You have until 9 to pussyfoot & bumfuck around miss.
You have until 9 to pussyfoot & bumfuck around miss.
Here ya go Shans, recreating this as a personal space away from that weird tumblr space that looks really pretty and are things you really do like but blah. Here’s to journaling & posting ridiculous pictures & then writing & whatnot over the break. Maybe you can write the occasional intelligent thing too since Dr. Rob gave you that reading list for Winter Break. Time for some Foucault analysis..you’re only the last one to jump on that train.
But really, why are you deciding to do this now when you have two finals in less than 4 hours. You’re a colossal idiot. For watching that stupid Beth Cooper movie at 8 in the morning. That movie is dumb. Go study instead of looking at Sheldon’s cute little cat face & thinking of Ryan’s cute boy face. And kisses. And eyes that look like honey. This is getting cheese real quick, reign it in, he probably won’t even get you a Christmas present. Not that you want one.
Cute, funny, intelligent boy in One Love with brown eyes who I never speak to ever but occasionally smile/make eye contact with/converse with second hand, who liked my photo. That means you find me attractive too, right? Maybe? Facebook is dumb.
almost trust you. i almost trust you enough to lay the secrets of the ages into your wicked hold and let you wash over me. silver strings of desire are rising up to bring me down, a liquid pull in my belly as you lure and tease with the crook of your finger. i swear, if i could, i would cut through gravity and tear in half to fall through sky and crash into you. i almost trust that you would be there to enfold me, to press kisses along my neck and whisper that i’m beautiful in the crooked curve of my collarbone. and if my dreams were to carve themselves out of starlight and into reality, i would sigh and dissolve until we were one and moondust washed up on sandy beaches at night. and i would breathe deep and liquefy until my mouth was on yours and our bodies were tangled cells with poetry banding us together. i would give, give, give myself to you so that you might explore the ridges and crests of shoulder and rib and hip. i would surrender the rights to the slopes and crooked angles of my body and fling my desire into the night sky so that all young lovers might follow our northwestern star to where we lay breathless and spent.
I wonder if I’m making excuses for myself. That those are actually reasons why I was a late bloomer, that those are reasons why it takes so much for me to be comfortable with someone physically. To be hyper-aware of sexuality at such a young age. It made me so self-conscious. I’m still so self-conscious. You both did that to me and I wonder how many others it happened to since it happened to me, how many others you touched the way you touched me, are they bitter too, did they know the way you touched, what you did, how much it meant? I didn’t know. Did it make them scared too? Does it still make them scared? How much does it even mean, I still don’t know. How is it that I still don’t know, that I don’t even know my self. You did that to me, I think. People are fucked up. You had to have been, to do what you did to me. You fucked me up too, it’s a cycle.
It’s weird to become aware of the little tricks your mind plays, how you really do suppress things. I think as I became more aware socially of sexuality, I put more & more weight on what happened but forced myself to ignore it at the same time. Sometimes it helps to think that it happens more often than it’s spoken, at least now it does. It didn’t help growing up though, when you don’t know the statistics, when you’re too afraid to tell a single living soul, when you don’t know what it means to be touched like that. When it was all such a battle, it’s always an internal battle. When you’re too scared to even admit it to yourself. It didn’t happen. It happened though, it did. But maybe it didn’t. Maybe? You tell the lie to yourself so many times you start to believe it. But it did happen. You must’ve been really fucked up. You must’ve really fucked me up.
But another you, a different you this time, a you I found fifteen years later. I trusted you this much, but not enough to tell you what it meant for me to trust a man in this way. You never knew, you won’t ever know because we’ll never be hip to hip again. I’ll never let you touch me like this again. That’s a lie, I probably would. It really, really sucks knowing that I would. I would because for the first time in my life it was mutual, I let someone in and let it mean something for me and I think it meant something for you too. But it didn’t mean enough, maybe it would’ve meant more if I told you, if I could’ve told you. But I felt a constrictor around my throat every time I tried, every time I felt like this is it, I could open up to you, I can tell you what happened to me, but I never did. Maybe if I showed you more of myself you would’ve stayed, you would’ve realized what it meant for me to let you touch me, because I so hate being touched, I so hate it and I’m still scared of it. But I did let you touch me and I realized I could love it. Maybe I’ll love it again, with someone else, someone who won’t make me feel like I’m being suffocating every time I try to spit it out. It wasn’t you though, it was the situation. I’m tired of being afraid of it, of saying it out loud. It’s such a strange feeling to have the words right at the edge of your lips. It’s like feeling like I have to throw them up, rid them from my body and mind, only I can’t. When will I be able to? I don’t know though, I never know. I don’t know anything. I hope for many things though.
That Time | Regina Spektor
The last midnight brownie thoughts I plan on having for awhile. 4/20 will be counted as an outlier, it’s already been decided.
Foucault got it all right, seriously. There I am in the kitchen eating the first half of one of the greatest clementines I’ve ever had [Best patch of clementines I have ever purchased, bar none. (BAAAnana. Hahaha oh self-inside jokes. Oh inside jokes with psychotic, selfish, leach of an ex-best friend from high school. That was unnecessarily harsh, I’m not that bitter and am exaggerating. Some days.) Which is saying a lot actually, because an excessively high number of clementines have been eaten over the last 5ish months, an obsessive amount if we’re being honest here.] when I feel suddenly extremely aware of how I must appear physically to another person. This is going to get weird. I realized that while I was eating that first half, there were no conscious thoughts going through my mind about how to move my arms, how to eat the orange, don’t get juice everywhere, where is a napkin, would anyone else like a piece, no internal verbalization going on whatsoever, just eating the clementine. And I realized that I felt like I must have looked primitive, like the species that got the boot and didn’t follow the evolution gravy train that led to us homo sapiens.
Foucault has this idea about ‘docile bodies’ and how we’ve socialized and disciplined ourselves to move in certain ways. We somehow created an idea of how our person should actually be perceived physically by another person, and we have disciplined ourselves to follow these codes!!! We learn straight from the get-go from every single person we see, because everyone always follows the code. You can see the evidence for evolution in it, even: at some point, we developed the ability to be self-aware and conscious of ourselves (Shit, that’s another rant for another night, the SOLE interesting thing I’ve managed to take away from my philosophy of Latin America class.). So now we’re aware of how we must appear to someone outside of ourselves and we’ve socialized ourselves to look a certain way when we do anything, like eating. Like eating that clementine. Any other time I’ve eaten a clementine, my mind had been multitasking, analyzing something but always relating it back to myself, but not this time. So I was essentially feeling like I was only aware of the act of eating the orange to satisfy the need for food. But then in me recognizing how I seemed to not be fully self-conscious in that moment, snapped me back to reality. I saw how I could have been perceived by another, I became aware of my awareness of this fact. And I thought without forming words in my mind that that was not what someone was supposed to look like while eating. We’ve socialized ourselves to be docile bodies, to eat with more physical restraint, to be more ‘presentable’ when we’re perceived by our peers. And we are hardly aware of it, and it’s such a norm, probably the most deeply rooted norm that we have. I could be just interpreting his theory in an entirely false way, I guess. But for real, crazy.
Now the question is, does that make me part of the gene pool throwing in less desirable traits for our species? The fact that I essentially went back for a brief moment to the time when our species or the last species we branched from, or wherever, weren’t consciously aware of their bodies and simply fed the beast, the only priority being survival in satisfying our simplest needs? Shit. Maybe this pseudo-intellectualism makes up for it a little.
I also found myself tearing up at the very end of Miss Congeniality, really? When she gives her little speech which culminated in her crying and saying, “I really do want world peace.” All the girls were starting to cry, and there goes my ability to control the tear ducts. But that’s a self-psychoanalysis for another day.
This is all ridiculous, for real.
— Brian Andreas (via nomatterhowitends)
We are pretty. I am pretty, I am pretty, I am pretty. If I think it, I’ll become it right? I’ll believe it for myself. Sometimes I do, most of the time I don’t. Maybe it would be easier if I didn’t have two completely different looking sides of my face, it’s freaky.
On a lighter note, I’ve got a new pet spider that lives in my lamp. Hello new friend & welcome.
Nicest Thing | Kate Nash
Really though, life would be a lot easier right now if I wasn’t thinking these things. It always bothered me that you never commented on my perfume. I even tested out all of mine when we were together, but you never said anything. Very annoying, considering my love for good perfume. You always smelled so good, so comforting, so manly. You were so handsome and goofy. Why am I such a sucker for brown eyes? I hate how if I saw you, I’d still find them warm and comforting. I guess I had this notion that boys with brown eyes didn’t have it in them to hurt me. I wish I didn’t think of things like that, they don’t make sense obviously. I wish I could stop thinking of all these hypothetical situations that bring you back into my life, because they give me a glimmer of hope that we could be something again. How much were we even really? I know it was more for me than it was for you. Basically, I wish that you could love me. It sucks knowing that I could still love you if you wanted me to, if you wanted to start over with me. Oh well.
Maybe I should just start writing, force myself to turn the stream of images, feelings, plays that go by in my head into some words. Thinking is weird, isn’t it? I wonder if other people think the way I do. Not what I’m thinking, but the mechanics of it all. How is it that I even make sense of my (our, though, right?) thoughts when they are such a sporadic combination of words unverbalized and moving clips, combining the hypothetical with the real? What even is real? But anyways, I started a daily journal this week. I write what I’m grateful for for the day, so far it’s short and simple. I’ve already forgotten twice only to go back the next morning to fill the next spot. I guess it’s part of this whole ‘get your shit together’ kick I’ve started. Which is really fucking hard. I think the journal will help me be a little less cynical and depressing all the time, or at least that’s what I want. The problem with this whole grateful journal business though is that so far the things I’ve been grateful for are things that have helped me not be so sad that day. Which isn’t not a good thing, I’m grateful for those little grateful bits. I hope it gets to the point that more of the things I’m grateful for don’t come from some sort of therapy vantage, I guess. I’m tired of needing things to pick me up for the day, I want to be up and happy and confident from the get-go. Not even that, though; I’d like to just go a day without that nagging worry/anxiety/doom string that feels like it’s being slowly pulled out of my belly button and somehow slowly pulled back in, which really if you think about it is a strange feeling. Don’t think about it too hard though, Shannon, just thinking it and writing it creates more strings.
I think it’s the seasons though. I’m always happier in the spring. All that budding green, it makes me want to cry it’s so beautiful. How fucking strange is that? We cry when things are beautiful. Since when does beauty have to be so tragic? What the hell is tragedy anyways, why the fuck do we feel tragic? Why do I feel tragic all the time? Spring only just started though, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Or keep letting myself get behind, more like. Forward forward forward. Getting your shit together Shans, this is it. Stop feeling that anxiety string now being twined around your esophagus, which is another strange feeling. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be great actually. I can’t figure out if me saying that kind of thing is me lying to myself or if it’s me just trying to be my own positive life coach. Right now both of those selves have an equal footing. Note: this is not me being cynical.