This is so true, it’s giving my ovaries phantom pangs

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“If your period was a person…”.

That’s the title of the video, and already my critical brain’s off to the races and wondering “Is that meant to be ‘If your period were a person’?” Knowing that fact about the overactive neurotic spinning top that lives in the attic of my body (and then coupling that with the reality that a fourth of every month there’s an added hormonal DSM-level break from reality), I’ve come to a conclusion.

If this is the worst this chick’s anthropomorphized sanguine psychosis is… she has it pretty effing good.

I wish mine were (yes, we’re going with ‘were’; #sorrynotsorry) just a sassy black lady who over-snacks. But mine’s more like… this loquacious, schizophrenic entity. And, sure, it’s got the sassy black lady’s head. But it’s also got sassy gay friend’s, anorexic bitch’s, fat callous downer’s, frazzle haired hippie’s, and the dome of every ex I’ve ever claimed as worthy of monogamy – spouting painful unaddressed truths on repeat. To my credit (or theirs’, really – our ours mutually; who knows) though, zero point zero of those exes would’ve ever done the thing that pussy boyfriend did on the couch and ran away. I might have (run away, that is), but it’s always nice to know that you spend the other 23 days of your life exuding enough awesomery from your pores that homie wanna pour sugar on ya even when you’re exuding goo. (Too far? Too bad.)

Maybe that’s ’cause it’s more ingrained for me. A part of my personality I try in vain to relinquish. So, instead of Jeckyll-Hyde-ing it for a weeklong holiday away from normalcy, there’s no real sane baseline to start with. You either love me enough despite it to stick around – or ya pack up your satchel ‘n hit the tracks after we shake hands and I immediately start explaining how my shih-tzu has telepathy. Monthly or not, that Vishnu-esque period party monster’s never too far away – even when I’m coasting over my weeks of dry land. Something that massive never truly rolls out. When it’s not actually staging a uteral B’nE, it’s plotting the next one. Stalking me. Sitting quietly in the corridor. Or perched on the limb of an outside tree, silently counting the minutes while eating my last pack of dried tart cherries.

Just sayin’ – me ‘n my coven of women kind may all have it bad.

But my bad bitch’s luggage wouldn’t’ve fit on that little zippered wheely sac.

It would’ve needed its own Boeing to get here.

What’s with all these geriatric coffee shop trolls?

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I’m trying my hardest here, but having quite a tough time.

Maybe you can help me out.

Let’s work together to crack the psychology of… the dirty old man.

Because Saturday’s experience was just level-next egregious.

Now, I’m all for gramps using me to get his cheap thrills. That’s fine. But when you bring your (I assume) granddaughter into it who looks all of eight, it’s just disgusting. Especially if you say something like this guy did… So, I’m heading to my table, and gramps is in line with the little girl in front of him. As I sit, he says something about a tall blonde to the little girl. I look up to see him looking right at me – his lower face in a grin akin to a battered antique piano while he repeats to her – this time more slowly – “I’m gonna order the tall blonde,”

…(pause for dramatic effect; he does not break eye contact)…

“With room for cream.”


#WaitWhat?

Ya know, I’m not easily offended when I’m the butt of a joke. In fact (despite it being obvious he’s used that line before), had he been with a fellow Viagra eater just there for a cup o’ bucks between bingo rounds, I’d have probably laughed out loud and said, “Nice one”. But it wasn’t. He was using a kid – his kid’s kid, no less – as a conduit for a super sleazy comment. And what pained me was two-fold. First, how the little girl did that thing I remember all too well from my own youth – where you have just enough context (gramps’ shit eating grin, the unnecessary repetition about his order – especially when he doesn’t actually order a blonde roast at all but something totally different) to know some sorta adult dirty humor is transpiring in the world around you and you feel left out and confused. Then, to make matters worse, she repeated it back in question form out loud to him – like she was preparing for the important task of placing her order with the cashier in a few moments. And he laughed.

That was the bit that took it from potentially hilarious to disgusting.

So what is it then?

What can I glean from this? What is it that motivates an old dude to act so atrociously? Is it because you know you’re an old sack of shit, so you just start acting like one too? Like that one portly teacher I had in sixth grade who hated herself so much that she’d take it out on us? (We could always tell when it was a bad day for her; the snacks would be lined up on her desk like a line of artillery to combat the feels). Is that what it is? Or is it like that combined with the whole “generativity vs. stagnation” thing? You’ve generated kids who have kids, and now what? Whatdya do? Start trying to reach back into your past so ya don’t stagnate? Indulge the delusion that the jokes your bros might laugh at (if any of ‘em were still alive) are gonna be funny to the chick you’re delivering them to? I tend to think that must be it. A combo of the two. You start to age. You feel irrelevant. You have trouble accepting your new role. So as you try to hit rewind and it doesn’t work, you lose all sense of self. You’re not that sentient prune staring back from that reflective surface! Can’t be! Then who are you? Before you know it, all self-awareness is lost and you’re just on pervo autopilot, spewing out egregious one liners, delivered through the medium you’ve reduced your own flesh ‘n blood to. It’s actually not unlike that guy I met at the coffee shop the other day – bumbling, mumbling, spastic, and vague. Hearing people like this talk at you (not to you) feels like the inconsiderate equivalent of someone who doesn’t know how to work a game controller, so they just keep pressing all the buttons at once – hoping something hits.

And I suppose that’s the lesson.

’cause, in a way, I can identify – inasmuch as I’ve got insecurities and word-vomit sometimes too.

So, if nada else, Bad Grandpa’s abhorrent behavior serves as an excellent lesson.

About how fckking stupid we all sound too when we speak before we think.

Is chivalry dead? Or has it just got a height requirement now?

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How deep is your love?

If you’re a dude, 3.5 inches.

That would sound like a low bar if I wasn’t talking about men’s standards – and high heels.

Bullshit, says I, of this graph.

I mean at least until I see the actual experiment performed.

‘cause there’re far too many variables here. What I really need to see’s a hidden camera actual account of this whole soche experiment. Because I’ve worn mostly flat shoes for the past year. And ya know what? Some days I’ll get hit on non-stop in muddy kicks post cardio, while others I spend feeling like a creature who’s just emerged from a portal to that place in the Twilight Zone where they all have porcine and duck-billed mugs. With my makeup, hair, and weight all the same (and the heel-less-ness) it baffled my noggin for some time. Why were these experiences so vastly different? It wasn’t till some time later that I realized – it’s not the stuff that’s on me. It is me. If I’ve just gone running, done some yoga, been disarmed by a hilarious conversation, I move like fluid and seem gleeful. Open. Approachable. A smile in my eyes. If I’ve just done a long day of writing in front of a soul sucking screen, I’m anxious. Strange. Stiff. My shoulders sit like earrings – high and hunched – bordering a bewildered Manson-esque expression.

To a rando, I probably look like I’m either jonesin’ for crack rocks or hiding an invisibility ring from some hobbits.

Thus, people look at me as funnily as I probably would too if I saw me.

While for this chick, it depends on what I’ve been doing and where my head’s at – for a lotta people, this transformation’s more completed by what they wear. If you leave the house in unflattering pants, you might feel a little insecure about it all day and be thinking of it in your brain’s background even though everyone around you gives zero point zero shits about your trouser selection or how fat they make your ass look. Likewise, heels can make a low-self-esteemed chick feel empowered. Could she walk with a Monroe wobble and swagger with excellent posture sans the gam augmenters? Could she be equally sexy?

Absolutely. But it’s kinda like the fertility equivalent to a spiritual talisman or reiki crystals. We believe in the heels the way hippies believe in sage burning. (I just like the smell; get off me.) So, when we slip ‘em on, it’s our ovarian Batman costume. Now, I’m a woman! I can vouch for this, in a way. But I can also vouch for the opposite. I never feel more beautiful than when I’m in a state of “jog”. So my sneakers have started to have that same effect on me – slowly but surely. And I’ve seen it in other chicks too. In fact, I have a tomboy-but-very-hetero friend who’s excellent at soccer but shit at walking in elevated soles. We used to go paint the town red, and watching her try to get down the sidewalk in pumps reminded me of the way a Clydsedale sounds combined with the way a Boston Terrier looks walking with booties on his feet. Put her in a pair of cleats, though, and she’s hot as hell. She’s secure in them. Confident. A man would come bring her her fallen glove. But she’d probably kick his ass for touching it. And then all his friends’ too.

So, that’s why I call bullshit on this test.

I wanna see how the chick carries herself as she goes from ballet flats to go-go gadget stems.

Maybe this is an experiment I should do for myself. Anyone own a pair of Google Glasses?

Why are we awestruck by non-‘shopped celeb bodies?

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Aaaand the latest face gone viral for not really waking up and looking flawless?

The chick half of the Jay-once power couple (is that the portmanteau you kids’re using?)

I usually kinda sorta hate this stories unless they have to do with how stupid advertising is by trying to sell you panties using a computer created thigh gap. Especially when the model is really a 24 year old called Trisha who actually had a good deal of adductor friction and even a touch o’ cellulite from that one summer when she got dumped, depressed, gained ten extra pounds, and then lost it all when she reclaimed her power in time for Fall fashion week. Man, I rather like that story I made up just now about a hypothetical cat walker far better than the lie her morphed body parts are telling me. That I can identify with. That makes her relate-able. A person. Like me.

And like Beyonce in these pictures.

You know, I’ve long thrown shade at the ads, but at least the optical lie you’re getting makes sense there. They want you to buy something, so they market the subtle promise of super human impossible beauty by pairing it with their product. Logically, you know that’s not gonna happen. But on a subconscious level, that desirous hope’s got an agenda of its own. So, that makes sense. Ads hack your noggin to prize your dollars from you.

But what about celebrities?

Is it the same thing? And what exactly is it they’re selling me?

It can’t be the good messages in the songs about being beautiful as you are. Not when it’s juxtaposed against a jarring visible paradox the moment the L’oreal mask disappears. We could argue that they are selling us something: distraction. And that distraction is the constant ebb and flow of faux perfection. These mythical pins of perfection get lined up (“Kate Hudson you’re so perfect… how are you even real?” –Actual E! Headline)… only to be knocked down every so often as an unflattering paparazzi shot, photo leak, bad bout of behavior, weight gain, whatever. It’s like the red carpet’s there to be ripped from under them. And, in that way, it is an advertisement. An offer to follow the swinging pocketwatch instead of what terrorist groups are doing what and who’s dying needlessly in not-my-country-so-why-should-I-care-istan and so on:

(An hour or two ago, there was at least one world-news thing.)

And how’s that work? How do celebs trump world events?

Because we love to compare. My sister recently uploaded and tagged me in a hideous picture she took after the holidays when my face was all puffy. She knew I hated the picture. But she did it anyway. And I thought, “Ugh – I look like that?” Sure, I was hurt she did it, and still am. But I tried to glean a lesson from it. I had to wonder – who am I comparing myself to that I hate my mug this much? If it were just me-pre-Christmas, then I’d know that I can reclaim that body status. And I have, thankfully. So why did I hate the picture so much? Because it looked nothing like you’d see in a music video still? In a magazine? And was it just that I was too puffy? Or was it that I looked like I was about to cry – because I was indeed holding back tears while trying to ignore the fact that my sister taking the picture was drinking a margarita in front of me when I’m a year clean and she said she’d quit liquor for good? Was that why the hurt was amplified far beyond the kind that accompanies those usual uggo-photo’s that end up online of me? Much like the model anecdote above, the picture’s not perfect, but it is loaded with reality. Infused with the human condition. Associations to things I had trouble accepting that day when I came home and had an hour long panic attack and couldn’t sort out why until now.

Point? We’re not meant to be picture-perfect. We’re meant to be human. All of us.

The world worshipping something other than that all the time, tells me I’m shit when I’m human.

So, in a way, seeing a snap of a pimple dotted celeb who has to be slathered in Geisha makeup, is fccking beautiful – not news to get dramatic over. What if she’d just gotten in a fight with her husband? What if those puffy under-eyes were because she was up all night taking care of her kid who’s named after a vine and primary color? Why throw shade for someone being imperfect when we’re finally seeing the stuff about them we’ve been waiting for – the stuff we can actually relate to?

The sooner we relate to any flaws a celeb has (“Ah, that’s just like the time I punched my ex in the jaw and thusly was provided VIP reservations in the drunk tank… #memories”) instead of being surprised by it, the easier it’ll be to understand the distraction for what it is. And that’s only half the solution. Because as I thumb through, I too am tempted to click on these ridiculous stories (after all, I had to click on one – to write this). And why’s Beyonce’s mug – now tantamount to cracks in an Aphrodite statue that looked perfect from a distance – so interesting to me instead? Is it because the violence and fighting is – first – depressing and tough to stomach? Why, yes! And is it secondly because I feel like I can’t do anything about it – because even if I voted on something, the party with the most money’s just gonna win anyway? And war is always their answer? Even though it just seems to cause more violence? Current terrorist groups being an excellent example? And the fun fact that brings this full circle is that someone, inevitably will read this – my opinion – and launch nuclear vitriol on me based on what they think they know clashing with what I think I know. And then the unsettling feeling of an internet debate will leave us both feeling something far from blissful.

Funny how that feeling’s somehow less when the subject of debate is something we both know doesn’t matter.

Like how many pores are on the skin covering the front of Beyonce’s head.

Hey, maybe – just like Bey-face – we share more in common with at least some of these peeps we battle abroad.

At the very least, more than the media’d have us believe.

Is this racist? Are gays not allowed to have preferences?

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Settle down, class.

As we continue our section on “Is it racist?”, we’re going to watch a short video.

And discuss it afterward.

(Suzanne, can you get the lights please? Thank you , dear…)


First, I have trouble believing anyone would turn this guy down.

However, we do like what we like.

Does it make me discriminatory that I’ve generally “gone for” dark haired dudes over gingers or blondies? Mayhaps. But I don’t feel like it’s a social cancer inducing kinda proclivity. It’s dating. Dynamics happening intimately in your private life aren’t anyone else’s business. Your baby making equipment doesn’t have to be an equal opportunity employer. In fact, I’ve actually come to find that having (and sticking to) a “type” is one of those things that just ends up affecting the picker more adversely than the pickee.

For example, note that I said above, “we like what we like – not who.”

This is and has been the foundation for my whole problem in the past. I’ve missed out, holding out for a “what” because the features it describes generally supplement some ideal I’ve got in my mind – even if I don’t wanna believe that about myself. So much so that, in the past, my mind would do a shut-down thing when approached by someone who didn’t fit my pre-constructed preference section in my mind. (Awful, yes, I know). When I became more open-minded, I didn’t necessarily start dating every type there is. But what I did do was start making my sexual preferences a non-priority. I try tabling the whole “Can I see myself sleeping with you?” at the outset (I said “try”). The benefit of this is even the mere thought of hooking up in the back seat – takes a back seat… till we really meet. And I mean meet the actual person – versus some fetishist or Platonic idea I’ve had dreamed up since before you were brave enough to come say hi. This means that I listen critically to what you say, absorb it, respond, and – above all – get over myself enough to do any of those first three things. It’s horribly hard for someone like me who’s constantly battling between multiple solipsistic intrinsic voices (“Does this hat look dumb?” and “Of course it doesn’t. I look AMAZING.”)

But I try. ’cause you’re right, Sassy gay friend.

When I make a little effort at empathy, the whole world opens up.

To a different kinda love-seeking. Campy, I know, but hear me out.

Let me ask you this: how hard would it be to kindly say, “I hope you don’t think I’m leading you on. I don’t want to date you right now, but I’m very interested about this amazing trip to Europe that you’re telling me about which I’m sure isn’t even slightly embellished”? This (or something less passive aggressive) is the perfect go-to if you’re having a conversation and the other person’s reading your body language all wrong or starts getting handsy. The difference between this and the typical type of “friend-zoning” is that I’m not collecting you now to use later. I am your friend if we remain friends. I am interested in you as a human being. I’ll call and ask you how you are (text actually, probz). I’ll help you move if you get evicted. I’ll give you a ride if your car craps out. Interested in my friendship? Act now! Place your order! (Bump-uglies not included.)

And this open mindedness is my segue to the yes-but part of this message:

Compassionately rejecting others.

Or as my e-guru says, “Saying no with love.”


(See, my homo-homies? Your queen’s kind. Be like the queen.)

You have a right to say no, as I’ve mentioned. But if you’re not in the market for new friends, there’s a better way than the above. All of us can work on this. I feel like we owe it to ourselves as a species to improve the quality of the language capacity we worked so hard to evolve. And by that I mean: have a little effing couth when you’re turning down someone who grew a big enough sac to come chat you up.

Honesty and consideration are not mutually exclusive. Blunt does not equal sincerity. When the dude in the video gets shut down, it’s to the tune of something like, “I don’t date black guys.” This is the kind of thing you might say in the privacy of your head, along with “Did you gain weight, fat bitch?” or “I rubbed one out before I got here so I wouldn’t go home with a troll like you on accident.” Much better, I suppose, could be anything from, “Thank you! I’m flattered! But I’m going to have to say no. You’re wonderful, though.” (Who needs a reason – espesh if you’re being nice about it?) to the thing mentioned above: “No thanks, but you’re cool – come have coffee/a drink/see a gig with my friends and me sometime”.

I don’t care who you date. And you probably don’t care if I do care. Your personal prefs about where you park your peen aren’t any of my business. But as a suggestion: gays, un-gays, furry lovers, bisexual centaurs, and so on could all stand to be a bit more considerate when turning folks away from the red ropes lining our love clubs. No need to butthurt someone just ‘cause you don’t want them to hurt your butt later at home. Thus, my vote is this: sexual pref based rejection’s not racist, obviously. But depending on how you deliver it, it can make people feel pretty badly about themselves – be it about their skin’s shade, hair’s color, their height, or whatever else folks can’t change and shouldn’t have to.

So, please:

Do your thing – but be kind and remember that you don’t get a compassion pass upon exiting the closet.

You can totes keep the sass sans acting like an ass.

Color me bitter: ditched chick destroys own bridal gown.

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I love chaos and destroying shit.

And I guess it’s one of those shared human experiences ’cause this chick decided she felt the same way:

(Well, she might have had a slightly better excuse than I usually do.)

The story’s that she got the groom-to-be’s boot just a few days before their wedding. Dude allegedly called her up and told her he “didn’t love her anymore”. Thus, she was suddenly left with a bunch of wasted money on services and catering and whatever else you people like to go into debt over to delude yourselves into acting like royalty for a day. I can’t help but interject and ask: why do people waste so much money on weddings? It’s like one of those big events you mentally transmogrify into something so massively daunting that it can’t help but self-destruct (or come really close). Throw enough money and stress at a life-long knot making moment, and someone’s bound to start buying a pair of track kicks to go with their tux.

Seeing as this particular chick indeed chose the traditionally favored route of financial rut-ness, she was now stuck with an overpriced dress and unsure of what to do to get over the pain of this last minute rejection. Then, she took the advice of her photographer: a “trash the dress” photo session. Really, I’m trying to find a way to pick apart this spectacle and chastise it somehow – but I actually love it. And none of the reasons have anything to do with an act of defiance against some dude who caught a case of cold feet. I mean, look at it – you’ve got your friends and family getting lost in that glee coated chaos that’s unfolding around you (always fun seeing people outta their element and acting like children). Plus, it’s like a cinematic food fight – except instead of wasting perfectly edible sustenance, you’re making a fantastic article of fashion to be modeled on a bridal mannequin in a local boutique later (which she did do). Screw a fiancée or cancelled matrimony or all this general bitterness I’m witnessing.

I’d just go and do this shiz just for fun.

Or – better yet – for my official “un-wedding” party I need to have.

It can be like my own Jackson Pollock twist on that one Sex and the City episode where Carrie Bradshaw decides to marry herself. Except instead of registering at a shoe store, I’ll be registered – a registered sex offender, that is, by the end of the debacle when I’m streaking through the streets slathered in a peacock flavored collage of gouache. And totally sober. Yes, this will be my stay-single ceremony as I ritualistically seal my bond with my higher self.

Invite friends and family to partake, buy myself a giant ring, and wear it on my middle finger.

And then show it off a lot when people ask if I’m married yet.

Afterthoughts:

What if we’re only getting one side of a story here?

And like, she cheated on him? And that’s why he left last minute?

‘cause that’s what I’d do if I were the dude. Pretend I’m still gonna marry you, get your hopes up, and then… poof!

Ninja smoke.

Don’t blame your bad decisions on your organs.

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Anyone else feel like they’re the opposite of this?

Or like there’s something wrong with the whole idea of “heart” versus “head” altogether?

I’ve overthought so many situations and failed to go with my “gut” (Or heart. Or – arguably they’re synonymous if you bring a fruit plate around me). Then, I try to sort it out later to make sense of my decision retrospectively (“What if that spider I set free returns to spelunk through my face holes tonight?”) And I can’t because I’m trying to use the same cognitive slalom course that got me there.

It’s weird, this “go with your heart/gut/moral compass/no, I don’t mean your penis”. We can’t see it or feel it – so it gets kinda passed off as this nonsensical, masturbatory, feel-good spirituality. Whatever organ or symbol you’re using as a metaphor for it, they all describe the same thing – they’re just avatars representing what you know in your subconscious works best for you based on experience. The brain only gets in the way because our software wants to stick with old habits. Then the change-is-hard alarms go off and send out the gestapo to boot smash in the face all those fantastic ideas you have bubbling just under the surface – slowly choking and drowning while screaming out, “Let’s go live our dreams!…(*cough*)… You might only get this one liiiif-bl-blh-bluhhhbb…(*bubble*)….”

I think this is why people like to do those brain exercises – be it reading, puzzles, meditation, tai chi, whatever.

If you can tap into your subconscious, that’s great. But if you can’t employ the insight you get outside of lotus position, it ain’t no good to you. The idea, I suppose, is to link up all the bits of your body train – take that subconscious “heart” car and latch it onto the brainy “stupid” caboose until you can re-educate it on how to get along without jumping the tracks and toppling everything over as soon as the first emotional monsoon hits. Link your shiz up enough, and you land yourself some heightened ass awareness when SHTF. You’ll know which days you’ve got it, because you’ll wander into a typically terrifying situation- and suddenly realize you’re calm, fearless, seeing all sides the issue, and without self-doubt suddenly as you ask yourself, “Whoah. Who was I just now?” Because the debacle’s over and you’ve handled it like a boss

And that’s the key. You handled it like a boss. Not just your brain. Not just your “heart”.

You – the conductor who made ‘em run nice and smooth and sans any casualties.

Takeaway: You’re in charge of your organ parts. Don’t let them run a train on you.

I wouldn’t have been as brave at that age…

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I love it when kids’ essays make it to the papers.

Especially since most kids don’t take assignments too seriously.

This 14-year-old who wrote an essay on slut-shaming sure did, though. On the one hand, it kind of reads like a piggyback to that scene from “Mean Girls” where Tina Fey makes a stand in the auditorium against employing the term – even from female to female. It’s not a new idea being introduced – this “don’t slut shame”. So this essay could seem redundant on the surface.

On the other hand, I love her intention – going against a status quo that seems wrong.

(And the background she offers on the evolution of the term “slut”.)

“Throughout history, the definition of the word slut has evolved. In the 17th century, it was used as slang for a kitchen maid, in reference to the hard knots of dough found in bread. (A notable use of this was in Samuel Pepys’ diary, where he described his kitchen maid as “an admirable slut who pleases us mightily doing better service than most the others and deserves better wages.”) The word slut then developed into slang for a young women who did not keep her room or house tidy. It wasn’t until around 1870 when the word slut became a deliberate attack on a woman. At that time, a place where someone put their trash was called a slut-hole. Now, the Urban Dictionary definition of a slut is a woman with the morals of a man.”

She’s barely a teen, has her heart in the right place, and is bravely speaking up for something she deems important.

But the problem with people – especially teenagers – is that they don’t like being lectured to – regardless of where your heart is. She innocently ponders during the afterthoughts of her essay why a handful of boys had left the room as she read it. (Her professor had permitted anyone offended by the term “slut” to leave class if they wanted). She reflects how, “… three young men chose to leave the room (…) having heard them use these labels casually around school, I was shocked at their reaction,” before asking “Were they trying to ignore the problem? Were they trying to justify their actions? Or do they simply feel, like many others, that this is not an issue in our society?”

Oh, honey…


“Yes. I am. I’m fccking 14, thanks. Explain it to me.”

That explanache is this: when I was in school (yep, that makes me feel just as old as it sounds) and the teacher said, “You can leave if you’re offended by -…” we didn’t hang around to hear the noun. We’d landed a free ticket outta these rows of miserable desks and this fluorescent tomb rapidly filling with our own CO2 fumes. We were out. Do not pass go. Do not collect a hall pass. That’s all these boys cared about, darling.

But that’s no reason to stop trying for her cause – not now, and definitely not later on when she sees something larger that’s going wrong in the world. I’m not huge on the whole “slut shaming” thing being the hot topic issue. (There are a lot of bigger humanity-kind issues that will make women-kind issue immaterial when we don’t have a planet to live on anymore) But I am a huge supporter of young people going after a cause about something that’s bigger than themselves – even if it’s only a step above into gender matters, it’s a step in the right direction, and good practice in being courageous for a cause. So, I champion this chick’s preliminary efforts and trial-and-error adventures into questioning social norms out loud. And should she start to feel like her sentiments are falling on deaf ears, I hope she doesn’t give up on her attempts at change-making altogether. People who’ve got a good idea to sell sometimes do that when all they have to do is cater to the audience. That’s what the original owner of Victoria’s Secret had to do – tweak a few things. Instead, he ended up selling to someone else who was willing to do it – and jumping off the Golden Gate. Then, the aforementioned someone else sold the same stuff – but marketed it in a way that made both men and women want to buy the product.

I don’t have to tell you how successful that business is now.

Even the fashion show’s a spectacle.

The same can apply to an idea you want to sell. As I’ve mentioned above, she’s just a young’n – so she’ll have plenty of time to research how to improve her delivery, adding in more of that comedy element like she did above, and maybe even inviting the audience to participate (so they don’t leave and go into the hall). I know I sure wasn’t confident or convincing the first time I stood in front of a class.

So, kudos, mini-femme; you’re braver than I would’ve been at that age.

Rework, keep going, and let this good-intentioned theme in your heart evolve to larger matters. ‘cause humanity hacks and practicing them can only help you later in life. Whether you’re selling slutty lingerie, ideas on slut-shaming, or the fact that we’re all (men, women, and our friends in transition) treating our planet kinda like a slut. And that’s a real shame.

“How to lose a guy in 10 days” IRL causes much butthurt.

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People took this “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days” article way too seriously.


(Butthurt level: drunken sportsfan)

And… I don’t get it. I mean, the piece was good enough to make me giggle on an otherwise dismal day. (Actually, I gave it the trifecta of an outer smirk, a few chuckles, and an internal thumbs up – my highest score). But as I read into the comment section, I was wholly disappointed at the stupidity filter my fellow interwebers put on before reading this article. What the piece was – was an experiment the author did by reliving her own version of Kate Hudson’s flick “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days”. The idea is that a girl picks up guy, starts dating him, and then demonstrates how he’ll leave within 10 days if she starts morphing into the stereotypical female too soon. And, naturally, there were comments like “you need psychological help”. Then those comments were read and regurgitated by others in various forms all along the bottom like some sort of ignorance vomit virus spread via mental ingestion. What’s going on, my friends? Is there a good reason to judge without forethought? When did we learn to stop trying to relate? Or – more importantly – how to take a joke? Which at least half of this thing was?

I think those may be the twofold most important takeaways from this relationship experiment:

That first, every relationship is an experiment. And it’s not unlike what the author does, either. I mean, if you actually read the rundown, she doesn’t follow the cruel, quasi-sociopathic Hollywood storyline verbatim. She makes concessions with reality. For instance, with the sex, she doesn’t wanna ruin her reputation like Kate does in the flick (by feminizing his phallus’s nickname). So she nixes that one. She also finds shoe-ins for the “bad dietary habits” aspect. And whether you like it or not, we all make those agreements and concessions about sharing parts of our “shadow self” anytime we’re trying to navigate a relache. And we all end up testing the waters eventually when we say or do that thing that’s impulsive or just thoughtless.

The only difference is those unfavorable habits are often a visceral part of us we wanna hide.

And we do the process internally instead of the internet (unless you’re that guy on Facebook).

Just because we aren’t translating the experience into words with a pen or laptop, doesn’t mean we aren’t deciding how much of a stereotypical chick or dude or overall douchebag we wanna be and making deals with ourselves. We are. Like, “If you call her, you’ll look too needy. But you also don’t want to be the typical guy who doesn’t call the chick he’s banged to look cool. I’ll just… text something that’s a third of the Twitter limit in length.” Or: “If you ask him what’s on his mind, that’s such a sentimental stereotypical chick thing to do. But how else will I know? Oh, I know… cyberstalking.” It’s happening all day long in any eggshell-treaded relationship – romantic or not – and even a few of the less emotionally delicate ones.

Second, let’s remember that this is a writer – a fairly funny one at that.

And, as being funny means being transgressive, sometimes you blur those lines between reality and “it would’ve been cool if x had happened”. You get hyperbolic with your anecdotes and detailed with your metaphors. A lot of these poor never-read-satire-before readers seemed to miss how she calls him a human piece of garbage (with zero emotional response from him) in one breath and – in the next – witnesses the first glimpse of “hurt in his eyes” (because she failed to finish a sandwich he made). Dur. It’s not Onion level, but that’s very definite satire.

For all we know, she might be Kate-fishing us with this Kate flick style pantomime. “She” might be a dude and the whole tale minus “Day One” could be total Rowling level fantasy. And ya know what? I ain’t mad at her (Or him. Or it – if it’s a creative robot). How’s that one quote go? “Never ruin a good story with the truth”? She or (he)’s not sharing sensitive American intel here (#chelseamanningzing).

It’s just a fun, meaningless escape into the mind and musings of a soon to be ex-girlfriend that aptly portrays the shared experience of dating induced psychosis. So just sit back and enjoy the shit show. If you can’t, it’s prob ‘cause you f’real do some form of this humorless self-sabotage in real life. Sans the satire.

Or an audience of readers to receive it.

(Let’s all take a moment of silence for the suffering significant others of these sorts).

I legit thought kid Pitt was a boy all this time.

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Am I the only one who thought Shiloh Pitt was a boy…. all this time?

(Everyone: “YES.”)

It’s embarrassing, but it wasn’t until I saw a friend share her thoughts on the Pitts’ kid wanting to be called “John”, that I realized this. I’m not even kidding – I’ve written stuff in the past assuming Shiloh was a boy. But now that I’m experiencing this mindblow, I don’t even think I’ll go back and edit my past work. First, because it’d be like I’m trying to erase the reality of my own derp-ery. And also, in retrospect, it’s hilarious in that it just looks like exaggerated sarcasm.

But I had a good reason for my confusion. Apparently Shiloh’s been experimenting with cross dressing and the like since an early age. And while I think it would be 100% supercharged insanity to let a kid do a surgical switcheroo to seal the deal (and you’d be hard pressed to find a doctor willing to commit such a heinous act), I’m open to at least considering the muted down version where you just acquiesce to calling them a different name or pronoun informally.

I mean, I see Gwen Stefani’s son wearing tutus and girly stuff all the time.

I’ve also had more than a handful of tomboy classmates throughout school who went by boy nicknames like “Max” or “Sam” or “Jo”. While those seem acceptable and interchangeable across the genders, it really doesn’t seem like a big deal what you call the kid. So long as you don’t make anything permanent. Or official. I think that’s the biggest thing here. Shiloh, who started blurring the gender lines early on (age three, according to the article I read), is a good example of how it might be just a phase and it might not.

Some of my gay and trans friends detail feeling different very early on. I’m not grouping those two together for any other reason than the fact that both usually meet resistance from parents terrified their kid will be crucified and impaled with the nails of social norms they’re meant to meet. The fear’s understandable, but it also might be counterproductive to what parents are trying to accomplish. It also might be a moot point, if the kids are anything like most of the gay and trans friends I’ve known. Most of them will tell me they felt different from a very early age – like Shiloh (or John, whatever) here, and that being laughed at or chastised didn’t help change that.

Some of my friends sounding off on his have good points – saying “it’s too young to decide.”

And they may not be wrong. I’m not the kid in question or their mom or dad, so that’s not for me to say. But what I would say, is that if it were my kid, I’d definitely feel like it was too young to make a big deal out of it. Whether that’s a legal name change or even just discussing it in an interview to be broadcasted to the world and all of your fans who have opinions they’ll try to interject. The advantage I have of being a child-woman with a negative level of maturity is that I can remember what it was like to be a kid. And as a kid, when I was going through a phase, validation (especially from parents) had everything to do with where it went.

For example, telling me condescendingly that “it was just a phase” did two things.

First, it made me feel like I wasn’t a real human being; it’s hard for a kid to accept the fact that they’re still “developing” once they become self-aware – you just feel kinda like you’re not part of humanity, which is really lonely. Second (and tangent to the first thing), it also questioned my commitment to my early formulating ego. It was like questioning how dedicated I was to installing my own personality software. So – in an effort to prove I was indeed part of humanity – I’d indelibly carve in this personality facet as best I could. Even if it started as just a phase – I wanted to become one of the herd, with my own distinct character traits. So, I’d commit to something I was only ever lukewarm about.

On the contrary, I also remember that being overly applauded for something small could sway me too.

Kids like pleasing adults. So if I saw that I was doing that, it’d make me repeat a habit over and over to get the same reaction. A Jim Carrey impression. Singing everything from Madonna to The Little Mermaid. Poem writing. Cartooning. Mind you, validation can be good for those kinds of things – because they often plant the seeds for a career or hobby. But I don’t remember ever getting any applause for dressing super-girly just because I was celebrating being born with lady parts in this society. Why should I? It’s expected. Thus, if what you’re really championing is a kid being open minded, branching out, dressing uniquely, (and all that meaning them embracing these since-birth gender tendencies a lot of them end up claiming they’ve always had later in life), then there’s no reason to go overboard with the reaction. At least not any more than when your cheerleader daughter throws down her pom poms and tries out for football.

Or when your son does the opposite.

Save the praise for when you tell them to give whatever they do 100%.. and they deliver.

It sounds ridiculous – not emotionally injecting yourself into it to push the kid either way, but when it comes to hot topic issues like sexual identification, I think it’s important to give a good zone of inhibition. Maybe ask more questions – like the motivating factors behind it and how their friends feel and all that. Sometimes if you hit on a good line of questioning, the kid might realize whether it’s really the right decision or not. Forcing them to answer – or at least ponder – something of this magnitude is far better than telling. If nada else, asking kids serious questions (and I’m going only from the experience of having been a child once) makes them feel important. It’s the antidote to that whole “not feeling like a full human being” I mentioned above. (“You’re asking me? Like my opinion matters?”) The times my mom or dad did that with me, I felt like I was sitting at the head of a board room table in a suit not unlike Shiloh’s here. And, man, I did not want to eff that up by acting like a foot-stomping child. It was the cause for some real early-soul-searching – versus some regurgitation of what T.V. and magazines were dictating at the time. I feel like that’s a good practice to get them into.

In the end, I can’t suggest anything to “John”’s parents (though it totally sounds like I am). Not just because they’re a woman and man who I don’t know beyond some artificial images – but also because I’ve never had kids of my own and advice offering when you’ve got no child-rearing experience will probably just fall on deaf ears anyway. But as a note to myself, if I ever put this feminine manufacturing plant inside me to use: I hope that I remember how deep a kid’s need to be validated is, how they pick up on your subtlest reactions like an effing mentalist, and to act accordingly so they can become themselves – not some fear motivated manifestation of what I want.

That way, I can be ready to wade through these stages without swaying them either way.

Hey, maybe my obliviousness in gender identifying will really help me with my “react lax” outlook:

“Mom,”
“Yes, Shiloh.”
“I want to be called John.”
“Why?”
“I feel like I’m a boy.”
“Wait…you’re not a boy?”

Afterthoughts: Maybe we’re jumping the gun here.

Maybe this kid is just a tomboy.

Who only wants to be called “John” ’cause of what happens when you switch the first letters of her first and last name.