Lady-like

In the past few years, I've started being more into makeup.  Buying it, playing around with it, watching tutorials, you know.  I've been told that I've become a different person.  I've been told that I've become a shallow person.  I've been told I'm addicted.  I've been told that I look great without makeup, so I should really just stop.  While all of this is true, it's not the whole story.

The excuse I give (jokingly) is that my mom told me a few years ago that I had to stop buying makeup if I didn't start wearing it.  The excuse I give is that I was sick for a long time, and I had too much free time.  The excuse I give is that I don't need a fucking excuse, that judging a girl for wearing makeup is a gross kind of misogyny, that people have created little boxes for women and girls to fit into and when they don't they're wrong.  While all of this is true, it's not the whole story.

The whole story is this.

Between my sexual assaults, my abuse, my constant pain due to endometriosis, my abortion, I adopted this idea that all of it was due to my being a woman.  And while partially true, this notion caused me to hate the things about myself that made me a woman.  For most of my adult life I wore jeans no matter what the weather, never a skirt, a dress, shorts.  I didn't shave my legs.  I used sex as a weapon, against others, and against my own body that had betrayed me.  I refused to carry a purse, or wear makeup.

Now I would never say that these things are empirically wrong, lots of people act this way for other reasons, but I was waging war on my own femininity.

So along with other things I've seen myself change and grow into as I've gotten older, I've seen myself start to wear makeup.  I bought a pair of shorts last week, and worn them in public.  I bought a purse because I thought it was cute, not just because it was black and discrete.  I see all of these things as a fucking joy.  JOY.  Because they mean something more than what anyone really thinks.  They mean that I'm coming to accept myself, accept my looks and my personality and my womanhood.  And that is nothing short of a miracle.

Today's piece has fuck-all to do with what I just talked about.  I thought of this whole post last night, and didn't really have the time to write a companion piece to go with it.  Although, I'm sure if I had, it just would have been about how much I love this new mascara I just got, so consider yourself lucky.

Basically, I heard the third song in a row on the radio that said something about owning the night, and I thought about how completely self-centered that sounded, and how the creatures that actually owned the night would laugh and laugh and laugh.  So I wrote this, which is the first thing in a long time I've written, and is a first draft, insert more self-effacing stuff here.

Own the Night

Young people love to say they own the night.
But we.  WE own the night.
The liquid blackness comes as we beckon, like it did for our great ones before us.
Don’t let your young supple flesh go astray.
For we will whisper into your chest
We will draw our thumb down your sternum from collarbone to navel.
And you will be broken again
Baptized by fire

Dark Night

Have I mentioned how I dream about Batman all the time?  It would be nice to say I've had a dream here or there, but Batman shows up pretty regularly in my dreams.  Usually I'm Catwoman (FUCK, I forgot to put her in my list of hot badass ladies [which by the way now has more views than any other post, holla]), although occasionally I'm Harley.  The Joker is always my husband, and we're usually plotting how to finally get rid of that darn bat.

Batman has always been a favorite of mine.  I mean, him personally, but also the entire franchise.  He's a superhero without all of the annoying shit that usually comes with being a good guy.  He's the epitomal (this is apparently not a real word, and I am apparently in love with some parentheticals today) anti-hero, and it is wonderful.  He's not bogged down by all the rules of conduct that most heroes are, he's dark, and instead of being obsessed with what is "right", he's obsessed with justice.  Also he has the BEST villains.  I hate to keep comparing to Superman, but really, I can't understand why anyone likes that guy.  Superman has EVERY power, so he's stupidly invincible, except for his major downfall, a rock.  A rock.  Lois Lane is an idiot, and Lex Luther is just some rich corporate tool.  Whereas the Joker is the ultimate badass villain of all time.  He's brilliant, unpredictable, resourceful, psychotic, determined.  Not to mention the hoards of other amazing villains Batman has working against him, Ivy, Zsasz, Harley, Two-Face, Scarecrow, Grundy.  And amongst all this, Batman has to face his toughest enemy, his own fucking crippling torment.  I love it.

This next piece has absolutely nothing to do with Batman or dreams, and more to do with my own need to sack up and start being the ultimate amazing ruler of worlds I need to be.  I wrote it in my car on the way to a doctors appointment while I was stuck in that fabulous traffic that Austin is so known for.  So if it seems odd and jumbled, just remember that so am I.  In the words of the inimitable Kanye West, "I'm the only thing I'm afraid of".

Pinch Me

I will be a vicious bitch, all teeth and claws and flying fur.  I will stop shaking at their lecherous leering and hold my gaze steady until they look away in fear.  I will not shy away from the night, I will be a brutal queen whose slippered feet crush my enemies.  I am an Amazon, and I will protect my own self in this sweltering jungle of concrete and asphalt.  I will dance and sweat and sing to the heavens without thought of my physical form.  I must crawl out from this fucking cave and rejoin my light to the universe with all its novas and quasars and swirling nebulae.  I must wake up.

List Time

My shit has been god-awful depressing lately, and for this I am sorry.  I promised I'd make it up to you, my wide readership in... Russia now?  Blogger stats are weird.  Anyway, I'm sorry about being a fucking dark depressing mess, so here is my penance.  I present you with...

Embobly's List of Super-Hot Badass Women of Sci-fi/Fantasy!

Highs and Lows

Ok, so I lied.  I said this next post would be lighter.  Well, I guess it'll be lighter than a whole post about rape, but it won't exactly be a bunch of pictures of grumpy cat.  I'm working on a list of my favorite hot Sci-Fi/Fantasy ladies, so stay tuned for that coming up soon, it'll be light and nerdy and more than a little gay.

I've been having problems sleeping.  And I don't mean insomnia per se, I've been having nightmares.  Every night, all the time, where I wake up shaking and can't get back to sleep until I've searched the house with a baseball bat and checked all the doors.  Apparently this is a very common occurrence after a trauma, but I'm sure it also has to do with the fact that I was raped while I was asleep.

Anywho, I've tried everything.  I've tried benadryl and Advil PM and chamomile tea and herbal supplements and aromatherapy and opiates.  And nothing has been working.  But recently I remembered that back when I used to smoke weed all the time, I didn't dream.  Or at least, I didn't remember doing it.  I remember when I first quit smoking, I was so startled that I could dream again.  It was like a whole part of my life that I didn't even realize was missing, along with reading and being able to have quasi-normal social interactions, and not being terrified of cops.  So I acquired a little bit of bud and bought myself a tiny little one-hitter (Side Note: When I told the guy at the head shop that I only really needed something big enough for one hit he said, "Where have you been all my life?") and a little air-tight box so my whole house wouldn't smell.  Shit's skunky.

Last night I decided to give it a go.  I got my pipe and put maybe a cubic centimeter worth of weed in it, which I thought was a super tiny bowl, if I remembered right.  I grabbed a cigarette I could have afterwards and a glass of water and a lighter and went outside.  I was so proud of myself for not coughing on that first hit, "I'm still a fucking pro" I thought to myself.  I got cocky, I misjudged my tolerance, and I misjudged the amount I put in there.  The first hit felt so wonderful, like I was instantly transported back to my youth of smoking and not giving a damn about the real world.  Then I took another 5 or 6 hits to clear the bowl, and didn't feel so wonderful.

The room was spinning, the world was fragmented and going whomp whomp, I couldn't remember more than 3 seconds at a time, walking was HARD.  I went into the bathroom, sat down, and forgot why I was there.  I wondered if I was dying.  I had brilliant epiphanies about the world and promptly forgot them.  I could tell that my dog knew I was high, and was judging me for it.  In short, I got WAY WAY WAY too high.  But I didn't dream.  So I'm gonna try it again, and maybe not get so mother fucking blazed.  And maybe eat some cupcakes I made.

I wrote this piece the other night directly after waking up from a horrid nightmare.  I ended up driving to the gas station at 6 am to buy cigarettes because I knew I would calm down if I could get some nicotine and I had run out.  I took this piece with me to my support group this week, and read it to the ladies there.  They were all really nice about it, and had really flattering things to say.  One of them told me that it would be an excellent way to show someone who had never been through this how it felt.  Which was a huge compliment.  I don't have a creative title for it, so sue me.  I'm fucking tired.

Nightmares

Fight or flight or freeze and I am a motherfucking ice cube.  I can feel myself pressing full frontal against the cellophane membrane between sleep and the real world, stretching to grasp something real and break through, away from the dark and shadowy creatures that never stop coming.  Mentally scrambling and yet physically so inert, trapped in amber for all of eternity.  I finally crowbar my eyes open to look around my inky room, still drenched in sweat from my epic battle for life, raspy breathing and a heart that pounds the beat of a savage drum.  My head feels drugged; I can feel the spinning of the world beneath me and it is SO. FAST.  I can't even remember my otherworldly enemy, but he lurks in every dark corner, waiting patiently for the clock or himself to strike.

Rape Culture

I am so fucking sick to death of rape culture and horrible people.  So, just for my own benefit, if not for anyone else's, I've decided to compile a list of links to articles that I have found to be useful/horrifying/heartwrenching.  Peruse at your own discretion, trigger warnings like WHOA.

Cranky

So due to a series of fuckups, some of which are mine, I'll readily admit to that, I haven't gotten my hormone suppression shot that I need for all my ladypart problems.  I've been taking this shot for maybe 5 years now, and because I don't have it, my body is being flooded with all these hormones I haven't had in my system for a long long time.  Which has basically turned me into a 14 year old girl.  I cry all the time, I'm a total rageaholic, I get my feelings hurt at everything.  It's like puberty plus PMS plus an unstable person to begin with.  I am a dangerous scary woman with hormones.  I've been trying to think of an all-natural way to supress my hormones, but there isn't really an anti-edamame.  Anti-soy milk.  Whatever.  Basically I'm playing a lot of violent videogames and crying and trying to avoid unnecessary social interactions.  So not a whole lot different I guess.

In an attempt to alleviate some of this rage, I asked for advice, and got a whole lot of people telling me to exercise.  But I'm a lazy fuck, so I tried to write about it instead.  What came out was disjointed and nonsensical and somewhat serial killer manifesto-y.  I sent it to my darling darling Kiki, and asked him to fix me because I apparently have no clue how to write anymore.  He said it was coarse, which it is.  Honestly there's not a lot of art to it, it's just kind of raw emotions vomited onto a page.  Being the asshole that he is, he told me to rewrite it, and then did it himself.  Because he's a jerk and a thief, and made it way better.  I'm going to post both of them here, in the spirit of disclosure, so you all can see the horrible things I put on paper, and then what they would sound like if I had talent.  He took my raw bare stupid girl emotions, and made them sound nice.  Love him, enjoy these.

Red (original)

Let’s all play the rage game.
So fucking delicate, like porcelain on a swingset, nails on a chalkboard, trapped in a box, cliché cliché cliché.
I want to bash my head through a wall.  I gnaw on my own hands just to let some anger seep through my protective barrier and out into the world and back into me.  Out my mouth and through my fingers.
Ripping pieces of paper up into tiny strips is no longer satisfying me; I crave blood like an animal.  My inhalations come in hot and stifling.  My head thumps like a speaker, whub whub whub.
My ribs are locked closed with a chastity belt, I’m stuck and trapped, and oh my god help me let me out.

Red (Redo)

Let’s all play a game.
like hangman on the blackboard with a cocaine nail
drifting sweetly side to side
from a porcelain chain
trapped
in a box
my game.
my rage.

I put my head through the wall just to see the other side
and i bite my flesh to watch the blood flow.
something needs to permeate
because this hatred deeply seeps
my head throbs slowly with my heart
and these shallow breaths are short and incomplete.
I’m trapped alone
inside myself
and to shed this skin
from off my chest
no longer
calms the beast.
it’s life I crave,
Oh, God,
will nothing else suffice?

X-Ray Vision

Too much of the super serial.  I need to get back to the goofy, the evil, the world-conquering madness.  Like I talked about in one of my first posts, many moons ago, I have always had a penchant for evil motherfuckers.  Why are the bad guys so much more deliciously entertaining, and why do I ALWAYS inevitably root for them?  Probably because they are so much more human.  I hate to use Superman as an example, because he isn't human, but he's so flipping perfect that it's annoying.  He's nice and smart, and blah blah blah.  He has superpowers, and he uses them to save the world, and do good deeds, and get kittens out of trees.  No real person would do that.  They would just check out ladies in the locker room for awhile, and then go rob a bank.  Which is I'm pretty sure what villains do.  They have sweet lairs and death rays and check out chicks' boobs.  They have flaws, like anger and vengeance and greed and just plain homicidal crazytown.  I want to hug them all, and clink my gin martini against theirs, and cackle wildly.  They get to tell it like it is, and make the hero cry because he can't handle it.  Also lackeys!  I want lackeys!  I promise you, random internet readership, when my accounting prowess allows me to rise the ranks of political power and I become the lady that gets to sit on the Iron Throne, I will remember you.  And I'll have need of tons of lackeys.

(Speaking of evil geniuses, like myself, I'm gonna be an asshole and plug my friend's comic here.  It is absolutely brilliant.  The art is evolving at an exponential rate, the dialogue feels incredibly real, the characters are intricate, the story is about a fucking mad scientist.  What more could you want?  It's called String Theory, and it is dark and magical.  Go read it.)

This next piece is actually new.  I wrote it at the behest of a friend of mine who yelled at me for the last post I made, and told me to write something new, and gave me the topic of a recent encounter.  And while I thought it was wretched (thus the name), he told me it was "hot", and had "flair".  Anyway, I was sick and tired of being so dark and moody and godawful depressing in this blog, so I decided to post it.  Fuck it.  I can't be pretentious ALL the time.

hackhackhack

Like a kid on a tire swing, I am giddy and awkward.  The first touch is blue electricity, you make me into a slack-jawed moron.  My brain puts out the Away For Lunch sign, and all my movements become animal.  Sharpened shoulder blades and snarling lips.
Fourth of fucking July
Tiny explosions
Claws and teeth
An order, a command
Pulling hair, pushing the wall
A bright white flash!
Sticky spots on the carpet and the corners of my lips.  Grasping for air, searching for clothes.  Awkward again, but a satisfied sense of a cat licking his lips after a bowl of milk.  I stretch, and give him a high-five for his dick.