black flies

i’m sitting in bed, hoping that i can fall asleep quickly because i need to wake up early for class tomorrow. not that it differs from every other morning, but i feel urgent right now. i need the sleep.

and it comes to me.

in a rush of thoughts and slow, fat tears streaming down my face. the urge to write comes to me in this same way often, actually… embarrassingly… in a very real way.

i can’t stop thinking about this person that i am in love with. i’ve cultivated them in my imagination. not exactly in physical looks, i have no idea what they look like, nor do i care. but i’ve created this person in feelings and smiles. i can feel their arms around me, and i can hear them speak. i think of this person, and i feel full.

because… i don’t know. i’m a little crazy? i’m slightly obsessed with the idea of finding a person that makes me whole despite my unwavering efforts to fulfill myself by myself? i’m a champion at run-on sentences?

i’m not creating an unrealistic person that will never disappoint me. i want the disappointment. i want the fights and the passion. i crave the frustration. because, to me, these things surrounded by love and laughter mean that it’s worth it. that the love is worth it. that i am worth it.

~*~

“tell me i’m worth it,” i said, laying in bed. a hot tear rolled down my face. my jaw was tight, i could feel every inch of my throat drying while i waited for you to respond to me.

“you’re worth it.”

i knew i pressured you to tell me that you loved me, but i didn’t care. i needed your lies to make me feel whole again. without them, i wasn’t just missing pieces. i felt completely empty. i craved your attention with relentless energy. the rest of me felt constantly tired, but the promise of you gave me so much hope.

i wanted someone that looked at me like i was magic.

you aren’t them. as badly as i wanted you to be, you just aren’t.

~*~

“why don’t you date a woman?” my mom is sitting across from me. i look at my sister.

“i’ve thought about it,” i say. “but i really just don’t think i’m interested in women. i don’t think i’d enjoy the sex.”

“that’s understandable,” my sister says. i think she’s holding in a shutter. i’m guessing a gay person might see this as the true sign of a straight person. then i think that if i were gay or bi or curious in any way, i would probably be able to identify the true signs of a straight person.

then i wonder why i’m so boring.

~*~

i keep seeing these quotes on pinterest. i call them “sad girl quotes.” they’re things that i think women save and look at to remind themselves that they are special.

i fucking love them.

i see one, and i think, “this is about me,” or “this perfectly sums up my relationship with xxx.”

it amazes me how words work. carefully placed next to or near one another. they say so much, sometime with very little and other times with a lot.  

reading beautiful things makes me happy that i am a person that feels too much to hold inside because who would i be if i wasn’t me? it makes me happy that i can’t fall asleep until i’ve carefully arranged all of my thoughts into words for my brain to understand because who would i be if i wasn’t me? it makes me happy that they often come to me, hand-in-hand, with tears… because who would i be if i wasn’t me?

who would i be?

nobody likes valentine's day

i hate valentine’s day. i’m pretty sure i’ve almost always hated valentine’s day, and if i ever did, even remotely, enjoy valentine’s day it was probably because of the snacks. i even hate valentine’s day more than i hate christmas, and the only reason christmas wins is because christmas always brings more finger food to the party.

the only time i really enjoyed valentine’s day was this one time in middle school when a boy i liked handmade a card for me that i may or may not still have.

but besides the times with snacks and the one time in middle school, i basically have always hated valentine’s day.

i’m not romantic. in fact, i kind of hate romance even more than i hate valentines day. it’s never felt very organic to me. the thought of someone saying something romantic in my ear makes me so uncomfortable; i’d rather go to the dentist than go on a fancy date.

for the most part, human contact makes me cringe. unless i really love someone and i want them to touch me, every second of unwanted contact makes my skin itch. my body is such a private thing that i love and take care of, that i don’t want someone touching it unless they ask permission or i invite them in.

but valentine’s day this year is really scary to me.

because it’s another new milestone for me. my first valentine’s day as a single adult.

valentine’s day was never a day full of fancy dinners and outfits and chocolate. it was a day of whispered “i love yous” in long distance conversations and a bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath with a note about how much valentine’s day sucked, but i didn’t. there might be a nice dinner, but it was clouded with sweatshirts and wellies and a weekend expiration.

it’s just a weird thought, to be alone on a day when the rest of the world is holding on to each other.

last year i was laying around my apartment when i heard my phone ping. a valentine’s day proposition i should have said no to, that i instead said yes to. i ended up reading patti smith at my favorite bar because, despite dating three to four men every few weeks for the last three months, i thought the bar tender was the most consistent and supportive man in my life at the time. he deserved my silent company and my tips.

my phone pinged again. a second proposition. i was waiting for this bicycle messenger i really liked to ping my phone and then maybe ping me, but all of my backups were calling in their backup, and my phone sounded like it was on a countdown to implode.

so i said yes to the one backup that i thought was most likely to turn into something more, the one that i had hoped might ask me to be his girlfriend if i could trick him into falling in love with me.

the night ended with free drinks and not enough of my book read. i think it says something when you’d rather read a book and pay for your own drinks then choke down awkward conversation in exchange for free whiskey.

and as scared as i am to spend this valentine’s day as a real, true, in the flesh single person, i am glad that i’m not the same scared girl i was last year. a girl who was so scared to be alone that she sacrificed her time to be with someone that made her feel less than she should.

why can’t “Good Girls” have sex and like it?

photo

i recently read an article on Literally, Darling, one of my favorite places to read about millennial hoopla from a millennial perspective, that upset me. It was this article, On Having Sex When You’re A “Good Girl,” that didn’t make me feel so good. i’m disappointed in the website for posting this story because, while it appears to be an interesting perspective of a girl who has been sex shamed by her family who overcame it and finally fucked her boyfriend, it is actually just a perpetuation of her family and society’s ideal that women aren’t supposed to enjoy sex.

so i’m left wondering, why can’t “good girls” have sex and like it?

“I am a good girl from a Catholic family,” the anonymous writer says. “I’m not a big drinker, I get good grades, and I’m close to my parents.”

she says that sex talk was never taboo in her family’s house, but that her mother would joke about the idea of her children having sex before marriage at the dinner table.

sex is not a taboo subject in my family. while sex is not a daily topic of my parent’s dinner table, it comes up. blowjobs, bad kissers, and dildos… we talk about it because sex is not a taboo subject in my family.

the writer says that after a year and a half of her relationship, she and her boyfriend had reached physical certain milestones that most couples reach within the first year. “everything, that is, except IT.”

so, in my mind, she’s done everything BUT vaginal (and anal, most likely, because… well, no thank you) intercourse. so there have been blowjobs, hand jobs, fingering and hopefully a little oral for her, too. but then she says something that contradicts “everything, that is, except IT.”

  

“Although I was far from completely innocent at this point in our relationship, I was still naïve. It wasn’t until my roommate casually brought up shaving that I realized, yes, you could shave down there as well. A quick trip to CVS and several lengthy minutes in the razor aisle facilitated my transformation from an 18-year-old virgin to an almost-20-year-old woman.”

there are many things that confuse me in this statement.

“Although I was far from completely innocent at this point in our relationship”

so you’re not completely innocent, but you still maintain some innocence? innocence in what? the crimes you have committed by participating in what is seemingly consensual “everything, that is, except IT”? consensual sex and “everything, that is, except IT” is not a crime.

“It wasn’t until my roommate casually brought up shaving that I realized, yes, you could shave down there as well.”

so, in doing “everything, that is, except IT,” your boyfriend has never seen or felt your vagina? your full bush vagina? and why are you grooming only in anticipation of vaginal intercourse? if he’s seen the vagina in full bush, and he still wants to have sex with you, then he probably doesn’t care whether you shave or not. 

“A quick trip to CVS and several lengthy minutes in the razor aisle facilitated my transformation from an 18-year-old virgin to an almost-20-year-old woman.”

WAIT, WHAT? since when does shaving your pubic hair make you look older? i started shaving my pubic hair when i was too young to really know what i was doing. everyone else was doing it, and i remember the look on my mom’s face when she realized what i was doing. she explained why pubic hair was natural, why it was good and healthy, and why i shouldn’t feel pressured to do something everyone else was doing.

little did i know it would come back into fashion by the time i turned 21, and i ignored her.

i could continue to dissect and complain about every aspect of this essay, hating it to its core, but the point of my complaints at all are to highlight my previously stated question: why can’t good girls have sex and like it?

i’m a good girl. i get stellar grades; i’ve always gotten really, really good grades. but i don’t really think that has anything to do with me being good. i love my parents. i have really great relationships with both of my parents. but i don’t think that has anything to do with me being good, either. i’m mostly on time, i’m a pretty good listener, i rarely lie, and i’m a modest dresser… but do all of these things mean i’m a good girl?

because i like sex. i enjoy having sex with people i love, and i enjoy having sex with people i don’t love. i like talking about sex almost as much as i like the act of having sex itself. but does this make me bad? can only bad girls enjoy sex, or can only bad girls enjoy sex and talk about it?

so, am i a bad girl or am i a good girl? or am i just a girl?