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[merwomyns-daughter]

PURPLE BOTTLE

Dear Mr. P,

I have been thinking about Animal Collective recently, specifically the song "The Purple Bottle."  I thought I you the album Feels the song is on, but I guess it didn't make it onto the flash-drive I filled with all my favorite music for you, so when I was scrolling through your library the other day because I wanted to listen to it I was sad it wasn't there.  I just put it on now and it reminds me so much of our relationship this summer.  The lyrics are astoundingly familiar of things we've said or heard this summer, specifically the words repeated throughout the song.  Some of it is reaching, but think of it like a horoscope I really want to be accurate. 

I've gotta big big big heart beat, yeah! (I've been thinking a lot about my generosity lately and how I use it to do things like bake excessive amounts of cookies for you and make your bed every morning I sleep in it) I think you are the sweetest thing ("you're sweet," said your father to me after I told him I thought he was still a very handsome man at 74) I wear a coat of feelings and they are loud (so many feels I can't even deal with them, especially the romantic ones I feel for you that I am thinking now were orgasm induced.  no, but really, things really shifted for me after you gave me a cervical orgasm-- I read an article on Cosmo's website ---don't judge me--- that said cervical orgasms can induce feelings of love) I've been having good days (my days this summer have been the best in years and whenever I go to recap my day to someone I normally start with "it was a good day" unless it was FANTASTIC or GRRRrrrrrrea) Think we are the right age to start our own peculiar ways? (recently thinking about how all my best friends this summer are all 20 and rising juniors in college.  it's really cool to finally be able to relate to my friends and not feel like I'm way behind for being younger. also, my three main pals this summer-- you included-- all pride ourselves on being strange and weird and away from the norm) With good friendly homes (during my road trip with C this summer we were invited into five different homes.  I also am so thankful you and your dad let me spend so much time in your house.  it wasn't until this summer that I'd been in your house even though I've known you since I was 16 )

You get me freaked freaked freaked on Preakness I've never met a girl that (you said you'd never encountered a girl as "chill" as me or as good at being able to get you close to finishing without actually taking you over the edge) Likes to drink with horses Knows her Chinese ballet I must admit you smell like fruity nuts and good grains (I always struggled to decide what you smell like because it's so earthy and natural, but this is a damn good description of it) When you show my purple gaze a thing or two at night (oh goddess, was I shown a thing or two by you under the moonlight. we're also both people who have a supreme appreciation for the color purple.  my three main pals this summer are all purple people.  purple people seem to be some of the best people I've ever encountered)

It'd make me sick sick sick to kiss you and I think that I would vomit (so, so many times have I felt sick to my stomach in a good way thinking about kissing you.  sick with anxiety and adoration and feelings and hatred of your handsomeness and ability to make me feel like we're in a relationship when really there's no talk of emotions, so it can't be) But I'll do that on Mondays ("do you want to have casual sex with me this summer?" you said to me on a monday and proceeded to bootycall me at 2pm the very next day) I don't have to work away (our entire hangout schedule was dictated by when you had to work.  we basically hung out almost every time you weren't working this summer) I like it when I bump you (I like it when we play the "I like it when" game: I like it when you are super goofy // I like it when you make my bed every morning. it's funny that that's the expression we've chosen to express our appreciation of each other.  but I think that's the phrasing you chose and I adopted it) An accident's a truth gate ("this is the best sex I've ever had" I said to you before I realized it was the exactly phrasing and exact same words used by the last girl you hooked up with.  it made me feel so dumb to repeat it.  but I bet your ego really got a stroke out of that one) I'm humbled in your pretty lens ("you're pretty" you said to me over and over again, eventually apologetic for giving the same compliment so many times.  I never really thought of it as being particularly genuine because it was so middle shelf and easy.  but that's not to discredit the unique compliments you gave me like saying you were impressed by how well I could entertain myself) I'll hold you don't you go (when I'm the big spoon and you're the little spoon and my arm is wrapped around you I sleep so well that I get as sad as I can get for being half asleep when you shift around and change position)

Sometimes you're quiet and sometimes I'm quiet,  (Hallelujah!) Sometimes I'm talkative and sometimes you're not talkative, I know Well I'd like to spread your perfume around the old apartment Could we live together and agree on the same wares A trapeze is a bird cage and even if its empty it definitely fits the room And we would too

And my dear dear dear Khalana I talk too much about you Their ears are getting tired of me singing all the night through Lets just talk together You and me and me and you And if there's nothing much to say Well, silence is a bore. I've gotta big big big heart beat, yeah! I think you are the sweetest thing I wear a coat of feelings and they are loud I've been having good days Think we are the right age to start our own peculiar ways? With good friendly homes Sometimes you're quiet and sometimes I'm quiet,  (Hallelujah!) Sometimes I'm talkative and sometimes you're not talkative, I know Sometimes you hear me when others they can't hear me.  (Hallelujah!) Sometimes I'm naked and thank god sometimes you're naked. Well, hello Can I tell you that you are the purple in me? Can I call you just to hear you would you care? When I saw you put your purple finger on me There's a feeling in your bottle Found your bottle, found your heart Gives a feeling from your bottled little part Can I tell you that you are the purple in me? Can I call you just to hear you would you care? When I saw you put your purple finger on me There's a feeling in your bottle Found your bottle, found your heart Gives a feeling from your bottled little part Eh-oh! [4x] Gotta crush high Thought I crushed all I could Crushed all I can then I touched your hand Crush high Don't want it to stop Cause stories of your brother make my crush high bop And you couldn't really know cause its in my toes And sometimes I wonder where'd that crush high go Crush high Then I go and take some pills Cause I cant do all of my do's and still feel ill You get that WOOOO!

[merwomyns-daughter]

what a fucking weird two days

My own writing just made me cry.  I've been pretty sloppy this summer about rereading the things I wrote.  I think it was a lot of stoned laziness, but also a fear.  If I read my own writing I would have to admit that I'm not really a writer because it comes so naturally and I don't actually work or practice at it.  Which is bullshit.  I should be very concerned with improving my writing by doing it frequently especially if I'm trying to go to graduate school for creative nonficiton. 

Just now in my parent's house listening to Civilian  by Wye Oak I finally read some of the things I posted on this blog this summer.  "In 11 days I will be sitting alone in my hot attic bedroom wishing I could cry."  Guess what?  My parents went to bed three hours ago and there I was --alone and wishing I could cry, but my bedroom was too hot so I came downstairs.  So, I started crying when I read it.  But it felt wonderful! I have missed crying so much.  Part of me being in a depressive state is the inability to cry.  I think I was very depressed last summer and didn't know it.  Many of the parts of myself I love like my ability to be friends with so many diverse people and my generosity have been completely untapped from about the first day, January11th  of the second semester of sophomore year (I discovered I had lice) to about the 16th of June.  Just about six months of feeling shitty and sorry for myself all the time, but also so numb, anxious and angry.  Small things like my roommate opening the door while I was napping (when I didn't even text her to tell her I was napping) would ruin my day.  I would sulk around the house and not speak or make eye contact with my housemates and sometimes would hide in the library until everyone was asleep before I came home so I didn't have to see anyone.  Alone was my happiest state of being.  Dinner alone? Cool.  I can cook at home and don't have to make awkward small talk with people I run into in the dining hall from my classes.  Watching hours of Netflix in my spare time?  Perfect.  I will be totally entertained and relaxed without having to speak to anyone.  

Now I see how abnormal that is for myself.  I love socializing and asking questions and talking about myself.  

MORE LATER

[merwomyns-daughter]

They call me, "Raina Roller-Coaster" for a reason.  It's been a month since my numb dumb brain was slathered in the glitter and sunshine of meaningful friendships and what I presumed to be happiness.  None of the circumstances have changed.  I am still in the company of sex, drugs, and good conversation.  On any given day I have at least one of the three, but often a smattering of combinations.  But I slip.  My headspace is occupied with oscillations between self-worth and self-worthlessness.  Vanity and (deep-seated) hatred wear the same skin and use the same legs.  Vanity rips the bong, hatred rides the stoned thoughts to an internal dialogue about the fleshy white stomach they share.  Vanity loves the supple curve and softness, hatred despises the fat.  I can't make myself exercise.  I can't make myself enjoy sex.  I created this downpour of piss on my own parade. Is it because I stopped smoking pot all day every day?  Are my serotonin receptors tired?  Should I smoke right now and feel goofy and numb again?  Last night I told Mr. P I was not in the right mood for sex, so he gave me more drugs.  And then I was able to enjoy myself more. He knew that if he was going to get sex out of the deal he would have to do work.  I resent and admire his dedication to getting my legs to open.  A neck and back massage.  Kisses up and down my shoulders and arms.  Pampering.  More mad at myself for being so easily coaxed with touch.  He knows how to do it right.  So experienced.  I feel inadequate of his perfectness.  Because that's all he lets me see.  Never any flaws.  But I do the same.  Is it fair to only show someone a tiny portion of yourself and make them think they've seen it all?  But Mr. P knows there's more to me.  He doesn't understand how much of a killjoy and a know-it-all I am because I don't show him.  I have never seen him angry.  I don't know if he internalizes it and has a set of hurtful phrases he also uses for masochistic brainspace ramblings.  Does my sadness stem from knowing that I'll never experience that part of him?  That I'll always be kept at arm's length because of our arraignment?  I have shown C the parts of myself I hate, but she still loves me.  Would he?  I'll never know.

[merwomyns-daughter]

Seeing the past and present unfold for these women was a beautiful and thought provoking experience.  I knew life in China was difficult for women, but this film went into the true depths of female suffering.  Obedience and docility seem to be the only qualities desired in these women.  It's scary to watch the daughters make the same mistakes their mothers did and experience the same emotional turmoil on a different continent twenty years after their mothers.  But for each daughter's story there's hope.  Happiness is around the corner for all of them. 

[merwomyns-daughter]

In 10 days this whole summer project will be over.  In 11 days I will be sitting alone in my hot attic bedroom wishing I could cry.  Only when I'm happy does the sweet catharsis of rolling tears on wet cheeks come.  Depression knocks the emotions out of me, leaving me a numb husk of a human hanging to dry in the unasked for solitude of July heat.  Rolling through the motions of cooking and cleaning like a good farm girl does, but gleaning no satisfaction from conversations with my parents who only want the best for me.  The best is to leave me alone.  Do not leave me lists of chores or tell me to weed in the sun for three hours.  Selfish.  I want to eat their vegetables but never to touch their dirt.  I have flown to the status of an academic.  Reading and writing come easier to me than physical labor.  Lacking the vigor of sweat I still sometimes shower twice a day to rid myself of the mental anguish of the writer.  The honesties I'm not ready to face flow down the drain allowing my conscious to feel pure.  How a lover doesn't see the worst parts because I don't want to acknowledge them myself.  Presenting a perfect image of the girl who doesn't give a fuck is only achieved by giving an overwhelming amount of fucks.  Reflective surfaces are my downfall.  It's impossible for me to walk by a mirror without trying my best to nonchalantly catch a glimpse.  To make sure everything lies slovenly-- exactly where I put it.  Calculated sloppy buns, purposefully braless, letting my breasts rudely sway.  If they were polite and perky I would not find as much pleasure in feeling their supple flesh bounce against my ribs.  There are probably about four inches of skin between the beginning of my underboob and my bellybutton.  Saggy is the future of my breasts.  I know because the women in my family are built like refrigerators and when they age gravity pulls everything to the floor.  A melting dripping pile of woman when the door warps so far it can't be closed.  Bent farther over, rag in hand, to clean up the mess-- if no one sees it, it doesn't exist.  On hands and knees lies my ancestors-- proverbial good Jewish wives scrubbing the proverbial kitchen floor out of obedience, duty and love.  The only time I find myself on my hands and knees when I'm being fucked.  I have been trying unsuccessfully to like doggy style for a while now.  It's Mr. P's favorite, but I hate it.  I've never told him how awkward it feels to have a ballsack slapping my ass while supporting my full body weight and seeing my breasts jiggle toward the bed in a very unflattering angle.  Instead I just pray he finishes as fast as possible, because that's how he crosses the finish line.

[merwomyns-daughter]

Dear Jenny,

            We met once in Plattsvegas at a Mouth Breather show in an awkward art gallery next to an awful Chinese food restaurant last summer.   It was the first time I had seen Leo in years.  After watching him sing and strum ragefully in the gallery’s mildewey unfinished basement I wanted to hold a real conversation with him, so I joined you and your friends outside during set break to smoking cigarettes.  I knew it was you because I’ve been stalking your Facebook for the past four years.  I was having a lot of trouble lighting my cigarette and you cupped your hands around my flame.  My hands were shaking, anticipating the nicotine rush that would alleviate the anxiety of reaching out to Leo and being ignored again.  You were the only person that took the time to have a conversation with me that night.  Grateful seems like an overstatement, but I remember your kindness and it makes me feel better about having driven an hour and a half to support my first love and first boyfriend’s band, only to have my attempts of friendliness by him snubbed out like a defective cigarette.             Neither of us knew it then but that would be the last cigarette I would smoke that summer.  Or that it was the last cigarette I would roll for myself up to this point.  The last time I kissed Leo I didn’t know it would be the last.  Did you feel the same before he packed up and moved west to Portland?  I’ve always had trouble distinguishing the line between curiosity and nosiness.  Being curious means scrolling through all of your profile pictures that aren’t private more times that I’d like to admit.  Nosiness would be sending you a friend request, which I’ve thought about, but have never done.  Unfortunately, I’m embarrassed to admit that my Facebook stalking extended to your mom and your sister.  I think that’s nosiness.  Because of our connection through Leo I didn’t know, and still don’t know, how to learn you.  Knowing is different than learning.  I want to observe you and understand why he loved you.  From what I’ve heard you feel the same about me.  “The world is a very small place.  Be kind to everyone,” my mom has always reminded me.  Last week I was sitting on a porch in Lake Placid with Molly and Kate, two of the friends you and Leo shared in high school.  I never saw myself as a part of that world because I was always closer to the city than to the Adirondacks.  Long distance relationships are tough when both people are too young and irresponsible to have driver’s licenses.  The sixteen-year-old Leo that was in love with fourteen-year-old Raina is probably a different Leo than the one that loved you.  But that’s probably the image you have of me in your mind.             It’s not often that the imagined version of someone matches up to the reality of her humanness.  I imagine you conquering mountains in skirts, doing graceful sun salutations on all 46 summits.  The wind attempting to make wild braids of your unruly blonde curls.  Once I saw pictures of you and Leo hiking, which is what this version of you I have in my mind is based off of.  I have no idea if you enjoy yoga; I think that’s me projecting images of myself onto you, so that I may forge some link between us other than a man.  That’s gross underestimation of our experiences as women and as people.  Based on your Facebook profile alone we have at least three other things in common: makeuplessness, a love for thrifted clothing and a goofiness that can be captured on film.  We’ve also both lived in the Adirondack Park, albeit I was there for a summer and you’ve always lived there forever as far as I know.  Waking up to see mountains in every direction is one guaranteed way to make me feel insignificant.  We’re a tiny blip on the geological scale, regardless of whom we love and who loves us.             For a long time I questioned if I actually was ever in love with Leo.  If I was capable of loving someone other than myself before I even entered high school.  Not that sex is a requirement for love, but I want you to know we never had sex.  Losing my virginity to Leo would have been much more romantic and meaningful than the way it actually happened.  Because of the 153 miles between our homes we only had the privilege of hanging out in the flesh two or three times while we dated.  I have absolutely no idea what he’s told you about me, or what you know from the internet.  Leo and I would have marathon AIM and phone conversations for hours and hours on end.  My left ear has always been my phone ear.  After six hours of talking and listening to Leo play me songs on the guitar my ear would be rubbed raw by the plastic receiver, made bright red by the pressure of my shoulder.  Before bed I would masturbate with him on the phone while he sang me goodnight songs.  Tatou by Brand New was a favorite: “I’m sinking like a stone in the sea / I’m burning like a bridge for your body.”  I fell in love with Brand New after I fell in love with Leo.  They were his favorite band first.  Now I have a tattoo in their honor.

            Without Leo I’m convinced I wouldn’t be as proud of my taste in music.  He showed me three of my all time favorite bands: Brand New, Death Cab for Cutie, and Bright Eyes.  So much angst.  I still think he sounds like a younger Ben Gibbard when he sings, sweet and mournful.  The songs he used to write were sad ballots on my mother’s oppression of our love: “I tried to climb these sullen walls / but I guess they get the best of us / I guess they make the calls.”  But you know this.  Kate told me that Leo continued writing songs about me long after we broke up, even while you were dating.  His freshman year of college he sent me a song he wrote about throwing out all the love letters I wrote him.  In my mom’s attic I still have every letter (in his perfect penmanship) and gift he ever gave to me. Both of our hearts were broken when we realized that a long distance relationship was too difficult at that time in our lives.             I imagine it would be off-putting to hear songs about a girl you’ve never met emitted from the lips of the man you love.  Or loved.  The impression I have is that you are no longer together, but that doesn’t change anything for me.  From the pictures I’ve voyeuristically devoured on Facebook I know you were a great match.  Combining both of your humble, yet beautiful awkwardnesses together produced a plethora of pictures of two good-looking people with crooked half smiles, oblivious of how happy they look together.  With you he could explore and grow.  With me he was chained to the computer.  I may have been his first love, but I imagine you were the first woman who showed him what a real relationship feels like.              I’ve tried to be friends with Leo in the six years since our breakup.  Last summer when I lived on the Upper Saranac I reached out to him several times, but never got more than lukewarm responses and unreturned enthusiasm (were you dating last summer?).  When I was in Portland last spring I asked him to hang out, but only got a vague semblance of responses about working and being busy.  I don’t think he can still be mad at me for my actions as a teenager, but I still try to rationalize his actions by remembering how I added my negativity into the mix of his depression and self-hatred.  And then I understand why he might not want to be my friend.  But maybe it has nothing to do with me or how I used to feed his demons.               Triangulation is a strange beast.  A corner has been formed between us: an intersection and a dead end at the same time.  I want to poke and prod the lines so they intersect again, but forcing the universe to put us in the same space at the same time would be futile and against her nature.  I feel like I have to prove something to you.  That something is still evasive and not in the full perception of my self-awareness, so I must continue to essay.  I want you to think I’m cool.  I desire you approval.  Even though it’s completely irrational and not relevant for my immediate happiness, it would make me happy to know two people who shared romantic love with the same person can connect and forge a relationship of their own.  For that to happen, you’d have to be as interested in me as I am in you.   Sharing coffee and conversation with you would be delightful, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t sit in silence with you if that were what you would prefer.  It would make me happy for our humanness to mingle and for each of us to have an accurate representation of the other.  I’m ready to abandon the fleeting notions I have about you, Jenny.  Are you ready to do the same?

  Love Always, Raina

[merwomyns-daughter]

Marjane Satrapi had an incredible journey before she even turned 23.  I know I already said this after reading the book, but I cannot imagine living through the things this woman did.  I'm so thankful she shared her story with the world.  And her art. 

It was heart-breaking to see her leave home and then be rootless in Austria for years until she eventually becomes homeless and returns to Iran.  She can't catch a break.  Iran is still unsafe and her marriage sucks.  I hope that after she returned to France she found happiness and never had to wear a veil again if she didn't want to.

The cultural signifiers of the veil are super interesting because they vary so heavily based on geographical location and upbringing.  There is a ton of stuff on my dash about how women who chose to wear the veil are empowering themselves, but nothing about the women forced into the veil.  At the same time it means oppression and freedom, a strange reckoning game for the internet voyeur who is also a white girl from the suburbs.

After two bouts of what appeared to be supreme heartbreak Strapi doesn't stop from delving into another serious relationship when she returns from Iran.  I had a hard time understanding what would posses her to marry a man she barely knew for supposed protection against being an unmarried woman with a boyfriend.  In Iran I would posit that the purpose of marriage for young people is different from what I've seen.  I don't have any 20-something friends that are married, but it seem more common in Iran.  Although, I don't know if this cultural comparison has any merit.  It doesn't.  But it's the only way I seem to be able to relate to the film.

[merwomyns-daughter]

Percentage of Unsafe Abortions On The Rise Worldwide

Almost half of all abortions performed globally are done so without trained clinical assistance. That’s according to anew study by the World Health Organization.

Overall abortion rates dropped between 1995 and 2003, then remained steady at 28 per 1,000 women a year through 2008. But the proportion of unsafe abortions rose significantly from 44 percent in 1995 to 49 percent in 2008. Unsafe abortion is one of the main contributors to maternal death and includes procedures outside hospitals, clinics and surgeries, or without qualified medical supervision.

Unsafe abortions are especially common in developing countries, particularly those countries with more restrictive abortion laws. In Africa, for example, 97 percent of the abortions performed are considered unsafe, compared to 95 percent in Latin America, 40 percent in Asia and 9 percent in Europe.

The WHO also found that countries with restrictive abortion laws did not have any corresponding decrease in the number of abortions performed. In fact, usually the opposite was true, proving yet again that criminalizing abortion does not end abortion, it just unnecessarily risks women’s lives.

Most disturbing from the report is the inescapable conclusion that the progress made during the 1990s in making abortions safer has not just stalled, it has reversed. Setting policy that stigmatizes women and criminalizes the need to end a pregnancy is nothing short of a complete failure of public health policy.

Family planning saves lives, especially in the developing world. Whether it is legal or illegal, women will seek and obtain abortions because abortions are a fundamental component of women’s health care. It’s time we recognize it as such.

Read the Article Here.

[merwomyns-daughter]

C owes me $10, so we went to DnD drive through this morning so she could pay part of her debt to me in coffee.  After we ordered (two medium iced coffees with cream and sugar-- we're not basic bitches, I promise) C's card was denied.  We already had the drinks in our hands.  "I see you here a lot.  Keep your drinks," said  the wonderful woman wearing a visor and peering through the little glass window.  I don't understand why Dunkin employees have to wear visors.  I suppose it's to keep hair out of their eyes, but from what I've seen visors are to give the eyes privacy from the sun's invasive rays.  Instead, the visors block out the fluorescent lights from being able to swim in the employees' eyes making them appear dead and dull like the inside of a long-forgotten half-full mug of coffee.  Being on the receiving end of the anonymous and eyeless DnD worker's good deed made me feel more alive.  I can only imagine how it affected her.  Positively, I hope.  

C and I have been debating if there is such thing as a self-less act.  As a person who loves showing my friends that I care about them and want them to feel as much happiness as possible, I want to believe there is a self-less act.  When I cook meals and share my space with friends, even if it costs me money or sleep, I don't expect anything in return from them.  I don't care if you're out of pot.  If I have pot, my pot is your pot.  Blissfully stoned together is better for everyone.  Even if sharing makes me feel good, I think it can still be considered self-less.  

My mom has a friend, J, who's been a nun for 25 years.  J just had a jubilee and received over $3,000.  Nuns give up all their worldly possessions to marry Jesus, so J felt pretty guilty about having all that money.  I'm not sure of the exact story, but  a woman was put under J's care who needed new clothing.  Using her jubilee money J bought the women three or four new outfits and felt great about her self-less deed.  But nun's are supposed to be the ultimate vision of humble.  J didn't know what to do with her feelings of elation, so she called my mother the great listener and phone communicator.  She shared her story and the positivity radiated through J's voice into the phone and through the wires to my mother who said she was smiling for the next few hours thinking about how happy her friend was.  Self-less acts have the potential to affect more people than can be imagined.

Mr. Practical pointed out that there is no scientifically self-less act.  Any positive emotion eliciting action stimulates the brain in such a way that happiness chemicals are emitted.  Even when we don't want to feel good about something we do, for fear of bragging or guilt like J, our brain still wants us to be happy.  

I am now caffeinated and content to spend the rest of the morning writing in the library, watching the rain pour down because of the self-less act of a anonymous employee of a large chain store.  I might not have made her morning, but she surely made mine. 

[merwomyns-daughter]

Dear Mr. Not The Sun,

            We lived together for four godawful, long months.  Your head was shoved too far up your ass to understand how difficult it was for me to share space with you.  I regret not telling you exactly how I feel about the casual misogyny, homophobia and unknowing support of rape culture trickled out of your lips like acid rain polluting our environment.  I wanted so badly to get a bunch of your guy friends together to sit you down for a chat.  But I didn’t.  I let my own cowardice about the amount of rage I harbored toward you blind me.  No one else seemed to have the same revulsion I did to you.  I assumed I was over-reacting.  It’s been nearly two months since I’ve seen you, but I still can’t let my anger at myself for not confronting you go.  Next semester you will be on campus as a senior most likely repeating all of the actions that made me so uncomfortable last semester.  But I won’t be there.  Your cycle of behavior will continue and I didn’t say anything to try and make you think about your actions.

            You thought you were the sun: a bright scribble of yellow and orange XXL Hawaiian shirts to brighten everyone’s days with black jokes and full beers.  Red solo cups protrude like rays from your doughy center in all directions.  Cups filling and draining, beer disappearing so quickly it appeared to be evaporating into your stomach.  Your large frame an unparalleled gravitational pull, a black hole, that consumes more alcohol in a week than anyone I’ve seen.  Drinking five or six night a week, constantly asking everyone around if they’ll drink for you.  Enabler: one word that always flashes my mind when I think of you.             Physical humor seems to tickle your fancy.  Grabbing small women without asking in your large, sweaty arms and spinning them around and around and around until they shriek with nausea or (feigned) delight.  Or maybe it was touching that made you feel like you had control over our female friends.  Every time you dragged your large, sweaty steak of a hand over my shoulders, affectionately, I felt myself recoil like a threatened cat.

I never told you to stop touching me.  I never explained how uncomfortable I feel if a man touches me without asking, or how that uncomfortableness becomes tenfold if that man is drunk.  Your touch is triggering for me.  I didn’t tell off the man who groped me, and I didn’t tell you off either.  “No” is a difficult word for me.  I talked a lot of shit about you, but could never say it to your face.  You were always smiling and bumbling, totally unaware.  Smashing your glass of blissful ignorance didn’t seem like a fun job, so I avoided it.  I tried once, but you didn’t get it.

            “You’re a cocksucker.”  Nothing upsets me more than casual misogyny, unless it’s also tied to homophobia.  I explained that cocksucker is a degrading term to straight women and gay men.  I did my best to describe cocksuckers as positive people because you should be thankful if anyone sucks your cock.  Abstinence was something we both held in common that semester we lived together.  But I treated mine like a trump card.  Yours was received angrily like a hit from the dealer that busted your hand.             We were also colleagues.  Working together to create a safe environment for live music and weekend wind-downs.  But when you stand shit-faced on a chair in front of a crowd of over a hundred students wearing a nightgown without boxers with your sad scrotum hanging out, safety is impossible.  Exposing your genitals to a room full of unconsenting people can never be done in “good fun.”  Your friends laughed and encouraged the lewd behavior, because drunk you is hilarious and harmless because when you’re sober you’re so nice; a guy’s guy who is ready for any activity and invited to every party.             We were trained to look out for people like you who make our work environment dangerous because of drunken debauchery.  We weren’t trained about what to do when one of those people was supposed to be a trusted colleague.  You were caught in the back room of the venue blatantly kissing a girl who was too drunk to stand, stumbling and crying.  “She’s fine with me.”  The girl is notorious for drinking herself dumb in public.  She also carries the prefix “crazy” before her name.  Your notoriety is in the number of beers you can consume in one night.  And how friendly and well-liked you are and how you black out every weekend.  If you were actually blacked out that night like you told everyone you were, then who is culpable? 

            I should have lost it that night.  I should have yelled and danced flames in your face until you listened.  Instead I let one of our more “rational” housemates take care of the situation by walking the girl home and giving you a menial task for your drunk ass to do.  Anger is not an emotion I know how to grapple with.  Especially when it’s directed at myself.  Don’t get me wrong, I am fucking pissed at you and your actions and inability to realize appropriate conduct with (drunk) women.  But I still want to rip handfuls of my hair out when I think about my inability to confront you. 

             I was afraid my pariah status in our house would intensify.  Calling you out for sexual assault would make our male housemates think my feminism had gone over an unbearable edge.  Our female housemates agree with me for the most part, but they also were too afraid of the social repercussions for speaking out.  It amazes me how many people like you and how many friends you have.  It must take so much of your energy to maintain those friendships.  I’m jealous of your ability to blow off your schoolwork for socialization.  You’re always having fun, oblivious to all the feminist issues that make it impossible for me to enjoy myself in college social settings.             I was so surprised when the beautiful, tall, curvy (but thin) freshman you invited to our formal (a huge drinking event) said yes.  “If she doesn’t fuck me after formal I’m going to be pissed.”  I tried to explain to you that sex is not an obligation, even if you bring your date to an event with free alcohol.  After formal is also a synonym for drunk.  Formals are occasions for free alcohol to be poured down everyone’s throats, so assuming she would have sex with you afterward most likely means that neither of you is able to consent to any sexual acts.  You were so desperate to get laid that you wanted to rip the free will away from a girl you barely knew.  That is rape culture.  Women are not masturbatory toys to be taken out on dates when you want to get laid. When is the last time you had sex sober?  Have you ever had sober sex in college?

            When I’m gone next semester gallivanting around New York City I really hope you’re not still occupying my mind.  I don’t want to think anymore about what would happen if you crossed the line so far with a drunk woman that you end up hurting her (and yourself) forever.  I know your actions are not my responsibility and your ignorance is not mine to cure.  But that doesn’t mean I can’t hope.

  Love Always,

Your Killjoy Housemate

[merwomyns-daughter]

Stepford Wives (1975) wasn't a horror film for me until the last ten minutes.  Or at least the horror didn't set in until then.  Post-filmo I learned of gaslighting and it's horrors and connection to women.  After that I evaluated the film differently, because the makers definitely had an agenda.  A group of wealthy white men pooling their resources to make perfect, robotic wives.  The plot is thick.  The character development is null.  Joanna is supposedly a feminist, refusing to wear a bra and following her passion of photography, but first she is a wife and a mother.  

The ideals the men pushed on the women were disgusting.  Large breasts, tiny waists, automated sex noises to inflate the men's egos, supreme cooking/cleaning abilities and extreme compliance.  No room for fun or love.  Joanna's husband cried when he realized what they were going to do with his human wife.  But instead he helped to gaslight her. 

I found a few plot holes about the whole set up Dis made.  First of all, what would the women's families be told?  Joanna said a few times all of her family was dead (I think), but we never learn about any of the other women's' families.  If my mom found out I was moving to the suburbs and then I didn't contact her she would drive out there and figure out what was going on.  Upon realizing I was changed into the product of the male gaze only she would kick their asses.  And their children, duh.  How would the children react?  It's not like they're babies and won't remember how their mom used to be a feminist photographer.

[merwomyns-daughter]

It’s rare to see women in a film who are not somehow validated by a male, or discussing a male, or heartbroken by a male, or end up being happy because of a male. It’s interesting to think about, and it’s very true. Of course men are a part of women’s lives, and that’s fine, but it’s important to see strong, independent women who are making their own choices and aren’t completely at the mercy of men. It shouldn’t be, ‘Oh, does this guy love me?’ It should be, ‘Do I love the guy?’

~ Dakota Fanning (via jumblejo)

[merwomyns-daughter]

I wish I could do this!  If I'm ever a professor I totally will.

[merwomyns-daughter]

Steel Magnolias (2012)

As a film about the relationships between women I was not impressed.  Each woman was a walking stereotype.  And the male characters were no better. It was also interesting to me that as a film about an extended African American family, there were only two dark skinned characters, neither of which was a central character.  However, there was a great range of diversity in the body types of the main female characters.  Many more curves than the typical Caucasian cast, which was very refreshing.  I wish in movies about white people acknowledged that not all women are 5'11 and 110 pounds.  

I acknowledge that this movie is doing something different by focusing on the relationships between African American women, but other than that goal, nothing about the film was striking.  Also I disliked how one of the men told his wife she would get fat if she kept eating junk food.  I ALSO disliked that the only mention of a gay person throughout the entire film was for comic humor.

[merwomyns-daughter]

The Anomaly

Dear Mr. Practical,

The silly code name is just a precaution.  No need to upset anyone who needn't be upset.  I've been reading The Ethical Slut and it has me thinking a lot about the type of relationships I want to build.  Summering with you in C-town has been a pleasure I had never imagined could be so sweaty, sexy and orgasmic.  This almost feels like writing a mad lib.  All the words I want to use when I talk to you are cock, fuck, condom, again, gentle, so good, I'm coming.  Mad Lib words.  Used to illicit sight feelings of discomfort that are deflected with laughter and jokes.  

I know you scoff at astrology and don't take it seriously.  It makes me kooky for believing, and you a square for your rugged sensibility (making your bed minutes before I walk through the door).  Which is precisely what the stars say.  I have this fancy book called Cosmic Couplings that explores every single sign pairing m-m/m-f/m-m (very inclusive except for the whole gender binary thing, but I say just pick which every gender you're identifying with on the day you read the book).  Aries man, Aquarius woman: The Anomaly.  Our pairing is very strange to the universe. I am not the normal type of women you chose to engage with carnally because I'm not susceptible to seduction (your specialty) and you're not weird enough for me.  But it actually works because a seeming "normal guy" like yourself is a change for me.  I get to poke fun at you for your practicality (spreading condiments to the very edges of your bread to ensure only the moistest sandwich eating conditions) and help you see that laughing at yourself is necessary.  I love making you laugh.  I don't know if you can tell.  The book's description of our interactions and relationship is incredibly accurate in my opinion; I'll definitely let you read it if you want.  It goes on to say that Aries men helps the Aquarius women get over her insecurities (telling me I'm not high maintenance for asking you to help me scrape all the crumbs off your sheets before bed and reminding me that I'm pretty), and that Aquarius women help Aries men achieve their goals (we haven't known each other long enough for me to know if this is accurate, but I  encourage you to log hours on your favorite video games).  The explicit examples are to ground what you would call out as "vague phrases," and to show you why I love astrology so much.  The last paragraph says, "In time, what was not meant to happen can evolve into the keeper relationship of the ages."  I hope it doesn't scare you that I included it.  I hope you know me well enough by now that I'm pretty okay at being casual about sex.

This is where it gets tricky.  Our summer fling has a definite expiration date.  I move out of town August 1st.  Then in September I move to New York and you go back to your small liberal arts college in Albany county.  When we're apart, I want to be apart.  When we're in the same space, I want to be with you.  The Ethical Slut discusses how to maintain relationships with people who you jive with sexually, emotionally, platonically or otherwise.  I jive with you on so many levels.  I love how we explore together.  Tripping, dabbing, biting, walking, conversing.  Being with you has over-turned rocks in my mind that I painted with seventeen different types of glitter nail polish in the hopes they'd fit in with everything else.  Camouflaged so I wouldn't have to deal with my internal ugly thunderstorm of thoughts and feelings.  Patiently you waited for me to cry out all of my tears without interfering the day we ate acid and started the day as strangers, but ended it as lovers.  Neither of us do emotions well, which is why writing this all out is difficult for me.

You've said before that our sex is weird because we take breaks to talk between positions, instead of just assuming the next one and staying in sexy mode.  I like to engage you as a friend and a sexual partner at the same time.  I like to challenge your practical one-minded mess, because you challenge me to lose even more inhibition and encourage me to do things like giving up deodorant because it masks sexy body smells.  We both pride ourselves on weird, which is why we're so sexually compatible.  Our naked bodies roll around in weird positions, limbs rocking, panting.  Our tongues do weird interpretive dances on sweat-slicked necks.  I don't want it to stop.

 The horoscope book said that our relationship would start with really good communication: "Do you want to have casual sex with me this summer?" I loved how blunt and real you were with me.  Now that our time together is slowly dripping away I would like to define the parameters of our relationship.  The ideal agreement I see having with you would allow me to continue having sex with you when we're in the same geographic location -- indefinitely.  A phone call letting the other know of the dates and times in question, so a rendezvous, or two, can be planned.  If one of us enters into a monogamous relationship, it would be our own responsibility to let the other know if that was the case when we were in close proximity.  It sounds so formal, but it I feel happy just knowing I can fuck you again in the future.  I would love to hear your ideal agreement, so we can compromise and create a healthy plan for the future of our relationship.

Love always,

A Young Ethical Slut

[merwomyns-daughter]

World War Z

The one scene that keeps repeating itself over and over in my head from this movie is when the people behind Israel's wall are being cocky and making too much noise and then the zombies pile on top of each other to climb over the wall.  It's a powerful image that reminds me building walls isn't conducive to safety.  

I appreciated how Brad Pitt's wife was able to stand up for herself and give her daughters an example of a mother who can function without her husband.  The film passed the Bechdel test within five minutes, which was a bonus.  I also LOVED the female Israeli soldier's character.  She was so smart, quick and strong.  She rivaled Brad Pitt for control, and any women who can stand up to a man in a Hollywood film deserves a gold star in my book.

The cast was also very racially diverse, which can be attributed to it being a film with a strong military presence that's set in several different countries.  Definitely not a cheap film to make.  It also really opened my eyes to how differently countries function in times of crisis.  Israel builds walls, North Korea takes the teeth out of its entire population, the U.S. remains in denial and doesn't act until it's too late.  Diplomacy, baby.  

A sad minus is that Brad Pitt is not seen once with his shirt off.  He's doing a good job for someone who wants his acting career taken seriously, instead of relying on that sweet, sweet six pack to carry him.  I suppose I must applaud the development of his interest in being a serious actor.

[merwomyns-daughter]