My grandfather and I were close only in that emotional way that girls are close with a grandfather. We didn’t have deep conversations, and it says a lot about my self-imposed isolation and general disinterest in my surroundings growing up that I learned most of what I know about him from reading his book. He believed certain things with every fiber of his being, and it made him happy to do so. When he lived, all I could see were what made us different. Here at the end, I’m thinking about all the wholesome interactions we shared over the years. He was a good and generous person; the kind of man who spent retirement picking up trash off the highway every morning in his bright yellow beetle, even if environmentalism was for weirdos. I suppose I get my outlandish fashion from him, even if we didn’t agree on much else. His positive outlook on humanity is something to aspire to.
I hate that I felt like I had to delete this from my FB and move it here instead because I don’t mourn “the right way”.
Watching my grandfather run from invisible demons in his mind; hear him cry out in pain or fear or both, completely incapacitated and absent from reality…. I’m called back to those moments of madness that I have after my seizures, when I’m stuck between worlds but can’t move or speak or see or even form cogent thoughts. In those times I don’t have thoughts at all, I have “mind flashes” — flurries of images and feelings that make no sense when placed on a number line because there’s no relativity, connection, or logical flow between them. These times look and feel just like those episodes of Evangelion.
I only experience them for a few minutes, and they’re absolutely frightening every time. He (I assume) has been experiencing them for years. Y E A R S. Late-stage dementia is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen a person go through. It looks like complete insanity, and with the physical incapacitation to boot, there’s no ability to escape, distract, or end it (if that were his wish). It’s a version of being alive that is literal torture.
When I’m on the cusp of death, I hope I have even half so many visitors and well-wishers as he’s had. I hope my impact on others looks something like his. But I wouldn’t want his end. I’d hope someone rescues me (or I accomplish the rescue) long before I ever reached permanent Evangelion.
Older generations preach marriage but have no idea what a healthy, non-toxic marriage looks like and so can’t teach it. How can you possibly know true love if you marry the first person you give half-hearted head to in high school? But as long as you have a ring, right? 🙄
I had a bone-chilling dream last night. On the side of a backroad, off in deep woods somewhere, I and a friend discovered an underground series of dormitories that centered around a portal to another world, possible in a different dimension altogether. This other world was jaw-droppingly beautiful–pastel skies, space and time in flux, wide grasslands that shimmered and seemed to move in ways earth materials don’t. The potential of this reality-altering discovery could not be overdescribed. So, why was it being kept down here in this underground dormitory in the woods. I come to discover naked female corpses being dumped beyond the portal. …Rich and powerful men were keeping the portal secret and using it as a dumping ground for their sex trafficked slaves to hide evidence and operate with impunity. The rest of the dream is escaping this underground dormitory (which is castle-sized, but simply horizontal) without being discovered, killed, and dumped across the portal myself.
What a meta take on the human race, that this is what I assume the first evidence of a reality beyond our own would be used for. And I can’t even say with waking-world certainty that my take was incorrect.
What massive mindfuck-levels of privilege do you have to have in order to confidently lump any concerns from people who don’t look or sound exactly like you into a monolith non-category and dismissively call it “identity politics”?
Here I stand baking biscuits so that tomorrow morning my overnight guest and I can breakfast on eggs and biscuits with sausage gravy. Someone send help, I am wasting my time being this perfect while the men I see don’t even muster the will to shower before coming over, expect me to brush my teeth around the mold and years-old beard hairs in their sinks, and in one case doesn’t even do his own laundry (yes, really).
Yeah I know I’m wasting my time. But, I’ve tried being a worthless piece of shit to my dates and I couldn’t stand it. So, I’m doing it for me…. not for them. Fresh hair-do, perfect pedicure, lotion’d, makeup, clean outfit, freshly cleaned house, sheets just came outta the dryer, window open for breeze, candle lit; this is just who I am.
If men find my preparedness shaming, then cool, they probably should be ashamed. Shower and buy some groceries before your gotdammed booty calls, you overgrown teenagers.
Relatives are at it again. I’m not flotsam that needs salvaging. I’m out there dating. It’s just not serious, and that’s okay. Men are praised for doing the same and considered picky with a smile; I get branded with a scarlet letter and considered aimless with a frown.
Well, here’s the deal. I have a limited amount of time left on this planet, and I’m not going to spend it being a watered down version of myself just so a man will like me enough to stick around. Yo, they don’t stick around either way, so why be less than authentic?
If me ON all the time intimidates dudes who might otherwise be good matches, then that’s on them. I will never be half of myself for a man’s comfort ever again.
“Anita Norman, the Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner who represents the district that includes Metro PCS, says the ‘excessive volume’ of the music outside the store is one of the biggest complaints she hears from her constituents. She has involved multiple D.C. agencies, which have come out and measured the volume, but so far, the store remains in compliance with the law.”
Can’t. Stop. Laughing. It doesn’t even break noise ordinance. White Karen NIMBYs who require complete silence + eyemask to sleep purposely move to Shaw and then go out of their way to change it. Incredible. Colonization never ended, it just looks different these days. Imagine if I wrote to MARC and demanded they stop the train whistle at night just because my ass moved in next door. Luckily for MARC, I find the all night earthquakes and toot-toots charming.
I’m reading this ongoing story about a female teacher whose topless photo (shared privately multiple years ago with her ex, another teacher in the district) has been shared by her students, and who has now been fired. Amazing that instead of pursuing the obvious avenue of revenge porn, now rightfully outlawed by places like New York, she has to pursue a gender parity lawsuit because she and her attorneys know that going after the exposure itself will lose–that in this day and age a judge still believes it’s not the fault of the ex who distributes the photo (and to minors, no less! A felony itself that isn’t even on the table), but the fault of the woman who takes it in good faith for a partner. We’re in this sad reality where if a woman takes a single sexy photo in the privacy of a relationship, she can never expect to reasonably live her life without it coming back to haunt her because men can’t be trusted to honor a goddamned thing.
Meanwhile, men take dick pics ad nauseum. The dick:accountability ratio is hella low. Dudes share dick pics with women they don’t even know; with women who don’t even want them! You’d think with this precedent that sharing salacious photos–an act so pervasive and ubiquitous by men in modern culture– that it can’t be THAT risky. Hell, Anthony Weiner KEPT dick pic’ing strange women even after the first scandal, and he wasn’t even punished until he was finally caught doing it to a minor. But a woman trusts a partner who goes on to betray that trust years later, and it’s “stupid bitch should have known better”.