You know how some people have years they can’t remember because they were on drugs? I apparently have years I can’t remember because I was in college. 2003-2007 is basically a blur of customer service horror stories and falling asleep whenever anybody wasn’t looking at me. Like a reverse weeping angel.
Sheryl’s lesbian wedding was exactly everything I hoped it would be. I know you wanna know what my makeup looked like. Don’t worry, I gotcha covered.
Sher, if you’re reading this, can I put a pic of you and your wife up for the readers? They do so love pictures.
My boyfriend’s going to bed without me, so this is the last bullet point.
Oh wait. I wanted to add this one: Is it a requirement that if the median income of your block is less than $35,000 per year you or one of your neighbors has to be playing this song at a minimum of 120 decibels?
Because it’s stuck in my head and I literally can’t stop hearing it.
Friday I promised a story where the lady protagonist is the one who fucks the entire population of the book while the male love interest stays celibate, pining away for his lost love, waiting for her to come to her senses. I decided to make my female protagonist as much like the stereotypical pig-headed arrogant misogynists that serve as male love interests in a lot of books with strong female leads.
You guys voted for it to be set in the future, which is good, because I already started writing it set in the future, and I had a lot of fun with this one.
I am Clarity Kell Jackson, only daughter of the Fifth House of LaBeija, Holder of the Sacred Blades of of Barbagnell, and Heir to the Legendary Mother of the House of LaBeija.
If we were on LaBeija, the appropriate answer to that introduction would be “All hail our beautiful mother.” But since we’re on Earth, it’s not necessary.
Like the majority of Space Princess Warriors, I have been sent here on a diplomatic mission of peace. But I’m also here to make my mark. As the sole heir to The Legendary Mother herself, I have a lot to live up to before the people will accept me as their new Mother. I must return home with an impressive resume and a thirst for justice. Not to mention an equally impressive partner to call my consort. Being so far away from other, more trafficked systems, the people of LaBeija consider genetic diversity our most valuable import.
Which means I must find a consort who represents the most diverse sample of genetic material I possibly can. And I have. In the pursuit of justice, I found and lost, the perfect consort. Fortunately, he’s only missing in a spiritual sense. In the physical sense, he’s standing three feet away from me, being stubborn and pig-headed and refusing to see reason. As usual.
“Out all night again, Space Princess Jackson?” Luther asked.
He knows perfectly well I’ve been out all night. I’m trying desperately to find someone in even the same universe as his impressive genetic make-up. And failing badly.
“That’s none of your concern.” I answered. “Besides, you have a new girlfriend, as I recall.”
“The Celestial Light Empress is not girl. She is the essence of womanhood here to reclaim the realm. And she is not my friend. She is my eternal spouse to whom I am bound both body and soul.”
I leaned down, closer to his eye level. “Can’t we worship her together?”
Luther snorted and turned away. “Joke all you want, Kell, I’ve found my true calling. It’s only bittersweet because you’re still so lost.”
I snatched my lab results off the table and sashayed away. What living, breathing, fallible woman could compete with a Goddess? An Empress Goddess at that. I’m just a lowly Princess from a backwater system at the far end of the territories. I’d offered Luther a place by my side as Consort. I told him that every pleasure of LaBeija would be his. Our beautiful gardens, delicious foods, every sight and feature of our system, all at his command. I even extended an invitation to take equal part with me in the royal harem, a score of the most skilled lovers LaBeija had to offer. Being from Earth, I understood that his people have a sharing culture. I thought he would appreciate my consideration.
But he refused me, said I don’t understand him. I tried to point out that we would have years of togetherness as Queen and Consort to understand one another. Besides, why would I need to understand my Consort? The Queen is the decision maker. A consorts contributions are genetic, not tactical. This upset him even more, and now he refuses to return to LaBeija with me. What’s worse, he refuses to have sex with me anymore. He even refused to provide a sample for the Clonemaster General to use in our breeding force. The man is completely unreasonable.
When I returned to my desk I dropped the lab results into the data basket on my terminal for compiling and decided that I’d be taking a long lunch. I needed to clear my head, and I had just the thing.
On my way out the door, I passed my AssisTech Raffi. “Don’t wait up, I’m meeting the Formizo twins for drinks.” I said, ignoring his bitter expression. Poor beautiful Raffi. He couldn’t understand. A woman has needs.
Formizo Enforcing was a small security firm down the street from Space Princess Warrior headquarters. We contracted with them on some of the bigger jobs in the system, and most of the Space Princesses had at least a friendly relationship with the boys. Domino and Cosimo were fraternal twins, but they always came as a pair. D was tall and dark with a wide expanse of hairy chest and biceps the size of pony kegs. I knew from experience that he could lift 6 feet of woman into the air above his head with a single, powerful arm, and maintain the hold for at least 20 minutes. C, on the other hand was fine boned and delicate. He must have been borne without tendons, because the man was basically half cat. I was going to get Luther out of my head by force, and Formizo Enforcing was exactly the kind of muscle I needed.
When I got to their office, the boys were sitting at their desks, ties already untied and hanging around their necks. After the door announced my arrival, Domino leaned back in his chair to take me in.
“We ordered a pizza.” he said.
“Should get here in an hour.” Cosimo added.
“I see you boys are well prepared.” I answered, reaching for zipper on my standard issue catsuit.
An hour and a half later, I was back from lunch. Freshly fucked, fueled, and feeling good. Raffi was quite upset.
“Space Princess Jackson, you’re thirty minutes late. Your data finished compiling ten minutes after you left. Your progress in this case has been delayed while you attended to personal business during work hours.”
“Raffi,” I said “My body doesn’t run off the Earth’s gravometric weave like yours does. I need sex and pizza to keep going. I’m not a machine. Speaking of, could I get some coffee?” I looked at the data on my terminal. “This is going to take a while.”
As Raffi dejectedly whizzed off to get my coffee, I hit the display button, and a clear picture of our perpetrator blinked onto my holomat. Her genetic markers showed that she was a Mantacarn, and that she likely had an 8 inch lift to her skull that, on Mantac, would be polished to a high gloss in order for people to better see the magnificent green brain inside. Brain size is very important to the people of Mantac, even though it has no relationship to real world skills. Mantacarns like big brains, and I can’t lie, Ms. Perpetrator had a big ‘un, as the earthlings say.
Since she was hiding here, she likely had to cover her assets. I swiped the holomat through a series of different disguises. A beehive hairdo, popular with the young people of the Bouvier District, a Blessed Order of the Black Santa wimple, even my own impressively poofy, bouncy, but structurally stable natural failed to cover her expansive head height.
I tapped my golden nail against a brilliant white front tooth. At eight inches, her head was one of the largest I’d ever seen. It was impossible for Mantacarns to alter their head size, which is one of the reasons it was such a sought after trait. Eventually, I realized the coffee Raffi got me was going cold at my elbow. I took a long gulp.
“Raf,” I said “I need a list of every earth hairstyle or headwear item taller than eight inches.”
As the list populated my display, I saw exactly what I’d been looking for: The ten inch tall penis hat of the Hot Dog on Your Stick uniform.
“Please confirm that there is a Hot Dog on Your Stick at the Transporter Terminal where we last saw our Mantacarn.”
“There is.” Raffi said.
What better place to trade international secrets than in the private fuck booths of the Hot Dog on Your Stick? And inside the Terminal, she could catch an agent on a layover from anywhere to anywhere else in the universe. Maybe there was something to the cranium size myth after all.
As we prepped for the bust, I glanced down the hall to Luther’s lab and desperately wished that everything in my life was as easy as fighting crime.
Aubible recently had it’s Black Friday sale, which amounted to 400 titles all reduced to under $5 each. Being the massive audiobook fiend that I am, I picked up about 8 or 9 books. On What Grounds and Gunmetal Magic among them. Both are mystery series with a strong female protagonist, one set in early 2000s New York, the other in a post-apocalyptic Atlanta. Both protagonists are awesome, experienced ladies to know their job backwards and forwards, not only have talent for their craft, but true passion, and who live like nuns while the men they love fuck around and play games.
I’ve seen this in other books as well, most notably the Sookie Stackhouse series. An otherwise awesome woman just can not seem to figure out a way to have any kind of sexual fulfillment without some gigantic douche-nozzle with a square chin and exposed chest hair. These guys pick up and put down pussy like they’re looking for the expiration date, while the women they love, who love them, who you know are going to end up with their neanderthal asses by the end of the series, sit and wait with their cunts in the fridge.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I started a twitter rant.
Female protagonists follow this rule: Dudes get to fuck and that makes them desirable. Ladies say no, and that makes them desirable
The obvious solution is to write this illusive fuck-machine lady detective myself. But jut because I think it should be done, doesn’t mean I think it’s easy to do. I received the same sex phobic training that every other lady on this planet got. It’s hard for me to think of a female character who would own her sexuality without seeming preachy. But I’ve decided to try.
And I have another Friday poll for you to pick the setting. (Yes, I’m well aware that I haven’t actually written the Jake and Jessica that’s supposed to come after the last poll, but life got crazy.)
Doug Stanhope has a track called Drambuie on his album Building a Bridge to Nowhere in which he acts out a version of a conversation I’ve had about a million times in the last ten years
“Where’s he going to take you for your anniversary?”
“Actually mom, we don’t celebrate anniversaries because our relationship is strong enough that we don’t have to rely on trivial dates because we really do love each other.”
“Is there trouble in paradise?”
“No, mom, I’m saying that everything’s good, we don’t have a relationship like you and dad where you stare at each other in an undertone of hatred. We actually like each other because we fucked early and our relationship isn’t based on that.”
“Is he seeing someone else?”
“Alright, I’m not talking to you anymore.”
Sometimes the conversation is about anniversaries, sometimes it’s about engagement rings, or kids, or expensive gifts or vacations. Usually the person on the other side is a well meaning, but not very understanding older lady who is really concerned about the fact that Ben is taking me for granted by not buying me expensive things in exchange for all the free pussy I’m so obviously and joyfully giving him. They want to know what I’m getting out of the relationship, sometimes they even worry about my self esteem. Because the women who ask these questions grew up in a world where pussy needed to have value, owing to the fact that a woman by herself never would or could.
Of course no one has ever been concerned about all the free dick I’m getting from him.
This kind of weird relationship marking (He’s never taken you on vacation? He’s never bought you expensive jewelry? 4/5/6/7/8/9/10 years and he hasn’t proposed!?) is one of the reasons I find it hard to write about my anniversary. But also, I feel like the fact that I don’t value traditionally romantic things will come across like I don’t value or love my boyfriend, which I do. For example, neither of us remember the date of our first hook up. But I really like to celebrate stuff, so I wanted a date, which is why we picked the first Thursday in December. I actually actively refuse to look up what the date was for the first Thursday in December 2003 because it’s not the date that’s important. Honestly, it’s not even the time that’s important. I’ve known enough bitterly unhappy couples in my life to appreciate how completely meaningless the length of a relationship is.
Anyway, when I posted about our anniversary on Facebook, I asked my friends if they had any specific requests in regard to this blog post.
How do ya feel when you see him? Do you still get excited when he comes home? Does he still make you laugh? How has your idea of love changed over the past decade? It’s inspiring to hear about long term relationships that still work. I hang around a bunch of old bikers, and I hear a lot about marriage. They always say “don’t get married” because things change. It’s a little discouraging, but maybe you have some better insight. 10 years is along time.
Then Jeremy added
Bumping what Mel said, for curiosity. From an outsider’s standpoint all I can do is chalk it up to “anomalous.” (Which is not mutually exclusive with “awesome,” in both the literal and figurative senses.)
Also, regarding what Mel has said about the bikers, I imagine that the assumption of “permanence” of the relationship has not really been made. In my not-humble opinion that’s a big pitfall in the West. We think that the person we marry will be that person forever, which would be terrible.
Edit: Pure speculation, but I imagine that the philosophy of you /not/ being married (which is great) reflects that idea of not grabbing onto “forever” which lets change come and go more easily. Kind of an interesting paradox, no?
Sadly, I don’t get as excited as I used to when he comes home, but that’s mostly owing to lack of sleep. When I was 19, I could launch myself naked off the couch, get 15 feet of solid air, hit him in the chest going 20 miles an hour and then drag him to the bedroom like the nourishing man feast that he is. But these old bones carry only the memory of naked flight. I’m too fat and too tired for attack sex.
Joking aside, I do feel happy when I see him. I think if I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here. He definitely still makes me laugh, in fact, he probably makes me laugh more now because he knows me so well.
My idea of love is both changed and unchanged. I always said that I didn’t believe in love, that I especially don’t believe in “being in love,” and I still don’t buy a lot of the bullshit that passes for love in this culture. But I do love him more than I thought one person could love another without lying.
When I was a kid, love was a trap. It was a sick need that took everything from you without your consent. This was the way I loved my mother for years. Hating her, but missing her, and feeling incomplete without her. That’s codependency. It’s based on fear and emptiness. My feelings for Ben are so far away from that. I respect him and I find myself endlessly fascinated with him. When we first got together, I remember thinking that I would be really bummed out when I got tired of him. I still think that, but as the years go on, I wonder what the likelihood is that I may never get tired of him. And as really, truly unlikely as it is, I could think of worse ways to pass the time.
I guess that’s not the kind of sweeping romantic gesture that a lot of people come to expect when we talk about love, but I think that it’s the important one. I know I’m a strong, smart, competent person, as is Ben. We would and could both be just as fulfilled without each other as we would be with each other, but it’s a matter of preference. I’d rather hang out with him. I think that’s maybe what people are talking about when they say that marriage changes things, and it is a major contributing factor for why I think marriage is such a crap idea. Right now, I want to be with my boyfriend. I’ve wanted to be with him every day for the past 10 years. But I don’t think I’d feel the same if I were contractually obligated to be with my boyfriend. It just seems completely wrong to me. And yes, I do think that this embrace of impermanence is directly responsible for us being together so long.
People fear change so much, and they fear themselves even more. My first obligation will always be to myself, no matter who stands beside me. Some people don’t understand why I feel this way. Why would I need myself when I have this incredible man? But it is because I have myself that I have anyone at all.
Ten years ago I decided to become friends with the most interesting boy I’d ever met. By chance, but also by careful planning and preparation in order to be sane and healthy enough on my own to appreciate the stress and the rewards of a relationship, he has become my family. I look forward to seeing him off to work so I can see him home again, I love going to sleep with him because I also love waking up with him. He is still the most interesting person I know. I could easily spend ten more years like this, and I hope I get to.
As you probably know from yesterday’s blog, at 10 pm last night Peter Paras and I were on Open Source with Leon Krauze to talk about video games. A clip of the segment is online, which you can click here to see. I’m super stoked that they included my shout out to lady gamers in the online clip.
Everybody at Fusion was really nice, the atmosphere there is totally laid back. I was pretty nervous about being on TV before I got there, but it dropped way down by the time we went on set. Peter and I spent the first segment of the show in the green room totally nerding out on the games we love and talking about the systems. Then we went into the studio and talked to Leon, who was totally chill. I had a mountain of fun. I was basically giddy by the time we left. So giddy, in fact that I made Peter take a selfie with me in the parking lot.
One hundred and ten stars, would do again.
Bonus What I Wore on TV:
Scarf was my great grandmother’s
Vest is from Ross
Green V-Neck T is from The Gap
Blue V-Neck long sleeved is from The Gap
Pink Skirt is from The Gap
Lace Underskirt is handmade by Kate’s sister Sheryl (who’s lesbian wedding we will be attending this weekend, BTW!)
I’ve listed the tights as being both from Many Hands Trading and Sibling Ravelry in Corvallis, Oregon, so I have no idea where they really came from. Unfortunately, this was their last ride (after only 10 or so). I am too much woman for these tights. They started the day with a grape sized hole in the crotch which is now so large that the left tight leg is only half attached. So long tights, I hardly knew ye.
Houndstooth converse hi-tops from a vintage store that no longer exists
Also guesting will be LA Times’ music and video games critic Todd Martens Topless Robot and E! Online contributor Peter Paras. We’ll talk new consoles and new games.
If you happen to get that channel, DVR that shit for me, because you know we don’t have the TVs.
If the segment goes online, I’ll include a link.
Also HAHAHAHAHA I’ve never been on a real TV show before! A 2000 census commercial, yes*. Actual television. No.
*Don’t get excited. I was 14, I stood in an empty elementary school with about 300 other kids wearing school clothes and backpacks, and when the AD made the “walk” motion we all walked through the halls and into the classrooms. In the actual commercial we were completely blurred out with heavy block letters about how important the census is in the foreground, and you can’t even tell who was who. Which is probably a good thing because I totally looked straight into the camera like a dingus.
This is just a rant, so if you were planning on killing yourself today, skip this post because, to be honest, I will not be saving anybody.
I just got caught up in one of those idiotic suicide evangelist posts that started as a chain email, but have also been making the rounds on Tumblr and Facebook. The way the suicide evangelist story goes is basically this: Person A meets Person B, usually by chance. A is genuinely nice to B, even goes out of their way to be decent in most instances of this story. Years later, B approaches A, either in private or in public, and confesses to A that they were going to kill themselves except that the unusual kindness of Person A changed their mind about suicide, saving their lives and allowing them to go on to be whatever kind of amazing success would best compliment the other details of the story.
The moral, of course, is to always be kind to everyone you meet, not because it’s the right thing to do, not because it’s just common decency, but because they might be at the end of their rope and in need of saving. They might be the kind of person who changes their mind about major life decisions based on the fleeting influence of a single random stranger, and that stranger could be you! Not only that, you could reap the rewards of your decency years down the line by being able to accept responsibility for the success of another person based solely on the actions of a single day. Help some nerd carry their books and you, sir or ma’am are halfway towards the cure for cancer. Face it: You’re a hero.
This is, of course, complete bullshit. It’s this kind of cheap and shitty Chicken Soup for the Martyr’s Soul ass salad that leads people to think they should get blow jobs in exchange for being nice to girls, or that they should get parenting awards for showing up for their own children. You’re nice to people because you’re supposed to be; because you prefer it when people are nice to you. There is no other reward.
What if we were to take this stunted logic and change one small detail? What if the person we were decent to, who we “saved” from killing themselves turned out to be a kid rapist? What if they turned out to kid rapist our kid? Is that somehow now an argument for being a complete and total shit to everyone we come across? Absolutely not.
You can’t cause good things to happen by being good any more than you can make up for bad things that have happened by being bad. That’s magical thinking. Good and bad things happen to good and bad people without reason or pattern.
As much as kindness is a helpful habit to have, good boundaries are more important. And it is good boundaries that this shitty chain story is actively discouraging. In the suicide evangelist, you don’t just leave people to their own plans and thoughts, letting them figure their shit out as mature, reasonable adults. You get up in their business, and you take responsibility that isn’t yours, probably preventing them from the benefit of dealing with their own struggles. And later, good things happen because you have the kind of power that makes the world better.
Not to say that people can’t make the world better, but it is too heavy a burden to expect people to save one another. Which is what the suicide evangelist purports to do. It’s nice to think that one simple act of kindness could save a life, it’s especially nice to think that it could save a good life. But when that story ends badly, when that person kills themselves anyway, the mindset of the suicide evangelist is exposed as what it really is: sick fucking thinking.
We are not responsible for the lives of others. If someone chooses to end it, that has no reflection on us anymore than if someone chooses to live. Those left behind after a suicide often feel that there was something they could have done to prevent this, which is the tribalist emotional place the suicide evangelist story preys on. A temporary ego boost from the fictional actions of one universal do-gooder is not worth how it reinforces co-dependent thinking. We are not responsible for each other. Our only responsibility is to ourselves. I realize that’s far less exciting than the idea that we could save one another, but that’s not how this works.
Every person deserves the dignity to make their own terrible mistakes. Ultimately, we can prevent those mistakes from being made about as much as we can prevent the tide. The output of energy it would take to turn a truly suicidal person away from their path can only come from inside that person. No individual can protect any other individual from themselves.
Stop posting these childish savior stories. Stop reading them. They’re not helping.
Happy Thanksgiving! I figured for this year’s holiday we’d revisit the tweets of the past. I’m always happy to go combing through twitter for the best and brightest. I know I haven’t done a Twitter Hall of Fame since MLK day, but that is about to change. It’s the winter holidays that really bring the crazy out anyway.
The morning after Thanksgiving I woke up excited. Not just for leftovers, or the fact that I get Friday off work. I woke up excited for one of my favorite ever holiday traditions: Reading social media for people’s crazy family posts.
I don’t know what it is, maybe the therapy is finally kicking in, maybe your mother in law figured out your twitter name, or maybe you were just too drunk to find your phone, but out of the 221 people that I follow, only one person had an interesting Thanksgiving tweet, and that was my own sweet boyfriend, and it was about me!
Pretty traditional Thanksgiving: Invite over a bunch of people we’re not related to and watch Turkish wrestling on @marinaisgo phone.
So, in the spirit of the season, and in order to fulfill my holiday drama needs, I did some extensive searching for the best of the Thanksgiving tweets. Here they are, the fruits of my labor in chronological order, not just for your reading pleasure, but as an example for the kind of good work I expect going forward into Christmas, Chaunnaka, Kwanza, and all other seasonal festivities.
My uncle is gettin released from jail and he said he has a bottle of toilet wine that his husband made. Cant wait to try it at #Thanksgiving
Today I read this Gawker article by Mark Duffy, the oldest employee to ever get fired from BuzzFeed, a job he claims to have taken a $43,000 pay cut for.
First of all, the alternate universe where copywriters make enough money to take $43,000 out of their salaries and still live inside only exists to 53 year old white guys who think being a dick is a legitimate career move. Second, being willing to toss $43,000 in the trash means one of two things. He was ready to take a shit on his boss’s desk anyway, or he’s already some kind of crazy rich where people do things like live in a castle and not think that’s weird. In the article he readily admits that he was kind of rude and grumpy, didn’t take his editor’s notes well, and thought he was something special, when in reality, he was just a relic of a bygone era who was generally unwilling to accommodate any shift in tone.
He doesn’t even know how to make a fucking GIF. Because he thought they were stupid!
You know what skillsets I think are stupid? None! If I don’t know something, it’s because I can’t learn it, and mores the pity because there are 1,000 other thirsty bitches nipping at my heels for the work I have. If you can’t do at least three people’s jobs, you better get used to being cold. Because there’s no such thing as a specialist in this world.
Baby boomers talk about how self obsessed millennials are, but y’all are some of the laziest people I’ve ever met. Oh, you can write? And you want a >$45,000 salary for the privilege? That’s adorable. Literacy is no longer a special skill. You don’t get free coffee and an office with a door just for having a Bachelor’s degree and a tie. Being an asshole is no longer the sign of quirky genius it once was. Now it’s just exhausting, and makes everyone who’s not you start to look real good.
America doesn’t make anything anymore. Except kitten GIFS. Welcome to the new world, get on board or get dragged.