Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Volte-face
I shouldn't have deleted my last post. But boy, that sure did provide me with some HUGE chuckles.
A lot of people have asked me about the George situation, and how I progressed from the previous published post to where I am now. Honestly, I don't feel like explaining it.
This weekend = A hoot! To make a long story short: Siobahn partied with me, much fun! Marcus' friend Thomas, who I went to middle school with and who likes me, was all up on me, not much fun! I had a mini PUSF induced breakdown in my room, hilariously fun! I spent the night with 'the guy' in this apartment he and his friend had [don't ask!], innocent fun! I saw a MILLION of my ex-classmates at Buffalo Wild Wings, not at all fun, but mm, food! I hung out with my ooold pal Rasmus, nostalgic fun! Me and Brandon acted a damn fool, naturally, always fun! I spent the night with a nameless friend and had a much unwanted boner in my ass the entire time, just plain awkward..
I've learned a huge lesson in my life. If I'm not going to trust myself, I need to, at the very least, trust Brandon and Courtney. Because they are ALWAYS fucking right. I was telling them about a conversation an individual and I had, and being the told-you-so people they are, they of course brought up how they tried to "warn" me mooonths ago. It's weird, because in ANY situation I'm in, they always tell me to do one thing, I ALWAYS do the opposite, they ALWAYS try to tell me what's going to end up happening, I ALWAYS ignore them, they are ALWAYS right. Fuck y'all!
I think it's about time that I end this blog. I almost love it because it's the first blog that I've ever kept up with AND shared with others. But looking back on many of the posts, it's just amazing how things have changed, how I have changed. I just read my very first post, Syndrome and Rosary, or pain and prayer as I meant it. I couldn't help but laugh. Everything, everything is different now. The vast majority of the "issues" I raised in many of my posts are all but obsolete now. I believe a direct quote from myself, hah, from the post To Zion, published on September 20, 2008, sums it up best: "It's intriguing how time can so drastically affect perception. All other things being equal, an elapse in time has the power to alter personal emotions, and transform universal ideals. This fascinates me. It relieves me. Time may not heal all wounds, but it certainly can change how you view them." I speak the fucking truth in advance, man!
Now I need a new URL for my soon to be new blog. Mmm. (:
A lot of people have asked me about the George situation, and how I progressed from the previous published post to where I am now. Honestly, I don't feel like explaining it.
This weekend = A hoot! To make a long story short: Siobahn partied with me, much fun! Marcus' friend Thomas, who I went to middle school with and who likes me, was all up on me, not much fun! I had a mini PUSF induced breakdown in my room, hilariously fun! I spent the night with 'the guy' in this apartment he and his friend had [don't ask!], innocent fun! I saw a MILLION of my ex-classmates at Buffalo Wild Wings, not at all fun, but mm, food! I hung out with my ooold pal Rasmus, nostalgic fun! Me and Brandon acted a damn fool, naturally, always fun! I spent the night with a nameless friend and had a much unwanted boner in my ass the entire time, just plain awkward..
I've learned a huge lesson in my life. If I'm not going to trust myself, I need to, at the very least, trust Brandon and Courtney. Because they are ALWAYS fucking right. I was telling them about a conversation an individual and I had, and being the told-you-so people they are, they of course brought up how they tried to "warn" me mooonths ago. It's weird, because in ANY situation I'm in, they always tell me to do one thing, I ALWAYS do the opposite, they ALWAYS try to tell me what's going to end up happening, I ALWAYS ignore them, they are ALWAYS right. Fuck y'all!
I think it's about time that I end this blog. I almost love it because it's the first blog that I've ever kept up with AND shared with others. But looking back on many of the posts, it's just amazing how things have changed, how I have changed. I just read my very first post, Syndrome and Rosary, or pain and prayer as I meant it. I couldn't help but laugh. Everything, everything is different now. The vast majority of the "issues" I raised in many of my posts are all but obsolete now. I believe a direct quote from myself, hah, from the post To Zion, published on September 20, 2008, sums it up best: "It's intriguing how time can so drastically affect perception. All other things being equal, an elapse in time has the power to alter personal emotions, and transform universal ideals. This fascinates me. It relieves me. Time may not heal all wounds, but it certainly can change how you view them." I speak the fucking truth in advance, man!
Now I need a new URL for my soon to be new blog. Mmm. (:
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Paperdoll
Beautiful like the moon's reflection when it's bouncing off your skin, and before you let me in...
I don't know how many times I've called you with tears on my cheeks. But each time you wouldn't let me go until I was smiling. And despite everything that's happened, and that's going on, I'm so happy. I'm so happy.
I would give anything to be able to give you what I gave him, but I can't. But I can give you something better, something no man has ever had before: all of me.
(Everyone else: consider yourselves fired.)
I don't know how many times I've called you with tears on my cheeks. But each time you wouldn't let me go until I was smiling. And despite everything that's happened, and that's going on, I'm so happy. I'm so happy.
I would give anything to be able to give you what I gave him, but I can't. But I can give you something better, something no man has ever had before: all of me.
(Everyone else: consider yourselves fired.)
Saturday, February 14, 2009
All-Star
Next to Christmas, Valentine's Day is officially the best holiday ever. Pardon my language, but, I stacked up! Thaaaanks. (:
In BSU [♥], we discussed having "teams" and whether it's right or wrong. I, personally, am a believer in having a team, so long as your team members know that they're just that: team members. It's wrong to make a person believe they're your one and only; it's not wrong to quite boss-like inform them that other people exist. It's wrong to be a slut; it's not wrong to be a captain. It's wrong to use people; it's not wrong to make intelligent economic decisions. After all, it IS a recession.
Starters:
Point Guard: George - George is the head of the team, the most visible and noteworthy player of the team. Like a point guard, the ball is in his hands most of the time. He's the first and last person I turn to when I need moves to be made. He's my Allen Iverson, and though he knows other players exist, he also knows the team would be nothing if he wasn't on it.
Shooting Guard: Jae - Back up ball handler, Jae is almost equally as good at making things happen, but is not expected to deliver like the point guard. He's not the brand of the team, and he knows it. Most days he's warming the bench.
Center: Knoby -Biggest and strongest player on the team, Knoby is best for defense and helping me to rebound.
Bench:
Benches should remain nameless, seeing as how they get no play, and are only called into the game when things are either really rough, or really great. Only communicate during times of extreme boredom, or distress.
Why have a team? I don't want to settle into a committed, monogamous relationship right now. It sound selfish, but I'm working on me, and while I'm working on me, I'd like to benefit from all of the friendships I have with these gentlemen. When I'm ready, I'll fire the team, and contract with my point guard. (:
In BSU [♥], we discussed having "teams" and whether it's right or wrong. I, personally, am a believer in having a team, so long as your team members know that they're just that: team members. It's wrong to make a person believe they're your one and only; it's not wrong to quite boss-like inform them that other people exist. It's wrong to be a slut; it's not wrong to be a captain. It's wrong to use people; it's not wrong to make intelligent economic decisions. After all, it IS a recession.
Starters:
Point Guard: George - George is the head of the team, the most visible and noteworthy player of the team. Like a point guard, the ball is in his hands most of the time. He's the first and last person I turn to when I need moves to be made. He's my Allen Iverson, and though he knows other players exist, he also knows the team would be nothing if he wasn't on it.
Shooting Guard: Jae - Back up ball handler, Jae is almost equally as good at making things happen, but is not expected to deliver like the point guard. He's not the brand of the team, and he knows it. Most days he's warming the bench.
Center: Knoby -Biggest and strongest player on the team, Knoby is best for defense and helping me to rebound.
Bench:
Benches should remain nameless, seeing as how they get no play, and are only called into the game when things are either really rough, or really great. Only communicate during times of extreme boredom, or distress.
Why have a team? I don't want to settle into a committed, monogamous relationship right now. It sound selfish, but I'm working on me, and while I'm working on me, I'd like to benefit from all of the friendships I have with these gentlemen. When I'm ready, I'll fire the team, and contract with my point guard. (:
Monday, February 9, 2009
Prelude to a Kiss
The trouble with love is..
Sometimes I feel unable to be loved, or to accept being loved. I fear the day when he'll find that perhaps I am more than he bargained for, or less than he hoped for.
I know I'm going to push and push and push. I just don't know if he's strong enough to push back.
Sometimes I feel unable to be loved, or to accept being loved. I fear the day when he'll find that perhaps I am more than he bargained for, or less than he hoped for.
I know I'm going to push and push and push. I just don't know if he's strong enough to push back.
Clementine Posey
For whatever reason, George wakes up very early every single morning, no matter how late he goes to sleep. So we've developed this habit of having very early Sunday morning conversations, before he goes to spend the rest of his day with his mom. Actually, he does most of the talking, I just sleepily "mhmmmm." We talk for maybe twenty or thirty minutes before he tells me to go back to sleep and I, before he can even hang up, happily complies. But this time, instead of ending the conversation with goodbye, or "call you later," he said, "I love you," and hung up, and suddenly I was wide awake.
When he called later in the evening, it was after hours of my failed attempts to study, after an hour conversation with my mom about the diminishing conditions at home, and after eight wasted dollars on disgusting dog food they call sesame chicken here. I was mentally drained, emotionally stressed and bitterly hungry, and I cried. And cried. And he listened, and consoled, and promised he'd be there in any way he could.
And it took what seemed like forever before I realized what an asshole I am, realized that this was his first time seeing his mom since she got the news about a more urgent surgery and that I hadn't even asked about her or the family before I jumped into my pool of pity. I apologized over and over, he told me about it, that she and everyone else was in good spirits, but that deep down he was actually really worried, felt like he needed to do more, but doesn't know what to do. I listened, consoled, and promised I'd be there in every way I could. Eventually we said goodnight and hung up.
Five minutes later I called back to say, "I love you too."
To be continued..
When he called later in the evening, it was after hours of my failed attempts to study, after an hour conversation with my mom about the diminishing conditions at home, and after eight wasted dollars on disgusting dog food they call sesame chicken here. I was mentally drained, emotionally stressed and bitterly hungry, and I cried. And cried. And he listened, and consoled, and promised he'd be there in any way he could.
And it took what seemed like forever before I realized what an asshole I am, realized that this was his first time seeing his mom since she got the news about a more urgent surgery and that I hadn't even asked about her or the family before I jumped into my pool of pity. I apologized over and over, he told me about it, that she and everyone else was in good spirits, but that deep down he was actually really worried, felt like he needed to do more, but doesn't know what to do. I listened, consoled, and promised I'd be there in every way I could. Eventually we said goodnight and hung up.
Five minutes later I called back to say, "I love you too."
To be continued..
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Variety Pack
Dear God,
Leave me the hell alone! I know, I know, "Trials and tribulations. The strong shall survive. I'll never put more on you than you can bear." But does the word 'overkill' mean anything to you?! Don't you have ANY other people to bother? Perhaps a wayward priest? Certainly there are no shortages of them.
Sincerely,
Constance-Marie
PS. Any other blows in the next six months, and I will raise my kids to be atheists. Not trying to threaten you.. Just letting you know what it is.
Leave me the hell alone! I know, I know, "Trials and tribulations. The strong shall survive. I'll never put more on you than you can bear." But does the word 'overkill' mean anything to you?! Don't you have ANY other people to bother? Perhaps a wayward priest? Certainly there are no shortages of them.
Sincerely,
Constance-Marie
PS. Any other blows in the next six months, and I will raise my kids to be atheists. Not trying to threaten you.. Just letting you know what it is.
Monday, February 2, 2009
This Woman's Work
"I should be crying, but I just can't let it show. I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking."
I have a collection of glass bottles. I had to get rid of some during inspections over winter break, but, not including my two Barack Jones Sodas, I have 16 glass bottles left. I have no idea why I started keeping them, but now I do it to demonstrate to myself that I do have self-restraint. Because there are some times where I just feel like breaking them all. But I haven't.
I just feel like everything is so fucked up right now. As much as I try to work on me, work on my happiness, work through my pain, everything around me is just falling apart. My parents are like.. so broke right now. So I've been paying me and my dad's cell phone bill, which is $173 a month. I've been sending them hundreds of dollars at a time for food. I know I cannot afford that, but.. I can't just be up here chillin' knowing my brothers are fucking hungry.
I tell my parents, (and everyone else) that the platinum card I have is through my grandfather, and that he's making the payments, but that's a lie. I just don't want them, or anyone, to worry about me. I just want to be able to help. But I feel like I'm over my head. The grant money I got this semester was definitely a blessing, but I know it's not enough. My mom's car is out. My sister's car is out. I know if I'm going to be back in Detroit, I HAVE to have a car in order to work. But fucking how? I need to get a job now, but I hardly have the time. All the courses I'm taking are upper-level, junior level or above. I have research papers, and long term activism projects. I have more books than a damn library. I'm just.. fucking overwhelmed.
I'm going to take out a loan for the 'new purple Macbook' so I can have some money to give to my parents. And then I need to find a fucking summer job since I missed the group interview for the summer orientation job (thankssss tonsils!).
I wish I could scream and punch shit and do like 20 miles on the bike, but it hurts to even whisper, and I'm too sick to even walk to the gym. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck me.
I wish there was some place I could exist where nothing was demanded from me. I always have to be strong, I always have to be there for everyone else, I always have to make perfect grades, I always have to do whatever is necessary for my family, I always have to be "Thee Conz" for my friends. I always have to find a way to make shit work. I always have to carry everyone's weight on my shoulders. I always have to deal with my shit, your shit, his shit, Tom, Dick AND Harry's shit and pretend to be fucking happy and not CRUMBLING all while doing it.
I'm just very tired. Which is ironic, because this has been keeping me awake for weeks..
I have a collection of glass bottles. I had to get rid of some during inspections over winter break, but, not including my two Barack Jones Sodas, I have 16 glass bottles left. I have no idea why I started keeping them, but now I do it to demonstrate to myself that I do have self-restraint. Because there are some times where I just feel like breaking them all. But I haven't.
I just feel like everything is so fucked up right now. As much as I try to work on me, work on my happiness, work through my pain, everything around me is just falling apart. My parents are like.. so broke right now. So I've been paying me and my dad's cell phone bill, which is $173 a month. I've been sending them hundreds of dollars at a time for food. I know I cannot afford that, but.. I can't just be up here chillin' knowing my brothers are fucking hungry.
I tell my parents, (and everyone else) that the platinum card I have is through my grandfather, and that he's making the payments, but that's a lie. I just don't want them, or anyone, to worry about me. I just want to be able to help. But I feel like I'm over my head. The grant money I got this semester was definitely a blessing, but I know it's not enough. My mom's car is out. My sister's car is out. I know if I'm going to be back in Detroit, I HAVE to have a car in order to work. But fucking how? I need to get a job now, but I hardly have the time. All the courses I'm taking are upper-level, junior level or above. I have research papers, and long term activism projects. I have more books than a damn library. I'm just.. fucking overwhelmed.
I'm going to take out a loan for the 'new purple Macbook' so I can have some money to give to my parents. And then I need to find a fucking summer job since I missed the group interview for the summer orientation job (thankssss tonsils!).
I wish I could scream and punch shit and do like 20 miles on the bike, but it hurts to even whisper, and I'm too sick to even walk to the gym. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck me.
I wish there was some place I could exist where nothing was demanded from me. I always have to be strong, I always have to be there for everyone else, I always have to make perfect grades, I always have to do whatever is necessary for my family, I always have to be "Thee Conz" for my friends. I always have to find a way to make shit work. I always have to carry everyone's weight on my shoulders. I always have to deal with my shit, your shit, his shit, Tom, Dick AND Harry's shit and pretend to be fucking happy and not CRUMBLING all while doing it.
I'm just very tired. Which is ironic, because this has been keeping me awake for weeks..
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Four Shots to the Heart
There are two songs that I feel almost accurately describe me and my life. This is one.
Get It Together by India Arie
One shot to your heart without breaking your skin
No one has the power to hurt you like your kin
Kept it inside, didn't tell no one else
Didn't even wanna admit it to yourself
And now your chest burns and your back aches
From 15 years of holding the pain
And now you only have yourself to blame
If you continue to live this way
[Chorus:]
Get it together
You wanna heal your body?
Get it together
You have to heal your heart
Whatsoever you sow you will reap
Get it together
You can fly fly
Dark future ahead of me
That's what they said
I'd be starving if I ate all the lies they fed
Cause I've been redeemed from your anguish and pain
A miracle child I'm floating on a cloud
Cause the words that come from your mouth
You're the first to hear
Speak words of beauty and you will be there
No matter what anybody says
What matters most is what you think of yourself
[Chorus]
The choice is yours
No matter what it is
To choose life is to choose to forgive
You don't have to try
or hurt him and break his pride
Just shake that weight off
And you'll be ready to fly
One shot to your heart without breaking your skin
No one has the power to hurt you like your friends
Thought it would never change but as time moved on
That ugly duckling grew up to be a swan
And now your chest burns and your back aches
Because now the years are showing up on your face
But you'll never be happy
And you'll never be whole
Until you see the beauty in growing old
[Chorus]
[chorus]
you can fly fly fly fly...
you can live or you can die
you know that life is a choice you make
you can give or you can take
you can fly fly fly fly
you can fly fly fly fly...
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
22 Papercuts
I am severely annoyed by people who believe that they are superior in intelligence because they hold an opposing view to the norm. Black people, for example, who do not support President Obama for some reason believe that they are extraordinary intellects and the rest of us are band-wagoners. Or black people who prefer alternative to R&B somehow believe they have superior music tastes. Get a grip on life. It is first and foremost disrespectful, counterintuitive and self-hating to assume that the only reason why black people support Obama is because he's black. He is also a democrat, which is the political identity of most self-aware black Americans; get a clue. Secondly, to assert that "white music" is better than "black music" is an ideology straight from the plantation. For someone who claims to posses so much intellect and 'class', you sure haven't come very far from the fields.
I am secondly annoyed by men in general. Sometimes I wish I born a lesbian. I've had two guys just this week who are trying to "talk to me" tell me how intimidating I am. That is not attractive, guys. I am not attracted to a "man" who is easily intimated by a 5'4" 125 pound 18 year old. I know I can be aggressive, I know I can be outspoken, I know I can be challenging. I'm not looking for a punk ass "man" who cowers away from that, someone who would need me to tone down my Conz-factor in order to protect their "manhood." Frankly, you sound like a bitch. I also don't understand why guys don't understand about "I do not want a boyfriend." "How could you not want a boyfriend?" Besides the OBVIOUS reasons, like the fact that I'm 18, the fact that I'm a double-major, the fact that I'm questioning the motives of monogamy, I'm at a different point in my life than most, and I'm looking for something most 19-21 year old men aren't capable of giving (besides one, who is so far away), and I'm MUCH too young to settle.
Finally, I am most annoyed by the race relations on this campus. As much as I love being here, I really hate being here. I hate being the only person of color in my classrooms. I hate having to be a spokesperson for my race. I hate having to constantly prove that I am here because of my 3.8 GPA, because of my 2040 on the SATs and my 30 on the ACTs, because of my leadership positions, and my writing abilities and not because of my race. I hate raising a point, only to have it ignored, and then praised when raised again by a blue-eyed girl. I hate being asked how I "got my hair like this." I hate having to say, "Detroit really isn't that bad." I hate having to defend the need for Black Student Union and Black Welcome Week. I hate being looked at as "sticking with my own" when I hang out with black kids. I hate being the token black girl when I hang out with white kids. I hate being Black Life 101 to 90% of the white people I meet. I hate being gawked at when I'm in the multicultural lounges with my friends. I hate the snickers. I hate the stares.
Some white guy once asked Helen if she could teach him gang signs. A group of white girls asked Kalisha if she could teach them how to dance. A white guy told Amanda he was going to a put a "natural habitat" sign outside of the multicultural lounge. The comments are sly, and underhanded, but the meaning behind them and the effect of them are the same. And I'm tired of it.
I am secondly annoyed by men in general. Sometimes I wish I born a lesbian. I've had two guys just this week who are trying to "talk to me" tell me how intimidating I am. That is not attractive, guys. I am not attracted to a "man" who is easily intimated by a 5'4" 125 pound 18 year old. I know I can be aggressive, I know I can be outspoken, I know I can be challenging. I'm not looking for a punk ass "man" who cowers away from that, someone who would need me to tone down my Conz-factor in order to protect their "manhood." Frankly, you sound like a bitch. I also don't understand why guys don't understand about "I do not want a boyfriend." "How could you not want a boyfriend?" Besides the OBVIOUS reasons, like the fact that I'm 18, the fact that I'm a double-major, the fact that I'm questioning the motives of monogamy, I'm at a different point in my life than most, and I'm looking for something most 19-21 year old men aren't capable of giving (besides one, who is so far away), and I'm MUCH too young to settle.
Finally, I am most annoyed by the race relations on this campus. As much as I love being here, I really hate being here. I hate being the only person of color in my classrooms. I hate having to be a spokesperson for my race. I hate having to constantly prove that I am here because of my 3.8 GPA, because of my 2040 on the SATs and my 30 on the ACTs, because of my leadership positions, and my writing abilities and not because of my race. I hate raising a point, only to have it ignored, and then praised when raised again by a blue-eyed girl. I hate being asked how I "got my hair like this." I hate having to say, "Detroit really isn't that bad." I hate having to defend the need for Black Student Union and Black Welcome Week. I hate being looked at as "sticking with my own" when I hang out with black kids. I hate being the token black girl when I hang out with white kids. I hate being Black Life 101 to 90% of the white people I meet. I hate being gawked at when I'm in the multicultural lounges with my friends. I hate the snickers. I hate the stares.
Some white guy once asked Helen if she could teach him gang signs. A group of white girls asked Kalisha if she could teach them how to dance. A white guy told Amanda he was going to a put a "natural habitat" sign outside of the multicultural lounge. The comments are sly, and underhanded, but the meaning behind them and the effect of them are the same. And I'm tired of it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Vigesimation
Today I participated in a pro-Palestine rally outside of the Union. The crowd was tiny, probably due to the short notice and the bone-chilling weather. By time I left, I couldn't feel my toes. But it felt good being there.
"One two three four, when are we going to end this war? What do we want? Freedom! When do we want it? Now!"
A few teenaged girls lined the road with signs that read, "Honk for peace!" Next to them stood a young girl, maybe nine or so, with a sign that read, "How many more children must die?"
It reminded me of what someone said in response to the hostile and aggressive actions taken by Israel. "If Palestinians loved their children more than they hated Israel, this would not happen." At the time, I was far too disgusted to formulate a coherent response.
It seems to me, that Palestine does love its children. It loves its children enough to fight endlessly for their freedom, for their security, for their right to liberty, peace and ownership. To not love them would be to allow them to live under the cruel oppression of Israel without putting up any fight.
Something in me dies when people can blame the plight of the murdered on the murdered, and not the murderer.
Five six seven eight, Israel is a terrorist state.
"One two three four, when are we going to end this war? What do we want? Freedom! When do we want it? Now!"
A few teenaged girls lined the road with signs that read, "Honk for peace!" Next to them stood a young girl, maybe nine or so, with a sign that read, "How many more children must die?"
It reminded me of what someone said in response to the hostile and aggressive actions taken by Israel. "If Palestinians loved their children more than they hated Israel, this would not happen." At the time, I was far too disgusted to formulate a coherent response.
It seems to me, that Palestine does love its children. It loves its children enough to fight endlessly for their freedom, for their security, for their right to liberty, peace and ownership. To not love them would be to allow them to live under the cruel oppression of Israel without putting up any fight.
Something in me dies when people can blame the plight of the murdered on the murdered, and not the murderer.
Five six seven eight, Israel is a terrorist state.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Silver Lining
Life Lessons Learned Three Days into Second Semester:
- Food is one hell of a drug. This is proven by the fact that an entire six of us, without having to convince anyone, walked to NYPD Pizza at 3am during a blizzard.
- I have a huge tendency to flirt a lot and lead people on. Which is now why I have to ignore phone calls, and texts, and outright dodge an angry lesbian named Toni. "Whoops. Did I forget to mention I'm not gay?"
- I have a huge tendency to lose interest in people who I'm not forced to be around. Which is now why I have to ignore phone calls, and texts, and outright dodge an angry lesbian named Toni. "Whoops. Did I forget to mention that you were an eight hour boredom reliever?"
- Alcohol isn't for everyone. Either I have a very high tolerance for alcohol, or I simply did not drink enough. Either way, alcohol, as I long suspected, isn't for me. Here I am bright eyed and bushy tailed, in a room full of half drunks singing Lean On Me. I was simply flabbergasted.
- Giving a guy your number will not make him go away. So, I foolishly assumed that when a guy sweats you at a club, if you give in and give him your number, he'll move on to another girl. Quite the opposite. Once you give him the digits, he will attach himself to you like a leech.
- I am mean. Or at least others tend to believe so. But of all the things I wish to change about myself, that is not, nor will it ever be, on the list. The thought of purposely acting a way that is unnatural to appease others makes my stomach turn. Get in where you fit in, or get out.
- Men are dogs. (Well, duh.) But when a guy dancing with a girl and getting her number snatched his phone and pushed her away like she was two-day old meat, and then tried to grab me, it was confirmed.
- Gay clubs are not that fun for fag hags. In fact, they're not very fun at all, and sometimes a bit disturbing. Gay men tend to.. make connections fast. And if you stand in the right spot, they'll make said connections two inches away from your lucky face. Besides that, the music sucks, and you stick out like a sore thumb. And I suppose having to dodge an angry lesbian didn't help.
- Clubs discriminate. We've all seen on television bouncers picking out certain girls to get in, and rejecting others. Just television? False. There was at least a hundred to a hundred fifty people outside of the club when I got there, and more arriving constantly. Maybe fifty of us got in. And they didn't do it by first come, first serve. The cost was $15, but if you didn't have exact change you either paid $20, or $10. Let's just say I had $10 for pizza after, but the football player after me was a bit irate about not getting any change back.
- If you like to go to parties, don't live on North Campus. There are no frats on NC, no clubs on NC, no parties at all on NC. And I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that bringing your ass all the way down to Central and then still having to walk a distance in the snow isn't that pleasant. North Campus sucks.
- Michigan football players get heckled everywhere. When a group of them pushed through and got in the club, the crowd demanded to know how all of a sudden they knew how to push.
- Brandon gets tipsy/drunk, and Constance gets very annoyed. I can't even explain it. You'd have to witness it for yourself.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Six Billion Years
Sometimes it's hard for me to put everything into true prospective, because once I do, I no longer feel the ambition and drive for much, besides the pursuit of my own happiness and fulfilling the happiness of others.
A nice house, a prestigious career, it seems so meaningless.
One day, I'll be dead. One day, any and everyone whose life I may have affected will also be dead. One day, any person I've ever known, or any one who's ever heard of me, perhaps read of me, or saw me on TV, too will be dead. The Earth, in fact, will die, one day.
Our buildings, statues and mansions will be engulfed in gaseous flames. Our national boundaries will be blurred and then crumbled. Our history, erased. Our memories, gone.
One day, nothing will matter. Nothing at all.
And yet we worry so much, so hard and so long over things that are comparably ridiculously minuscule. We fight wars and slaughter the innocent over what is effectively nothing. We hate over differences that in the stretch time do not exist.
And we encourage stressful lifestyles, ones that are expensive to acquire and expensive to maintain. Lifestyles that require extensive education, extensive seclusion and elitism, and excessive hardship. Lifestyles that, even at their very best, will not protect you from the inevitable fate of everything.
We cry over pain that will more than fade. We worry over troubles that will more than pass. We agonize over a nonexistent future.
But in the prospective of things, it seems as though we shouldn't have much time for anything but happiness, expression and connection.
Everything will be over soon. Are we really getting what's best out of it?
A nice house, a prestigious career, it seems so meaningless.
One day, I'll be dead. One day, any and everyone whose life I may have affected will also be dead. One day, any person I've ever known, or any one who's ever heard of me, perhaps read of me, or saw me on TV, too will be dead. The Earth, in fact, will die, one day.
Our buildings, statues and mansions will be engulfed in gaseous flames. Our national boundaries will be blurred and then crumbled. Our history, erased. Our memories, gone.
One day, nothing will matter. Nothing at all.
And yet we worry so much, so hard and so long over things that are comparably ridiculously minuscule. We fight wars and slaughter the innocent over what is effectively nothing. We hate over differences that in the stretch time do not exist.
And we encourage stressful lifestyles, ones that are expensive to acquire and expensive to maintain. Lifestyles that require extensive education, extensive seclusion and elitism, and excessive hardship. Lifestyles that, even at their very best, will not protect you from the inevitable fate of everything.
We cry over pain that will more than fade. We worry over troubles that will more than pass. We agonize over a nonexistent future.
But in the prospective of things, it seems as though we shouldn't have much time for anything but happiness, expression and connection.
Everything will be over soon. Are we really getting what's best out of it?
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Huit Poulets
As much as I hate conforming to social rules that I completely disagree with, I've finally settled on not getting my tattoos on my wrists, nor on the flesh between my thumb and index finger. Instead I'll get it on my lower neck. It shall be a peace symbol, 'and' symbol (&) and a heart. Peace & Love. It'll be very small, the 'and' symbol being smaller than the other two, and completely in black. I haven't yet decided whether I want the heart filled, or not.
Then once I get to the highest level of success that I wish to achieve, I'll get a big "Fuck The Man" on my forearm. And I kid.
Speaking of society, next semester of college is going to put up one hell of a fight, if I decide not to change my schedule. And though I know my academic adviser, and my academic peer adviser, and my academic success partner will probably suggest that I do, I'm not sure if I want to. For one, the three courses that I am enrolled in are absolutely, fabulously, completely amazing. The course work will be rigorous, but the topics are just to die for, if you're a lover of the penal system, Iran and West African cultures, like me. Also, I want to know what if feels like to be truly challenged in school. And not just challenged because I'm a chronic procrastinator, but challenged even when I'm giving my all.
I've never felt that, in school, before.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Raw Suede
Most people who know me, and some who don't, always comment on my mental strength. "You are so strong."
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time at my mom's foster mother's house. I had one of those play kitchens; it was in her living room. It was charred and practically unrecognizable when her house caught fire, though not much else was that ruined. I used to think that because of that, the fire was the fault of me, and my little play kitchen.
That house used to sit on West Outer Drive, but it's not there anymore. If you drive by, you'll notice a house-wide gap between two houses, close to the corner. That's where it used to be. But it was torn down by the city.
It was in that house where I was first molested by her. I was only four. Like most molesters, she told me not to tell, told me I would be punished, beaten, but not believed, and that next time would be worse. But unlike most molested, I didn't believe her. I knew that if I told my mom, she would believe me. She would rescue me. I would never have to see her again.
But I was wrong, and she was right. And I was punished and beaten for such lies. And the next time was worse. And the time after that was worse. And the time after that. Worse. I am still called a liar to this very day for telling her what happened.
My dad worked during the day, and during the day my mom cheated on my dad. So it was there that I had to go. Until I was nine. My friend Ashley was over for the summer. My brothers were 4 and 2. My mom asked if I wanted to go to her house, or stay at home alone. I knew how to cook for us, I knew how to change diapers. Staying home was the only option. Ironically, it was that day, the day that I was not molested, that child protective services was called to our house. The police came and knocked on our door, told me we were coming with them. Back then we had iron bars on our doors that could only be opened with a key. I pretended I couldn't find it as I called my neighbor and begged her to come and pretend she was our babysitter. She did, and that saved us.
But I was still beaten, because perhaps they were called because we were too loud. I tried my best to quiet my brothers. But I was nine.
When my mom's biological mother tried to stab me in a crack-induced rage when I was also four, I never told anyone. I didn't want to be called a liar again.
Ever since I was four, I've been hurt. My entire life. I've been molested, beaten, stabbed, and kicked out of the house, before the age of 13. I've been self-destructive, and suicidal, depressed and mute. But in the end, I've been strong, because I've had to be.
But through it all, I haven't been bitter. Though my mom and I are not close, I still love her and I've long forgiven her. I still visit my grandmother, and help her re-bandage the wounds on her legs, or help her find the Jewish egg bread she likes at the grocery store.
I guess being strong isn't just about survival.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time at my mom's foster mother's house. I had one of those play kitchens; it was in her living room. It was charred and practically unrecognizable when her house caught fire, though not much else was that ruined. I used to think that because of that, the fire was the fault of me, and my little play kitchen.
That house used to sit on West Outer Drive, but it's not there anymore. If you drive by, you'll notice a house-wide gap between two houses, close to the corner. That's where it used to be. But it was torn down by the city.
It was in that house where I was first molested by her. I was only four. Like most molesters, she told me not to tell, told me I would be punished, beaten, but not believed, and that next time would be worse. But unlike most molested, I didn't believe her. I knew that if I told my mom, she would believe me. She would rescue me. I would never have to see her again.
But I was wrong, and she was right. And I was punished and beaten for such lies. And the next time was worse. And the time after that was worse. And the time after that. Worse. I am still called a liar to this very day for telling her what happened.
My dad worked during the day, and during the day my mom cheated on my dad. So it was there that I had to go. Until I was nine. My friend Ashley was over for the summer. My brothers were 4 and 2. My mom asked if I wanted to go to her house, or stay at home alone. I knew how to cook for us, I knew how to change diapers. Staying home was the only option. Ironically, it was that day, the day that I was not molested, that child protective services was called to our house. The police came and knocked on our door, told me we were coming with them. Back then we had iron bars on our doors that could only be opened with a key. I pretended I couldn't find it as I called my neighbor and begged her to come and pretend she was our babysitter. She did, and that saved us.
But I was still beaten, because perhaps they were called because we were too loud. I tried my best to quiet my brothers. But I was nine.
When my mom's biological mother tried to stab me in a crack-induced rage when I was also four, I never told anyone. I didn't want to be called a liar again.
Ever since I was four, I've been hurt. My entire life. I've been molested, beaten, stabbed, and kicked out of the house, before the age of 13. I've been self-destructive, and suicidal, depressed and mute. But in the end, I've been strong, because I've had to be.
But through it all, I haven't been bitter. Though my mom and I are not close, I still love her and I've long forgiven her. I still visit my grandmother, and help her re-bandage the wounds on her legs, or help her find the Jewish egg bread she likes at the grocery store.
I guess being strong isn't just about survival.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Reaching Dawn
I find it disturbing that someone can have such a large capacity to intentionally hurt others. It astonishes me. It scares me.
I remember it was around 4am, Tuesday morning, December 30th, and my head was throbbing. I laid facing the couch; you draped an arm around me. India told you to stop, but you wouldn't move. I remember you kissing my neck. I remember you forcing me to turn around and face you.
I asked you why you were so upset with me, but you didn't really answer, just said that I have negative things to say to you. I reminded you that you say negative things about people all the time, but you said, "But never about you." I remember holding your face between both my hands, and looking you in the eyes. I remember exactly what I said. "You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Never. But I'm sorry for whatever I said that did." You told me I didn't have to apologize. But I did again. And then I jokingly took one of them back.
Your phone had to have rang at least five times; you were late picking up your step-dad from work. But you wouldn't get up. You wouldn't let me go. You wouldn't stop kissing me.
So you can imagine my surprise when I find a message in my honesty box telling me to read your blog. You can imagine the look on my face when I did. You can imagine my hurt because you manufactured it, purposely.
My brain, and text inbox, was flooded with, "You just don't deserve this. I don't understand."
I don't understand. As much as I never want to look in your face again, as much as if you never spoke to me again it would be much too soon, I could still never do something like this to you. I could never hurt you this way. Because I once loved you. I once cared. I once considered you a friend.
But I know now that you never loved me.
I remember it was around 4am, Tuesday morning, December 30th, and my head was throbbing. I laid facing the couch; you draped an arm around me. India told you to stop, but you wouldn't move. I remember you kissing my neck. I remember you forcing me to turn around and face you.
I asked you why you were so upset with me, but you didn't really answer, just said that I have negative things to say to you. I reminded you that you say negative things about people all the time, but you said, "But never about you." I remember holding your face between both my hands, and looking you in the eyes. I remember exactly what I said. "You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Never. But I'm sorry for whatever I said that did." You told me I didn't have to apologize. But I did again. And then I jokingly took one of them back.
Your phone had to have rang at least five times; you were late picking up your step-dad from work. But you wouldn't get up. You wouldn't let me go. You wouldn't stop kissing me.
So you can imagine my surprise when I find a message in my honesty box telling me to read your blog. You can imagine the look on my face when I did. You can imagine my hurt because you manufactured it, purposely.
My brain, and text inbox, was flooded with, "You just don't deserve this. I don't understand."
I don't understand. As much as I never want to look in your face again, as much as if you never spoke to me again it would be much too soon, I could still never do something like this to you. I could never hurt you this way. Because I once loved you. I once cared. I once considered you a friend.
But I know now that you never loved me.
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