Marina Rose Martinez

My new co-worker is moving here from Seattle, so I made her this handy map to aide in her apartment search. I thought I’d share it with you. Click on the map for the bigger version.

ThereminJelly: @Marinaisgo A blog post arguing about why a complete homosexual re-branding of Batman would be a good thing.

Oh. My. God. Besides being my very own pre-teen wet dream come to life before my eyes?!

Not only have I pretty much always wanted to be Batman, I’ve pretty much always wanted to fuck Batman. And if I could have fucked Batman as Batman, my little heart would have exploded right out of my big gay, gray unitarded bat-chest.

I’m probably not the only person to admit that some of my first homoerotic fantasies starred Adam West and Burt Ward. I know there are a whole bunch of us out there, who sat on the living room floor, tensions mounting as the dynamic duo struggled-seemingly in vain-tied to a giant penny, or a giant gramophone, or a giant wrecking ball, only to break free at the last moment and somersault to safety. How many times can a man and another, younger man be tied to each other and also to a giant thing before dramatic tension turns to sexual tension, and the rush of freedom also brings the rush of love, of passion? For me, it was about three times.

But enough about why I like to be tied to giant things while wearing a tool belt.

A gay redesign of Batman is exactly what this country needs. DC threw us a homo-bone when they made Batwoman a dyke (like she wasn’t already, amirightoramiright?) but they were just trying to draw the gay rumors away from their moneymaker Bruce. Let’s be honest, every real batfan knows that their man Bruce Wayne is a fruit. An ass-kicking, super-smart, millionaire playboy nightmare fruit. And the sooner Batman comes clean, the sooner. all of my childhood dreams can come true.

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Mr_Bithead: @Marinaisgo I’ve been trying to switch careers to something I’m more passionate about.. Write about something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t, and why (not).

There are so many things! This deserves a bulleted list.

• Move far away by myself (So far as as adult, I haven’t had the opportunity to move far away or be by myself, and my life here with Ben is so consistently awesome, why would I want to force that eventuality?)
• Successfully start and run my own business. (I actually have had a few little ventures of my own, and I guess they were successful in that they never cost me more than they made, but they were little more than lucrative hobbies. I’d like something more substantial.)
• Write a Book (I love to write, I’ve been told I’m good at it, but I don’t have enough drive or focus for a long-form project at this point. Plus, I’m afraid of the inevitable rejection, also the editing process.)

There’s other things, but those are the top 3 at the moment. The thing is, I’m very happy with my life right now. Even when I become frustrated with it, I know it’s not time to make any major changes. In my experience things change dramatically all by themselves, when it’s least expected. I always strive for my general goals of health, happiness and comfort, but other than that, life is exciting enough.

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Pengui: @Marinaisgo Is religion is a dangerous thing or do you think it serves a real purpose?

Both. I’d be hard pressed to think of a single person who doesn’t require some manifestation of the concept of infinity in order to keep themselves sane. Organized religion can be a backbone for people who need one. Just think of what Dr. King was able to accomplish with religion backing him up. I wouldn’t take that away from anyone. People don’t need religion to fuck with each other. If they didn’t have it, they’d just find something else.

2002

My mother and I are sitting in a diner with my grandma. Almost randomly she asks us what we’re doing on April 16th. We’re doing nothing. “Will one of you take me to the hospital? I have to have surgery.”

“Is this an outpatient thing?” Mom asks. No.

It’s a triple bypass that turns into a quadruple on the table and ultimately leads to a series of small strokes that leave her 25% blind and only functionally literate.

The entire family sleeps in the hospital for a week. It’s the first and only time I see my grandfather hold my grandmother’s hand. In fact, it’s the first and only time I see him touch her in any way. Because of the strokes, she has no memory of this uncharacteristic tenderness.

2006

I’m with my friends in San Diego, my mother and my grandmother are fighting. Both of them want me to take their side against the other.

My grandmother calls. I answer it reflexively. She’s telling me about their fight, arguing without subtlety on why she’s right and mom’s wrong. I’ve had a long weekend, I try and get her off the phone. Suddenly she blurts out “Gene raped your mother when she was 13.” All of the air goes out of my lungs. I instantly and totally believe her.

Gene, my grandfather by marriage is the worst human being I have ever known. If she knew Gene raped my mother, how did she know? If she knew Gene raped my mother, why did she stay married to him? If she knew Gene raped my mother, why didn’t she warn me at least? I can’t ask any of these questions. All of my friends went outside to smoke. There is one kid I don’t know sitting across from me. I’m giving him a ride back to LA. I hang up the phone and tell him that Gene raped my mom.

2009

I’m at work, my grandmother calls. She’s not a frequent caller, but it’s not unusual for her to call and ask that we spend some time together, or mention a news story she saw.

She says that she should probably tell me that Gene is dead. He had a series of strokes, lapsed into a coma and died that morning at his nursing home. “Do we have to do anything?” I ask. No, he already made arrangements with the Neptune society. They pick up the body, cremate it and dump it into the Pacific. Her tone is bored. She seems astonished I even care to ask.

When we put him into the nursing home, it was almost a family reunion. My uncle came back from Wisconsin, my mother and I were not fighting. Ben and I went out to dinner with them, everybody laughed and talked and smiled. The passive-aggressive side-sniping and bitter backhanded compliments were at an all time low.

When he died, nothing happened. I got a sad and awkward call from my estranged mother, I observed the fact that I had no real emotion either way, I cried a little, but I’m still not sure why.

The man’s entire life was cruelty and neglect. He leaves no children of his own, no footprint on this world and no mourners whatsoever. Aside from the lasting mental health issues of my mother, my uncle and myself there is nothing to show he existed at all, and I think that’s very fitting.

I haven’t been very happy with any of my artwork or writing lately. I start things and never finish them, every word or brush stroke after the first is another brick in the wall of it’s shitiness. In terms of writing, I’ve made things in the past that I appreciated, even feel proud of. Artwork for me is never good. My burned out artist grandparents echo in my head with every sketch I start. It’s never good enough, it’s never original enough, or well composed or executed. But I must be a glutton for punishment because I keep on trying to make something, anything that I don’t instantly want to rip in half.

I got in a car accident a couple of weeks ago, totaled my car. Aside from a few bruises and a cool-looking chemical burn from the air bag, I’m fine but I’ve been up and down ever since. I got a new car, and a new car payment. The new car is awesome, but the payment’s a burden I didn’t expect to have. I can afford it, but I’ll have to be a lot more strict about my budget, which I haven’t been for the last few months. My friend told me that feeling depressed like this is normal after an accident. It makes sense–I mean, I lost my car, endangered my life and cost myself a ton of money. But I’m still frustrated. The first week after the accident, I was actually felling better than I had in months. I was so grateful I was okay, so happy that it happened on the freeway on-ramp and not on the freeway it’s self and that I was the car with the most damage because I couldn’t have lived with myself if someone had been hurt. The second week I spent panicky and angry about money, about the inconvenience, worrying about the car payment. No matter how many times I added up my budget, and saw that I was fine, I just couldn’t let go of the nagging idea I was fucked–totally, incontrovertibly fucked. It didn’t help that right when I decided that I would be fine, that I had enough food in the fridge to keep the grocery bill low and make up for the money I spent in the weeks following the accident, my fridge broke and all the food spoiled. It was almost cosmic. Of course, I was still fine, even with all the food spoiled. I just bought more, it’s only money. As uptight as I am about it, you’d think I was about to die.

I spent so many years feeling like I was living on some sort of edge, financially, emotionally, physically. The irony is ridiculous. I worked my ass off to be somewhat sane and stable, and when I find out that my life is actually sane and stable, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

I have invented the one thing we all needed but did not have:

THE VAGINA EMOTICON!

(i)

Alternate spelling: ((i)) for when your vagina is fat or your text is narrow.

It’s not just your baby, or even all babies, it’s everything they represent, along with engagement rings, wedding registries, showers, parties, dresses and ‘maids.’

It seems like after college, or the age of 22, which ever one comes first, women only have 2 other things to talk about: marriage and children. And I’m not talking about the whole, ‘we’re friends, I care about your life and progeny’ type discussions. Two women can be complete and total strangers, and within minutes they’ll start talking in serious tones about how his mom thinks that the table settings will clash with her hair clips. It’s like some sort of collective breeder insanity.

And maybe I just feel left out of the whole business, and it’s taking a toll on me spiritually, but I can’t help but experience a sense of pressure. In a vacuum, I just wouldn’t care about marriage and children, and other people would or wouldn’t as they saw fit, and everyone would be happy and healthy in their knowledge of self. Except that my dad calls my boyfriend my “live-in-lover” and asks when he’s going to “make an honest women of me,” my grandmother asks me if I think he loves me, and tells me that boys don’t want to marry fatties like myself, and well-meaning co-workers who meet my awesome boyfriend will say well-meaning things like ‘do I hear wedding bells?’

Granted, those all sound like perfectly harmless little comments (except maybe the fatty one), but when it seems to be coming from every direction, all the fucking time a girl less awesome than myself might begin to think there’s something wrong with her for not wanting to get married, or pining away for rings and dresses and expensive priests who don’t actually know you but will marry you to each other for a nominal fee (go Jesus!)

And every time someone in my office shows up with an engagement ring, or a baby bump it’s a brand new chorus, of “let us see the ring!” “How much did he pay in order to posses you like a horse, while ironically saddling himself with all your future child-support payments!?” and “can I touch your fertile cunt?”

It’s not like I don’t care about my friends who are getting married or having babies, even I’m not that much of an ass hole. But I care about that as much as I care about any major life change. I’d care if you went back to college, or moved to a new city, because I care about you. It’s not like I actually care about Cleveland, but if you’re there I’d care a little more. That doesn’t mean I want to move to Cleveland. It doesn’t even mean I’d really want to visit. Do you see what I mean?

Every time some girl at work is wondering around showing everyone her rock, or some new mom who we’re paying to stay away from the office takes a break from maternity leave to haul her sticky, spitty baby into work, creating clumps of mindless cooing women in seemingly every hallway at once, for hours at a time, I feel like a jerk for trying to get away from them. And of course, this is when I not only feel like an outcast for not settling down and shitting out my own cunt turd, but I get told to wait until I’m married and pregnant–not just for the irony–but because this is the inevitable conclusion to every female pursuit.

I am so tired of people assuming that marriage is the ultimate state of any romantic union, and that babies are the ultimate goal of any living woman. And every time another marriage or baby situation comes to a head, it’s like team breeder gets another point up on the massively huge board they’ve erected in front of me just to gloat about how much more valid and meaningful they are than me.

Nice, well meaning people will tell me to let it go, and to be understanding of mainstream jerks who act like everybody should like what they like, if only for the sake of my own mental health. But all of those well meaning people are usually safe in the married with children camp, or they were or are about to be. They still operate in a social safe space. I’m just a fat, unmarried, child-hating cunt.

I asked twitter for inspiration, and it came.

charliewarhol: @Marinaisgo the truth about feminazis


Feminazis are people that claim to be feminists, but are actually short-sighted, mean-spirited dicks. A feminazi is just an ass hole, and ass holes are everywhere. This can be terrible, because the truth is that nowhere is safe from them, not even a so-called ’safe space,’ like the one that many feminists try to create and uphold. But it can also be a good thing because ass holes like the feminazis don’t care who they hate. The truth about a feminazi is that she is an insecure person who needs to impose irrational rules on other people in order to protect herself and her ego. The people she directs her hate at have nothing to do with her or her beliefs or her morals, only her insecurity and her ego. A feminazi is only here ruining feminism because of sheer coincidence. If she’d had a different experience, she’d be somewhere else, imposing another kind of fundamentalism on those poor people. Every group has an asshole that tries to impose judgment on others for not adhering to a set of rules that she has made up and tries to enforce, no matter how much this hurts the group or the individuals in it.


The other truth about feminazis is that we all most likely support one, or have supported one at one time or another. Maybe not in feminism, but in our own communities and lives. People like to blame the asshole for making everything suck, but who keeps them around? Who keeps feeding them when they need that attention (negative or positive)? And more importantly, the feminazi is only pushing the rules that we ourselves make. Feminists create a hostile environment for men. That’s the truth. We discerning feminists just don’t say it out loud like those assholes do. Feminists create ’safe spaces’ that are women only spaces, and the rest of us support them by not challenging that. Feminists make domestic violence, rape and sexual abuse a women-only issue and the rest of us support that by towing the line when it comes down to it. Feminists give lip service to the sexes begin equal, but instead we have started a competition against men.


The result of thousands of years of inequality in most parts of the globe is that today it’s easier to work towards inequality in our favor than equity in everyone’s favor. There will always be inequality in the world, but the concept of treating another person equitably is very new, and we’re still working out the kinks. Just when we think that we’ve got this feminism thing down, it turns out that middle class white women are running the show and making it difficult for women of color and working class women. Then it’s the queer women who get the short end of the stick, then the transwomen and transmen. And in every single faction, women of color, working class women, queers and transpeople there is a new brand of asshole trying to dictate who can do or say what, when, where and why, and if we’re not the asshole, than we’re their support.


This is a lot of the reason that I’ve shied away from activism over the last several years. Instead, I support where I feel I can–mostly with donations or phone banking–and stay away the rest of the time. In my daily life I try to be respectful and kind, and not impose my rules on other people. There are a lot of responses to other-ness that are ingrained in us by society, so it can be difficult to always be equitable and fair in all my actions, but I suppose that the best one can do is to try.

mikesmith916: @Marinaisgo Your plans for the year? Current list of people that the world needs to send Mars without proper planning?
moopigmoo: @Marinaisgo Blog about female masturbation technique.
mikesmith916: @Marinaisgo @moopigmoo’s idea is much better.

I feel a bulleted list coming on.

• Humping a pillow..
• Humping your palm
• Humping anything, really.
• The Hang Ten: middle 3 fingers inside the vagina with the thumb and pinky serving as both a push off point and a stabilizing force while the heel of the palm stimulates the clitoris through constant pressure.
• The DJ Hero: Using 2 or 3 fingers to stimulate the clitoris in a circular motion, while using the other hand to play with breasts and nipples.
• Rollin’ with the Homies: Using all of the fingers to stroke the entire vulva in a repetitive, up and down motion.
• The Jackhammer: Fingerfucking oneself with 2 or 3 fingers in a steady rhythm. This only works if you are not too fat, and/or you have fairly long arms.
• Bad Girl: Slapping or patting the vulva or clitoral area once or twice in quick succession.
• Girl Fight: Pulling pubic hair.
• The Houdini: Bringing oneself to orgasm by constricting and releasing the pelvic floor muscles and nothing else.
• Terrorist Fist Hump: You know it’s serious when you’re fisting yourself.
• Tainted Love: Reaching behind or around with the secondary hand and playing with one’s asshole.
• Vibrator, applied to the clitoral tissue. Contrary to popular belief, a vibrator should not be used as a dildo, although sometimes the fastest way to get to the clitoral nerve mass is from the inside.
• Dildos, in my experience need to be a few inches longer than your favorite dick length in order make good use of leverage.
• Butt plugs are not just for gays ladies. I have been told, and have come to believe (through careful experimentation) that when constant pressure is applied to the anus, vagina and clitoris, a woman can experience a sustained orgasm several minutes long.
• Combo Platter: Using toys and manual stimulation simultaneously.
• Some girls say that the rhythm of riding a horse has done it for them. I rode horses and never experienced that, but then again, I almost always rode bareback. Maybe it has something to do with the saddle
• Sitting on the washing machine or dryer. Again, I tried in vain to figure out what the thrill was, but for the life of me it never worked.
• Positioning one’s vagina directly under the flow of water as it comes out of bathtub spigot.  Another one I never mastered.
• Hand-held adjustable speed shower head. Yet another masturbation technique that’s lost on me.
• Any combination of these things.

I’m sure that I missed some things, I really encourage you guys to add to the list. I think this’ll be fun.