Hey! Do you believe there's anything Beyond troll-guy reality? I do. I do. I do. It gets so hard, just to be okay Sometimes being happy baby is what I'm most afraid of Baby, you know, It gets so hard for Me to fight--I don't know how I Guess I never did--Why don't you Show me how--how to lose control (she's so very I don't care) Just 'cause my world, sweet sister, is so fucking Goddamn full of rape--Does that mean My body must always be a source of pain? No. No. No. (She's so very I don't care, She's so very I don't care) Just 'cause I named it right here sweet Chickadee don't mean for a minute you Should think I'm the opposite of Anything--but if you wanna know for sure I'll tell you We're not gonna prove nothing nothing Sittin around watching each other starve What we need is action/strategy I want I want I want I want it now. I believe in the radical possibilities of pleasure, babe. I do. I do. I do.
I got my CAS number in the mail today. What am I saying,
mail. It was through email. We don’t get mail anymore, and when we do, it is just the bills we avoid
paying and flyers for restaurants we will never go to. In any case, I got my
CAS number which means I can now apply for my visa to live in the UK. Shit is getting very real. Right now, since quitting my job, I am living a near perfect life as a
slacker/degenerate 20 something where I have no discernible responsibilities,
and I spend most of my days having philosophical discussions on stoops while drinking
coffee or drinking 4$ dirty martinis at 4 in the afternoon. But now, things are
going to happen. I am actually going to have to start doing things! I think
being out of school for so long has damaged me to an extent because I now am
told pretty frequently that I make essay topics out of everything and am too
analytical of everyday situations and even make case studies out of friends. Sorry, guys. While previously, my life was pretty
well laid out. I went to a good high school, and then knew that I was going to
get into a good cegep and then a good university. However, the part that comes
after is now so…vague. This year, I worked a bit, smoked a lot, danced A LOT to
beyonce, and in the interim applied to go to school in London. To be honest, I
don’t know that much about London, except that it is a land of people with
accents that are nicer than mine, there is something called a roast which I am
told I need to try, and there is a large clock. Oh, and a Queen. It is a city I am weirdly excited
to move to not because I know much about it, but because of how much I don't know about it. Montreal is one of the best cities ever and I have been lucky to
have travelled pretty extensively and thus think I have a range of cities with
which to compare it. However, I know it probably too well, to the point where
it is losing its luster and sometimes I feel like I hate all of the people. Not
knowing London well has its negative sides as well, because I now have ALL of
the expectations. I want to love it. I want to not miss Montreal. I want things
to just fall into place. But I am not sure if they will. What if my master’s
programme ends up being the worst and the people are mean and the guys are just
as bad there and I drink tea improperly and I accidentally trip Kate Middleton
and then the Queen bans me from the city??? Ok. Freak out over. Back to my visa
application.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint smells of beer
From the saw-dust trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
I have spent years, as a fly girl on the wall in the room of boys. Never sexualized, thus with lots of time on my hands, to sit back and be quietly observant. And I can tell you, that many boys, (unfortunately, many men as well), believe that the key to a women’s heart – no, sorry, the key to a women’s vagina, is being an asshole. Why? Because, we like it. At first. So it works, guys. Be an asshole.
My question is - why does it work? I believe the answer is why most stupid things make their way to the top of the success ladder of life. Because we let it work. Moreover, we normalize, and naturalize self-destructive processes, and then have the audacity to complain about the structure of our everyday existence. (Hi, capitalism, racism, and the ever-so-fun, sexism). We’re all in on the same game, and then we complain about its rules. But we live as though no educational institutions ever forced us to read a book on revolution, in our primary years, and continue to follow the rules, that structure the norms we hate.
(Guys, it’s still weird to be weird, when we are all clearly weird, and love weird things. That’s so weird.)
So we perpetuate this “Douchebag Myth.” We suggest that its redeemable, if not acceptable, to be forthright about being an asshole. Just look at Hip-Hop and The Braggadocio Effect. In this context, the appeal of confidence and cockiness becomes blurred into one, hot, rhyme-fest. And girls continue to flock and squeal over jerks, but scarily enough, self-proclaimed jerks.
In 2010, Kanye West released both a single, and delicious piece of aesthetic porn, in honour of this mentality. He threw up a giant neon warning sign to the heterosexual female gender. He said, “I don’t know what it is with females, but I’m not too good at that shit.” He warned,” Run away from me, baby, run away. It's about to get crazy, why can't she just, run away? Baby, I got a plan, run away fast as you can.”
Donald Glover, self-proclaimed teenage nerd, very unabashedly, almost too consistently, spends his writing time, proclaiming the total difficulty he had in getting laid, when younger. “Getting time of day from a model is new to me.” Why? Because he used to be the nice guy, we consistently let finish last. So one day, he twisted his newfound Braggadacio confidence, into an emotionally abusive Kanye-Runaway train. And when you get pissed, he’ll just flash single after single back to your face. “Are you ready to cry? Cause I'm no good, no good. Ooh girl, I wanna try. I'm an awful guy and I'm always away. And I'm tryin' to say, I'm a piece of shit. Believe in this I'm tellin' you”.
I told you, he’ll say.
It’s gotten to a point where perfectly nice guys (and, I do believe that all human beings have the potential for goodness – I am an avid Joss Whedon fan, after all), actually take the time to put effort into being something they’re not. Inconsiderate, selfish, and, just plain mean. In fact, I was having a conversation with a male friend the other day, and after he did a consecutive set of sweet, empathetic acts, I said, “Aww, thank you!” He literally stopped, turned, and threw something at me. “Hey!” I said. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, “I’m an asshole.” This was followed by a big gummy grin. His initial instinct was that he obviously cared for me, and wanted to lend a helping hand to my particular situation – he really just wanted to be nice. But that’s not how rappers get laid.
So what am I saying? Date the nice guy? Sure. Am I getting into a discussion about the psychological reasoning behind being attractive to men that are bad for you? There’s definitely a discussion there. Do I hate hip-hop? Lord, no. Am I justifying “The Douchebag Myth?” No. It’s not okay that being a mean person gets you nice things.
But when they tell you, this is what they will actively make an attempt to do, and be? Don’t be surprised.
As an intelligent, twenty something woman, I feel that I am
always waiting. For the good job, good boyfriend, good completion of the life I
recognize as incomplete. I know, I am privileged. I mean, my day yesterday was
comprised of making popsicles then going to get a burger. And yet, I want more.
I have come to realize, despite my
feminist bravado, I am searching for the one. I want the fulfilling relationship.
I don’t want the stupid nonsense right now. Even though it is better than
nothing. Regardless, it is not worth it. The emptiness. The rejection. The fear.
It is the worst. In spite of such things, we do it. The in between. The mediocre.
The not quite what we want. And we convince ourselves that this is ok. In fact,
great. What a great use of time. Until the hollowness consumes us and we are but
a shell of ourselves. Why do we
decide that mediocre is ok. That we are willing to in essence, waste our time
with the worthless. The stupid. The inarticulate. Those who do not get our best
parts. I think it is because we
are bored. Or more precisely, tired of waiting. Waiting is just the worst. And as
twenty year olds we get restless. So we say bring on the everybody. Until they
come. And then we get bored. And turn them away. because they are the worst.
At a recent debate about abortion in Michigan, two female
republican representatives were banned from the State House for their use of
the word vagina. In a debate about abortion. Some might call this the biggest
what the fuck moment of the week. Why, in a debate about abortion, in which
vaginas, one might argue, play an integral role, would this word be deemed
inappropriate? I wonder if in a similar debate about the legitimacy of Viagra
use (no such debate has occurred, given this benefits men, not women), if the
word penis were used, would it be deemed as controversial? This made me think
about the double standard surrounding the symbolism attached to male versus
female genitalia. I have recently come to realize that there is a heightened
level of gravitas attached to the vagina, especially when compared to the
penis. For centuries (and arguably today), a women’s purity was intrinsically
linked to how much her vagina had been exposed to others. The more use, the
less pure, has been the standard belief. In recent years, in the post Sex and
the City, post-Samantha western world, women have attempted to change this
perspective, by claiming personal agency over their sexuality. Accordingly, in
doing so, modern women have attempted to eliminate the idea of the sacred vagina
that ought to not be tampered with, or used, outside of marriage.As a self-proclaimed modern woman /
feminist, I was all for this idea myself. Why should men be allowed to fuck
around all they want with no sense of morality attached to exposure of their
penises, whereas women were made to feel like whores if they decided they were
sexual beings who happened to not be in a relationship because, oh wait, there
are not throngs of available, wonderful, intelligent men begging and pleading
on our doorsteps to be our boyfriends? However, I have recently realized that
as much as I try to not think of vaginas as this sacred thing reserved only for
those with whom you are in a relationship, there is a reason why women most
often feel weird after one night stands, and why women tend to be the ones who
do not have sex with multiple partners at the same time, and I think this is
not just a result of centuries of cultural conditioning. BABIES COME OUT OF
THERE! We are governed by our biological needs, and one of these needs is
survival, which we achieve in a way through procreation. Thus, it makes sense
that as women, we might feel “weird” or whatever, about just fucking anyone and
not being certain about whether or not that person will call back the next day,
or just reject us altogether for some other human girl. Our babies are at
stake! Ok maybe not real babies, but like, all the hypothetical babies! I am so
torn between wanting to be a liberated, 21st century woman who is
supposed to view sex as just sex, and love as love, while not necessarily
conflating the two, and my very basic, biological desire to have a partner and
regular source of sex that isn’t marred by an inner sense of instability and
insecurity. Point is, the vagina
is sacred, and I disagree with the idea that in order for women to be empowered
sexually that they need to disregard their basic biology and have sex like men,
because in effect, that is another form of submission to patriarchal ideals.
The party that my werewolf counterpart previous mentioned
was probably the most necessary experience I’ve ever needed to have, because I
always forget, for whatever reason, that there are 40 year old people out there
who aren’t my parents.
My parents are 55 years old, but when they turned 40, they
forever remained 40. I still think
they’re 40. They look 40. They feel 40 to me, and they laugh at
me when I tell them that.
But I forget that there is an actual generation composed of
actual 40 year olds. I’m so used
to interacting with people who are either my age (ish), or people who could be
my parents (i.e. professors, doctors, my parents) that I forgot there are
people who were 25 when I was 10 and that they have kids now.
And this is probably the reason why I’ve been so scared of
“growing up”, or whatever. Because
I never saw the transition between 25 and 55. I would look at my parents in awe – “How did you… get here? You’re so smart.
You have things and kids and an RRSP and you don’t hate me and you know what a
mortgage is.” (note: I don’t know
what an RRSP is and I had to spellcheck “mortgage”)
But there is so much life
in between! There are so many
years and our 20s and our teens are not these fleeting moments that we will
forever long for when they’re “gone”.
We do not shed these years.
We do not lose these years.
Because we do not grow up – we grow out.
We expand and we learn and we build on ourselves as we keep
living and moving through the world. This is why three 23-year-old women can dance alongside 40
year olds to Lauryn Hill’s That Thing,
all of them singing along to every single word and knowing every inflection. They are still us, and we will become
them, and it isn’t as scary as we think.
Our experiences are always happening. I am always the girl that heard that
song for the first time and didn’t get it, I am always the girl that gave it
another listen and did, and I’m always the girl that will be a mother. But I’m also always the girl that
doesn’t know how to spell morgage mortgage.
first world privilege of self-reflection. that'll be the title of my novel.
since i last left you, i was in a pit of despair, from having seduced a man with a girlfriend, and simultaneously feeling like a sex goddess for the first time in my life, to accepting the consequences of i don't know what, after. lauren, and anna, and i have abused her couches and drugs with contemplations, and it doesn't get bettered summed up, then when we were all sitting on that couch last night - stoned, sure. and lauren and i are trying to break down the psychological whatever, between male and female interplay in this fucking city - and we turn over, and anna, anna, on her 23rd birthday, with her black pencil skirt, and 23rd curved thighs, and crossed legs, says to us, "oh god, we'll just never understand why men are the way they are."
but we'll sure keep trying. those fascinating providers, and their warm, firm arms, that hold us, even when we 21st train to hold ourselves. oh smart, funny, werewolves, when will you learn? inner happiness won't cuddle you late at night.
so we diagnose both ourselves and them, and we laugh at how stupid everybody is. and during the intervals in which nothing happens, we get sad. when life isn't exciting, and complicating, and we're not with each other, we get sad.
and then we drink.
to beyonce.
brevity.
is.
fun.
and it's been years, right? everyone's been yelling at me. be her, because she's not another, they say. be her, because she's you. so a boy from out of town, tries to dance with me, and at the end of the night, of the usual night, when i am well and prepared to walk out, with my head low, accepting yet another failed interaction with the opposite gender, i am overwhelmed with the quintessential feeling and moment that overcomes every individual when they just fucking do it. storm out, storm in, jump out, jump in, quit, or start - every beginning moment that takes courage in the form of being fucking fed the fuck up. it's not brave, it's rock bottom. it's, "not this again. different. now." so you reluctantly say bye to the boy who didn't work enough to win you over, and you stop, step back, grab him, and show him exactly what's at risk of being lost.
what i'm trying to say is, i was in the woods last sunday. and consequently still floating on the remnants of a rare feeling that suggests everything that could be, could still be. a portion of the impossible has been realized.
and then!
oh well, then, there's last night! oh john, john, john, john! john and his phenomenal queen of a woman! those two are my posts in life. i want to grow up and be them, but in a sari. that sums up my existence to a T. everything i value in life will be fulfilled if i can grow up to have a beautiful house, with those shelves of conceptual books, and novels. and how kind people can be! lauren said it was interesting, because we either interacted with people from our age bracket, or with people from our parents age brackets, or professors, and thus missed out on the in-between part. the new parents, 30-40 year old, crowd. and they're just like us! but in the future! and i'm so excited for the future. because i'm really good at this now, so imagine then.
i smoked a j with one 30ish man, and one 40ish lawyer.
and then there was the part, where we had a dance party with 40 year old women - 40 year old, cool, strong, smart, funny, women. the future us. and we were them. and they were us. but not at the same time. they were us with careers and children, as mothers, and wives. but we were them as undergrads, and single, and so very naive. and we shook it. together.
and two minutes upon my entrance, his goddess of a wife, the current clinical psychologist, ex-rock journalist, calls me up from the stairs, to curl her hair. so there she is, standing in front of a mirror, in heels, a beyonce dress, in her beautiful home. and as i stare at her in awe, she looks at me in the eye, and says, "you're so pretty!" on my way out, she will cup my face, and embrace me with loving kisses. i'm doing that hyperbolic thing i do, that annoys people, because they end up getting put on pedestals. but no one ever seems to understand, how grand the very real, imperfect, kind of, "cool" that awes me. she's just. cool, guys.
so i step out, john. and he says thanks for coming, and i say thanks for trying to help my friends and i with boys, and i try to explain that they caught a bit of the magic i'm always in awe of, and in his very serious face, he says, "that is good, then." and i give him a look, that over the years, we have determined, demands his emotional reaction, and he curls that half-smile i am so fond of, silly hero.
amidst drugs and alcohol, the werewolves took a moment to browse through the bookshelf of a house occupied by two phd-having scholars. and i found this:
