If you want to take the title line analytically for a second, you can gather that being nude allows me to take a moment or two to assess my body.  If you don’t want to take the title analytically, then I am just trying to put images into your head.  Much like Ali does every time she writes me a letter.


1.  Inadvertent accusations of fatness.

Britney Spears at the 2007 MTV VMAsThis rarely comes from people in my life (except sometimes from my roommate when she accuses herself of being so fat).  No.  More often, it comes straight from the media.  Today, Virginia (my roomie) and I were channel-surfing during CSI commercial breaks when we came across some documentary on Britney Spears and how she was so fucking fat during her performance at the 2007 VMAs.  Sadly, not only did the celebrity gurus assert that she looked terribly un-sexy in her underwear getup, but Spears herself added that she looked like a “fat pig.”  I have a few problems with this.  One, I have a “fatter” belly than she does–in fact, those photos of her puffed-out tummy and less-than-toned arms are reminiscent of my own.  But I could never rock that underwear getup like she did.  I’m too pale (and in love with paleness).  Two, I think she looks perfectly healthy and sexy, so what’s wrong?  I don’t even want to mention that Spears isn’t acting like a super-good role model (though really, Paige, when does she?) by putting down her own perfectly healthy body, or that the media’s expectations of celebrity women are really just fucked up.

If I got this from you, shoot me words and I will link to your site.

Why am I talking about Britney Spears, though?  Don’t you expect me to be talking about some indie goddess?  Thing is, indie goddesses don’t give me these sorts of problems.  Sure, I’ve been confronted with photos of Jenny Lewis in near-undies and Chan Marshall unveiling her pubes.  But the media simply doesn’t comment on their figures, however nice they are.  This is probably because they’re not pop-icon formulas.  Jenny Lewis does not make me feel bad about my body.  The media pressure on female celebrities does.  And it puts women in competition, too.  I am sick of sizing up other women to determine how much better their bodies are than mine.  I am sick of feeling in competition with my own female camarades on occasion.  That’s something that I feel should never, ever have to happen.  But it does, because instead of accepting many different body types as beautiful, the media accepts one:  thin.  I’m not arguing, by the way, that thin bodies are not beautiful, or that we should apply pressure on thin women to gain some weight.  Thin bodies are beautiful.  But voluptuous (I am not talking Beyoncé; I am talking Gabby Sidibe) bodies are beautiful, too.

I choose to fall in love with women such as Jenny Lewis because I can relate to them.  She is perfect in her imperfections.  We saw her evolve imperfectly in the limelight.  She makes mistakes, she writes about them, she is relateable because her goal does not seem to be being sexual or stunning or unrealistically beautiful.  Her goal seems to be being.  I can do that, too.  That’s where the problem comes in for people like Britney Spears.  Their goals are unattainable, even for them.  Or if they are attainable, they are fleeting.  You can’t hold onto a perfect body forever.  Eventually, even George Clooney will sag a bit.

Another thing is that maybe it’s just a morbid curiosity, but because everyone is telling me I’m fat all across the board, I have gained this terrible, insatiable interest in the way my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends look[ed].  It’s not to make myself feel good.  It’s to make myself feel like shit.

2.  Hating on body hair.

If this is yours, hit me up and I will linkety link link link.

I have not shaved since early September [EDIT:  My mom has compelled me to shave twice since then]!  My legs are hairy.  My armpits are hairy.  And my mom will flip if/when she learns this information, which is why I have to shave on November 24th or November 25th before I return home for Thanksgiving break.  Refraining from shaving has made me a little more comfortable with myself.  Body hair is natural, even on women.  Why do we shave it?  We do it for men because we think men like it.  Why do we think men like it?  The media projects expectations on us to look like prepubescent girls.  Sometimes when I leave my apartment in shorts, I have to prep myself as to all the reasons why I don’t need to shave, but it’s not like I get to explain the political context to people.  They just believe I’m hairy or dirty or a crazy feminist without even really thinking about any other possible reasons.  I am a crazy feminist, but I’m resigned to the fact that a woman does not need to be hairless to be beautiful, especially if the hairiness comes so naturally.  I’m done with fighting my body on that one.  Unfortunately, I’m even more resigned to the fact that my mom will not take any explanation for this, and that on the sight of unsightly body hair, she will yell and hand me a razor tout de suite.  The only comfort she would probably take in this is the assumption that I’m not getting laid, because what man wants a hairy gnome?

Added afterthought:  Who determined that head hair and eyelashes on women are sexy and that every other bit of hair (besides some very specific eyebrow hair) must go?  If a woman is completely devoid of any hair whatsoever, she is not sexy.  If a woman has lots of hair, she is not sexy.  It all seems like a game.  You can’t have it both ways!

PS Frida Kahlo is beautiful.

3.  Sexist notions in existential novels.


Male existential novelists are guilty.  Do I even need to put the “male” there?  It seems like every existential novelist, philosopher, and filmmaker is male.  I am an existentialist.  I love existentialism.  But I am sick and tired of the sexist notions littered throughout the books I’m reading.  Kundera says women are sex objects.  Kierkegaard says women are not to be trusted.  Kaufman writes women as obstacles in life.  You can forgive Kierkegaard a little bit because he probably never expected women to gain access to his novels.  You can’t forgive Kundera of Kaufman, though.  I love them both–Kundera for his animal rights reasoning and Kaufman for his ability to write a kickass film–but I am so sick of this unfair portrayal of people like myself.  Not to mention that besides being predominantly male, existentialists are white, middle class, and Christian or atheist.  I guess it can go one way or the other with religion.  If you’ve found any female existential novelists, let me know!

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that the reason I’m pointing this out is that I’ve been reading loads of existentialism this semester because of a fifteen-page essay I wrote and aced on the influence of early existentialists on modern-day existentialists.  All of my sources were penned by white, middle-class males.

4.  Jon & Kate/Tiger Woods media coverage.

They are simply people living their lives.  I don’t care.

5.  Not being able to level up in Restaurant City because okay, I forgot to feed my staff, but does that mean that my approval rating should drop?

That's mah homeboi.

I like to give my customers a little bit of credit.  Like, if they see that all of the employees in my restaurant are passed out on the floor from sleep/food deprivation (and/or hardcore partying at Erika’s El Paso the night before), don’t you think they’d leave instead of sitting down, waiting for these unconscious waiters and chefs to serve them?  Low approval rating means fewer customers, which means fewer experience points, which means it is going to take me forever to get to level 22.

6.  Songbird freezing.

Meh.  After the latest iTunes update, I’m thinking about converting back to iTunes anyway.  I guess Songbird and Vista just aren’t meant to be.

7.  Ouija Board.

I can’t sleep too well ever since I found out about my apparently long-present secret roommates, Rubi and Zach.

8.  That Kelly Clarkson song.

It is soooo repetitive, SO annoying.

9.  Explaining to people that I am vegan.

Since I’m a mild-mannered, gentle, shy person, I generally don’t want to offend.  In fact, you could say that part of why I don’t want to eat animal products is that I find them offensive.  So it’s a difficult thing for me to explain to people that I am vegan because it is so often offensive.  I won’t eat their food, I can’t share their love for cheese, and I don’t find their jokes about my eating habits funny.  But I’m stuck on the fence because it’s obvious to me that non-veganism is really the offensive route and deviant and just wrong (morally, ethically, environmentally, and taste-wise), but so many people seem to believe that I am the one in the wrong.  Even some of my friends who occasionally declare my journey as noble seem to believe that my dedication is offensive.  Or when they choose a restaurant where I absolutely cannot and will not eat anything, it is I who chose to be vegan, and not they who chose an offensive restaurant.  Fortunately, my mother has finally accepted my veganism and my nose ring.

10.  Jewelery.

Yesterday I had to go with my dad to a jewelery counter at Boscovs so he could exchange some stuff.  The people who shop here are ridiculous, and they don’t know or particularly care that the blood of children was shed for their shitty-ass diamonds.  Another thing is that I am a fan of handmade jewelery that is askew and imperfect (but I guess it wouldn’t be considered jewelery, per se, because I hate jewels).  Jewelery counters sell shit to people who have sticks up their asses.


1.  Camera Obscura.

T & The Fonz in Philly

Since August, my life has been set to the tune of this Scottish group.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I am behind the curve on this one.  Camera Obscura is a sixties-reminiscent indie pop band, and they make me feel legitimately amazing.  When I listen to Camera Obscura, I’m ready for whatever Monday chooses to throw in my path.  When I feel ugly, I listen to Camera Obscura and feel prettier.  When I need to brush my teeth, I tune Songbird to Camera Obscura.  When I am behind schedule in the morning and running late to class because I can’t find my keys (and little do I know that they are in my jacket pocket), Camera Obscura is the band for me.  I am a Camera Obscura kind of girl.

Also, I got the amazing opportunity to see Camera Obscura with Alex in Norfolk the weekend before Thanksgiving and they were awesome, as was expected.

Swans | Camera Obscura
[mf] [buy]

2.  Florence.

Florence Henderson.

Just kidding.


Florence Welch.  Ali and I have been raving about her for many months now, with that stadium-filling voice, but when I passed Ali the Flo-torch, she took it and ran with it.  So now we’ve both got serious lesbian fixations on red-haired women!

Postcards From Italy (Beirut Cover) | Florence & The Machine
[mf] [buy]

3.  Fleet Foxes.

There is nothing to say, except that I never talked about them this summer even though they formed most of it with their sweet crooning ever since I heard them in Paige H.’s car while sitting next to Kelsey in the back seat on the way to Knoebel’s.

Ragged Wood | Fleet Foxes
[mf] [buy]

4.  Bitchfest!

I read it on the toilet, which says a lot because the books I read on the toilet must be captivating and absolutely cannot be nauseating.  Not only does Bitchfest educate me on oft-overlooked feminist issues, but it also teaches me how to write a well-structured essay!  I highly recommend this one to men and women, boys and girls alike.  And if you’ve already read it, I recommend Cunt by Inga Muscio.  BITCHfest made me a better woman, and it will make you a better man, woman, girl, boy, or what have you after you’ve read it.

5.  CSI reruns.

I am not much of a television junkie.  In fact, this (CSI: Las Vegas, of course) and [adult.swim] are the only reasons I will usually turn on the television.  It’s a puzzle.

6.  Gray hairs.

I have a lot of them.  Maybe I don’t have enough to consider myself a gray-haired individual, but I imagine I will get there before long.  I’m excited about them because they constitute a natural change in my body.  Plus, how many under-twenties besides Holden Caulfield get to rave about having gray hairs?

7.  Black pitted olives.

I think it’s the vinegar in the holding solution.

8.  jj.

I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.  jj is a mysterious Swedish band that makes incredible dream-pop dreamy dream music.  And hey, don’t take my word for it.  Chris recommended them in the comments section of my last post, too!

It was ecstasy when I heard this song.

Things Will Never Be The Same Again | jj
[mf] [buy]

9.  My roommate, Va.

She just asked me, “Oh man, do you write about me in your blog?!”  Now I do.

10.  Eisley.

Note the velcro shoes.

They are dreamy and melodic and beautiful and even my sister, Rachael, likes them.  I wish that Chauntelle still sang.  Her name, when stretched to French, practically dedicates her to the singing tradition (chanter).  I like to quote them and sing along to them badly.

I Could Be There For You | Eisley
[mf] [buy]

11.  Yeasayer.

With such a sicknasty sound and a great Blogothèque presentation, how could one get sick of them?  Alex introduced me to them, and now they are a staple in my collection.

Wait For The Wintertime | Yeasayer
[mf] [buy]

12.  Vegan cooking.

It always seems like it’s going wrong, but it always turns out so, so right.  I can guarantee that I never would have learned to cook this well on my own, even if I were vegetarian.  It takes the vegan push.

13.  My RayBans.


I was going to get wire-framed cheapo glasses, but the woman at For Eyes told me that my prescription is so high that even with a thinning procedure, the lenses would be too heavy for the frames.  So I “had” to get RayBans Wayfarers.  While I used to wear contact lenses every day (and night), I now wear glasses all the time.  I’m materialistic in this sense, but only because I can see…clearly…in all directions…without my eyes drying up and shriveling within my eye sockets.  It’s also been established that I have worse eyesight than any one of my friends.  It’s also also been established that I am happy to do a five-second trade with any glasses- or non-glasses-wearer who wants to try on my funny-looking, humongous glasses to try out my horrible vision.  I have been told that it’s like wearing drunk goggles.

14.  Tamagotchi.

His name is Fart.  I got him for 5 bucks at Five Below.  I’m sure some of my readers know that I’ve been an on-and-0ff Tama user for years now, especially since my junior year of high school.  Well, now it’s on and I am not ashamed.

15.  Skirts.

I will wear them for the rest of my life.

16.  This.

Presented to me by Nim, who left me a beautiful comment.

I also wanted to tell you all that I love you.  Yes, you.  I will not leave you.  This particular absence was a vacation to stupidity.  I will write you more petty things very soon.  The whole being-professional thing just doesn’t work for me.

Why I use the internet.

Why I use the internet.

I’ll say, stretching is underrated.  Stretch your arms way above your head, arch your back, twist around a bit.  You’ll see what I mean.  You might also yawn after, and then you will have to thank me.

Do you realize how profound a mother’s influence can be?  I was just reminded of a couple of girls (three, actually) I knew back in early high school whose moms got on their backs about their need to lose weight, to look a certain way, to wear certain clothes, to never forget makeup, and to retain certain ladylike hobbies.  All three of these girls are still pretty young, still in high school, but they’ve turned out to be Christian conservative girls with good posture.  They are beauty pageant daughters.  They don’t really enter beauty pageants, but I would not be surprised if they all attended Cotillion in middle school.  White, upper-middle class Southern belle dancing.  But in my humble opinion, these girls look fine the way they are.

Ma mère influenced me a good deal, too, and still attempts to reform my no-makeup, bad-posture ways.  And she can make me feel so self-conscious when she comments on my clothes or my hair or my skin or my eyebrows.  Sometimes it makes me not want to leave the house.  And she says that I absolutely cannot get piercings, except my ears if I want them, which I don’t.  But she allowed me certain liberties while growing up, maybe because I wasn’t an only child or even an only daughter, but one of three.  I was allowed to do whatever I wanted within reason, no sports, no girly activities like Cotillion, probably because it was too expensive and we were from the north.  My childhood consisted of making art, reading religiously, biking, playing outside, and writing.

The summer before I turned twelve, I spent all day reading every day for several weeks, and my mother grew concerned after a while.  She prohibited me from reading so much, but that’s the only time I can really recall that she stepped in.  I don’t remember how successful she was at that one.  Also, she hates the Shins because they remind her too much of the Beach Boys and doesn’t let me listen to them when she’s in earshot.  And she always used to say that she hoped that I did not listen to music about kids killing their parents.  Like I would.

Oh, “Jack Killed Mom” um…shit.  That doesn’t count!

Looking back, I’m glad she allowed me those liberties because even if I would look so much better if she were so strict about my appearance, she allowed me to develop into my own person, if somewhat reluctantly.  My mom let go of me at a certain point and allowed me to take control of everything from my hair to my eyebrows to my clothing to my music to my hobbies.  The only thing she will not let me control is body hair that is normally shaved.  The thing is that she doesn’t ever see my nether region, so she doesn’t know what’s going on.

Speaking of, here is one of the greatest scenes from one of the greatest chapters in all of the books I have read.   It is Everything Is Illuminated.  I guess I will only put some of it.

My grandfather and the Gypsy girl knew none of this as they made love for the last time, as he touched her face and fingered the soft underside of her chin, as he paid her the attention received by a sculptor’s wife.  Like this? he asked.  She brushed her eyelashes against his chest.  She moved her butterfly kiss across his torso and up his neck to where his left earlobe connected to his jaw.  Like this? she asked.  He pulled her blue blouse over her head, he undid her bead necklaces, he licked her smooth and sweaty armpits and ran his finger from her neck to her navel.  He drew circles around her caramel areolas with his tongue.  Like this? he asked.  She nodded and craned her head back.  He flicked her nipples with his tongue, and knew that it was all so completely wrong, everything, from the moment of his birth to this, everything was coming out the wrong way–not the opposite, but worse: close.

I can’t tell you how much of a funk I was in when I finished that book.  Right now, I feel out-typed, like I have been silkscreening my thoughts onto the internet for too long.  I can’t quite think straight.  I think that I just need vast amounts of sleep.

Between now and when I go to sleep, you should listen to some Stars.  I only obtained Sad Robots EP a few months ago, but ever since then, I am constantly listening to those six songs, minus “Going, Going, Gone [Live]” because it generally gives me a headache and reminds me of an alarm clock.

Undertow | Stars
[mediafire] [buy]
“Undertow” is a warm blanket on a cold night, an umbrella on a rainy day, and a bicycle on a sunny afternoon.  It is my crutch.  My favourite aspect of this song is that everything that is in the background is quiet.  So it’s really a tranquil song.  The breakdown near the end comes in at a close second place.

14 Forever | Stars
[mediafire] [buy]
Not like I’d like to be fourteen forever for real because I seriously hated being fourteen, but the feeling is so good.  You have to understand.  You know the tenderness that comes along with a first relationship, a first love.  I guess I don’t want to be left alone.

While we’re talking about being a teenager (“14 Forever”), I would like to mention the Hardee’s commercial which uses blatant meat pornography.  This is pretty much a double blow to me because while I could maybe handle some gorgeous woman sucking off a cucumber, it’s just disgusting to see her eating out a huge burger.  It’s not even the meat that really gets me, though.  It’s the pornography.

I’m a reasonable girl.  I can handle sex.  But I don’t think it’s appropriate.  I can’t quite wrap my mind around backup information as to why I can’t watch this commercial without thinking about a high-definition, high-budget porno.  You watch it, and it’s self-evident and shocking.  But it’s also advertising something that is despicable.  And the most interesting thing about this whole deal is that Padma Lakshmi, the model, used to be a vegetarian.  This is flipping a huge bird to the cause.

I don’t know.  You watch it and tell me what you think.

Just, I guess my probelm his that it’s sexual, sure, but it’s not sexy.  And it’s not doing anything to help the feminist front or the animal rights front.  It’s attacking both in one go.

Also, I just realized just how much I miss my mom, and how even if I was seventeen and had a nightmare and woke up screaming and sweaty because of a thunderstorm, she would let me sleep in her bed.  Even though I was just home recently, in March, I feel like I’m going nowhere.  I’m also so frustrated that I’m letting my grades suffer because of some inner crisis.  I also miss Lewisburg as a whole.  I miss Babygirl so much it hurts sometimes.  I miss Ali and Carol kidnapping me.  I miss Shannon coming into our house and eating our food and making up characters and gossipping.  I miss Aunt Peggy coming in and getting ice from the icemaker.  I miss making friendship bracelets without shoes on.  I miss biking around the neighborhood at eleven at night and crying so hard because I was so frustrated and I felt so helpless and alone, and then sitting in the back yard feeling dead, empty, and far from hungry and looking up at the stars.


I just zoned out and pictured Ali and Becca with Ed Zych moustaches.  Hahah.  Wow.

Speaking of Ali, she created a new blog.  I am going to advocate her blog for a minute.  You might like my blog because I am long-winded and really immature and I mope a lot.  You get to watch me grow up.  Go back to my first post, and you want to punch me in the face.  I like to explain things thoroughly so you completely understand whatever I’m talking about.  And I try so hard not to offend.  You will like Ali’s blog because she uses colourful pictures to illustrate her points.  She writes with an intensity that is unheard of.  Somehow, she is able to get her point across with few words.  If we both wrote about the same thing, I’m pretty sure that I would take a five-paragraph essay to convey what she can in five sentences.  The way she writes conjures up thoughts of vignettes.  They are little snippets of her life that require no backstory.  Ali’s writing is unique in this way.  The way I write is basically a very unpoetic epic poem or a journal.  I give you some backstory.  You can track my progress.  I change.

Dear Ali,
I will always find you whenever you start a new blog.  You can’t hide.
Love, Paige

When I put it this way, I wonder why you read my blog at all.  It’s probably for the free candy.  Free music.  Yeah.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’ve let the blog go for this long without some new music.  Because I’ve been listening avidly all this time, finding new lovely artists.  I’ve been tuning my iTunes to spring.

I feel that I should start slowly though.  First, I said back in February or March that I would write about She & Him, and I didn’t lie but I just haven’t done it yet.

Erika is the one who introduced me to She & Him.  She told me that she falls asleep to their album, Volume One, every night.  It is her teddy bear.  I was excited but a little skeptical.  It seemed like sacrelige to me to bed down with an album like that, to worship something other than Rilo Kiley.  And while they are no Rilo Kiley for me, while Zooey Deschanel is no Jenny Lewis and M. Ward no Conor Oberst/Blake Sennett, they put up a damn good fight.


If you like Jenny Lewis’ solo albums and if you love 50s/60s pop music with a slight bubblegum flavour, then She & Him is for you.  I really don’t know how they manage it.  It’s a mind-blowing mixture, slightly dangerous, but for what it is, it is perfection.  I would even venture to wholeheartedly recommend She & Him to older listeners, people who grew up with that 50s or 60s bubblegum pop.  I don’t think anyone out of their mid-twenties even reads this, but next time you and your Aunt Elaine are bonding over music, pop this one in.

As for the album itself, most of the thirteen tracks check in at under three minutes.  She & Him don’t go for the epic “Tereza and Thomas”-type shit.  That means that every song is bite-sized, kind of like a Sour Patch Watermelon.

I should never write reviews for CDs again.  My analogies are cringeworthy.

You Really Got A Hold On Me | She & Him
[mediafire] [buy]
Did I mention that they do covers that make me want to melt?  Also, maybe you can help me.  In iTunes and on, it’s named “You Really Gotta Hold On Me” but elsewhere, it is named “You Really Got A Hold On Me”.  Which is correct?

I Thought I Saw Your Face Today | She & Him
[mediafire] [buy]
Did I mention that I love sick beats?

While I’m on a roll, talking about amazing women, it is mandaroty that I mention Sarah Maple.  She is an incredibly accomplished and clever feminist painter and photographer.  I don’t want to just paraphrase the Bitch article that introduced her to me on a formal basis (because I had run into her a few times before, but the websites never cited her).  She’s just an incredible cultural commentator.

This ones my favourite.

This one's my favourite.

As for real-life occurrences, I go home in three weeks (less than a month) and I am stoked.  I will be able to sit outside and read all day while my sisters suffer at school.  And for those of you still in high school, yes, that is a pretty mean thing to say, but when you think about it, I suffered too.  I went to school for fourteen years before arriving at this position.  This is my fifteenth year, and it’s almost done.  If you’re in high school, you probably haven’t gone through that much school.

4 January, 2009, 1125 pm
Filed under: My Experience with Existence | Tags: , , ,

I do not like what they are teaching my 13-year-old sister at CCD.

In case you are wondering what CCD is, it is basically Bible school or Sunday school.  These volunteer parents and sometimes nuns, priests, and deacons teach you about Christianity.  It’s no fun, nobody wants to go except kind of to see their friends, and sometimes they give you nonvegan candy to reel you back in.  All of this, so you can learn the watered-down, filtered version of Christianity so that you’ll consent to the sacrament of Confirmation.

In case you are wondering what CCD stands for, it stands for Confraternity of Christian Doctrine.  I learned this tonight, because I was reading my sister’s CCD notebook.  Yes, they have homework for church classes.  It’s ridiculous.

But what’s more ridiculous is that “confraternity” bullcrap.  A fraternity is a brotherhood, which signifies the exclusion of women.  A confraternity is a group of men bound by a common interest or profession (in this case, Catholicism).  As a feminist, I smell something fishy and outrageous about this.  Don’t give me shit that a confraternity could include women.  The Catholic church especially has fun excluding women from positions of power.  Women are deprived of one entire sacrament–the holy order.  And it’s all because of “tradition.”  That is not equal, and I would argue that it’s not ethical either.  What reasoning is there?

Another thing that pissed me off was that my sister had written SEX and then put a big old prohibitory sign around it, and she did the same with PORN.  While I don’t think any 13-year-old should be particularly interested in sexual intercourse, I don’t think that they should be taught that it’s a horrible temptation that will send you straight to hell.  What exactly draws that line where this one thing is okay after marriage but completely damning before?  And in my opinion, pornography can be liberating, intriguing, and artistic.  It is not a temptation at all.  Sex is a necessity.  It’s just society that has such a problem with it.

The last thing in her notebook that annoyed me profoundly was something where she was told to define matrimony as “man + woman.”  Strictly man + woman.  And then she was told to define a holy order as “man + church.”  This is extremely exclusive and poisoning, and also incredibly frustrating.  They’re teaching my siblings this, as well as the siblings of my peers.  And it’s detrimental to society as a whole.

The good news is that I talked to her, and she agrees that the given definitions of matrimony and holy orders are frustrating, and also seemed at least fairly interested in feminism, asking a few questions and nodding along when I told her about society’s ills.  But it must be hard to acquire interest in something that seems so hopelessly wrong, which has no definite solution.

28 October, 2008, 1250 pm
Filed under: Books, My Experience with Existence | Tags: , ,

Cunt didn’t make me love my period.  Reason being:  I already loved my period.  Cunt helped me realize just why I love my period.

I love my period because it cleans out my system, it is my body’s magical way of synchin’ up with the moon, it makes me assertive/aggressive instead of my regular passive-aggressive, it shows my emotions at their clearest, it helps me resolve problems, it naturally calls for a break in all of my regular life-functions, and it gives me a valid excuse not to talk to people (because if I want to talk to you while I’m on my period, I am expressing utmost respect).  If I was on my period now, then I’m certain that I could dig up more reasons.

But more than that, I enjoy reading Cunt every chance I get.  It’s one of those books I have to read with a highlighter.  And I’m not even done with it yet.

24 September, 2008, 949 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , ,

I’ve been really naive for the past eighteen years.

I’ve been really naive about everything.

You may think that I’m a well-informed young woman.  All vegan and whatnot.  Conscious of her carbon footprint.  You may think that my love for animals is bold, revolutionary and difficult–inconvenient, even.  I know because I used to look up to this kind of person.  Yeah, well, that’s what you think.

You may think it’s so great that I’m all for equality!  I’m a liberal!  And I’m learning about feminism and I’ve learned that some of the things I’ve said in the past were just stupid.  Like what I said about rape.  And like how I used to use the word “ghey” generously because I figured it was an appropriate synonym for “stupid.”  Nevermind that it sounds the same as “gay.”  I stopped a long time ago, and it’s just a huge improvement on my part.

And you know…it’s great that I read so much.  I’m educating myself.  Most people my age never bother to pick up a damn book because reading is boring.  But I know that it’s crucial.  You have to find the right books.  And I also know that finding your own taste in music is important, too.  Not like I think outside the box, really, but at least I’ve found my true niche musically.  I love what I hear.

Maybe you’re not thinking any of this.  Maybe you think I’m stupid, and that’s inaccurate as well.  You’d only be right if you said that I’m incredibly naive.  Back to the first sentence.  I’m naive.

I thought people really cared about these things.  I thought they made these missions their life.  Education, God, animal rights, feminism, math.  But really, they’re just hobbies.  At the end of the day, they just go home for a good fuck.  That’s it.  When they clock out, their temporary hobbies don’t matter.  It’s all about sex.

I’m not just talking about society and advertising.  I’m talking about life.  The big picture.  Doesn’t it seem so obvious?  I mean, it’s instinct to track down a mate.  We look for soulmates, and life–they tell you that you should live to love.  Everything’s about “love.”  It’s just a nice way to cover it up and say that everything’s about sex.  You fall in love, and you want to have sex with that person.  You have sex, and you may or may not fall in love.  What is love anymore?  And I’m completely serious–what is love?

So as an eighteen-year-old virgin, I feel singled out and stupid.  So many women in the feminist movement tell you that you should have sex.  You shouldn’t worry about retaining your virginity.  It won’t sully you to have sex.  In fact, it’s unhealthy not to have sex.  Fuck Christian morals.  Have sex.  Have sex as often as you want with as many partners as you want.  Virginity doesn’t matter and it doesn’t feel any different to lose it.  You don’t have to rush to lose it or anything, but man, don’t be a fucking prude.  Just get it over with when you’re offered the chance.

Now you think I’m not worth listening to because I’m inexperienced.  Or you think I’m Christian (I’m not, and I don’t see myself waiting until marriage because I don’t even know about marriage).  Or you think I’ve got some moral complex with having sex or at least being deflowered (I simply don’t).

My reason is simple.  I haven’t had three million opportunities to have sex.  I’ve had one, and I felt at my core that I was too young and not ready, so I just declined.  I’m no good at suggestion and I’m really shy.  I’m fairly difficult to obtain because I’m selective and timid, and I’m fairly difficult to retain because I have commitment issues–I’m always in love with someone else.  Oh, and I’m not going to go out of my way to ask some boy flat-out if he wants to fuck–Number One, how romantic would that be?  and Number Two, he would no doubt decline my offer because that would be creepy.  There are some guys who would be turned on by some girl asking them to fuck, but not just any girl.  We’re talking at least sorority-girl hot or cheerleader hot.  I’m very average.

Basically, it’s my decision, and it has nothing to do with religion or morals.  I just don’t want to.  I want to be passionate about other things, like literature and intellectual pursuits and French.  I don’t need sex right now, and I don’t think that will ever be some main focus of my life.  I’m not going to argue that sex sucks.  I think it’s necessary, just as necessary as art or music or eating.  But to make it the focus of everything, the underlying meaning of absolutely everything…it’s overwhelming for me.  I just want intellectual pursuits without sex.

It’s always been weird hearing about people who have stated that they would fuck me or that they find me even mildly attractive (an implication that they could potentially find me fuckable down the road).  But now I understand that it’s just what everything boils down to.  Sex.  It’s not really anything personal, and they don’t love me.  It’s not really that they even like me.  It’s that I have a vagina and reasonable tits.

This is where I have a problem with conformity to “sexual orientations.”  I’m not going to say that it’s actually a preference, something we can turn on and off.  But if love is what I want it to be–if love is about more than just sex–then I’m partial to self-determinism.  The lack of autonomous gender preference.  Or, okay, you could say that I’m heterosexual, and that would be accurate because I’ve always been attracted to males and I’ve always dated males and I’ve never had any sort of intimate relationship with a female (not that I’ve ever had the opportunity because society makes it so unacceptable to be in a same-gender relationship that my mom would probably temporarily disown me).  I am predominantly, overwhelmingly heterosexual.  That doesn’t mean that I’d completely rule out loving a woman, though.  Right now, I’m not talking about sexual experimentation, like so many girls do.  I’m talking about love, like being madly in love with someone.  Love of mind and personality and appearance, but mainly things that extend beyond appearance.  Maybe that would extend to sex.  But it would be primarily based on mind and personality and appearance, because that’s how I evaluate my love for males, too.  I think that confinement to heterosexual or homosexual or bisexual labels is negative because I don’t see any reason why you can’t love whoever you want.  Now, some people would be willing to label me as bisexual for even thinking this way.  Others would prefer to label me as a lesbian because bisexuality “doesn’t exist,” and if I’m dancing with a guy, I’ll always be looking over his shoulder at some girl (not true).  And these are just my thoughts right now–I’ve not even acted on them yet.

For the sex obsession, by the way, it’s not just the men.  It’s the women, too.  Of course, it’s more repressed because it’s less socially acceptable for a girl to express her sexual desires than it is for a guy.  I mean, a guy can express that he has a boner proudly, but a girl can’t express that she’s all wet and horny.  But think about it.  Your female teachers will go home and have steamy sex with their boyfriends tonight.  Maybe after an argument, cold and stiff makeup sex.  Maybe after a romantic dinner.  The girl who made your sandwich at Subway will have sex with her girlfriend after her shift.  That’s everything.  Sex is universal.  It’s so simple.  It’s why we need other people’s approval.  It’s why we care so much about appearance.  We want to get laid.  And unlikely people get laid, too.  Your class president.  The bus driver.  Unlikely people have sex with people who are unlikely candidates to be their sexual partners.  Teachers and students.  The most studious people in your grade with some drug addicts.  Most people you meet have sex or have had sex.  They’re just not sharing.  But I don’t know why not.  Everyone wants it.  Sharing stories would make sex ever so slightly more attainable if it was less secret, and I think it would also make a lot of types of sex less taboo.

Only thing is, I hope I’m wrong about life being about sex.  It’s so disappointing that life might be based on something so simple and even carnal and completely superficial.  It’s so disappointing that I can feel myself plummeting into a depression.  I think I just want boko-maru.  I just want to press the soles of my feet up against those of someone else and let them work their magic.  I want a connection without taking off my clothes.  I want to love simply and to be loved without the expectation of an orgasm all the time.  I want to be loved for being smart and attractive and witty.  But I don’t want to have to be Christian to do it.

P.S.  Many parts of this entry are inspired by BITCHfest.

P.P.S.  I left my secret somewhere in Richmond today, and it helped me to feel better.