe a false bottom, but it’s a place to start.  I am feeling utterly and deeply disgusted.  I have eaten my fill.

And so, I reiterate, it begins.

It begins with exercise, water, sensible but strict low-carb induction, and sleep.

Even more crucial than those four elements, however, the catalyst for change is that it needs to begin with me giving a shit about what happens to me.

I have this concept in my head that my little sister is going to get married and have kids.  My older sister is going to eventually meet this guy and have a relationship and possibly have a kid, or some cats, or something will happen.  I have…no such plan.  It’s not to say I don’t have dreamy dreams or desires.  I’ve had relentless fantasies about being cared about all my life.  But they have never been dreams about buying a house with someone and buying home decor and having kids and stability and a financial security.  They’ve been about being seen, being admired for my heart and mind, being ravished, being a soulmate, being an element in an alchemical formula, being necessary to someone, being invited into someone’s thoughts, meaning whole universes to someone else and, when I am vulnerable and brave, letting someone mean whole universes to me.  And all of that is bound up in this technicolor dream coat and tossed in the back of the attic of my mind as a pastime.

I feel like I’m meant to work.  I’m meant to play at writing because it feels good. I’m meant to be kind to my family and the people around me.  And the rest…falling in love, succeeding massively with my writing, having a beautiful body, having a family of my own, isn’t part of my myth.  I don’t…empirically believe that I am capable of it.  I feel like nobody cares if I get those things or not or they assume that if I wanted it, I’d have it.  Nobody sees that the belt has gone off the gear for me.   Or, more frighteningly, they have faith I can get it back on.

But.  I was watching a video last night and she said the secret to people who felt secure and happy with their lives was simply that they believed they had the right to be secure and happy.   They didn’t allow shame to cow them into giving it up.  They understood it was innate.  It belonged to them and couldn’t fall out of their hands, it couldn’t be told otherwise in any meaningful way.

So it was easier for them to face challenges and make hard choices and risk, knowing that they were loved and secure.

Why should I not believe I am the same?  Whatever happened to me that made me think that I was meant for the shadows and sidelines?  I wish I knew.   Was it just school, just kids and money and intelligence and fear?  This constant sense that people wanted to drown me versus helping me swim, that people could see  something less than in my clothes, in my hair, the girl that cornered me in my sweatsuit, at my desk, demanded to know “Why are you the way you are?”  Being alone in the rich girl’s house, forgotten by my parents after my first sleepover and they tried to figure out what to do with me.   This weird sense that we weren’t the sort of people who pushed to sell girl scout cookies, who needed to win, who invited people over.   I don’t know why I look back and see this pallor hanging on my memories, this facet of history that makes me feel quite lonely.  I know I was lonely in spurts, some of the time.  But I spoke to flowers.  I read long, thick, above my grade level novels.  I had people in my head who could wield swords and guns and never died.   They were me, but they weren’t.

Sometimes I think I write about the same girl over and over, this outsider girl, this version in some way or another and I can’t finish what I write because I’d have to resolve this girl.  Give her a future which involves things I’d never gotten resolved about.    We’re dragging one another down and buoying one another up.

The woman in the TED talk said that getting better, getting free of this shame, took a lot of work and vulnerability.   I’m trying to accept that.  I probably should be in some therapy, but there’s no money for that, so I’m trying to say, hey, I am really acting up right now.  I’m really disassociating from my life and my body and I’m really avoiding things that I need to deal with and I need to do what I can to be specific about my needs, to treat myself as important but in an adult way, to not deny that I would like intimacy and love and kindness not in a universal sense but a personal one.  To respect that I can’t come at my problems with the idea that I am going to self-repair and fix my errors and come out perfect.  That I can stop throwing myself away while coddling these beliefs.  That I can stop making myself sick on food as a way of proving a point or setting a line.

I can be here.  More.   I can push.  I can persist until something happens.