Fate, free will and all that jazz

Okay, so I know I haven’t written in a while. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, mind. But between the business of life, illness, and family obligations, writing somehow fell by the wayside—which is sad, when you consider it is one of my greatest joys in this world.

So, why return to writing now? Well, I was very gently nudged by a sweet friend and I couldn’t say no—especially since it’s Christmas, and she expressed the sentiment that my writing something would be a gift.

She probably sensed that my muse was on a long holiday, so she prompted me to write about a particular topic. Even as I write this bit right here, right now, I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say.

So, there it is. For better or worse, here it goes.

The topic given to me was life. It’s a pretty broad topic, isn’t it? There’s so much to say about it—what can you say about it? It just sort of...is. So, in her infinite wisdom, my friend narrowed the subject further by asking me to expand upon how fate and freewill affect life.

Basically, I believe in both. But that sounds both contradictory and stupid, so I’ll have to explain.

My beliefs are a mixture of a thousand different faiths—some I’m pretty sure I’ve made up myself—science, and the philosophy of others who’ve lived before me. (I’ll always believe the past holds the key to the future.) So, when I say that you can have both fate and freewill, I’m very, very sure of it, partly down to my view on existence itself.

To me, the universe might as well be infinite, for there is so much we don’t know about it, and there will always be new things to discover every microsecond of every tiny Earth day. So, you have this universe and it’s in flux and it’s ever-changing.

Then, I believe, there is a higher power. Whatever you call this power doesn’t matter. You could call the power God, Vishnu, Allah, Thor...it really doesn’t matter. In the Bible, God refers to God’s self as “I Am That I Am”. Now, before you freak out and go, “OMG, she’s getting religious and attempting to indoctrinate me”—I’m not. Not in the least. Rather, I want you to think about the infiniteness of that name, “I Am That I Am”, and how it applies to the universe, a higher power (if you believe in one), the world and even you yourself. “I Am That I Am” means that I Am is infinity itself. There is no beginning, no end, no gender and, most importantly, no limitations. That is what “I Am That I Am” means. God is all. The beginning, the end—and everything in between. To me, God is the universe, God is in you, and me—and in my personal belief, God existed before any of this and created it all, so the laws of nature don’t really apply for one outside of all this nonsense.

I believe what many Christians call God the Father is a creator, an ouroboros that exists outside the normal laws of our universe. I Am That I Am exists outside of reality. I Am That I Am uses the aforementioned name because I Am existed before anything else—particularly the concept of names—ever did. (Therefore, when God says “I Am That I Am”, God is not only referring to God’s name, but also God’s function.)

That is why I always sneer when people put limitations on God. They make God out to be a small, hateful man. My God is infinite. My God can do anything. My God is All. By thinking for myself, I somehow have the most complete faith, despite what purists of most religions who are reading this are probably thinking, because I truly believe that God is everything and infinite and can and does do anything.

So, why am I bleating about God anyway if this is an essay on the influences of fate and freewill? Simply, it’s a nonscientific way to explain a very scientific concept: we live in an existence where so much exists beyond our world, billions of billions of galaxies, holding more stars than anyone could ever count. And the further away you look, the longer ago it is. And when looking at the past, we see we can’t really change it. Stars exploded. Galaxies collided. It’s highly likely civilizations far greater than ours lived and died a thousand times over. And there is NOTHING we can do to change it. We can see the past so vividly—we can even see the Big Bang that started it all—but we can’t touch it. It’s gone. It’s not coming back. (Well, not until time begins again—but that’s for a different essay.)

Murphy’s Law goes something like “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong”. Let’s expand upon that and accept this very strict fact: Anything that can happen, will happen. We are not limited to the bad. As stars die, they are born. A couple gets divorced, another marries. The universe craves balance, I think, otherwise it’d simply be too unstable to exist, or at the very least support life such as ours.

Again, the past is gone. But each second we’re alive, we’re careening into the future. And there’s the point: each decision you make is one foot through the door into the future. You’re in a never-ending hallway and life requires constant decision-making until the day you die or lose your mental faculties—whichever comes first.

And that’s when we start thinking about fate vs. free will. A lot of people like to divide it thusly: If God exists, fate rules, and there is nothing we can do about it. If there is no God, we’re on our own, and free will reigns supreme.

The universe isn’t black and white. It’s one, big, giant in-between place. And people, in their small thinking, with their small God and tiny science, like to think their way is the only right way. Religion and science can be mutually exclusive—true. But spirituality and science are the best of friends. Religion is a practice, a ritual, that you do to make sure that you’re in The Club—the “I’m going to heaven” club or the “I am a pillar of my community” club. Spirituality is where you accept that the limitations that man puts on God are just plain stupid. You can be a Christian and realize that God has no limitations. Likewise, you can still be an atheist (which is often stricter than most religions I’m aware of), and realize that the universe is still full of amazing wonders that are bigger than us. And whether you want to build a religion around those wonders is your business. (Considering you’re an atheist, you probably don’t—and that’s okay.) But you make the universe—which you are a big part of—so small by denying that there are things bigger than you, things we think are magic now, but we’ll call science just as soon as we actually understand them.

In my thinking, because God is many-faceted and limitless, and the universe in which we live—the laws of which govern us all—are part of the great I Am, everything is possible. Thus, fate and free will are not mutually exclusive, just as science and spirituality are not.

Now’s when the science happens:

Okay, so, say I make a decision. I decide that I will take the bus to Nashville. On the surface, it seems like that is that, big deal, whatever, etc. And that’s true, if you want to think with limitations (which so many people seem so fond of—amateurs).

There are actually many factors regarding my prospective Nashville trip. First of all, I could decide not to go. And I have lupus, so that’s very possible. That is Universe B. (Universe A is where I went to Nashville.)

Because I didn’t go to Nashville, I stayed in my home town. If I call the doctor because I feel unwell, that is universe B1. If, instead of calling the doctor, I decide to “wait and see”, that is universe B2. In universe B1, after leaving the doctor, I need to have lunch. I could either make a sandwich at home or pick up fast food. If I pick up fast food, that is universe B1a. (Making a sandwich would be B1b.) Let’s say I go get fast food. It could either go well (B1a1) or I could get food poisoning (B1a2). Let’s say I get food poisoning. I could be fine (B1a2a), or I could need to go back to the doctor (B1a2b). If I go to the doctor, he may send me home with anti-nausea meds (B1a2b1) or he may admit me into the hospital (B1a2b2).

Do you see how the choices begin to snowball? Simple minds would bring it back to the lupus thing and say because I didn’t go to Nashville I eventually ate a bad cheeseburger. If I had just sucked it up and gone to Nashville, I might’ve gotten a different cheeseburger at a different restaurant in the same franchise and had been fine. They would say, because it didn’t turn out that way, it was obviously my fate to have food poisoning. Sucks to be me.

But since I laid out to you the path it took the hypothetical me in these multiverses to get to that one specific universe where I got food poisoning, can you honestly say it was some preordained thing that someone, somewhere, decreed I had to get food poisoning? No. Logically, if there was someone out there that decided I needed to get food poisoning for some reason regarding fate, the path would’ve been much simpler, with far less variables and input on my part.

However, in that hypothetical scenario, it was indeed my fate to get food poisoning. Why? Because I made a bunch of decisions that tied together that culminated in that catastrophe. I had free will. I could’ve done so many things differently prior to the decision I made whether to get lunch out or go make a sandwich at home, and each one would’ve resulted in a different universe, each universe a descendant of that one where I decided whether or not to take a bus to Nashville.

Every action has a consequence, driving you to make another decision until you wind up at some point that is enough of a roadblock to feel like “fate”. (Whether that is a pleasant roadblock or not is really not the point.)

 

So, do I believe in fate? Yes. Do I believe in freewill? Yes. How can I believe in both at once and get away with it? Because, in my infinite reality where all things are possible, they conspire together to make life happen, propel it forward and just...do things. Without their synergistic relationship, we’d all stagnate. And that’s never any fun. 

10 More Reasons I Won't Date You

In my first post on this topic, I foretold that there would be more reasons, and here, those reasons be:

1. I don't like you. 

If I don't like you, I'm not gonna like you, so you need to back off. Simple as. 

I can't stand those guys who think that everyone should like them. And they're not necessarily the golden boys either (not that there's much of those around in real life these days), but it's skuzzbags too. There's always one, out of any genre of male, who thinks he's God's gift to women. AND I HATE THAT SHIT. You are nothing. Back off. 

(For those who think this graphic is too graphic -- you're a pansy.)

2. You hate animals.  

I hate people who hate animals. I really do. There's nothing more pathetic than picking on someone weaker than you. (That'd be like me picking on half of you who are reading this.) 

And, after all, we're all animals. So, if you hate animals, you must hate me, since I'm an animal. And if you hate me, then I hate you, and if I hate you? Then that'd make *me* an animal hater. And it turns into this unending snowball of hatred. Especially since, as a hater of animals, you hate yourself. (Self-loathing is one of the more pitiful states of being, don't you think?) 

3. You don't appreciate the awesome genius of Schneiderisms.  

If you can't understand why beating someone with a sock full of butter is funny, then I don't think we'd have anything in common. 

Because, see, while you're still trying to wrap your brain goo around the concept of a butter sock, and how it can be an effectively applied as a weapon, they're eating drumsticks:

 (Credit: iCarly Gifs)

And doling out life valuable life lessons:

(Credit: Schneiderisms)

4. You personally identify with certain Group X songs. 

(Is this even the original video?) 

5. You try to tell me that being with you is what I should want.

Refer to the first gif. I mean, seriously -- you don't know what I should want, could want, did want, or do want. Only I know what I want. And it's not someone who thinks they can tell me what I want. 

Make sense? (Yeah, you know it does.)

6. You don't know what Red Dwarf is.  

If a gentleman doesn't know the awesomeness of Red Dwarf, then he is a....

(Gif via sherlienomates.)

Or just plain ignorant. I mean, it's been what? 24 years or something? You've had my entire lifespan to get acquainted with pure genius. What are you waiting for? 

(If you didn't know and are STILL waiting, you are, indeed, a mega smeghead.)  

7. You want to cuddle.  All the time.  

I am a person -- not a teddy bear. I don't want to hold your hand and watch Pretty Woman while you cry and talk about how you feel like you're Julia Roberts and I'm Richard Gere. That's what your man friends are for. (Male bonding, right?) 

8. You have STDs. 

I want to make this clear: I AM NOT A SLUT. 

But I don't want to potentially have a relationship with a pox-ridden...human. As a people, humans are pretty gross, but I have no patience for the one's who don't take care of their shit. It's pretty idiot proof: where a condom and get tested. 

Now that *everyone* has access to the knowledge of STDs and the havoc they wreak, there's NO EXCUSE. Do we or do we not live in the 21st century? (Of course, if certain Republicunts had their way, we'd all have syphilis, but that's a story for another day.)  

9. You wear spandex bike shorts as casualwear. It is not the badlands of 1992.

This image provided by Wikipedia perfectly stresses my point:

(To his credit, he is NOT removing the suspenders and trying to pass these off as day wear.)

10. You insulted my intelligence. 

Having two X chromosomes doesn't make me dumber than you. If anything, it makes me superior. Y is, after all, a pathetically small chromosome. X is even killing it. It are true!

 ('nuff said)

And there you have it, folks: ten more reasons why I will never date you. 

If you're asking yourself "Is this the end? Has she run out of reasons?" I would tell you not to worry your stupid little brain cavity about it: I will always have more. Just as I'm sure you have plenty of reasons not to date me either.

"Commented" vs. "Said"

Dramatic people say "she commented" instead of "she said". This is because they take everything someone other than them says as hostile and "commented" is their way of expressing and amplifying the (usually) nonexistent hostility.

Examples


I would say: "She told me that he was short."

Dramatics would say: "She made the comment that he was short."

If you don't see the difference, you're probably dramatic.

To further illustrate the point...


I would say: "He said it was kind of lame."

They would say: "He commented that it was kind of lame."

Why "commented"?


It's to agitate you. "Said" and "told" are very blah words. We use them all the time and we see them in books like there's no tomorrow. (Especially books at a third grade reading level where those are the only two ways to convey that the characters said something.) But "commented" is different. Comment is less natural than saying. Comment implies effort and even thought. So, when the result is something hurtful a la ("He commented that she was fat.") It implies that "he" -- whoever he was -- put a lot of thought into that insult. More thought than if he just randomly "said" it. And the dramatic purposely inflates that notion by relaying the message in the way they do.

The difference between saying "said" and saying "commented"


When you say "he said", you're just telling someone what somebody said. It's the intentions that are behind why you're telling people that all that determine whether or not it's gossipy or something else stupid. But when you said "he commented", "commented" becomes the codeword to let people know that you ARE gossiping, you think this is some juicy shit, and you want everyone to know about it.

To bring the message home, I give you two pics of Marie Antoinette: 

This is "she commented". Notice the dress, how it's not so much a dress as a thing of architecture. Seriously. The designer had an egineering degree. And that's not draping on the dress -- it's drapery. "She commented" is elaborate, thought out, calculated and, most importantly: ridiculous and unnecessary.

This dress is "she said". Simple, effective, and to the point. You don't have to have a map to navigate the truth. There's no buttresses holding the damn thing up. It just is what it is. And that's all anything ever should be.

(And, for the record, in dear Maria Antonia's case, "she said' got her in enough trouble as it was -- and she didn't even say it!)

P.S. These paintings are both by the same artist, my favorite of the period (and Marie Antoinette's too!), Élisabeth Vigée-le Brun. 

Reasons Why Humans are Superscary

1. According exhaustive studies done by UC Berkeley and Yale universities, humans are fucking nasty. Each time a human walks into a room, it releases like 55 bajillion bacteria into the atmosphere. The gaggle of bacteria then waits, patiently, to infect a new host. And thus, the circle of life continues all thanks to your unwitting contribution.

2a. This was popular:

2b. This is popular:

3. 6000 American teenagers lose their virginity every day. Most of them don't know how to use condoms. Half of those get pregnant and then a quarter of those have twins. I JUST SOLVED THE POPULATION MYSTERY. (All by using hastily rounded-off facts/numbers and inventing some when need be. You're welcome.)

 4. According to Katie Melua, there are 9 million bicycles in Beijing. And Beijing is actually having a bicycle shortage. Another population tidbit, but usefully useless all the same. And it comes with a song:

5. According to the National Weather Service, most humans believe themselves to be impervious to tornadoes. This has necessitated the need for new, more alarming tornado warnings with phrases like "not survivable" coming to a tornado outbreak near you.

(And I am not making a joke out of tornadoes or their victims. I do find the whole thing of not seeking shelter alarming, however. But if a false sense of invincibility DOES turn out to be nature's form of population control...see 3 and 4.)

6. This exists:

Yes, your eyes are working properly, and yes, that is bondage champagne. 

I have nothing against alcohol. As long as you're not driving, I don't give a shit. 

But the thing is, one human, the one they call Jean Paul Gaultier, not only fetishised it, but successfully marketed it to the fashion sheeple of the world. One might say, "Oh, you can market anything to anyone who'll wear paper bag pants with a scarf as a necklace", and while that's generally true, the fact he pulled it off just goes to show you how scary humans with power and money can be. 

7. This was another human with power and money:

Anything that has happened before can happen again. I'm just saying. He's like the prime example of why humans are scary: they elect fascists. Don't make the same mistake, humans.

8. Squirrels know more than most humans:

Foamy's right. Lying down in traffic isn't a valid form of entertainment. And if you've done it, then you're an idiot. Like, an actual idiot. Congratulations. What's superscary is the amount of humans who enjoy this pursuit. It's -- like -- the new croquet or something -- I dunno. (My frame of reference for leisure activities is  admittedly anachronistic.)

9. Bullies sucked when we were kids. But, now that they are backed by the supercrazy power of social media, they're pretty much a nightmare. Humans have actually tried to stop their innocent offspring from seeing the Bully Movie. So, kids are committing suicide and a lot of people are ignorant, and here's a project that's actually trying to make a difference and the door is being slammed in its face. Humans are superscary because they want to make the small weak and make the weak frightened. Nothing is scarier than that bullshit.

And FYI, Foamy perfectly illustrates how to deal with bullies:

"Never throw the first punch, always have a witness, and AIM FOR THE BALLS! Seriously -- AIM FOR THE BALLS!"


Self-defense, damn it.


 10. A lot of humans actually think the world is ending this December just because the ancient Mayans didn't bother to calculate their calendar past the year 2012. What's superscary is the obsession with it. When they start doing things about said obsession -- then it's a supercrisis.

I would be dead without opioids

Opioids aren't the devil: you are. By "you", I mean quite literally you, me, them, and -- most especially -- all other human beings.

Opiates are just innocent alkaloids that come from a poppy flower. The alkaloid isn't the devil: you are, because it's what humans do with it that's the problem. Some take too many, some shoot it into their veins, but the absolutely worst thing humans do to opioids is you demonize them. You're the puppet master, who was in control all along, yet you're blaming your puppet.

(That makes you a pretty stupid puppet master, doesn't it?) 

And there, in a nutshell, is the unhealthy relationship the human species has with the opiate alkloid.

My Story

I have had lupus my whole life. Even when I was three, I could barely get up after having sat on the floor playing Barbies. And, when I did, my knees would be covered in bruises.

But the techniques for diagnosing lupus weren't that good back then. I was tested, and it came back negative. Life went on.

Until I was 12 and it came to a screeching halt.

When I was 12, my appendix died inside me. I lived in that excruciating pain for six months before anyone would do anything. The only doctor wacky enough to open me up and try to see what was causing the problem had no idea what he was doing, didn't suture me up on the inside, and I developed peritonitis.

Peritonitis is often described by those in the know as being "ten times more painful than child birth". Your insides stab where you are leaking God knows what, but they're also bloating, because your kidneys have failed. Bloating on that scale, is quite painful. After all, your parents can't hold your hand, because when they do, your skin explodes with the fluids of kidney failure. Having 24 IVs blow -- some in places IVs should never have to be -- is painful. In a way, septic shock got me through it. It dulled the pain enough to where I could get done what I needed to get done to survive.

I wasn't on a single painkiller -- not even acetaminophen (Tylenol, Paracetamol) -- during my ordeal with peritonitis. Believe me when I say, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemies. (It wouldn't be a fair fight.)

It was only AFTER appendicitis, peritonitis, and their corrective surgeries did I encounter opioids. At first, it was morphine. (After all, having an 8 inch gaping wound in your abdomen is painful. It needs the big guns.) But then it was slowly dropped down to lesser values of related medicines, until I was sent home my still wide-open abdomen and some codeine.

I took the codeine for a few months, like I was supposed to. And that's when the catalyst happened: I came to a point where the medicine just quit working -- I was in the same amount of pain whether I took it or not. (Now, of course, I know that that is called 'tolerance'.) A lot of people just up their dosage when opioids do that -- and they will. But I did something less dumb: I quit taking the medicine altogether. (This is important, so remember this part for later.)

And I never had opioids again. Because after I was 12, my lupus -- which I still didn't know I had -- went into remission for several years.

I started feeling bad again in college. I was always so tired, I'd just fall asleep wherever I happened to be sitting after I'd get home. (Sometimes, I would even sleep sitting up straight, which should've been a clue.) And I ached. The sleeping was partly to escape the aching. However, I chalked both up to having to walk several miles a day (including a minimum of eight flights of stairs) while weighing only 100 lbs and carrying a heavy messenger bag. I even blamed all the aching in my hands on the note-taking during lectures.

But, in my second semester, things got weird. My first strange problem was that I started feeling tremendous chest pain every day. I thought I was too young to have a heart attack, but it finally got so bad where I became convinced I was. Went to the ER and it turned out I had pancreatitis. I had to be on an IV overnight and could only eat ice cream for about two weeks.

Then, a couple of months later, I wake up with cheeks swollen like a chipmunk and they burned when I would chew. I had no clue what was wrong with me, but my mother had seen it before: I had mumps. And who, in America, has mumps nowadays? Especially when they were vaccinated specifically against them? My doc at the time was so young, he'd never seen such a thing as mumps. It astounded him. (I astound a lot of doctors.)

So, I go on for the next two years with weird symptoms and things -- just weird stuff that shouldn't happen. And the aching grows worse, and worse. By last year, I couldn't complete my classes. I received a withdrawal fail.

My Experience with Chronic Pain and Its Effects


By the age of 21, I was diagnosed with lupus. (Already had a fibromyalgia diagnosis from when I was 18; it's a fact the two conditions are often friends.)

Not being able to do my schoolwork due to extreme aching and fatigue was just the beginning.

When I say I ached, I mean I hurt. It was so bad, I couldn't grip a stick of charcoal. It was so bad, I could barely walk; when I walked, I would hobble and the only place I would hobble to was the bathroom. My life -- my entire world -- became centered around my chair in the livingroom where I wasted away.

I spent my days writhing in pain, literally squirming and crying because I hurt so bad. I couldn't think straight. I was always on edge because the pain was always there. I shook. All the time. There was no relief. Sometimes, I would stay up for three days at a time because I hurt so bad, I couldn't sleep. I would literally stay awake until I couldn't anymore. That's the only time I would sleep.

One time, I only had three hours of sleep in one week. I couldn't take it any more. I hadn't eaten since who knew when. I went to the ER and told them, "I hurt really bad and the NSAIDs my rheumatologist gave me aren't making a dent in it." And I told them how I hadn't been sleeping, how I couldn't fathom food, how I lived my life in that stupid chair, which had become my prison.

This was a doctor who knew me. He knew I wasn't a wimp. He knew I went through hell when I was twelve. And he told me, honestly, that the ER can't help for chronic pain -- a certified chronic pain clinic can.

And that's what I found. I looked up certified chronic pain clinics in my state and found one an hour away, and got an appointment.

The Toll of Chronic Pain on my Body


At the pain clinic, my blood pressure was 163/120; my pulse was 160. That was from the sheer amount of pain. It can be sustained briefly by a young person, like myself, but it's not healthy or safe.

That was the toll severe chronic pain put on my body. The psychological toll was that it exacerbated my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which I got as a souvenir when I was 12.

When I first walked into the pain clinic, my whole world was small, painful, a living hell. Every day was a nightmare beyond what any healthy person will ever be able to understand. I was in agony and there seemed to be no escape. I literally saw my life being muffled out by the pain. To a great extent, it had been. I was all but dead already.

How Opioids Saved My Life


I was given a low dose of hydrocodone to treat my pain. It took the edge off enough where there was a complete drop in blood pressure and heart rate. (I was almost normal that very week.)

After about two weeks, I got where I could walk around my house. Do you know what a blessing it is to walk? Even when it hurts, walking is one of the greatest things there ever was. And I never knew that until I was 12 and, for the first time, I couldn't. For the second time in my life, I could walk again. It is the best feeling. It was physical salvation from the hell I was living.

That physical salvation led to a mental one. What was misdiagnosed as "major depression" almost immediately disappeared with opioid treatment. Without the constant searing pain in my joints, I could think clearly and see hope. Before, I was helpless, which naturally leads to hopelessness. Pain treatment helped me; help gave me hope.

A year later, I am literally reclaiming my life. My world doesn't consist of a chair in my living room. My world is your world. Be afraid. I started riding the stationary bike, doing aerobics, and -- most importantly -- dancing. My resting heart rate is getting more and more normal. I am living proof that, with help, one can reclaim their health.

And my life just keeps getting better.

Now, I sing every day; before my surgery, I had an officially documented 5 octave singing range. I was a very good singer. I struggled for years to get that back; I'm still working on it. Now, after getting pain treatment, and being able to sing every day again, I'm finally back at 4 octaves. I know I'll reach my goal and maybe beyond now, because now I have the physical strength to do so.

Now, I can play with and interact with my youngest sister and my nephew (both four). Before, I was just someone on the sidelines of their lives, always too sick and in pain to join in. Now, I can be a part of their lives. And that is the greatest gift.

For a long time, I subsisted on forcing myself to eat as much as I could; in pain, that was only about 800 calories a day. More than a concentration camp victim, but definitely below the starvation line. It was the perfect amount of calories to tell my body to hold onto as much weight as I can.

But I've lost 30lbs since my peak weight. My face looks like my face again. Do you know how wonderful it is to look in the mirror and actually see you?

Why I Wrote This


There are those out there who think people like me should be denied opioids. They think this because they're uneducated. They think this because they hear about the dangers of "hillbilly heroin" and high schoolers breaking into their parents' medicine cabinets.

What they don't hear is all the good opioids do when they are used correctly under medical supervision. And that's the story everyone needs to hear.

To make things worse, lawmakers are having hearings about the subject of painkillers -- when, where, how they should be allowed, etc -- without the testimonies of pain patients and chronic pain specialists. 

Read more about the ignorance of these hearings: HERE.

All this stuff actually happened: The 19th Birthday Saga

My nineteenth birthday was an epic. As in, an actual epic...like "of Gilgamesh" or "Beowulf", etc. There weren't any monsters or demons -- at least that weren't human. But there was a multi-day celebration, threatened childbirth, stolen melons, and the promise of a new tomorrow.

To really understand this story, we'll have to start at the beginning. No, not the beginning of my life -- that is for the autobiography I'll ask you all to buy in thirty years. No, rather, it's the beginning of another life. Or, the beginning of the beginning of that life. Basically, I'm taking you back to the day I found out I was going to be a big sister for the second time.

March, 2007

I remember my mom looking particularly nice that day, nicer than usual. So, it was only fitting what occurred occurred. I was on the couch at the time, playing my guitar or something -- I forget. I just remember her, standing in the kitchen archway, talking on the house phone. That, in itself, tipped me off. I mean, who calls on the house phone? Even in 2007? 

The phone call she received was to tell her that my dad and his girlfriend were having a baby. This was March. 

I was spare you my reaction at the time. Instead, I will jump ahead a few short months to...

July, 2007

By July, my dad's girlfriend is NINE months pregnant. (You got that math, right?) And my world has changed. My parents are finally divorced and all the sudden, I'm meeting new people, primarily from the world of my soon-to-be-stepmother. 

One person I meet is my soon-to-be-aunt, M. Auntie M (get it?). Aunt M is exactly one year younger than me -- to the very day. This means that, when I would turn 19 on July 28th, she would turn 18. While we got along swimmingly, it was a strain being born on the same day. Who gets which relatives at the family birthday dinners and so forth. But there was something else that we hadn't counted on...

This was our response when my dad and her sister told us, "Girls, the baby is probably gonna be born on your birthday. Isn't that exciting?": 

(I was really into slouchy tops and skinny jeans back then; I thought it hid my 19in waist and made me look fatter. I was a dumbass. And yes, I was the skinny one with the long hair. Now Auntie M is the skinny one with the long hair and I'm the curvy one with short hair and glasses. It's a circle.)

And you can understand our pissed-off-ness right? I mean, we had a reason. We had FINALLY gotten used to the idea of sharing our people on our own birthdays and then there's a fetus threatening to destroy the peace talks, the bridges we've built, all with a simple birth. 

We weren't selfish people. We were teenagers and a lot had been asked of us. You can't look me in the eye and say you wouldn't have acted the exact same. 

July 28, 2007

By my our birthday, my dad had been camped out on his girlfriend's couch. They sat there, waiting for the baby to pop out at any minute, because it could. Technically, she was 2 centimeters already, so it really could've happened. 

But, because he loves me, my dad pried himself away from the waiting-for-birth couch and went out to dinner with me, my mom, my sister who was not a fetus/17, her boyfriend, my dad's side of the family, and my mom's side of the family. See, we adjusted very quickly to being what I like to think of as a mature blended family. No jealousy. No hating. No crazy divorce battles to the death. Just love, respect, and tiramisu...because we were at an Italian restaurant and, of course, one must have tiramisu on one's 19th birthday. 

This dinner marked the beginning of the Carriean Festival where I am not only the center of the attention, but the narrator of the story. 

After bidding adieu to my family, I met with my friends, Ems (who is NOT my friend anymore) and J (who is my very dear friend indeed). Back then, we were the three musketeers, and as people who call themselves that are wont to do, we went out in search for action. 

We didn't find any. 

Instead, we found ourselves going to what was, at the time, the local watering hole. We couldn't drink, but there was music. Good, rockabilly music. And we had an awesome time. Ems told the band it was my birthday, they said "happy birthday", and it was embarrassing, but mostly harmless. 

We pretty much danced the night away...

(This trapeze dress was just another failed attempt for me to hide how skinny I was. It was especially a fail when it shrunk in the wash and barely covered my bum. And here, Ems can be seen wearing the "fake butt" I got her the previous Christmas.) 

...except for one other thing: at the bar on my birthday there, we met some people. Some people, we already knew. Others we did not. One person I had not known previously was B. I'm not the most social of people -- in case you haven't noticed. So, when B informed us that the same band (well, two bands, really, I think) would be playing the next night at a different location, Ems and J enthusiastically agreed that we would see him there. I had no say in this. But, it was cool, because it was my birthday. 

July 29th, 2007

My soon-to-be stepmother still hadn't popped yet, so I felt perfectly confident in going out again that night. To this day, people will say my friends and I had ulterior motives for going to the next gig, to see the same dudes play. But really, and I emphasize this fact: we were invited. By B. 

The 29th was not as docile as the 28th. After all, it was the second day of a weekend long festival celebrating my life, which is no small thing. The 29th, things got wild. Well, wild for me, at the time, anyway. 

It was bloomin' hot that night, but it was muggy. Not long after we arrived, the bottom fell out of the sky. And the venue was small; it couldn't hold everyone at once, so people had to go back and forth, in and out. But I don't think anyone minded. It was the cool, relieving sort of rain shower that only seems to come on a lucky summer's day (or night, as the case may be). It was a renewing rain, a revigorating rain. It was a rain that wiped away the small amount of makeup I'd bothered to put on. And it was fun. 

B introduced us to his friend K. Ems and J were so social, it was great fun for them and me? I took pictures. I didn't hardly know most of the people, but it was just a day I thought I'd like to remember. What I didn't know at the time was, it was a day I really couldn't forget if I wanted to. 

Because Ems was is an idiot. Ems, in her very own lude awakening, decided it'd be awesome if she let people draw whatever the crap they wanted on her bare arms. And when I say, whatever, I mean whatever. She ended up with some nice things, a phone number or two, anarchy symbols, but also not so nice things; some of them, I didn't know what they meant -- but I knew what a swastika was. And she had them ALL OVER HER FUCKING ARM. What made this worse is that blondie is of German decent. And, of course, this made no impact whatsoever on her. She proceeded to keep making friends. 

Meanwhile, J and I became known as the chicks who were friends with Swastika Girl -- and that is NOT something I would ever want to be known by. (J and I actually have much love for the Jewish people and find genocide abhorrent.) 

So, with swastikas all over her dumb white ass, you can imagine the kind of friends she made. There was one in particular that just wouldn't stop following us around, some high school punk I refer to as "Heroin Boy", partially as a homage to a Regina Spektor song, and partially owing to the fact I found out -- months after these events -- the POS was a heroin addict. At the time, I really just thought he simply wasn't right. 

So, things are winding down and everyone's leaving. Ems volunteers me (yes, I had to drive, because I'm the only one who can find shit) to drive Heroin Boy home. I didn't feel too good about this, but, at the same time, I didn't want to be responsible for the stranding of some dopey, seemingly harmless seventeen-year-old boy. 

B and K were older than us and, of course, male. I choose to believe it was those two things that prompted them to offer their services as escorts home. They felt the need to make sure we got there safely, what with the new, unwanted passenger aboard. And THANK GOD K took Heroin Boy in his car, because I just don't think I couldn't handled it. Ems road with them. And, I mean, K had to have nerves of steel to drive those two. Meanwhile, it was me driving J and B in my Corolla -- my vehicle at the time. 

Like that, we caravan'd across the bridge back to the town where me, Ems, and J lived. At first, we stop at Ems house. There, she informs us that the party is just getting started, that Heroin Boy doesn't live on this side of the river, he lives on the other side of the river that he just left. 

We all looked like this: 

(I forgot to mention that the rain had completely soaked us all, but me most especially, rendering my black bra entirely visible through my creme-colored top.)

See, we couldn't really be angry. We lost the right to anger when we didn't properly interrogate the intoxicated idiots that were guiding our journey. It was our own damn fault. 

And disappointment leads to hunger. So, before heading across the river, we caravan'd to McDonald's. 

Back then, going to McDonald's after midnight (and it was about 3am by this point) was an adventure. Back then, McDonald's after midnight was the venue in which people would show off their pimped out rides. We're talking lime-colored cars with some kinda rims, leopard prints seats -- these rides were all kinda pimp'dness you could ever imagine...rims, rims EVERYWHERE. And they would show off these rides by circling the McDonalds, the lane that goes outside and around the drive-thru, making sure everyone sees how awesome their shit is. 

But we were used to this, so we paid little attention. Instead, my attention was drawn to K's car that was in the drive thru line in front of us. K was, once again, forced to carry Ems and Heroin Boy. Heroin Boy was in the backseat. This proved to be a big mistake. Because he did this: 

(Yes, I understand I have no idea what the back of a hatchback -- or any type of car -- looks like. But don't focus on that. Focus on the stupid.)

We're in line at McDonald's and all the sudden, the dumbass sticks his body out the side of the window, faces us, and starts talking to us with the biggest grin on his face. He was just talking away and waving his arms like an excited kid. And we had no idea wtf he was saying because our windows were rolled up. 

But I swear to you, it was the most hilarious shit ever. He had no idea whatsoever that we couldn't hear him. And he was smiling so stupidly. Some of us may have peed a little -- that's how much we were laughing. It was so funny. It is one of the funniest things I have ever seen. My crude drawing doesn't give it justice. 

What was he saying, you ask? Well, apparently, he was professing his love to me. It was so fucked up. 

So, we finally make it back across the river as the fog rolls in, and we drop the kid off at his house...

After he is safely inside, the dudes steal a melon from his front porch. I drive off real fast. I ain't no thief. Even melon thievery goes against my code. However, I don't mind, and encourage others to do it, if it jives with their respective codes -- and it did. 

So, we go back to Ems house, and everyone but me and J thinks it's perfectly safe to eat some weird yellowy watermelon off of some random porch. And they all eat their water melon and me? And, being the old biddies of the bunch, J and I were tired. We kindly bid adieu to our new friends, who helped us drop off some messed up high schooler, we change into our jammies, and I fall asleep on Ems' couch, simply because, despite everything, I didn't want to go home for some reason. 

July 30, 2007

Early in the effin' morning...

My phone is going berserk. And not a little berserk, but a lotta berserk. And I'm groggy and tired, and had a maximum of three hours asleep, but something deep inside of me says "ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE, DIPSHIT." So, I do. 

Me: "Helllooo." 

Mom: "OMG, where are you? Where have you been? Do you know what time it is?"

Me: "I'm 19; I don't have to tell you were I am, and --" 

Mom: "THE BABY IS COMING. GET YOUR ASS TO THE HOSPITAL ASAP." 

Me: "Do I have time for a shower?" 

Mom: "Maybe." 

So, I rush home, shower, and throw on a shirt. The shirt I wear is, naturally, the shirt nearest at hand: it was the shirt B had given me the night before, of the band that had been playing. So, with that reminder of events past, I rush to the hospital, drive all the way to the top of the parking deck until I find what is literally the last place. I rush inside and say, "BABY -- I'M THE SISTER. I HAVE NO WORDS. WHERE?!"

Somehow, they understood my request and pointed me in the direction of the labor area. My dad and his girlfriend and her mother were already inside the delivery room. The rest of the family, and some select friends, waited outside the door. 

At first, Auntie M and I contented ourselves to slump down against the sterile wall and mull over the fact that this worked out nicely, that we didn't have to share our birthday with someone else, and the joy that that someone else was coming RIGHT NOW. 

But our excitement was too much. Being eager, happy teenagers, we couldn't settle for sitting on the floor like hospital vagrants; instead, like nosy Nellies, we each pressed an ear to the wooden door that separated us from the birthing process. And all we could hear was screaming. Lots of screaming. Eventually, that screaming was followed by words of comfort. After all, her mom had two kids (her being one of them) and my dad already had two kids. They were old pros at this. It was my soon-to-be-stepmom that was the noob, and, of course, the noob was giving birth. All the screaming was perfectly understandable. Even with an epidural, I imagine pushing something bigger than a football out your lady parts has to be rather...uncomfortable. 

But, finally, Soon-To-Be-Stepmom's screams gave way to a smaller, high-pitched scream, a scream I instantly new belonged to a beautiful baby girl. 

And, in no time at all, this happened: 

(This is what happens to my hair when I let it air dry in hospitals. But, that day, I didn't mind.)

In a way, you can say that my youngest sister is a belated birthday present. Not just for me and Auntie M, but also for Dad, who was born on July 22nd. 

And there you have it, folks. The story of my sister's birth and the saga of my 19th birthday, all rolled up into one long, oddly shaped package. 

P.S. The end of the birth story/19th birthday story is just the beginning of another story: the story of the birth of my nephew, whose impending arrival was announced just two days after that photo was taken. 

Circles never end; the wheel just spins. 

Why having lupus is as attractive as voluntarily sticking your hand in a meat grinder

What is lupus?

Lupus is an autoimmune disorder wherein your immune system goes batshit crazy and attacks all your healthy tissue at random, whenever it feels like it. Your immune system has declared war; you are the enemy.

(I took this pic in 2009, before my diagnosis, wondering what the weird rash on my face was. Now I know.)

Why it sucks

Think of your immune system like pawns on a chessboard. A lot of people take them for granted, but they're actually very valuable pieces. They're the main line of defense. And, normally, they can't attack their own sovereigns. But lupus changes the rules. When you have lupus, your pawns decide they CAN attack their sovereigns. They leave the enemy pieces (foreign viruses and bacteria) alone and go after YOU until all you're left with is your king hopping around the board by himself hoping to God he doesn't end up in check. 

That and the fact that you could die at any random time from any number of conditions a person your age simply shouldn't have. I once read that being a lupie (that's what we call ourselves), my chances of having a stroke are six times that of my peers. At the time I read that, I was smoking. Reading it made me smoke more as a faulty coping mechanism. That's hard news to digest. 

What it feels like emotionally

It feels like your body has it out for you. It feels like your body wants to destroy you (and it kinda does). So, any time something ELSE goes wrong (like you get the flu) or you get a complication (whether it be a mild rash or something serious like kidney failure) that's just like adding insult to injury. 

And I used to be this being of the sun. I spent my whole days outside; my skin was like copper, my hair was bronze and gold. I ran wild and free and never wanted to go inside. I was so damn alive and I didn't even know it. 

But now, I can't be in the sun anymore. I live life like a vampire, always in the darkness, in the shadows, never seeing the sun. Now, I'm so white I glow (never would've guessed THAT was possible), my hair has gone dark, and I'm anemic. If I step into the sun, my skin will burn and blister because of lupus. Before lupus became a problem, I literally never had a sunburn. Never. 

And knowing you could die young...that is the worst. Because I almost did die young. When I was 12. My appendix died inside of me and fell off. I developed peritonitis, kidney failure, septic shock, blood poisoning, and the beginnings of respiratory failure. Just one of those problems can kill a person. Septic shock in particular has a low survival rate. To have them all at once and live is almost unheard of. I'm a fucking walking miracle. And I'll never be the same again. 

You know that song "If I Die Young" by The Band Perry? That line in there about the "sharp knife of a short life" -- I don't think I've ever heard it said better. There is no sharper knife than that. 

And it doesn't matter what religion you are or if you're religious at all. You are meant to be here. You're meant to do what you want to in this life. And the threat of it all being cut short -- like a constant gun to your head -- is the worst feeling in the world. 

What it feels like physically

I was told by the doctors and nurses when I was twelve that my near-death experience was the most painful thing I would ever feel in my life. (They were right.) They also said my experience was one of the most painful things that could ever happen to a human being. My experience was literal torture. (After all, acute kidney failure is drowning in your own body. You can't breathe. You can't think.) And I had no painkillers, no nausea meds -- NOTHING. I was literally tortured by butchers until my parents found surgeons who would listen, who had the education and skills to recognize what was wrong with me. I actually was saved by the best pediatric surgical team in the world. Otherwise, I'd be dead. 

On an every day level, it feels like your bones are breaking. Your stomach hurts. You puke way too much. And you're generally treated by doctors who barely understand what's wrong with you. (Lupus is very mysterious. They have no idea what even causes it.) 

And as much as I've gone through. I'm the lucky one. Every day is painful, but I had only one truly bad and dangerous spell. (At least, that I know of.) 

Out there, there are kids younger than me dying of heart attacks and kidney failure because of a disease most people are unaware of. Out there, there are mothers who are literally physically crippled, yet pull themselves together to take care of their children. Out there, a million people aren't getting proper treatment because we just don't know enough about lupus to cure it. 

Awareness

Toni Braxton, Lady Gaga, and Felicia Day are a few people who have an audience, who've used it to raise lupus awareness. Even when they mention it in passing, celebrities raise so much awareness about it -- I don't think they have any idea. Lupus doesn't have as many celebrity patrons as many other illnesses. Like I said: it's mysterious, but not sexy. 

If we had more patrons (and patronesses), we would have more awareness. More awareness = more funding. More funding = more research. More research = a possible cure. 

I understand you're broke. I'm broke as shit because I can't do the volume of writing (my profession) that I used to do. But there's one thing you can do and that is pass on knowledge. Pass on this blog. Tell someone to read it. You know what Captain Planet says, right? "Knowledge is Power!" Well, yeah...Captain Planet is always right. (And I'm not just saying that because the 90's were my wonder years.) Listen to the captain and...

Spread some knowledge; save a life.

My post to my Congressman in regards to the piracy bill

And here it is:

As an American it is my legal right to freedom of speech, and expression. This law takes away from my fundamental rights as well as those of any other American, including yourself. I would personally never endorse a member of Congress who would even consider backing this bill. I don't know anyone else who would either. It is wrong; it is unjust.  

Instead of diminishing our rights as citizens of this fine nation, please work with your colleagues protect us and our domestic freedoms. We depend on you to do the right thing.  

The second the Internet is censored is the second we become a nation with conditional freedoms. That is not what the founders of our nation would've wanted, and that's not what any of your constituents would want either. Please think of us, we who depend upon your representation of our interests, in regards to this matter. 

And then it was signed, and yada, yada, yada. There are petitions and other things. This is how I sent my little letter. And it also gives better info than what I just did.

Facebook "rape pages": beyond tasteless jokes

One current event issue that hasn't been getting a lot of press in America, even though it involves Americans, is the Facebook "rape" pages. What do I mean by Facebook "rape" pages?

Personally, I would like to link you -- just so you can see with your own eyes -- but Blogger actually has a TOS thing about even linking to hate pages. And that's exactly what the "rape" pages on Facebook are. So, instead of linking you, if you haven't seen them, I want you to Google the phrase. You owe it to your sisters, girlfriends, wives, and mothers -- and most especially YOURSELF, if you are a woman -- to know what this page is, because only then you will see that it's not just a joke.

Because that's the thing. When I first read about this issue, it was a link someone posted on Twitter through a feminist website. So, I didn't take it seriously. I'm not what you would call a "feminist". I shave, bathe, and I like it when men open the door for me. Because the thing is: I'm a Carrieist. I think I'm better than everyone else. And as for other women -- I don't think they're equal to men: I think they're better than men. I mean, we birth them, change their diapers, cook for them, do their laundry and -- all the while -- most of us work full time jobs just like they do (only for less pay). So, not only can we do whatever men do, we can do more. And when we do what they do, we usually do it better.

So yeah. While women are better than men, I am better than all humans. Obey me. And obey me when I say men would be nothing without women and should worship the ground women walk on.

But the people from the Facebook page: "You know shes playing hard to get when your chasing her down an alleyway" don't think so. In fact, they think women deserve less respect than inanimate objects. I mean, after all, they don't rape people's cars or chairs, do they? But it's okay to rape women, according to them.

But who is "them"? According to this article from The Telegraph, the author of the rape page is, apparently, a British schoolboy with ties to British, Australian, and American hackers. People offering support to this page and pages like it are called in this article and others "cyber anarchists". But that's wrong. See, calling them "cyber anarchists" implies that they are exercising an anti-government philosophy and using these hateful pages to demonstrate that in a free society, they can say anything -- even this.

But no. No, no, no, no, no. Any true anarchist knows that anarchy means you don't want other people to rule you; the implication is that you, yourself, as a human being, have the innate moral compass to move about in society by doing no harm to others. That's what actual anarchists believe. All these "I'm gonna do whatever I want because I'm an anarchist" shitheads aren't getting it. They corrupt a non-violent philosophy and use it as a platform to do whatever they want -- and doing what they want isn't a good thing, judging by the rape content on these pages.

Another thing: the page I mentioned is rife with grammatical errors and if there's one thing I know, it's that the only thing that has worse grammar than a 13-year-old American schoolboy is a 13-year-old British boy. And that's what's scary. This screwed up little kid claims he's just joking. But the fact that he thinks this is a joke -- which I rather doubt -- is in itself not okay. And what's also not okay is the fact that this page is attracting real sexual predators. It's a fact. Real predators are visiting this page and it's become a meet up for them.

And what happens if you let people on the page know you disagree? Well, read the article by The Telegraph. Though, I find it very pathetic that while I blog and Tweet using my real name, this kid -- and many of his cohorts -- don't even do that. They are cowards. They have to hide behind the internet to say these things, because they're scared of what would happen to them, scared that people would hate them, if people knew who to blame. If you can't say something and put your name on it, you don't have a right to say it at all.

So, why does this page even exist? Simply put: Facebook loves getting the ad revenue off of it. It gets a lot of hits. That's why, even though this and pics of breastfeeding both violate their TOS, the pictures of breastfeeding gets taken off -- not because a partially exposed boob is more offensive and not because it's okay to publish hate stuff about women. Really, it's because Facebook is so freaking greedy that they will allow a page to violate their own TOS provided it brings in a shit ton of revenue. Because that's the thing folks: no one but a close circle of family and friends cares to see your breastfeeding pics, but people love to see something that's horrible whether they agree with how bad it is or not.

So, instead of saying "Facebook allows this because they hate women" we should be saying "Facebook allows pages that promote hate and violence to women as long as it makes them money". And that, my friends, is the real issue here.

And still, we all use Facebook because we can't be assed to go back to MySpace.

They're OUR Bitches: My View on Politics and Why it Should Be Yours Too

Democracy as defined by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary:

1.a : government by the people; especially : rule of the majority
b : a government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections

Could it be any clearer? Let me break it down into modern terms.

We hire politicians via voting. We pay them (far too much) via taxes. We are their bosses; they are our employees. But it's more than that. We hire them to represent our interests on a national level, because all of us doing it at once, in person, would be far too confusing. And since they are specifically hired to do our bidding, they are, in effect, our bitches.

But everyone seems to have forgotten that. Instead, when they vote somebody in, they think they're voting for an autocrat that rules them and makes their decisions for them. If you think a democratic government rules you, then you need to read the definition (several times if need be). Instead, the real point of a democracy is that we, the people, create an administrative body to represent us on a national scale. They do our grunt work to keep society flowing smoothly. Laws should be for the protection of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Any law that tells you what you can read, who you can talk to, or where you can go, what you can wear -- that's a dictatorial law of an autocratic fascist and you really shouldn't even listen to it, because it came into being by your bitch (aka politician) usurping the job you gave them for their own agenda.

Now, I don't mean to tell you what political party to believe in. That's not why I'm here. The reason I'm here is to educate you on how a democratic society works and to tell you -- whatever your political affiliation -- that in a free country, you are the boss.

It's time for us, as Americans, to take our country back. From this moment on, I challenge any and all politicians to go to work for me, for their people, and not themselves. And I challenge the American people to remember their place, to remember that you rule this country.

We live in the best country in the world. But it often doesn't seem that way. The reason is this: We forget why we're here, what our ancestors fought and died for. We forget that this was supposed to be better, we forget that we're supposed to be the best. Anyone not willing to stand up with me and adopt this philosophy is already beaten and you might as well just go ahead and lay in that hole in the ground, waiting for them to pile the dirt on you.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think my little blog post can effect overnight change. But I hope that this idea takes hold, that you share it with your friends, that they share it with theirs, and eventually Americans, on a massive scale, are reminded why we are here and of the power they posses.

So, be a human and pass this on. If you don't pass this on, I assume you like being the bitch of your bitch and I'll remember to buy you a blindfold, gag, and some fuzzy handcuffs for Christmas, because you're apparently going to need it.

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Reasons I won't date you

Don't think of it as me being a snobby bitch. Think about me, being harassed by weirdos that have done this crap. And also, if you're a guy, listen up, because this is just generally good dating advice.

Here be reasons:

1. You wear socks with sandals or sandals/flipflops at inappropriate times.

Unless you're an ancient Egyptian pharaoh, sandals are NOT appropriate evening attire. That's thing number one. Thing number two: socks with sandals is just WRONG. Anyone with a brain cell knows it. If you don't, then you're not anyone, and all of us who are ones will shun you. (Interpret that how you will.)

2. You get in my personal space when I don't even know you, haven't invited you there, and clearly have no intention in doing so.

I once knew this guy that would just edge closer and closer to me if we were somewhere out in public at the same time. He would just keep edging in until he would be a foot away or less -- right up in the middle of my personal space. And then -- and then -- he would talk to me. The way it made me feel was like he was bearing down on me in an odd and skeevy fashion. It was so off-putting. I would literally say "Dude, you best be backin' up." Did he invade my personal space next time? Yes, he did. He didn't learn. And I eventually started avoiding places he would be simply because the only other option would be to kick his ass and get charged with assault. Creepy dudes aren't worth being arrested over. And that, my friends, is maturity.

3. You've been in a serious relationship with my good friend -- even when she's definitely over you.

This explanation is multilayered. I've had friends that are all like, "Why don't you date my ex? I think y'all'd make a cute couple." Here's why.

Firstly, if you were with my friend, I know all of your faults. You're a naiviot (naive idiot) if you think I don't. Not only do I know all the faults she told me, but I know all the faults that she was too blind to see out of her love for you.The second reason: Any girl with self-esteem isn't going to let a penis that has been in her friend's vagina into her vagina. (But that's not to say dating in my world automatically equals sex -- I'm not that easy.) Lastly, the friend is never okay with you dating her ex deep down, even if she can't stand him or is normally above such clichéd behaviors. When it comes to amour, no one is above clichés.

4. You talk down to me.

One of the easiest ways to piss me off is to talk to me like I'm an idiot. Just ask my family. They treat me like an idiot all the time. But here's the difference between family and prospective dates: you can't choose family. And they actually love me, despite their attitudes.

But when a stranger treats you like shit, they don't love and they never will. So, yeah. If you tell me things like, "Go make me some muffins, darling. The men are talking," and then puff your cigar smoke in my face, I will probably (figuratively) kill you. I'm not going to lie. I will probably take my muffin tin and beat you upside the head until you cry. And then I'd laugh. And then I'd tell you to make the muffins yourself.

5. You talk down to others.

You ain't a man if you do that. At least not a real one, anyway. Seriously, some intelligent person actually had something to say about it:

"If you want to see the true measure of a man, watch how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." - JK Rowling

A good rule of thumb is if Jo Rowling said it, it's probably right. At least, I hold stock in that.

Only a small man on the inside treats someone poorer than him, less brainy or shorter than him like they're less human than him. I was raised to treat hobos with the same respect I would show the Queen. I think everyone else should too.

6. You've never dated anyone before.

I'm simply too old to break you. I'm 23. I'm not 15. I can't be training boys to know how to be boyfriends at my age. They should already know that shit.

7. You caress me oddly during a normal conversation.

This has happened before. And it is so weird, I thought it deserved a whole separate talking point from the personal space issue. If I meet you and we're talking about something nonsensical like did Nero really own a fiddle, and then you caress me...like slide your hand up my arm, my thigh, or even -- yes, this has happened -- my boob, I will make you cry. Seriously. If I'm in a good mood and it's NOT one of my more intimate parts, you might get a warning -- might.

8. Poor hygiene.

This is supposed to never be a problem -- I mean, don't you guys have mothers? -- and it definitely should've been stomped out by middle school. But, alas, it is a problem. Guys can be really gross. And if I can smell you from a foot away, you're too gross for me. In fact, you shouldn't stink at all. I don't mind the smell of sweat and activity so much as just that gross, fucking nasty smell dudes get when they don't bathe enough. That's what really bothers me. And it bothers every other girl too. (Or at least it should. A lot of girls don't have good self-esteem, so they put up with it. But they shouldn't.)

9. You're a Republican.

I'm pretty open-minded. I don't care what religion you are. You don't even have to be religious or spiritual at all. But I cannot abide Republicans. The current ideals of the party are so crazy and heinous that Lincoln is simultaneously rolling over in his grave AND looking down from heaven and crying.

Yes, you assholes, you made Lincoln cry. Be ashamed.

To me, to even be a Republican, you have to either A) be a wicked moron, B) be uneducated, or C) let your parents think for you ala "Well, Daddy always voted Republican." Either way, you need to read some sort of book. Whether it's like an educational text book on the core beliefs of different parties or else a holy/spiritual/touchy-feely book about human compassion. Just SOMETHING. Because being a Republican is about as wrong as you can legally get.

10. You have no confidence.

I'm a nice person. I'm really nice, despite all my talk of Republicans (who are non-persons). But honestly, if you have no confidence, I probably won't notice you. And that's not because I'm a bitch -- it's because, you're in some kind of shell that makes you unrelatable and often unnoticeable.

Then there's the other type of no-confidence guy who just sits around complaining how bad their life is, how loser-y they are, and then uses that to try to gain a sympathy date. That's just dishonest. You tell your troubles to your friends, your agonies to your aunts. You don't moan to girls you want to date. It's really not sexy.

So, there you have it, folks. Ten reasons I won't date you. And that's just ten. There's actually a lot more. And again, I'm not a bitch. I just have some really nifty qualities like self-esteem and standards. And those are just two reasons why I'm awesome.




(Oh yeah. And I did all of that "art". Can't you tell by the three-year-old-ish skills and humor?)