Hands At The Ready.

"Are you on your period?"

This is undoubtedly one of the top questions to ask a female that will surely put her mood farther down the drain once asked. Welcome to no-mans land, ya'll.

I feel the need to redeem myself, rather, counterpoise my prior post by defending my womanhood.

Although I do have many masculine traits, I still can not help the genealogical complexity that resides among each chromosome, and tonight was a prime example; The beast was let out to play. I want to feel like I matter, even in a room barred with situational pretexts, and when I'm experiencing an emotion of unappreciativeness*, will undoubtedly analyze and wonder why I'm imagining myself on a comparable level with a sea cucumber (they exist, but no one cares**). Once I bring this negative sensation to the table, I of course have to do the apologizing. So I do, repeatedly. And this is where the line is drawn.

I don't understand the male brain sometimes, because after all, I am not - I'm a girl, sista, woman, matron, the double x. I feel that with that, I deserve the chance to be a little emotional, not want to talk, and for once in my life throw understanding to the wind. But then again, that get's us nowhere. So I'm thankfulhat it's drawn out of me, I just don't appreciate the feeling of stupidity that follows.

Moral of the story, I suppose, is that I still have to maintain my claim to femininity sometime or another. After all, if you didn't appreciate me for that quality, then you're better off surrounding yourself with testosterone.

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* Fake word.
** I'm sure someone cares, someone who's not hormonal and on their period, though.

No, Thank You, I Take It Black, Like My Men.*

I like guns. And I'm realizing more and more my lack of femininity.

True, I enjoy being pampered, my dream job encapsulates being a housewife, and romance is my middle name, but there are a few things that continue to overpower these gendered norms, and projectile-firing weapons is one of them.

My morning routine consists as such: roll out of bed (optional), shower (optional), brush hair (optional), make coffee (required), grab gypsy bag and head out into the day. These habitual activities can take anywhere from 10 - 30 minutes maximum, and I pride myself in the you-look-comfortable-and-not-all-that-put-together-but-it's-impressive-for-the-time-spent-on-it appearance. In fact, I wrote a post** a while back on this matter if you'd prefer a bit of a reflective analytical cogitation***. This, according to several individuals I interviewed on the concept****, is a trait normally found within the masculine realm, along with my preference for dealing with arguments.

I'm simple minded, and with that, the fluffy, encoded messages someone tries to send me when they're upset (or even for elusive suggestive remarks, for that matter) don't work. I'm not sure if I just block it out, or choose to take your colorful discourse for what it is - yes, you really are ok, and no, you're not just saying that yet hoping I grasp the notion that it's quite the contrary. Therefore, straightforwardness is my second middle name, as in, be up front, tell me what's wrong, and let's get over it. No tantalizing bush beating needed.

With that said, until my 21st birthday arrives in the next few months, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for a nice Smith and Wesson .45ACP. As much as I enjoy baseball games, getting dirty, and staying up to date on the news, I still maintain satisfaction that I am a woman, and feel that a good balance of gendered mannerisms never hurt nobody.

I am woman, hear me roar.

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* From Airplane, the movie, to be politically correct about an apolitically correct statement.
** After I went back and read this, I realized how much my writing has changed since then. Probably due to the many complaints of my lack of readability, and my current inhibition to freely perpetuate my sarcasm.
*** Also note, however, I still managed to interject a subtle hint at firearm obsession*****.
**** This is a fictional attempt to support myself.
***** It's a healthy obsession, similar to popcorn.

Thursday Fight Night.

There's one concept throughout my collegiate career that has had a jaw-dropping effect. Now, it's actually a rather simple notion, so before you prepare yourself for some grandiose spiel, don't.

Written communication is different than verbal communication.

"Well, that's obvious," you might be thinking, but pre-Communication 309, this elementary sentiment was never brought up or thought upon. The more I swallow this idea, the more I realize why I prefer writing.

For example, anyone who knows me, is well aware that my foot (or gravity-defyingly* both) is usually positioned somewhere near my mouth. When you share discourse with someone words can't be taken back, nor are there opportunities for unlimited editing prior to submission.

All in all, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this, such as the ruby rule "think before you speak." Or, better yet, maybe this can spur the invention of a filtration system that can be surgically installed near the connection between my brain and vocal cords. Whatever it is, I appreciate the individuals around me who continuously help to get myself out of the human pretzel position (as I am no gymnast), and being worth the dissection of prior assertions.

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*Apparently this suffix is incorrect, but I'm using it anyways.

Edit: I've really tried hard to steer clear of big words, really.

The Dinner Party, Act 2.

I just got slapped in the face by the hand of disesteem, and let me be the first to say I did not like it.

I caught myself sitting in a glass house throwing stones, something that from a metaphorical-I'm-reflecting-on-the-subject-stance-now seems rather ludicrous (not the rapper). I realized that I'm a huge hypocrite when it comes to certain things. For example, I feel that I can have the last cookie and you cant, it's a-o-k for me to recite commercials word for word and it not be a sign of laziness, or the fact that my room's allowed to be disorganized and yours isn't.

When this ignorant thinking became exposed, my stomach fell - just like when you're on a roller coaster and keep your eyes closed right before and during a drop, it's that same feeling (but I don't particularly like this source of adrenalin). There is a good thing that comes out of it, though. Actually, two positive things: the first, I know how being buddy buddy with guy friends looks and feels to another person, the second, I need to have more self confidence. The latter is just for my own referential purpose, really, but I now know what I need to focus on and what not to.

My hormones are out of wack, so possibly this has something to do with my current mentality (get it? Men-tality). I'm happy, you're happy (right?), everyone's happy - so we should take the drops as they come, eye's closed and all. Be that as it may, life wouldn't be worth the ride without them.

Sunny Delight Earns D Grade.

"I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it."

I haven't written in awhile, but let me tell you why.

There's nothing like a good glass of orange juice. The taste, the aroma, and joyously throwing the peels down the garbage disposal - it can't be beat. However, when something is lost out of that substance, like the pulp (which is undoubtedly the best part) (that's not up for discussion), the glass almost instantaneously appears half empty, and certainly lacking in a proper serving of vitamin c. Without this pulp, one could infer that the simple reminder of mother nature has been removed from the processed, frozen, popped out of a can fruit concentrate. In the same way, I've lost my words, or at least the essence behind them.

And you know who I have to blame for this malnutrition? My mother.

Driving home from class tonight I began thinking why certain things happen. I also double checked my image in the mirror to see if there were giant letters spelling out "screw me, please" on my forehead. Then it hit me - I know exactly where it comes from. My ma has the biggest heart of anyone I have ever graced these past 20 years; she consistently gives and gives and gives, never expecting a token in return. She hardly complains, and when she does it's framed in such a way to sympathize with others (whether she realizes it or not). She forgives, she's thoughtful, and continually strives to cure all wounds - especially those that can't be seen. I feel for other maternal figures that know her, because surely there's some envy at her mothering skills. Yes, I'm biased, but don't let that fool you. This, then, is where the applied analysis comes into effect.

However much I don't want to care, however much I don't want to give simply doesn't matter. Period. It's like someone decides to take a machete to my insides, tearing me up because I want to, I have to - this emotional mindset has been ingrained within myself from the very beginning, and I'm afraid a reverse-conditioning process would be of no use. This further goes to supplant the notion of unconditionality. Whether you beat me down, like to take me for a ride, or pull the silent treatment card, I let you. And you know why I let you? The same reason my mom puts up with my pent up aggression. The same reason she continues to accept me for who I am. The same reason she routinely shows her love for me whether I deserve it or not.

Maybe it's because we like to see the good in individuals. Or maybe, its the simple the fact that we like to see people content, even at the cost of our own egos.

And it absolutely kills me.

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Man Vs. Wild.

I'm perched - well, slouched, rather - upon my couch and watching this weeks episode of The Bachelor. I begin to wonder if I'm going about the whole romantic relationship thing wrong. I mean, I haven't choreographed a lyrical dance nor gawkily made wishes on fungi-infested decomposing leaves that I so philanderingly* threw up into the air. Do they really talk like that in real life?

It's that time again - the one where Jake, this season's two-timer, goes home to visit the families of the 4 remaining girls. I'm literally cringing in my seat watching this all unfold; I can't decide whether the whole situation is pathetic or simply dense. Probably a combination of both. Now mind you, I'm no cynic, after all I'm a firm believer in love, but going on a tv show seems a bit absurd, and here are my reasons why. I apologize in advance for my cheekiness.

Firstly, it's awkward. If the stuttering and obsessive tears weren't enough, there has to be a camera in your face to quadruple the nervous ticks. I keep going into Comm. major mode - just watching and studying how the two (whichever girl you'd like to envision with Jake, and yes, they're interchangeable) interact screams of insecurities and discomfort, yet, they're "in love?" I can't handle it.

"Hey!"
"Hello..." says girl, as she runs up and gayly leaps into his arms.
"I'm so happy to be here!"

Now, just imagine that with forced smiles and unease written all over it. Painful, right?

Secondly, where do they find these bachelorettes who aren't even bachelorettes to begin with? Married, going through a divorce, still attached to an ex - a lot of excess baggage that I'm sure no man should have to, nor want to deal with. If it's meant to be, it'll happen in time, and once the papers are final.

Thirdly, everything feels forced. Everything feels coerced to some extent - each date perfectly conspired by a talented love-enthusiastic crew of writers and producers. Because it's completely reasonable to go to Hawaii on a first date, or bungee jumping, or have candles that maintain a perfect flame for 20349824 hours. Their only real conversations are about their troubled past relationships, and how they've been hurt, which adds up to a grand interaction total of 45 minutes. Grow up, get over it, and stop being pitiful.

I almost was going to conclude, before a fourth reason just yelled at me. I don't enjoy watching an hour of a guy saying the same thing repeatedly. Nor do I enjoy watching him make out with each girl, either. The more I think of it, I don't even know why the show's ratings are so high. Maybe people like watching other individuals suffer, because that's basically what it is: a three ring circus of deterioration. If I had to sit back and wait for a guy to decide if he'd rather be with me over 3 other girls, I'd be an utter mess. But then again, I'd never put myself in that situation, nor should anyone, which returns me to the beginning of this post: they're densely pathetic. And that goes to all parties involved.

I'm not sure how I was able to write this much on the topic, as it wasn't even supposed to be up for articulation. However, it is what it is, and I just hope ABC gets slapped in a nice, why-are-you-obscuring-reality kind of way. Thank you for taking my mind off of more important things like scrubbing the floors or cleaning out the litter box.

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* A word made up for argument's sake.

Speak Up Sonny, I Can't Hear You.

There's a bit of stuff I hold in. Actually, the more I think of it, I probably internalize a lot more than I should. I'm like a gigantic (relatively speaking) featherlight Dirt Devil with my microfresh filtration trapping over 99% of dust and allergens. Except, in this case, the cat fur and pine needles* just pile up with no means of an escape. This definitely can't be healthy**.

Maybe that's why I've become so entwined within my comfort zone. Maybe that's why I've become so closed off from reality. Maybe that's why anyone ever is.

I mean, think about it: in today's society (or within Western civilization), the tick of the clock reigns supreme. Life is busy; Deadlines are created and demanded to be met. People bite off more than they can chew, yet strive to prove to the world that they're in control, that they're going to come out ahead. This interminable pursuit of commercialism becomes prioritized and interpersonal relations take a back seat. Actually, it's not even in the vehicle. It's probably still waiting at the bus stop, in the rain, with no overhead protection, and there's a tornado warning. It also doesn't have any shoes. But yet, this social association still waits patiently to be picked up. Why?

No one can go on living forever without it.

It's funny, because, after conversing with a friend about the matter, we pooled together our ideas and came up with our own logical (of course) assumption: the primal reason we close ourselves off is because we feel that no one can give us an honest second of their day. Sure, you can ask how I'm doing, and I'll reply, "I'm well, thanks." "How's school going?" "It's school," I'll say, and issue a supportive laugh. But that's it. Humanity is too busy for an ounce of sincerity, for a teaspoon of geniality (and that's not even asking much). Therefore, disclosure shallows out to breath rather than depth, and everyone goes about their day just as the prior.

This is in no way saying that humanity is a walking vacuum cleaner time bomb. It is saying, though, that no one can get through life alone - I'm willing to bet on it. You can only fight through the traffic of stress, pressures and deviances for so long before you realize you have a stop to make. After all, whatever you believe, Adam and Eve, nor our ape-like ancestors, could have survived without each other. Either way mankind wouldn't exist.

Karl A. Menninger stated that, "Listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force. The friends who listen to us are the ones we move toward. When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand." Maybe people just need to take more communication courses, or maybe I've just taken too many. All in all, life, it would seem, could be that much more of a comfort rather than chore, if humanity simply stopped hearing.

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*One of our cats, Lola, ingested pine needles and proceeded to purge all about the apartment.
**However, my immune system is impeccable - 5 second rule? Try the minute rule.