This isn't a story. And it's not easy for me to tell. This is something I carry with me. It wasn't easy to write because it was pretty personal. I would send it to the person herself but.. if someone reads this and it helps them realize how hurtful they can be, then I'll be glad. It's so easy to be cruel when you're part of a group. But that doesn't make it any more acceptable.
Apology
Here's the thing. I was bullied as a child. But that's not the story. That story is too easy to tell. Covered in a patina of humor and nostalgia, that story is kind of a fun story. It's a story I pull out and tell during lulls in dinner conversation.
The story is that I was a bully.
I never spent very long at a school. Grade school wasn't particularly special. It flew by in a haze of jump rope, school yard taunts, oddball teachers, and kool-aide. At the beginning of middle school, my parents, in their infinite wisdom decided to move me somewhere new. Awkward and new, I didn't fit in very well. I never managed to make any real friends and I disliked most of the kids around me. Not to be outdone, most of them disliked me too. I was subjected to some impersonal bullying and petty little taunts. I had some people I was friendly with, I had some people I was unfriendly with... it wasn't really a big deal. Then I moved again.
I moved to smaller school where everyone seemed to be the same. Determined that I wouldn't repeat my last experience I decided to be friends with *everybody*. Except this one girl. Because there's always a girl in these stories. If I wasn't that girl, then someone had to be, right?
The girl wasn't our friend. The girl wasn't *any body's* friend. She was different you see. She didn't understand us and we didn't understand her. If I was a better person, I would have felt a sense of kinship for this girl who could not manage to belong. That wasn't the case.
I hated this girl. The girl who did nothing but be herself. This girl had so much pressure bearing down on her. Daughter of a teacher, new to the school, different, afraid.. we could have been friends I think, if I was a better person. But you see everyone else hated her too. So why should I be different?
I wasn't. Except sometimes I think I was more cruel than anyone. I tortured this girl. I snubbed her, I mocked her, I called her names.. one time I even raised my hand to her in anger. I wish I could say I felt but about it but.. the more horrible I was to her, the better I felt. You see, I said to myself, she deserves it. She's too strange, too different, she doesn't belong with us. After all, everyone else was doing it.
The only person I know who was smart enough and brave enough to say no was my friend, M. She refused to judge the girl for being something other. She was kind to her. Often she would tell us to lay off the girl. M couldn't stop us though, no one could. I wish someone had.
I will always regret my cruelty to that girl. Who was brave enough to keep being herself through three years of torture. Who tried her hardest not to let us break her. I hope we didn't break her.
The story could end here, with me carrying these regrets, wondering what happened to the girl I bullied. But we live in a digital age. We live in the era of facebook and twitter. Every life you touched will find a way back to you.
The girl, she got back in touch with me a while back. She was friendly and sweet to me. She's happily married with kids. She seems well adjusted. We've never really spoken of those years we spent in the same school. I've never asked her to forgive me. I don't think I have the right. But I will apologize.
A? I'm sorry. I hope you don't carry any pain from those years. I hope you know that I regret every horrible thing I said or did to you. I hope you're happy, I can't think of anyone who deserves it more.
Showing posts with label me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label me. Show all posts
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Monday, 9 November 2009
It's Not Sex
It's not sex I miss. You can't miss what you never had, not really. What I miss is the intimacy. The easy physical affection. I miss touching. I miss hugging. I miss kissing.
Twenty days, only twenty days of being around only other LGBT women, and it's more real than an entire lifetime of everything else. Twenty days of breathing easy. Twenty days of honesty. Twenty days of belonging. Twenty days of joy.
Three months since I've been back in my real life, but I am no longer able to reconcile myself to the lie. Three months of acting straight. Three months of being back in the closet. Three months of being bereft of touch.
In Lebanon, Inever went long without the someone's arms slipped around me, offering love and comfort. Say what you will about the Community, they are not stingy in their physical affection. I never knew how tactile a person I was until I had all that at my fingertips. Often literally so.
These girls, my girls, their love, it overwhelms. In our space, there are no barriers. At first it seemed so strange, everyone climbing under, over, and onto one another. I was hesitant at first. For a few seconds. But I quickly fell under the spell of their complete openness and generosity in their affection. I had no idea how starved I was for all of it until I could have my fill. I never knew there was someplace I could belong. But like Frost says, Nothing gold can stay.
So I came back to Kuwait. So Eden sank to grief. Once again I am without the comfort of loving arms.
What I'm Listening To Right Now: Reelin' in the Years - Steely Dan
Twenty days, only twenty days of being around only other LGBT women, and it's more real than an entire lifetime of everything else. Twenty days of breathing easy. Twenty days of honesty. Twenty days of belonging. Twenty days of joy.
Three months since I've been back in my real life, but I am no longer able to reconcile myself to the lie. Three months of acting straight. Three months of being back in the closet. Three months of being bereft of touch.
In Lebanon, Inever went long without the someone's arms slipped around me, offering love and comfort. Say what you will about the Community, they are not stingy in their physical affection. I never knew how tactile a person I was until I had all that at my fingertips. Often literally so.
These girls, my girls, their love, it overwhelms. In our space, there are no barriers. At first it seemed so strange, everyone climbing under, over, and onto one another. I was hesitant at first. For a few seconds. But I quickly fell under the spell of their complete openness and generosity in their affection. I had no idea how starved I was for all of it until I could have my fill. I never knew there was someplace I could belong. But like Frost says, Nothing gold can stay.
So I came back to Kuwait. So Eden sank to grief. Once again I am without the comfort of loving arms.
What I'm Listening To Right Now: Reelin' in the Years - Steely Dan
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Night Time Rituals
I’m not in love with her, that I know. But she draws me like no other, and I am certainly in love with the idea of being in love with her.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If at fifteen I was thinner, taller, beautiful, desirable. What would it have been like if I had known I was gay? That she was gay. If I had known how much I would want her. If I had taken the chance. If I had the courage to speak to her. If I had smiled and put my fingers at her wrist. If I had been bold enough to casually brush her hip with mine. If I hadn't seen her just that one time, and unaware, left her in my subconscious biding her time.
What if we were high school sweethearts? If I had wanted her and she had wanted me. If I had told, asked, begged, pleaded, gotten down on bended knee. If I had asked her in written word, and touch, in song, in the way I looked at her. I wish that I had looked at her.
What if we were in love? What if hers were the first lips put to mine? If she had been the first one inside of me, her fingers tentative at first, her brow drawn as I lay back, one hand resting on her shoulder, fingers splayed, my mouth slack in surprise, letting out a cry of pleasurepain. If I had worshiped at the altar of her divinity, on my knees, face buried in her heat, one of her heels digging into the small of my back.
What if she had left me for that school so far away, and made me cry hot tears into my pillow, unable to tell anyone, terrified that it was for good? What if she stayed true to me as I pined for her? Seen her in every corner, every curve, every ray of light. Her eyes, her smile, that quirk of amusement at the corner of her mouth?
What if she came back to me and made my heart swell? What if she had known my friends, my arm loose around her waist, confident that she was mine? If I had melted in to her, bracketed by her legs, my back to her chest, acting extra coupley on movie night. If I had fallen asleep in her arms after going at it hot and dirty back in her bed, only to start awake terrified: what time is it, my parents are probably wondering where I am?
Instead I spoke to her years after that first glance. Instead she’s just a face on the computer screen, and has probably forgotten all about that awkward meeting.
Our could-bes are my bedtime stories, many a night they sing me to sleep. I am not in love with her, but I’m very much in love with the idea of being in love with her.
Credit where credit is due, I was inspired, love-crumbs notwithstanding:
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
-ee cummings
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. If at fifteen I was thinner, taller, beautiful, desirable. What would it have been like if I had known I was gay? That she was gay. If I had known how much I would want her. If I had taken the chance. If I had the courage to speak to her. If I had smiled and put my fingers at her wrist. If I had been bold enough to casually brush her hip with mine. If I hadn't seen her just that one time, and unaware, left her in my subconscious biding her time.
What if we were high school sweethearts? If I had wanted her and she had wanted me. If I had told, asked, begged, pleaded, gotten down on bended knee. If I had asked her in written word, and touch, in song, in the way I looked at her. I wish that I had looked at her.
What if we were in love? What if hers were the first lips put to mine? If she had been the first one inside of me, her fingers tentative at first, her brow drawn as I lay back, one hand resting on her shoulder, fingers splayed, my mouth slack in surprise, letting out a cry of pleasurepain. If I had worshiped at the altar of her divinity, on my knees, face buried in her heat, one of her heels digging into the small of my back.
What if she had left me for that school so far away, and made me cry hot tears into my pillow, unable to tell anyone, terrified that it was for good? What if she stayed true to me as I pined for her? Seen her in every corner, every curve, every ray of light. Her eyes, her smile, that quirk of amusement at the corner of her mouth?
What if she came back to me and made my heart swell? What if she had known my friends, my arm loose around her waist, confident that she was mine? If I had melted in to her, bracketed by her legs, my back to her chest, acting extra coupley on movie night. If I had fallen asleep in her arms after going at it hot and dirty back in her bed, only to start awake terrified: what time is it, my parents are probably wondering where I am?
Instead I spoke to her years after that first glance. Instead she’s just a face on the computer screen, and has probably forgotten all about that awkward meeting.
Our could-bes are my bedtime stories, many a night they sing me to sleep. I am not in love with her, but I’m very much in love with the idea of being in love with her.
Credit where credit is due, I was inspired, love-crumbs notwithstanding:
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
-ee cummings
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Though I Have No Camera
My day consists of a few dozen photographs. Sometimes I feel like an uninvested observer, fascinated by the boring details of my life, taking snapshots to document the ordinary. A pair of pale gold ballerina flats carelessly abandoned in the middle of my bedroom floor. Click. The casual intimacy of my unmade bed telling a story far more interesting than the truth of my restless sleep. Click. The view from my windshield of the cars gently gleaming before me as I idle at a traffic light. Click.
Most days, The City (it’s the only city we have) comes up like a revelation as I make my way back home from Shuwiakh on the road that takes you to the Sheraton Roundabout. The City usually breaks up from the flatness of the skyline like a tiny copse of trees and grows larger until it swallows me up. But some days the sky has other ideas. Some days it is The City that is swallowed by the sky, heavy with yellow dust.
Dusty days usually cause me a lot of grief, but on one particular day I lay safe in the arms of the antihistamines I rarely remember to take. On that particular day, free of stuffiness and itchiness and other things best left unmentioned, I noticed that the desert had swallowed up my metropolitan oasis of metal and steel.
Instead of the old familiar face greeting me at our usual place, I was by met emptiness beckoning me closer, and so I drove on. As I approached, buildings began to loom out one by one, shrouded in an unfamiliar cloak of gritty mystery. Instead of the usual merry group, each was a hulking monolith of individuality.
Odd, how an ordinary turn of weather had changed the friendly face of my city into something alien. It seemed everything was muffled, darker. It seemed to me like every structure carried a sort of dull post-apocalyptic sheen, left all alone and condemned to a destiny of solitude. It reminded of a short burst of fiction I once wrote in my original blog.
Some bits and pieces of that recently remembered something...
"We built the world, height upon height, we rose up reaching for the sky. We thought we could leave the mess, the grit and dirt of humanity behind. Reaching out to the clean expanse of sky, dirtying it as we reached... Then they left us here, living in the shadows of what they have wrought, mere skeletons now. Left us with hollow husks, laying under this blotted out sun. What a legacy they’ve left us, cadavers, monoliths, useless, a tribute to a pointless race whose outcome has been lost to time."
As I often do, I wished the I did in fact have a camera.
Er… perhaps I was feeling particularly lonely that day?
What I'm Listening To Right Now: Eh Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say) - Lady Gaga
Most days, The City (it’s the only city we have) comes up like a revelation as I make my way back home from Shuwiakh on the road that takes you to the Sheraton Roundabout. The City usually breaks up from the flatness of the skyline like a tiny copse of trees and grows larger until it swallows me up. But some days the sky has other ideas. Some days it is The City that is swallowed by the sky, heavy with yellow dust.
Dusty days usually cause me a lot of grief, but on one particular day I lay safe in the arms of the antihistamines I rarely remember to take. On that particular day, free of stuffiness and itchiness and other things best left unmentioned, I noticed that the desert had swallowed up my metropolitan oasis of metal and steel.
Instead of the old familiar face greeting me at our usual place, I was by met emptiness beckoning me closer, and so I drove on. As I approached, buildings began to loom out one by one, shrouded in an unfamiliar cloak of gritty mystery. Instead of the usual merry group, each was a hulking monolith of individuality.
Odd, how an ordinary turn of weather had changed the friendly face of my city into something alien. It seemed everything was muffled, darker. It seemed to me like every structure carried a sort of dull post-apocalyptic sheen, left all alone and condemned to a destiny of solitude. It reminded of a short burst of fiction I once wrote in my original blog.
Some bits and pieces of that recently remembered something...
"We built the world, height upon height, we rose up reaching for the sky. We thought we could leave the mess, the grit and dirt of humanity behind. Reaching out to the clean expanse of sky, dirtying it as we reached... Then they left us here, living in the shadows of what they have wrought, mere skeletons now. Left us with hollow husks, laying under this blotted out sun. What a legacy they’ve left us, cadavers, monoliths, useless, a tribute to a pointless race whose outcome has been lost to time."
As I often do, I wished the I did in fact have a camera.
Er… perhaps I was feeling particularly lonely that day?
What I'm Listening To Right Now: Eh Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say) - Lady Gaga
Saturday, 14 March 2009
All Sorts of FAIL
So here’s the thing. I exist (and I use that word in its loosest sense) at the peripherals of certain online sci-fi/fantasy communities. I don’t really engage, I mostly just surf the blogs and communities for reviews and fandom meta (analytical essays by fans of specific book/series/episode/etc.). One thing I’m following at the moment is an ongoing debate on racism and the racism, real or perceived, of a few prominent figures which has stemmed from comments they have and actions they have taken which were... unwise, to say the least.
One of the catalysts of this spiraling debate was a post of a white sf/f author on how to write the other and several People of Color calling her on the fact that they don’t think she should be giving advice on proper portrayal of PoC characters given the shortcomings of her own portrayals. Now Racefail 09 as it has come to be called isn’t really what this post is about. This post, as most of my posts are is about… me.
As I was reading some really interesting comments about marginalization and whitewashing of characters who ‘happen to be’ people of color, Black or otherwise, it got me wondering. Am I a person of color? Or is that some exclusively western concept. Or am *I* the privileged dominant race.
See here’s the thing. I am a Kuwaiti who lives in Kuwait, and if you haven’t seen Kuwaiti Privilege you haven’t seen anything. Now our power doesn’t come from the remnants of slavery (although that did take place in the not so distant past), our privilege is government sanctioned, signed and notarized. You see, we have a little black book called our ‘Nationality’. I’m not being metaphorical here; we have black bound booklets that hold our nationality info that we call our nationality. Here’s the thing too, not all Kuwaitis are created equals, at least not according to our constitution. Depending on how you came across your citizenship, you get all sorts of levels and flavors of privilege.
If you’re descended from the male line of someone who was around during the 1920 census, congratulations, you’re an Article 1 Citizen (sorry ladies, if you marry a non-Kuwaiti your children are shit out of luck, regardless of your contributions to your country). Naturalized? No worries, you’re an Article 5, you have all the rights and responsibly… er except the right to vote, you have to wait twenty years for that. Your kids are Article 7 though, they can totally vote when they’re 21. Their kids even get shiny super special Article 1s! Ladies, if you want a Kuwaiti citizenship of your very own you can marry a Kuwaiti guy and five years later you can even apply for an Article 8. Non-Kuwaiti husbands of Kuwaiti women are of course as shit out of luck as their children. Tomorrow we’ll put all your different nationalities up and play discrimination and privilege bingo.
Of course the narrow legal view is an oversimplification. It doesn’t take into consideration all the cool nonofficial discrimination. The discrimination on the basis of Country and Region of Origin, Arab vs. Persian Ancestry, Sunni vs. Shiite, Tribe, Class, and Family Connections. And of course the universal, Skin Color. Oh how about Religious School of Thought or you know, Preferred Brand of Toothpaste. You know we don’t marry our girls to Colgate guys; they’re just not our kind of people.
Now how non-Kuwaitis are treated like they’re subhuman is a whole ‘nother thing. The attitudes of some people are just, god *sickening* is not strong enough a word. There is of course a whole class/region/race distinction to that too. The discrimination against Arabs is of course different than that against Non-Arabs is *extremely* different to that against Southeast Asians. The discrimination against Moneyed Arabs is different from that towards non-Moneyed Arabs. Don’t even get me started on the treatment of unskilled laborers and domestic help as if they’re a legalized form of slavery or how those discriminated against turn around and do the same to everyone else. After all, racism and bigotry comes in all sorts of fun flavors too!
I started this post with a preface about the Racefail 09 debate because I was going to write some fiction that was a little less whitewashed than my usual. In fact I though I was headed that way until about three paragraphs into the post. Sorry, it seems my indignation has once again hijacked my brain. Hopefully, I’ll have something a little less Ranty McSoapbox next time. Honestly, remember when my post used to be *fun*? Yeah, neither do I.
For more on Racefail 09 go Here and Here.
For more on the articles of the Kuwaiti Citizenship Laws go Here. Sorry it’s in Arabic, I couldn’t find a decent English version. The Google translation was sadly inadequate.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: The Only Living Boy in New York - Simon & Garfunkel
One of the catalysts of this spiraling debate was a post of a white sf/f author on how to write the other and several People of Color calling her on the fact that they don’t think she should be giving advice on proper portrayal of PoC characters given the shortcomings of her own portrayals. Now Racefail 09 as it has come to be called isn’t really what this post is about. This post, as most of my posts are is about… me.
As I was reading some really interesting comments about marginalization and whitewashing of characters who ‘happen to be’ people of color, Black or otherwise, it got me wondering. Am I a person of color? Or is that some exclusively western concept. Or am *I* the privileged dominant race.
See here’s the thing. I am a Kuwaiti who lives in Kuwait, and if you haven’t seen Kuwaiti Privilege you haven’t seen anything. Now our power doesn’t come from the remnants of slavery (although that did take place in the not so distant past), our privilege is government sanctioned, signed and notarized. You see, we have a little black book called our ‘Nationality’. I’m not being metaphorical here; we have black bound booklets that hold our nationality info that we call our nationality. Here’s the thing too, not all Kuwaitis are created equals, at least not according to our constitution. Depending on how you came across your citizenship, you get all sorts of levels and flavors of privilege.
If you’re descended from the male line of someone who was around during the 1920 census, congratulations, you’re an Article 1 Citizen (sorry ladies, if you marry a non-Kuwaiti your children are shit out of luck, regardless of your contributions to your country). Naturalized? No worries, you’re an Article 5, you have all the rights and responsibly… er except the right to vote, you have to wait twenty years for that. Your kids are Article 7 though, they can totally vote when they’re 21. Their kids even get shiny super special Article 1s! Ladies, if you want a Kuwaiti citizenship of your very own you can marry a Kuwaiti guy and five years later you can even apply for an Article 8. Non-Kuwaiti husbands of Kuwaiti women are of course as shit out of luck as their children. Tomorrow we’ll put all your different nationalities up and play discrimination and privilege bingo.
Of course the narrow legal view is an oversimplification. It doesn’t take into consideration all the cool nonofficial discrimination. The discrimination on the basis of Country and Region of Origin, Arab vs. Persian Ancestry, Sunni vs. Shiite, Tribe, Class, and Family Connections. And of course the universal, Skin Color. Oh how about Religious School of Thought or you know, Preferred Brand of Toothpaste. You know we don’t marry our girls to Colgate guys; they’re just not our kind of people.
Now how non-Kuwaitis are treated like they’re subhuman is a whole ‘nother thing. The attitudes of some people are just, god *sickening* is not strong enough a word. There is of course a whole class/region/race distinction to that too. The discrimination against Arabs is of course different than that against Non-Arabs is *extremely* different to that against Southeast Asians. The discrimination against Moneyed Arabs is different from that towards non-Moneyed Arabs. Don’t even get me started on the treatment of unskilled laborers and domestic help as if they’re a legalized form of slavery or how those discriminated against turn around and do the same to everyone else. After all, racism and bigotry comes in all sorts of fun flavors too!
I started this post with a preface about the Racefail 09 debate because I was going to write some fiction that was a little less whitewashed than my usual. In fact I though I was headed that way until about three paragraphs into the post. Sorry, it seems my indignation has once again hijacked my brain. Hopefully, I’ll have something a little less Ranty McSoapbox next time. Honestly, remember when my post used to be *fun*? Yeah, neither do I.
For more on Racefail 09 go Here and Here.
For more on the articles of the Kuwaiti Citizenship Laws go Here. Sorry it’s in Arabic, I couldn’t find a decent English version. The Google translation was sadly inadequate.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: The Only Living Boy in New York - Simon & Garfunkel
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Please Please Please
Oh, please won’t you stop breaking my heart.
It keeps getting broken, and I have to piece it together over and over. It’s chipped and cracked, the faults spelling out the secrets of the universe if only I knew enough to read them.
It curls inside my breast, aching, like a hand cupping something precious.
It’s so delicate, like a dandelion puff, falling apart at the slightest provocation. A smile, a picture, the sunset, the rain, a story, a film, a song. Begging to be broken just on more time.
I feel it right there below my ribs, and my breath hitches and it hurts, god so pretty.
Oh, please, don’t you stop breaking my heart.
What I’m Listening to Right Now: غايب حبيبي – عبدالمجيد عبدالله
It keeps getting broken, and I have to piece it together over and over. It’s chipped and cracked, the faults spelling out the secrets of the universe if only I knew enough to read them.
It curls inside my breast, aching, like a hand cupping something precious.
It’s so delicate, like a dandelion puff, falling apart at the slightest provocation. A smile, a picture, the sunset, the rain, a story, a film, a song. Begging to be broken just on more time.
I feel it right there below my ribs, and my breath hitches and it hurts, god so pretty.
Oh, please, don’t you stop breaking my heart.
What I’m Listening to Right Now: غايب حبيبي – عبدالمجيد عبدالله
Monday, 3 November 2008
Good Day Sunshine
This morning was mine. Today nature decided to begin a day just for me. She made a morning so pretty it broke my heart, and placed it in my hands, gentle as a kiss.
Other people have their summers. They have their long lazy days as they lay on the warm sand. They have the gritty feel of sand on their legs and the coconut smell of suntan oil. They have their bright sunshine, their runs in the park. They have their freshly cut grass and melting ice-cream cones.
I have the first overcast day of the year. I have the soft rain steadily falling on the water of the marina, on the stones of the courtyard, on the ridiculous green lampposts. I have little brown birds smaller than my hand hopping on the ledge, feathers fluffed up and damp. I have the tentative touch of the cool breeze soft on my face like a hesitant lover. I have the weak sunlight slowly but surely making its presence known. I have the clean smell of wet dirt as I make my way back to my car.
More rainy days will come. I will probably tire of them. I’ll get distracted. I’ll spend them indoors and let them pass me by. I may even long for the heat of summer.
None of that will erase that this morning was mine.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: Grace - Jeff Buckley
P.S. You should definitely read Wandering by HZ, which is this sweet beautiful short story about a friendship between the Earth and a comet. If you're going to anthropomorphize heavenly bodies, this is definitely the way to go.
Other people have their summers. They have their long lazy days as they lay on the warm sand. They have the gritty feel of sand on their legs and the coconut smell of suntan oil. They have their bright sunshine, their runs in the park. They have their freshly cut grass and melting ice-cream cones.
I have the first overcast day of the year. I have the soft rain steadily falling on the water of the marina, on the stones of the courtyard, on the ridiculous green lampposts. I have little brown birds smaller than my hand hopping on the ledge, feathers fluffed up and damp. I have the tentative touch of the cool breeze soft on my face like a hesitant lover. I have the weak sunlight slowly but surely making its presence known. I have the clean smell of wet dirt as I make my way back to my car.
More rainy days will come. I will probably tire of them. I’ll get distracted. I’ll spend them indoors and let them pass me by. I may even long for the heat of summer.
None of that will erase that this morning was mine.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: Grace - Jeff Buckley
P.S. You should definitely read Wandering by HZ, which is this sweet beautiful short story about a friendship between the Earth and a comet. If you're going to anthropomorphize heavenly bodies, this is definitely the way to go.
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Friends Don't Let Friends Overshare
On the plus side I don't suffer much menstrual pain, just a vague backache and some ovarian discomfort. On the downside I have horrible PMT. I just want this dark cloud hovering my head to be over. My god, please just start already!
what she was wearing
by Denver Butson
this is my suicide dress
she told him
I only wear it on days
when I'm afraid
I might kill myself
if I don't wear it
you've been wearing it
every day since we met
he said
and these are my arson gloves
so you don't set fire to something?
he asked
exactly
and this is my terrorism lipstick
my assault and battery eyeliner
my armed robbery boots
I'd like to undress you he said
but would that make me an accomplice?
and today she said I'm wearing
my infidelity underwear
so don't get any ideas
and she put on her nervous breakdown hat
and walked out the door
What I'm Listening to Right Now: ماحد كما المولى - عادل الماس
what she was wearing
by Denver Butson
this is my suicide dress
she told him
I only wear it on days
when I'm afraid
I might kill myself
if I don't wear it
you've been wearing it
every day since we met
he said
and these are my arson gloves
so you don't set fire to something?
he asked
exactly
and this is my terrorism lipstick
my assault and battery eyeliner
my armed robbery boots
I'd like to undress you he said
but would that make me an accomplice?
and today she said I'm wearing
my infidelity underwear
so don't get any ideas
and she put on her nervous breakdown hat
and walked out the door
What I'm Listening to Right Now: ماحد كما المولى - عادل الماس
Thursday, 23 October 2008
I Am An Old Internet Meme
Or this is. It's one or the other. Or possibly both. So Inchy tagged me, and I posted because I'm obedient like that. Also nosy. And the type to overshare. It's win-win!
The rules:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Write six random things about yourself
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
I don't know how this is any different than my random information dumps but ok.
1. This isn't my only blog. I have another blog that I started around three years ago which I still post on, on and off. A few people that I know on that blog know my real life info, and while I trust them with a lot of stuff, I'm not out to them. Hence this all new 50% gayer blog. So if my writing style seems oddly familiar to couple of people who've come across this blog, that's the reason.
2. I wear a veil/headscarf/hijab/whatever you call it. Not the face covering part, just the thing muslim girls wrap around their heads. I'm not really for or against it, nobody made me wear it. It's a decision I made when I was 14, one I probably wouldn't make it the same way if I knew then what I know now. I don't particularly regret it. My only concern is that it makes me a bit of a hypocrite, hiding who I am behind religious symbolism.
3. My eyeteeth are slightly elongated. My fang like teeth do not make me a vampire. Don't be fooled by the bloodlust.
4. My parents are related. My mother is my paternal grandmother's cousin. So that means that my dad is also my second cousin. Unusual? Not so much in this part of the world where cousins marrying is the case more often than not. Gross? You betcha. I'm inbred!
5. Despite my extreme clumsiness and my being in a spectacular car wreck that involved my car flipping over and over down the highway and me crawling out of the smoking debris (good times), my most serious injury was a cut on my palm that needed a couple of stitches that I got when I fell through a glass door.
6. Sometimes I think I have olfactory hallucinations.
And I just realized that I lead the most boring sheltered life ever.
I tag: Boojam, De Campo BC, Delicately Realistic, Unique Stephen, Kwtia, and F.
Whaddya know. I actually know enough people to do this properly. Sort of. I knew my antisocial tendencies would come back to bite me in the ass one day.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: Valerie - Mark Ronson ft. Amy Winehouse
The rules:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Write six random things about yourself
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
I don't know how this is any different than my random information dumps but ok.
1. This isn't my only blog. I have another blog that I started around three years ago which I still post on, on and off. A few people that I know on that blog know my real life info, and while I trust them with a lot of stuff, I'm not out to them. Hence this all new 50% gayer blog. So if my writing style seems oddly familiar to couple of people who've come across this blog, that's the reason.
2. I wear a veil/headscarf/hijab/whatever you call it. Not the face covering part, just the thing muslim girls wrap around their heads. I'm not really for or against it, nobody made me wear it. It's a decision I made when I was 14, one I probably wouldn't make it the same way if I knew then what I know now. I don't particularly regret it. My only concern is that it makes me a bit of a hypocrite, hiding who I am behind religious symbolism.
3. My eyeteeth are slightly elongated. My fang like teeth do not make me a vampire. Don't be fooled by the bloodlust.
4. My parents are related. My mother is my paternal grandmother's cousin. So that means that my dad is also my second cousin. Unusual? Not so much in this part of the world where cousins marrying is the case more often than not. Gross? You betcha. I'm inbred!
5. Despite my extreme clumsiness and my being in a spectacular car wreck that involved my car flipping over and over down the highway and me crawling out of the smoking debris (good times), my most serious injury was a cut on my palm that needed a couple of stitches that I got when I fell through a glass door.
6. Sometimes I think I have olfactory hallucinations.
And I just realized that I lead the most boring sheltered life ever.
I tag: Boojam, De Campo BC, Delicately Realistic, Unique Stephen, Kwtia, and F.
Whaddya know. I actually know enough people to do this properly. Sort of. I knew my antisocial tendencies would come back to bite me in the ass one day.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: Valerie - Mark Ronson ft. Amy Winehouse
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
I Miss My Mind The Most
Maybe because these other things I haven't lost. They are merely temporarily misplaced.
Taco/Starla: My best friend. My platonic soul mate. She's like my elbow, under appreciated yet completely necessary. She tolerates my oddness and my attempts at humor, and she doesn’t kill me in my sleep. Also, she is a twelve year old boy and a classically trained mime (no she’s not just quiet don’t believe a word she says). We spend much too much time disappearing on one another.
Cairo: A couple of years ago I got to spend a week at Starla's place there. It was loud, crowded, dirty and I loved every second of it. There are a lot of places that I fell head over heels for, but my favorite is a place called Shadder. Tucked away in a residential area it's the oddest mix of old and new. Traditional low to the ground seats and hookahs. Wirless internet and alternative rock music. Saj bread with Nutella. Cairo needs its own post.
The Meems: The lesbian community support group I met in Lebanon. They're accepting, smart, focused, hardworking and active. They've achieved so much in a short time. I'm proud to claim those women as friends. They're just so warm and inclusive. They also need their own post.
Smoking: I am not a smoker. I 'm always ‘quitting’ smoking. I will have a couple of cigarettes every few months, and then spend every moment thinking about how I’m not smoking. It’s been nearly two months since my last cigarette, but I’ve had a couple of hookahs in the meantime so… one of which like the equivalent of an entire pack? Healthy. I miss the way smoking a cigarette makes me feel, and the ritual of it.
The Gym: I'm too lazy to go to the gym, but I miss the way working out makes me feel. Blood pumping, full of endorphins. Catching the occasional yoga session (I am the least bendy person ever). Spinning class. Swimming.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin
Taco/Starla: My best friend. My platonic soul mate. She's like my elbow, under appreciated yet completely necessary. She tolerates my oddness and my attempts at humor, and she doesn’t kill me in my sleep. Also, she is a twelve year old boy and a classically trained mime (no she’s not just quiet don’t believe a word she says). We spend much too much time disappearing on one another.
Cairo: A couple of years ago I got to spend a week at Starla's place there. It was loud, crowded, dirty and I loved every second of it. There are a lot of places that I fell head over heels for, but my favorite is a place called Shadder. Tucked away in a residential area it's the oddest mix of old and new. Traditional low to the ground seats and hookahs. Wirless internet and alternative rock music. Saj bread with Nutella. Cairo needs its own post.
The Meems: The lesbian community support group I met in Lebanon. They're accepting, smart, focused, hardworking and active. They've achieved so much in a short time. I'm proud to claim those women as friends. They're just so warm and inclusive. They also need their own post.
Smoking: I am not a smoker. I 'm always ‘quitting’ smoking. I will have a couple of cigarettes every few months, and then spend every moment thinking about how I’m not smoking. It’s been nearly two months since my last cigarette, but I’ve had a couple of hookahs in the meantime so… one of which like the equivalent of an entire pack? Healthy. I miss the way smoking a cigarette makes me feel, and the ritual of it.
The Gym: I'm too lazy to go to the gym, but I miss the way working out makes me feel. Blood pumping, full of endorphins. Catching the occasional yoga session (I am the least bendy person ever). Spinning class. Swimming.
What I'm Listening to Right Now: Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin
Sunday, 12 October 2008
Social Butterfly
The short lifespan part at least.
Growing up I was half in love with Ponyboy from The Outsiders. I also wanted to be him. I thought it was some sort of narcissism.
The only long-term relationship I’ve had in my life is with my best friend. I have trouble maintaining friendships because I panic, feel trapped and obligated, then start to distance myself. My best friend spends most of the year studying abroad and is possibly the world’s least demanding person and one of my favorite people of all time. I’ve known her for nearly ten years. Taco/Starla.
Most of my other friendships either start out very intense, but die out quickly or are on standby year round with occasional short bursts of activity to keep them viable.
I am not a people person.
Nearly a year ago I made new friends. Two guys and a girl. We started off spending nearly every day together. One of the guys drifted off. The remaining guy paired up with the girl. The girl and I remain pretty close. The boyfriend and I are still pretty friendly. Girl and Guy, the Couple.
Of the gay women’s group I hit off pretty well with one girl. We still keep in touch, more or less. She’s smart and funny, and inexplicably fond of my odd thought processes. Jen.
A few years ago I met a fanfiction writer online. I was a fan of her writing, and we started an IM friendship. She was sweet, smart, and funny. Wife to a tattoo artist and mother to a cool kid, and although those things are very much a part of who she is, they don't define her. She’s incredibly talented, and is still online. I stopped talking to her over a year ago. I’d really like to get back that friendship but I don’t know how to start. Tabaqui.
People often underestimate my younger sister. Everyone thinks I’m the smart one because I’m outspoken and she’s pathologically shy. She’s creative, hardworking, and loves to learn. She’s the only person in my family who for the most part accepts me. Violet.
Taco/Starla, Girl!Couple, Boy!Couple, Jen, Tabaqui, and Vi. These are the people I consider friends.
What I'm Listening To Right Now: Grave's Amazing Hands - Dave Barnes
Next Post: Word Porn or Religion. I am yet undecided.
Growing up I was half in love with Ponyboy from The Outsiders. I also wanted to be him. I thought it was some sort of narcissism.
The only long-term relationship I’ve had in my life is with my best friend. I have trouble maintaining friendships because I panic, feel trapped and obligated, then start to distance myself. My best friend spends most of the year studying abroad and is possibly the world’s least demanding person and one of my favorite people of all time. I’ve known her for nearly ten years. Taco/Starla.
Most of my other friendships either start out very intense, but die out quickly or are on standby year round with occasional short bursts of activity to keep them viable.
I am not a people person.
Nearly a year ago I made new friends. Two guys and a girl. We started off spending nearly every day together. One of the guys drifted off. The remaining guy paired up with the girl. The girl and I remain pretty close. The boyfriend and I are still pretty friendly. Girl and Guy, the Couple.
Of the gay women’s group I hit off pretty well with one girl. We still keep in touch, more or less. She’s smart and funny, and inexplicably fond of my odd thought processes. Jen.
A few years ago I met a fanfiction writer online. I was a fan of her writing, and we started an IM friendship. She was sweet, smart, and funny. Wife to a tattoo artist and mother to a cool kid, and although those things are very much a part of who she is, they don't define her. She’s incredibly talented, and is still online. I stopped talking to her over a year ago. I’d really like to get back that friendship but I don’t know how to start. Tabaqui.
People often underestimate my younger sister. Everyone thinks I’m the smart one because I’m outspoken and she’s pathologically shy. She’s creative, hardworking, and loves to learn. She’s the only person in my family who for the most part accepts me. Violet.
Taco/Starla, Girl!Couple, Boy!Couple, Jen, Tabaqui, and Vi. These are the people I consider friends.
What I'm Listening To Right Now: Grave's Amazing Hands - Dave Barnes
Next Post: Word Porn or Religion. I am yet undecided.
Monday, 22 September 2008
This Is Not The End
The last ten days of Ramadan have a special significance in Islam. For what it's worth, I'm going to step up, and try to spend sometime on my religion. Maybe I can try and reconnect with God. I don't know that it's the only way, but it's the only way I know. Wish me luck!
I'll be around, commenting and what not, but I won't be really up to posting. See you in October!
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Monday, 15 September 2008
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
Rain. I love overcast skies. I love the smell before after and during rain. I love the way the air feels, cool and clean and wet against my face.
Chocolate. Cheap milk chocolate is like a one night stand. Quick and dirty against the bathroom wall, hot body and cool porcelain and then it's over. With dark chocolate is a committed loving relationship, albeit a long distance one. Sometimes when the separation becomes too much, I cheat, but ultimately I return.
Coffee. I have much love for coffee, but I don't drink it much. When I drink it everyday I start taking it for granted, and I haven't found decent readily available beans. I like it bitter traditional Arabic in the tiny cups. I like it mudlike Turkish. I like it in the somewhat crappy Starbucks raspberry iced mocha. I like it best black with a little sugar if its a really really decent brew. I also like it in ice cream, if it's strong and bittersweet.
New Who. I loved Eccleston's moody broody angst. I loved Tennent's manic-depressive manchild death god. (He has freckles)I liked the cheesiness. I liked Rose, I loved Donna.
Torchwood. All fucking all the time. As Campy as Cap'n Jack Harkness's toothpaste commercial smile, and as pretty as Gwen's freckles.
Supernatural. So much UST. Guns, Knives, and violence. The Impala. Jensen Ackles mouth. Jensen Ackle's freckles. Jensen Ackles in general, so pretty it makes me confused.
My Typewriter. An old manual Underwood model. Back when we were highschool my best friend got it for me, off of something I said about wanting to hear myself click away as I worked on my Great Non-American Novel. I never got it to work, and I wasn't ever much of a writer, but it's still one of the most perfect thing I own.
My Red Sin City Lunchbox. It's red, has movie Marv on it, and is just plain pretty. An indulgent purchase a couple of days ago, but I think I'm in love. It's tin and comes with a matching thermos. The only thing better would be original A New Hope.
Jane Austen. Because she rocks. And the Pride and Prejudice BBC mini series kicks the movie's ass any day of the week. I need to get my hands on a copy of Mansfield Park though.
Music. Old School Gulfi. Glam. Iggy Pop. Rockabilly. Singer-song writers. The Who. Thin Lizzy. Jeff Buckley. Regina Spektor. Big band. Classic Rock. Fairooz. The Doors. Kibarye. The list is endless and varied.
American Gods. I love love love Neil Gaiman's stuff. This book was the first of his I read I think. This is actually where I got my pen name.
Irony. Sometimes, it's all I need to keep me going.
Freckles. They are hot liek whoa.
Sunday, 14 September 2008
Wish List
There are a lot of things that I want to do. Some of them are easy things that I know I will be able to do eventually. Others are things that I may be able to do with effort and relocation. Others still are things that I’m pretty certain I won’t be able to do.
Some of these things:
Edited to Add: Get Laid: I think this one speaks for itself. (Insert wry smirk here.)
Some of these things:
- Graduate: Hopefully in about eight months.
- Get my MBA: I was hoping that I’d push up my GPA high enough that I’d qualify for a scholarship to go abroad, but I don’t think that’s happening. I still qualify for a local, so maybe I’ll stick around for a couple of years and get one while I work.
- Get into shape and get into an EMT then a paramedic program: If I can get a non-KU MBA scholarship for somewhere other than Kuwait, maybe this is something I can do on my own dime. I don’t think I’d like a desk job much, and being a first responder seems useful, something I’ve always sort of wanted to be.
- Become an assistant to someone who does something interesting: I think about doing this after I get my MBA. I’m not an efficient person by nature, but I’d like to learn to be. Also, it seems like a good way to learn about the real world.
- Go bungee jumping: This just seems like a lot of fun.
- Go skydiving: Again, fun.
- Learn to ride a motorcycle: Same. Also, pretty.
- Read something Non-Fiction and finish it: I’ve just never been able to do this. I need a plot to hold my interest.
- Learn to not suck at video game: For my hand to eye coordination of course.
- Learn another language: Maybe Spanish or German. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Knowing only two seems so… limiting.
- Learn Sign Language: It just seems interesting.
- Learn to play a musical instrument: Most likely the guitar. I’ve always loved music, I’d like to be able to be part of it.
- Go to a music concert: But to a band I like and whose songs I know. Maybe with some people I could enjoy it with. Some of my friends went to the Muse concert in Dubai a few months ago, and I’ve always resented my not being able to go.
Edited to Add: Get Laid: I think this one speaks for itself. (Insert wry smirk here.)
Friday, 12 September 2008
Situation Normal
All Fucked Up.
A few years back, I’d have never thought of going to a Baskin Robins and getting a flavor I’d already tried. Once I tried to dye my hair blue (it was too dark to make a difference). I tried to learn skateboarding at a heavy and highly uncoordinated 17. I wrote terrible poetry and attempted to write what was possibly the world’s worst rap. My grades were not good enough to get me into university. I was miserable and felt like my life had no potential (with my family the options seemed to be either get into college or find a way to erase myself from the timeline), but it was freeing in a way. I was a sheltered kid leading a boring life, but I thought I was the biggest screw up that ever existed.
At 19, I graduated with a GPA that got me into university, barely. In Kuwait, you have to decide what you want to study before you register for university. I flipped a coin and went into business school where I was an unexceptional student, albeit one that was taking way too long to graduate. I made a few friends, had a few laughs, and shirked as much responsibility as I could. I tried to rebel, and decided to change majors. Took some time off to get my shit together, and spent it taking to my bed with the vapors. I watched a lot of porn, read some Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, ate my weight in junk food, and spent way too much time reading fanfiction exploring teh gay subtext (and turning it into the mansex) between the male leads of several tv shows. Then, with no real desire to do so, I went back to school.
Soon I will be starting what is hopefully going to be my last year of being an undergrad at Kuwait University. Today for the first time in too long, I ordered an ice-cream flavor I haven’t tried before. About one week ago I started this blog. A month ago I submitted an essay to the editor of the newsletter of a gay women’s group to which I belong. A year ago I met that women’s group for the first time. Two years ago, I came back to school. Five years ago I finished high school.
I’m starting to think that it is possible for me to get my act together.
A few years back, I’d have never thought of going to a Baskin Robins and getting a flavor I’d already tried. Once I tried to dye my hair blue (it was too dark to make a difference). I tried to learn skateboarding at a heavy and highly uncoordinated 17. I wrote terrible poetry and attempted to write what was possibly the world’s worst rap. My grades were not good enough to get me into university. I was miserable and felt like my life had no potential (with my family the options seemed to be either get into college or find a way to erase myself from the timeline), but it was freeing in a way. I was a sheltered kid leading a boring life, but I thought I was the biggest screw up that ever existed.
At 19, I graduated with a GPA that got me into university, barely. In Kuwait, you have to decide what you want to study before you register for university. I flipped a coin and went into business school where I was an unexceptional student, albeit one that was taking way too long to graduate. I made a few friends, had a few laughs, and shirked as much responsibility as I could. I tried to rebel, and decided to change majors. Took some time off to get my shit together, and spent it taking to my bed with the vapors. I watched a lot of porn, read some Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, ate my weight in junk food, and spent way too much time reading fanfiction exploring teh gay subtext (and turning it into the mansex) between the male leads of several tv shows. Then, with no real desire to do so, I went back to school.
Soon I will be starting what is hopefully going to be my last year of being an undergrad at Kuwait University. Today for the first time in too long, I ordered an ice-cream flavor I haven’t tried before. About one week ago I started this blog. A month ago I submitted an essay to the editor of the newsletter of a gay women’s group to which I belong. A year ago I met that women’s group for the first time. Two years ago, I came back to school. Five years ago I finished high school.
I’m starting to think that it is possible for me to get my act together.
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
It's Not an Addiction
I can stop anytime I want. When I'm dead for instance.
I have a very clear memory of the day I bought my first book; the first book that wasn’t a hand me down or household communal property. It was a book not to be read to me at bedtime, but one that I could read all by myself. I was in first grade, and it was my first year in a school that taught primarily in English. It was the first year after Kuwait’s liberation. I was learning a whole new language and the possibilities seemed endless. I went with my mother to a bookstore downtown; it was down the street from the Sheraton roundabout. I remember feeling excited and proud and so very grown up.
My memory of the book is vague but affectionate, like a much beloved photograph faded by time and the touch of too many hands. The pages were stiff cardboard and it was brightly colored, I remember the blues, reds, and yellows shining out at me like never before. It was about anthropomorphic animals receiving a series of phone calls, and when you finished the sentence on a page you could press a button that would ring cheerfully at you just like a telephone. Sometimes, I would daringly press the button without even finishing the sentence.
Looking back, the book must have been made for a younger child, but I might as well have discovered the atom. It was just that huge. As a child, I never had much interest in other kids. A curious amalgam, I was an antisocial chatterbox. I enjoyed asking questions but more than that I love to talk. On and on I’d go in these monologues about everything and nothing. But reading was better than all of that. I took the plunge, and I’ve never looked back.
Reading quickly became the most important thing in my life. It was like an obsession, an addiction; I just couldn’t get enough. I read in during recess, during class, in bed, in the car, even in the shower. I remember my bemused parents catching on and putting me through searches at the bathroom door.
I was (to my eternal shame) a fan of the Baby-Sitters Club and the Sweet Valley High books, until I was about 14. After that I spent a summer as a hardcore John Grisham fan, my mother spent that summer parceling out his books in daily doses worried that I’d blind myself if I read more than one a day. Scattered among these were The Outsiders, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Narnia Chronicles. If I ran out I’d go into a panic, one memorable time reading the backs of cereal boxes to hold me over until I got to the school library.
It made being grounded a very odd experience, my parents carting away my books in a big box. Being sent to my room was never really an effective punishment for me. They could take away my television privileges, but they could never manage to take away all my books. I was a devious little thing, hiding supplies underneath my mattress and in my underwear drawer. Although I would worry that my grounding would outlast my secret stash. My greatest fear growing up was boredom. I remember the agony of being banned from the school library once, when my teachers where unhappy with my grades; a punishment both cruel and unusual.
Through the years, I’ve picked up and discarded dozens of other interests and hobbies, but in my heart I’ve always stayed true to reading. I’ve changed, grown up, learned to function in polite company. I’ve made friends, and even liked some enough to keep them. Sometimes I’d even go for months without cracking open a book. Well, weeks at least. A couple of times probably.
In the end though, I’ll always come back to literature. You never forget your first love.
I have a very clear memory of the day I bought my first book; the first book that wasn’t a hand me down or household communal property. It was a book not to be read to me at bedtime, but one that I could read all by myself. I was in first grade, and it was my first year in a school that taught primarily in English. It was the first year after Kuwait’s liberation. I was learning a whole new language and the possibilities seemed endless. I went with my mother to a bookstore downtown; it was down the street from the Sheraton roundabout. I remember feeling excited and proud and so very grown up.
My memory of the book is vague but affectionate, like a much beloved photograph faded by time and the touch of too many hands. The pages were stiff cardboard and it was brightly colored, I remember the blues, reds, and yellows shining out at me like never before. It was about anthropomorphic animals receiving a series of phone calls, and when you finished the sentence on a page you could press a button that would ring cheerfully at you just like a telephone. Sometimes, I would daringly press the button without even finishing the sentence.
Looking back, the book must have been made for a younger child, but I might as well have discovered the atom. It was just that huge. As a child, I never had much interest in other kids. A curious amalgam, I was an antisocial chatterbox. I enjoyed asking questions but more than that I love to talk. On and on I’d go in these monologues about everything and nothing. But reading was better than all of that. I took the plunge, and I’ve never looked back.
Reading quickly became the most important thing in my life. It was like an obsession, an addiction; I just couldn’t get enough. I read in during recess, during class, in bed, in the car, even in the shower. I remember my bemused parents catching on and putting me through searches at the bathroom door.
I was (to my eternal shame) a fan of the Baby-Sitters Club and the Sweet Valley High books, until I was about 14. After that I spent a summer as a hardcore John Grisham fan, my mother spent that summer parceling out his books in daily doses worried that I’d blind myself if I read more than one a day. Scattered among these were The Outsiders, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Narnia Chronicles. If I ran out I’d go into a panic, one memorable time reading the backs of cereal boxes to hold me over until I got to the school library.
It made being grounded a very odd experience, my parents carting away my books in a big box. Being sent to my room was never really an effective punishment for me. They could take away my television privileges, but they could never manage to take away all my books. I was a devious little thing, hiding supplies underneath my mattress and in my underwear drawer. Although I would worry that my grounding would outlast my secret stash. My greatest fear growing up was boredom. I remember the agony of being banned from the school library once, when my teachers where unhappy with my grades; a punishment both cruel and unusual.
Through the years, I’ve picked up and discarded dozens of other interests and hobbies, but in my heart I’ve always stayed true to reading. I’ve changed, grown up, learned to function in polite company. I’ve made friends, and even liked some enough to keep them. Sometimes I’d even go for months without cracking open a book. Well, weeks at least. A couple of times probably.
In the end though, I’ll always come back to literature. You never forget your first love.
Monday, 8 September 2008
Dude, Where’s My Cock?
A study on pop culture’s role in increasing the masculinity of females in the 18 to 45 demographic. Or not.
I’ve always been interested on what really defines gender, because I’ve been made to feel that I’m somehow masculine just because I don’t fit into the traditional Kuwaiti female role. Then again, the traditional Kuwaiti female role is pretty retarded. I really resent that people think that there’s one right way to be female. Who are these people who think they have the right to define how I should or should not be?
So I’d rather shop for books than shop for clothes. So I’ve never cared about fitting into other peoples definitions of beauty. So I’m not some sort of shrinking violent. So maybe I like a little violence in my movies. So what? Who gets to say that being a certain way takes away from my female credentials.
It seems to me that individual taste is really underappreciated in Kuwaiti society. If a girl likes to play video games then she feels the need to apologize for it. ‘Oh I play video game, but I also really like fashion too!’ Well, fuck that! I’m tired of these arbitrary stereotypes.
I like video games (suck at them but like them) and hate fashion. I’m a sci-fi geek. I don’t really follow a particular sport but will usually watch if I have no better options. Very little scares me, but that’s more stupidity than bravery. I enjoy driving, but hate the roads. I love food, and am too lazy to exercise. I’m pretty sure I have commitment issues. I rarely finish what I start. I’d love to learn how to cook one day. I like kids, in small doses for short burst of time. I prefer dogs. I’m comfortable around both guys and girls, possibly more so around the former. No matter what anyone says, I'm still very much a woman.
If you fit into the stereotypical definition of woman? More power to you if that's what you choose to do. I'm not in any way against the hetero normative life style. I just resent being expected to live it. What's wrong with being yourself, no matter who that self is, perfect housewife or radical feminist? Hell, you can be both for all i care, as long as you let me be who I want to be.
I really wish the people I know would stop trying to fit me into some sort of category and just join me in appreciating individualism.
I’ve always been interested on what really defines gender, because I’ve been made to feel that I’m somehow masculine just because I don’t fit into the traditional Kuwaiti female role. Then again, the traditional Kuwaiti female role is pretty retarded. I really resent that people think that there’s one right way to be female. Who are these people who think they have the right to define how I should or should not be?
So I’d rather shop for books than shop for clothes. So I’ve never cared about fitting into other peoples definitions of beauty. So I’m not some sort of shrinking violent. So maybe I like a little violence in my movies. So what? Who gets to say that being a certain way takes away from my female credentials.
It seems to me that individual taste is really underappreciated in Kuwaiti society. If a girl likes to play video games then she feels the need to apologize for it. ‘Oh I play video game, but I also really like fashion too!’ Well, fuck that! I’m tired of these arbitrary stereotypes.
I like video games (suck at them but like them) and hate fashion. I’m a sci-fi geek. I don’t really follow a particular sport but will usually watch if I have no better options. Very little scares me, but that’s more stupidity than bravery. I enjoy driving, but hate the roads. I love food, and am too lazy to exercise. I’m pretty sure I have commitment issues. I rarely finish what I start. I’d love to learn how to cook one day. I like kids, in small doses for short burst of time. I prefer dogs. I’m comfortable around both guys and girls, possibly more so around the former. No matter what anyone says, I'm still very much a woman.
If you fit into the stereotypical definition of woman? More power to you if that's what you choose to do. I'm not in any way against the hetero normative life style. I just resent being expected to live it. What's wrong with being yourself, no matter who that self is, perfect housewife or radical feminist? Hell, you can be both for all i care, as long as you let me be who I want to be.
I really wish the people I know would stop trying to fit me into some sort of category and just join me in appreciating individualism.
Sunday, 7 September 2008
Artificially Distressed
Like a pair of jeans. So.
I like someone and this is new for me. It’s been four years since I admitted to myself that I wasn’t 100% straight. Since then, I’ve buried any spark of attraction I felt under guilt, fear, and paranoia. Hell, I had myself half convinced that I was asexual. Then she shows up in my life.
I’m not ready for her. She’s got these eyes, and this smile, and her *hands*. I could have shrugged it off easy if she’d only stayed quiet. But she’s smart and funny, half confident, half cocky. She’s got a filthy mouth and a chip of her shoulder, and I. Just. Stare.
She makes me flustered. I’m never flustered! I can’t talk to her, and I’m the type that will talk about anything to anyone. And yet when I’m around her I can’t put two words together. Either that or I babble incoherently in ways that I will cringe about for days after.
She’s a friend of a friend, and after our first meeting I have no way of contacting her. I nurse a tiny crush for a little while, and despite my friends pressuring me to find a way to see her I decide to move on. She’s out of my league anyway. It’s nice to know that I can feel attraction to someone not on the TV screen, but that’s that. But apparently it’s not my shot to call.
I’m out with a friend when I bump into her again. My brain runs for cover. She beams as she greets me and insists we exchange phone numbers. I do my best to seem sober and coherent but manage to sound like a concussed drunk. She doesn’t seem to notice, waves goodbye as I drag my friend in the opposite direction. My friend is in awe of the level of retardation I've achieved. She mocks me and tries to convince me that getting in touch with Terrifying Gay Crush would not actually kill me.
I do get in touch. It takes me about a month to get over being completely chickenshit, but I do it. I send her an sms, and try very hard not to be crushed when I don’t get a reply. A week later, she answers. She’d like very much for us to hang out but unfortunately she’s out of the country. We exchange a few friendly (flirty?) messages, before she says that when she gets back ‘all of us’ should get together sometime in Ramadan. I’m not disappointed, baby steps, right?
I wait two weeks, because I’m not a stalker. I mention the possibility of plans. She apologizes that she’s swamped. I ramble disjointedly (yes, in a message, it’s a gift), hopefully conveying similar circumstances and that we could do something some other time. She tells me to check with Mutual Friend and let her know. It seems like a brush off. So I’m assuming that I did come off as a creepy desperate stalker and I need to back the fuck off.
I suck at this.
I like someone and this is new for me. It’s been four years since I admitted to myself that I wasn’t 100% straight. Since then, I’ve buried any spark of attraction I felt under guilt, fear, and paranoia. Hell, I had myself half convinced that I was asexual. Then she shows up in my life.
I’m not ready for her. She’s got these eyes, and this smile, and her *hands*. I could have shrugged it off easy if she’d only stayed quiet. But she’s smart and funny, half confident, half cocky. She’s got a filthy mouth and a chip of her shoulder, and I. Just. Stare.
She makes me flustered. I’m never flustered! I can’t talk to her, and I’m the type that will talk about anything to anyone. And yet when I’m around her I can’t put two words together. Either that or I babble incoherently in ways that I will cringe about for days after.
She’s a friend of a friend, and after our first meeting I have no way of contacting her. I nurse a tiny crush for a little while, and despite my friends pressuring me to find a way to see her I decide to move on. She’s out of my league anyway. It’s nice to know that I can feel attraction to someone not on the TV screen, but that’s that. But apparently it’s not my shot to call.
I’m out with a friend when I bump into her again. My brain runs for cover. She beams as she greets me and insists we exchange phone numbers. I do my best to seem sober and coherent but manage to sound like a concussed drunk. She doesn’t seem to notice, waves goodbye as I drag my friend in the opposite direction. My friend is in awe of the level of retardation I've achieved. She mocks me and tries to convince me that getting in touch with Terrifying Gay Crush would not actually kill me.
I do get in touch. It takes me about a month to get over being completely chickenshit, but I do it. I send her an sms, and try very hard not to be crushed when I don’t get a reply. A week later, she answers. She’d like very much for us to hang out but unfortunately she’s out of the country. We exchange a few friendly (flirty?) messages, before she says that when she gets back ‘all of us’ should get together sometime in Ramadan. I’m not disappointed, baby steps, right?
I wait two weeks, because I’m not a stalker. I mention the possibility of plans. She apologizes that she’s swamped. I ramble disjointedly (yes, in a message, it’s a gift), hopefully conveying similar circumstances and that we could do something some other time. She tells me to check with Mutual Friend and let her know. It seems like a brush off. So I’m assuming that I did come off as a creepy desperate stalker and I need to back the fuck off.
I suck at this.
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