“(sorry for my English) All the problem about this is, BOTH males and females are usually unaware of what the real difference between man and boy, and between woman and girl is. The world is full of boys pretending they’re men and girls pretending they’re women. That’s extremely sad indeed.
A real woman would never marry an inapprioprate guy, ‘cause real women are just too sharp not to recognize who is who.
A real man, on the other hand, would never marry a girl, ‘cause real men are aware of that deliberate doing you-know-what to an immature female should be regarded as a crime. Just as pedophilia is. Sorry, I can see no difference between the two. That’s completely awful for a mature male. If I did such a thing, the next what I would presumably do is vomiting.
I’m not married yet, but you see… in fact, I managed to beat all of my psychological problems BEFORE marriage. And I bet that’s the only way. What was the clue that turned out to be the crux of the matter? Well, not one. A couple of clues. Being mature is a complex thing.
And for sure, if we talk about ‘being in another league’ or someting like this… well, telling frankly, I bet all of that is a giant mistake. Mature people do not think in this way. Being in one or another league is actually not about who are you regarded as, at all. It’s about who you really are.”—Random Internet comment. I actually found it interesting rather than offensive or inane.
For my NaNo novel, in the inevitable dream sequence (come on, at least a 2k freebie) one of the characters ends up in a sort of parallel world in which almost everyone else is dead. In this world, she sees a garden that exists in her own world. In this one though, there are only wildflowers. Of course, knowing nothing about botany meant I had to look up wildflowers on the internet. And so I did. I stumbled across a wordpress blog of someone homeschooling their children, which was awfully convenient. They compiled a list of all the wildflowers that they had identified. It’s good to know that someone is making science a focus while homeschooling. (http://wheremytreasureis.wordpress.com/category/homeschool/)
Anyway, field bindweed is my favorite so far. As it turns out, I actually like learning the names of all the flowers I had a chance to see growing up.
Because I intensely dislike interaction with my family, I decided it would be best to boycott going home for all the holidays. Come winter break, I’ll be leaving at least a week late. Or something. Because really, who wants to drive seven hours and pay one hundred dollars to spend time with people they don’t even like? Exactly.
The plan was that I would spend an entire week in a dorm with absolutely no one else around. Except the foreign exchange students, and they don’t speak English most of the time. I was going to be living off of frozen dinners and drink my tears of boredom.
Instead, my roommate brought me back with her. Let me preface this by saying, I’m poor. Like, oh today I don’t get to eat poor. So, I bumbled my way into college and received financial aid. But, I still couldn’t pay for an entire week of food. Now, my roommate is…you know occupy? Well, if she’s not the 1% she’s (at least) the top 10%. It’s kind of funny, that juxtaposition. Even more funny, she’s way fucking nicer than a lot of the 99% “average middle class” people I know. You heard it here, having wealth and being a good person aren’t mutually exclusive.
But somehow I ended up staying in a house off of Lake Michigan with her family. I really like her family. They’re very nice people, and they don’t seem dysfunctional. I can tell they all love each a lot. And rather than this making me envious of my friend or how her family actually is one, it just makes me really fucking glad I’m not going home for a week. Dear god, I would probably end up driving back to school the day after Thanksgiving if I had to put up with everyone related to me.
There was a point to this…oh yeah. My friend gave me a tour of her entire house, mostly so that I would know where everything is. That night, I got lost briefly because I took a left instead of a right. My friend retrieved a blanket behind a set of doors in their basement and later, thinking it was a linen closet or something, I opened the doors. And then I remembered that it was a movie theater. When I tried to shower in the guest bathroom, I realized that they had a foreign shower. As in, the water knob for temperature was marked by degrees…in Celsius.
The architecture of the house is amazing. I haven’t gone around and literally counted, because hey, I don’t want to be crass, but from my mental map, they have two living rooms and a parlor. Two dining rooms. A sauna and a movie theater. Two bars. Another living room used as a gaming area. Three staircases. Seven bathrooms (five full and two half). And six bedrooms. An office-library with a gliding ladder. A three car garage. And four balconies. So yeah.
I like her family, and the house is gorgeous. And I have way more interaction than if I were to be stuck in the dorms. I’m not saying I want any of these things she has. (I can barely walk on the hardwood floors without sliding.) I’m not going to say I wish I had a family like hers, because that would be a creepy case of envy. But, I wish my family would stop being so disruptive to my life.
Oh well, I guess I can comfort myself by sitting on one of the ten couches and I can occupy my time by writing for NaNoWriMo (only 34k to go).
“Women are seen by our society as ornamental; we’re valued for our looks more than our accomplishments; blah blah blah. Yes. Agreed. No argument. But the fact remains that, whatever the reasons behind it, women have a lot more leeway in fashion than men do. We’re permitted a wider range of colors. Fabrics. Surfaces. Jewelry. Hairstyles. Makeup. Entire categories of clothing are available to women that are socially off-limits to men. We can even take on masculine clothing styles with little or no controversy… while men who take on feminine clothing styles can expect mockery and scorn at best, hostility and violence at worst. (If you don’t believe me, guys, try wearing a nicely-tailored skirt-suit to the office, with classic pumps and tasteful makeup and one strong piece of statement jewelry, and see what happens.) Again, there are sexist reasons for that fact — masculinity is seen as generally admirable and worth emulating, in a way that femininity isn’t — but the upshot is still that women have more freedom. If fashion is a language, then women have a much wider vocabulary. And we have a wider range of things we can say in that vocabulary.”—Fashion is a Feminist Issue | Greta Christina’s Blog (via linzyxxxxx)
What that means for my minimal wardrobe is that I am left wearing…t-shirts. Which is fine, I guess. But I have never felt more weird. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Every time I pass a reflective surface, there’s the slightest hesitation in my step, and I kind of think, “who the hell is that?”. For someone who is unable to recognize their own face, it’s a familiar though still uncanny feeling.
HI! I'm sending you a message! Even though you're sitting across the table from me. Because! You deserve message that aren't spam. (This is, instead, cotton candy; fun, but with no substance.) Yay messaging!!!!!
Yay, I got a message! Thank you. (I don’t really think there’s much else to say…)
Not only do I like your blog (haha I found it) but I also am OBSESSED with you secretly. Ok here we go.. I got this idea from a Tumblr spam I got once lol.. I think you like me too and you were always too shy to admit it :3 go to crushmatches(dót)com (wtf it wont let me link regular) and make an account there. Then look up the profile 'gottagetme19' (me obviously) I left body pictures.. if you can guess who I am hit me up and we'll hang soon. You need a C C but its free
It’s makes me really sad that only the spam on tumblr is interested in messaging me. I see the little number above the letter icon and then I just know, that the message will be worthless. Couldn’t I even have a ‘go die’ anon?
I really wish my father would stop trying to contact me.
He donated a fucking sperm. That is his only fucking contribution to my life. At 18, it’s too god damned late to try to make contact with me. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in coping with his regret.
“Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.”—Aldous Huxley - English novelist (Brave New World, Eyeless in Gaza, Crome Yellow), poet, and essayist. Huxley was a humanist and pacifistic with interests in parapsychology and mysticism. Posthumously a guru to hippies through his book The Doors of Perception, which described his experiences with mescaline and LSD. (via helvetebrann)
I woke up and went out after I’d been sleeping, and when I came back, I realized that I don’t recall putting a second blanket on my bed. Was it me or my friend that put the other blanket on me? And more importantly, why don’t I remember?