Social Experiments

*This blog is for my fellow women, though many men will likely appreciate it. I am in no way trying to stomp on women's rights, or say we don't have a lot of work ahead of us (See my previous post regarding my disgust with rape culture, something real and perpetuating). I'm just saying, "Now, let's be fair."*

Before I go to bed, I have a thought. About all these baiting "feminist social experiment" videos. There are two on my feed right now. And some of you might even share them and say, "Oh, how appalling!" But I offer a dissenting opinion on behalf of all humans who don't like to be stereotyped negatively by their genders as these videos are doing by trying to "prove" it's already being done. By making small problems (or non-problems) with the nature of man into huge issues, they are perpetuating the idea that the nature of woman is to be irrational, hypocritical, and unrealistic.

One video is "Woman goes on dates in fat suit to prove how shallow men are." Now, I am both a (sometimes insecure) fat woman and a proud user of gender generalities (Women are crazy. Men are stupid.), but this video wasn't a fat woman on Tinder (which would have been a valid "experiment". What do men say to fat women? Do they make dates with them? Do they show up? Are they earnest? If they are is it just because they have a fetish, which is far different from attraction, FYI.). No, this was a video where a super-hot model lady made dates with men on Tinder with a profile full of pictures of the real her. All smiley and ripped in bikinis and such. Then the guy showed up and she was wearing a fat suit that made her body an unnaturally proportioned size of mine, and her face transmogrified. Yeah, if a guy shows up expecting a model and sees that, he would be taken aback. I would be taken aback. Wouldn't you say something slightly rude or a ditch a date that posted a picture of Channing Tatum and Jack Black showed up? There's nothing wrong with Jack Black, but maybe he's not your type. Or maybe you're not really all that picky, and would have gone out with him--had he been honest. Or maybe you were really just stoked to have dinner with Channing Tatum, and were disappointed he wasn't there. I don't blame the guys who walked away. In fact, I think the one guy who stuck around is either just INCREDIBLY open-minded or a date rapist/serial killer, because there's no way we would let a man that fucking sweet still be single. He'd either be married or ruined by a harpy by now. EDIT: I forgot to mention my favorite part of the video. When the two men (MEN!) who produced the video were introducing the concept, a montage of preparation went by, and the woman was rubbing the belly on her fat suit making over-exaggerated "sexy faces", effectively mocking the belly and telling us she finds it repulsive as well. Just a fun fact.

The other video was "Woman wears camera on her bra to see how many men look at her cleavage." I'll get straight to the point on this one (and I'm speaking only about choosing to wear revealing clothing, as the woman was in the video. If they're just big, I feel you, and I'm sorry.): If it's hanging out there, someone's gonna look at it.  A guy is a creep if he tries to look up or down or through anything, but if it's seeing the sun, it's fair game. Does it give him a right to touch you? Approach you? Catcall? Stare at you so long you think he has x-ray specs or otherwise disrespect you any way? No. Absolutely not. But if your boobs are in his face, he's going to look at them. If I wear a low-cut shirt, I expect my chest to be glanced at. Sometimes, that's even what I want to happen (ego boost for me!). And I have been caught looking at a woman's chest before, and I'm so straight I'm almost narrow. The cleavage was... ridiculous... and she was wearing a giant gold necklace on top. My eyes struggled valiantly, but ultimately had no place else to go. Wear whatever makes you comfortable, happy, etc. But you can hardly be upset with someone for looking at art that's on display. If you don't want anyone to see it, keep it covered or put away. And double-bitch on you if you stick them out for a guy you're attracted to and tell another he's a pig. And then see above.

The last one I saw the other day, it was meant to be empowering. It was basically a "fuck you" to the idea that humility is beautiful. Now, I'm not saying it has NEVER been the case, and that no man is of the opinion that a woman should be mild-mannered and modest. But what I am saying is, that CAN be attractive. Men play that game all the time. Super hot guys who know they're hot but pretend not to, and we let them because we want to believe they're that sweet. Or some super nerdy guys who actually don't realize how beautiful they are. (That shy shit gets ME every time, even if I know it's an act. Case in point: The Australian) Have you ever read/watched a romance? Unassuming men are a genre. Why wouldn't it be attractive when a woman does it? And why is it chauvinistic if a man expresses that attraction? The woman in the video cited songs, etc that I found, and still find, nothing wrong with. Other than the fact the one was by One Direction. Shh.. boy bands died after *NSYNC... Is it chauvinistic to say that's how women SHOULD be or else they're undesirable bitches? Yes. Of course. Not all women are like that. Be strong. Be confident. Know that you are beautiful. If that's you. Don't tell me what I have to be and that no one should find it attractive. You want to say, "Don't look down on me for being confident." But how many guys  do you know that are so "confident" it's unattractive. Be it cockiness or overcompensation, there is such a thing as going too far. As a human being.

And I'm not speaking anyone but myself personally when I say this: I understand we have it worse, and I understand there are skewed perceptions against us women, and it does happen to us all the time, but just because you're a feminist doesn't mean you're NOT being a bitch. The world isn't always out to belittle you. Sometimes you are over the top. What you might call confident, I would call cocky. What you might call strong, I would call being a dick. (p.s. why am I allowed to use that word as an insult in any number of ways, but all mention of feminine genitalia is so offensive it ends in "-word"?) Any human can be a dick in my eyes. I work in customer service and when someone comes up to me and is demanding, I think they are demanding (and use gender-appropriate insults in my mind). For me, personally, there is never a time a man is an asshole to me and I think, "Wow, what a strong leader." And I'm not going to think it about a woman just because she is a woman. You're being an asshole. Get away from me. In fact, I have become sexist because so many business women are out to prove that they CAN and SHOULD be strong and SHOULDN'T be soft, that they have lost all empathy. If you were a man, I would still think you were a bitch.

In conclusion, it is my humble opinion that if you want to abolish gender inequality and stereotypes, stop perpetuating them. Fight the good fight, but practice what you preach. If you want there to be human equality, live it.

It's Not Okay

I've been pretty quiet on this issue. I have opinions, of course, but they're already being said, and I'm not a talk-show host (and, contrary to popular belief, I don't believe normal "unpopular" people constantly tweeting opinions is necessarily affecting change... or making them look smart).

But I just scrolled through my feed to see 3 things... in a row... and I'm so tired of being a woman right now.

First, a girl who went on a Tinder date and got an unnecessarily long and detailed email the next day letting her know just how amazing her personality is and how grotesque he finds her body in comparison (she's 15lbs overweight).

That's not okay. Be attracted to me. Don't be attracted to me. Odds are you're not, but it wouldn't be okay to describe, in detail, how perfect I would be if only my body weren't so disgusting. This is called Body Shaming. A manipulation tactic designed to mold someone into exactly what you want them to be through negative reinforcement. (This one goes both ways, but is more societally prevalent happening to women.) Not okay.

Next, Bill Cosby. I haven't investigated this issue fully. I'm not invested in this particular case, nor do I have all the facts about it. But that's sort of the point. I know that, in this case, it's easy to say the girls came forward looking for fame. And sometimes people will make wild accusations to get attention or cover up their own misdeeds (Salem Witch Trials). However, do you need to know all of the facts before you start suspecting someone of something heinous... after 40 people came forward? Many people were, but many more are convinced that the women have banded together in a lie, and we shouldn't think he's guilty until there's proof. Meanwhile, that makes the victims guilty, greedy, liars. No wonder they never came forward. The real problem is that it wouldn't have mattered if the accused wasn't famous. Not really. And that's not okay.

This is called Victim Shaming. Blaming the victim for something that happened TO them, creating a social stigma about coming forward with wrongs that were done to you. It's the same reason children are afraid to tell people they're being abused (or, god forbid, molested). They know what's happened to them is bad, and somehow believe they will take the blame if it comes to light. As adults, they would. People would look at them with side-eye suspicion and ask them what they did to invite their attacker. What were they wearing? Did they know the attacker WANTED sex? Did they drink too much? (that last one is admittedly a gray area for me, but that's not the point). But we shouldn't immediately jump to asking all those questions. We shouldn't immediately try to find a reason to discredit the victim and/or justify the attacker's actions. You can say it's because they might be innocent, and you don't want to condemn until you're sure. Well, extend that courtesy to the victims. Because by telling the victim you don't believe them, you're accusing them of lying, and telling them that seeking justice for their personal horror has done nothing but rocked the boat, and effectively frightened future victims from doing the same. You have empowered the rapists. Not okay.

Finally, someone has posted a list of tips, apparently provided by offenders, on how, as a woman, to avoid being raped. By a stranger. On the street. I just... it took all the wind out of me. To see all these things in the world... and then this. When, where and how a woman is most likely to be attacked and ways to prevent it. Women can't walk alone in a parking lot. Why do we go to the bathroom together? Mostly to gossip, but in many places, it's unsafe not to. We are to look as difficult as possible to rape. Like we're going to put up a fight. Carry a weapon (or umbrella), have short hair (and certainly not a grabable bun or pony tail), difficult to remove clothing (though he's probably carrying scissors, aka his own weapon, anyway). Look any man around you in the face so he knows you know what he looks like. It's heartbreaking. I don't know how you think it isn't. Be safe, sure. But when it comes down to it: Women are most afraid of men. If you ask any of us, we probably wouldn't say it. We wouldn't even think it consciously. The fear is so ingrained, it's just a part of us, a part of our lives and the society we've created.

And that's not okay. Schools are enforcing strict dress codes left and right, and I'm not in a fight against modesty, but to publicly shame a young woman because her tank doesn't have two-inch straps, to announce to all the world, all the young women--all the young men--that a girl must be covered because men won't be able to help themselves? Do you not understand what you're telling them? That men are animals, and that's okay, and we as women are their prey. It is our duty to fight them off if we don't feel like being consumed that day.

When I was 20, a guy I was getting to know came over to my apartment. I didn't invite him. I didn't even tell him it was okay. He just said he was coming over. I told him no. I didn't feel good. I didn't look good. I didn't want any company. He said he was coming over. He made it sound nice. "I'm just in town today and wanna see you. I live so far away, when will we get a chance to get together again? It'll have to be quick anyway cause I have my dogs with me." Finally, I relented, "We'll say hi, but that's all. I'm sick and don't feel like doing anything today." I knew he wanted to make it a booty call (for lack of a better phrase) and told him, in no uncertain terms, it wouldn't be happening. He agreed, aghast at my assumption (the women are rolling their eyes right now) and came over.  I hadn't even changed out of my pajamas. And all of my (former) roommates can tell you, I don't wear enticing pajamas. Longer story shorter, it became apparent to me pretty quickly that he wouldn't leave until I'd slept with him. There was much back and forth. It wasn't like he just sat there and stared at me for 15 minutes and I said, "okay, fine." Several times I told him no and that he should leave. After almost 2 hours I gave in, because I wanted him out of my house. He was a terrible person. Racist asshole, left his dog in the car, etc. I never wanted to see him again, let alone have sex with the man, but I did. Because I wanted him out of my house.

I should have screamed bloody murder. Threatened to call the police. Anything but what I did. But I didn't. Because it was (I felt) my fault. I shouldn't have picked up the phone. I shouldn't have let him in. And after I had, and he wouldn't drop it, I was afraid of what would happen if I fought it too hard. I'd rather NOT be raped, wouldn't you? I was also too ashamed of the aftermath. Admitting I let him talk me into letting him come over, knowing he wanted to have sex with me, and then complaining when it happened? Saying I'd felt forced, when I'd agreed to every step? People would roll their eyes and list all the things I could and should have done to prevent it. It was my own stupid fault. I didn't even tell my best friend at the time how I'd really felt. I was very casual about it, nonchalant. Boys are stupid, right?

I didn't (and still don't) consider this rape. I consented, under coercion, but I didn't fight, and I didn't scream, and I wasn't unconscious. I'm not victim-blaming myself (shit happens), and I didn't tell you to bum you out. I'm telling you this for an altogether different reason. Whatever I should or shouldn't, did or didn't do, the point of this story is, I shouldn't have had to make those decisions. I shouldn't have had to have been in that situation. Men shouldn't be taught to take, force, bargain while women are taught how to defend, avoid, escape. At this point, women have to know these things. We have to carry mace and not sit alone in our cars in parking lots, because we have fostered a culture where things like this are okay. And you might say, what happened to me, a school dress code, and a guy waiting in an alley are three drastically different things. But they're not. You raise boys to think they can't help themselves, then let men do things like this and say, "Oh, boys will be boys." Then suddenly, one of them takes what has been socially accepted, even encouraged, just two steps too far and it's a horrible crime. (One step being date rape which, as we've discussed, is viewed a questionable lesser crime.)

And it's not okay. None of this is okay.

P.S. Yes, I did see all of these things on my feed today.

P.P.S. Before anyone trolls in here thinking I'm saying all men are pigs, blah blah blah, whatever: I'm not.  I say and believe a lot of things that would get me kicked out of the Feministas (for some "anti-feminist" double-standard shredding see my blog), but these are basic human rights I'm talking about.

Would you read this book?

Would you read a book that started like this? Or is it the most boring thing that ever boringed.
Honesty please, there is a second idea that starts with the same 2 paragraphs, then goes a completely different direction.

Liz woke alone in a stranger’s bed, every part of her hurting. She tried to remember getting hit by a train, but her all she could come up with was an airport bathroom. She’d been on her way home...

No, that wasn’t right.

She’d been on her way to Sam’s new house in New York. She‘d felt lousy the whole trip, gotten sick at the airport, and then she must have fainted. Actually fainted. How embarrassing.

Which brought her back to waking up in a semi-dark, seemingly enclosed space. Instinctively, Liz had opted to lie still, lest she attract unwanted attention, but her eyes were wide and darting to ever corner of her periphery. Her … bed, she assumed because of the obvious cushioning, was either in a tiny little room or in an alcove off of a larger one. Best she could tell, the head, foot and left side of the bed fit right up against a wall lined with … books? Maybe? Small rectangular objects at least.

The space to Liz’s right was open, which actually made her more nervous than the alternative. What or who was over there? She debated whether or not she should chance a peek, finally deciding to let it be. It was either an unfamiliar empty room, or a crazed psycho kidnapper. Either way, looking probably wouldn’t help. Anyway, she was starting to panic. The haze of unconsciousness had lifted, subtly turning dreamlike curiosity into urgent dread.

Something had happened between the fainting and this room and Liz had no idea what it was. She vaguely recalled gaining consciousness at various points. There had been music and pain and the most wonderful smell.

People had been talking.

Sam had been talking.

Sam! Sam is here! Liz surprised herself by letting out a squeak at the thought. Her throat was hoarse, almost dusty from lack of use; she hadn’t made a sound in such a long time. How long had it actually been?

Deciding it was probably safe, Liz turned her head toward the emptiness to her right. Gaps between drawn curtains showed that it was clearly daytime. But what day? Other than an old oak desk and a small television mounted to the opposite wall, the room was unremarkable, offering Liz no hint of her whereabouts. She sat up slowly and waited for the room to stop spinning before taking a look at the closest wall. The rectangles were, in fact, books. A lot of science fiction titles she didn’t recognize, and a few mainstream thrillers. Liz prayed she wasn’t about to live one.

Liz took a few moments to flex and stretch before allowing herself to peel back the flannel blanket and stand. It took several minutes of swaying and tottering to get herself sorted, but her legs were eventually able to support her weight well enough to pace around the room. She had been lying there a while.

Once in motion, Liz didn’t relish the idea of lying down again, so she decided to take a chance and venture forth. To her surprise, the door opened easily, allowing Liz onto a small landing with two other doors and a downward staircase. Finding no one, Liz descended the stairs and ended up in a well-appointed kitchen. She opened the fridge automatically, but thought better of it. She wasn’t even hungry.

Her search of the lower level yielded minimal result. Living room, den, dining room, kitchen—lots of rooms with no one in them. Liz estimated it to be a four bedroom home, though she hadn’t opened any door that wasn’t wide to her. Part of her was afraid of what she might find, the other part just felt it was wrong. She thought it reasonable, however, that she should be allowed to explore outdoors and took her self-guided tour out through the kitchen.

The backyard was a baseball diamond at least of long, lush grasses interspersed with towering trees, their frequency subtly growing toward the edge of the property and blending into the surrounding forest. It looked like a cozy spot, and Liz resolved to return after checking out the neighborhood.

But there were no neighbors. Liz had walked around one side of the building, through another small yard edged by trees, and onto the expansive front lawn. More trees, more grasses—very little else. Not even a road was visible, just a long dirt drive winding into the woods.

On the opposite side of the small yard, the house had been expanded to converge almost entirely with the forest. The walls were glass, if the roof was any indication, but thick vines completely shielded the inside from view.

Normally, Liz would not have had the energy to climb a tree nor probably even the desire to do so. However, curiosity combined with the restlessness of days spent asleep and she decided to climb past the top of the house and take a peek through the roof. Upon reaching the last climbable branch, she was disappointed to find that there were another five or so feet before visible contact with the roof. She was just about to climb down and admit defeat when the light of a reflection caught her eye. Leaning away from her anchor, Liz tentatively reached out to the wrought iron lattice. It appeared the vines here were sparse and loosely packed, more easily moved than those below.

Two large bookshelves, a canopy bed, and some cardboard boxes, partially unpacked, were the most Liz could make out through the grimy glass. There were posters on the walls with some familiar faces and homey looking knick-knacks strewn about at random.

Actually, that black dragon looks just like the one Sam got me for Christmas last year. And the pattern of those books…

“AH!”

Suddenly, Liz was on the ground. As she’d maneuvered to get a better look, her foot had slipped and she’d fallen—much harder and faster than anticipated. One moment she had been ten feet up, hanging between tree and trellis, and the next she was lying on her back, nursing a bruised tail bone. Back inside the main hallway, en route to an ice pack, Liz remembered the room. The room filled with suspiciously familiar things. Tail bone forgotten, she took off in what she thought would be the right direction. It took three tries, but she eventually found the right door.

Immediately, Liz knew the room was hers. Maybe not hers, but certainly filled with her things. The posters and books were the same: old and ratty. Someone had taken the time to put up and arrange them as she would have. Her favorite knick-knacks were present, most important prominently on display, the lesser probably still in a box. Even the color scheme was exactly what Liz would have picked for herself, had she any concept of style. It was all reds, blues and purples.

There was a dresser, armoire, desk, and a fairytale canopy bed—none of them her own. Though Liz did recognize the book cases. She rummaged through the desk and shelves and found that her stuff was all there, put away in someone else’s house. She did not find, however, anything of a personal nature. Her journals, for example, or her old mix tapes. High school yearbooks, photo albums, and a box of notes passed in class: also missing. Liz left the room a mess, not really caring to clean it up, lost in thought as she was.

Where the hell am I? Why is my stuff here?

Liz found herself in the kitchen, unconsciously having decided to get some water.

What if this is Sam’s house? I mean, I know her family invited me to live with them until I was on my feet again, but not here, in the woods. No one said anything about moving. Do they expect me to be okay with this?

Liz already had a glass out, though she couldn’t say from where.

Why would they move here anyway? Are they kidnapping me? Is that what this is? After all those years of friendship, they’re holding me for ransom?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Liz told herself.

“But neither does anything else,” she responded.

Liz raised the glass, now inexplicably filled with water, to her mouth.

Besides, Dad wouldn’t pay. They know that.

Oh yeah.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I just posted a most profound status update (Come on, let me have this.) It read as follows: 

"I have said it, and will continue to do so. It all works out the way it's supposed to. It's just... sometimes you have to take a step back and go through the full sequence of events to see how yesterday's negative is actually today's positive. To remember all those things and people you thought you'd never get through, and realize they're the past, just as this will be."

And I thought, that's an easy thing to say. Not everyone has seen what I've seen. Proof. They need proof. I have proof that the worst day of your life can turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you. This story isn't "happy" per se. And if you know me, you already know it. But, should you choose to read it, think of the implications. It's not about what happened. It's the why of it all that gets me.

When I was 11 years old, my mother sent me to visit the father I had only ever visited twice in my life. She never took me back. You... can not imagine how that felt, to be called by your mother, the only person you've ever known, loved, and trusted your entire life, and be told you won't be coming home to her. But she'd call. Over time, the phone calls became more and more infrequent. Weeks turned to months, turned to a few times a year. my father would say things like, "She should just stay gone." I hated him for saying that, thinking it, for years. She was my mother! 14-18 went by in complete radio silence. Theories were tossed around. I was told she might have died. I was told she'd never call again.

When I was 18, she called. I went back ... for 2 months. And in those months I saw where I would have been. She'd been homeless for my high school years, become an addict, and was still with the man who would steal my wallet and empty my bank account. Which was ridiculous because, had she asked, I would have given her all of what little I had. Her response to this was to cry and ask me what I thought she should do. Her recently robbed teenage daughter. The last shred of respect I had for her evaporated in that moment. And when she disappeared again, she died to me. Well before my grandmother ritualistically unpacked and disposed of her belongings left behind, I had completed my mourning.

I learned that fateful summer that it wasn't a matter of her never asking for me, but my father never sending me back.

And I thanked him.

I suddenly understood why he got mad when she called. Because it upset me. Depressed me. A little glimpse of that suicidal (yeah) child came back every time, and it pissed him off. It pissed me off too, in retrospect. She should have stayed gone. I'd had... a life between the phone calls. I'd had birthday parties and best friends, a house and plenty of food (some would argue too much lol). I had a car when I was 16 and a horrible first job. I'd graduated high school. I was on my way to college.

I never so much as smoked a cigarette. Can I say it would have been the same had I stayed with her? I somehow doubt it. When I was there, upset about my wallet being stolen, she offered me a drink. That was her fix. That was how she made things better. How many drinks would I have drunk before I wanted something more, and how long before she gave it to me? How many parties would she have before I was molested or worse? Or maybe I would have been good. Naive. Malleable. What would I have stolen, sold, or bartered because she'd asked me to? I'll never know. But I do know I wouldn't be where I am if she hadn't sent me away. If my father hadn't refused to send me back. And I know that where I am is far better than where I could have been. Would have been.

I am a (relatively) healthy adult. I didn't finish college, but I'm not stupid. I work for a good company in a job I like (most days). I've written a book. I've written a song (that I actually got to hear performed, at least in part, by my favorite musical artist). I go to concerts. I'm saving for London. I have friends and a family I can count on. I own furniture and am a generally likeable person (although I have my moments). I don't have all my shit together--though I'm not sure anyone ever really does--but I have a good start. A good life. I'm still standing, although at one point I thought I never wanted to again.

It's going to be okay.

I've tried to publish my book with no success. I entered a contest. I didn't do well. But, guess what? I got great insight into my own writing. Improved my manuscript and will continue to do so with a renewed sense of motivation. I also saved hundreds (possibly thousand) of dollars it would have taken to follow through on the commitment if I had done well. Money I can use to relocate now that I have so suddenly found myself homeless yet again. I'll be relocating with a co-worker and soon to be friend who is currently in his own bind, wanting to move, but unable to do so on his own. He's sick of living with men and, if you've talked to me anytime in the past year, you know how I feel about living with another woman. Although the sudden nature of this change has left me at a bit of a financial disadvantage, the timing is altogether serendipitous.

It's going to get worse before it gets better. That's just how my life works. I'm going to contemplate giving up, digging a hole and never coming out.

But deep down I know: I'm going to be okay. It's all going to work out. It has to. It will. I have proof.

I have faith.

So sometimes, when I'm clicking random things on the internets, I come across some article that makes me cringe. Not because it's it's inappropriate or un-pc but because it's TOO pc. It's TOO focused on what's "right" for me and in flouting societal norms. No matter what mindset you have, if you grew up thinking that way, you're wrong.

If I don't like one thing about my body, I'm just one of the brainwashed masses who needs help.

If I don't want to juggle the weight of the world on my shoulders, I'm turning my back on hard-fought women's rights.

If I use a certain word, I'm a bully.

If I laugh at an inappropriate joke, I'm part of the problem.

If a woman is naked, I should want her to cover up. (If a man is naked, I should think it's fine as long as he's in underwear.)

If I make a generalization about women, I'm anti-feminist. (Men: sexist.)

When did the world get so black and white? Why is it not okay to think what you want? When did it become common practice to shame people out of their beliefs, all in the name of love and respect? Shame on you for telling me what I "should" do. You can't tell me I should have a career any more than a man can tell me I should stay at home. You can't tell me I shouldn't think women are inherently crazy and men inherently stupid. As far as I'm concerned, it's a genetic fact! And speaking of facts, it may have escaped your notice, but women aren't the only one being objectified. "Oh my god! You can almost see everything, that poor girl!" Meanwhile, nobody's starting a rally for Calvin Klein underwear models.

I get it. Women have it worse because of things like "slut-shaming" and people with the attitude of, "Oh my God! You can almost see everything, what a whore!" Men just don't seem to get a lot of that in public. And those sentiments are to be contradicted... but by victimizing them? Swinging it entirely the other direction? You want know what people really think of things, go to a strip club. Two, actually. Look at the different mindsets of men and women in action. We're actually quite terrifying.

This worldview is supposed to be about appreciating what's different and natural about people.

Except sex. You can be sexual, but no one else is supposed to see you that way.

And body image. I shouldn't actively combat body hair because it's a natural part of me, and doing so conforms to current societal illness.

And opinions. I shouldn't think one thing or another about men, women, children, people in general. I should meet every one first.

Or language. I should definitely not believe that using words America has deemed unspeakable in a casual way takes power away from them. Whenever someone says "pussy" in a movie, I should cringe and write an angry letter. Certainly not laugh.

No, don't ever laugh.

Shame on me.

Shame on me for being the most natural thing of all: Human.

Chapter One (Take... I dunno... 45)

Completed new Chapter One (subject to revision, of course) The copy/paste didn't go smoothly, but you'll live. I promise.

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Chapter One

Liz felt the weight of at least three sets of eyes upon her, the sensation as unnerving as it was tedious at this point.

“Are they looking?” Her roommate and sometimes best friend asked, taking another lick of her ice cream. Liz didn’t know why. It would have been easier for everyone if Sam just took one—or both—of the gawking males by the hand and led them behind a barn somewhere. Wasn’t that some sort of rite at a fair?

“Well?”

“Of course they’re looking, Sam. They’re always looking at you.”

“They’re looking at you, too.” Sam thrust the ice cream into Liz’s face. “Lick and see what happens.”

“I’d rather not.” Liz pushed the cone away, but it sprang back immediately.

“Just lick it. They’ll love it. Watch.”

“No, thank you.” Liz was getting more than a little impatient now and knew it showed, but couldn’t find it in her to care. “They’re already arguing over who gets stuck with me.”

“I’m sure that’s not-” Before Sam could finish, they’d started a three count with their hands.

Paper beats Rock, Liz thought.

Rock wanted a rematch, but Paper had already begun a triumphant swagger toward their bench. Sam took a break from sucking an invisible droplet from the point of her cone to ask about him before he could overhear.

“Is he okay? Should I go with him or the other one?”

Liz shrugged and scrutinized the approaching pair. Neither of them sparked any strong feelings. Typical guys. Paper reached them first and, like any well-trained scam artist, greeted the friend first.

“Good evening,” he said to Liz, hands conspicuously shoved into his pants pockets. “I’m Mark and this is my friend.” Rock grimaced and muttered a name they didn’t quite catch. Sam nudged Liz with the pointiest part of her elbow; she’d missed her cue.

“I’m Elizabeth, and this is Samantha.” She held her hand out for Paper Mark. He eyed it for a full three seconds before recognizing the commonplace gesture. He gulped as he offered his own, as though anticipating the contact to be painful. Liz rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand anyway, accustomed to this type of response. His marked sigh of relief amused her to no end.

Emboldened by his friend’s success, Rock offered his own hand with only a wary flinch, then quickly withdrew to introduce himself to Sam with a stronger, more appropriately timed handshake. Rock and Liz stood awkwardly while their friends met one another, each laying it on pretty thick.

“Pleasure,” Sam said with a giggle and blush.

“It’s all mine,” he responded. Somehow, Liz managed not to gag.

Instead, she gathered their trash: some napkins and a mostly untouched ice cream that had already served its purpose. Sam quirked an eyebrow over her next ex-boyfriend’s shoulder as though to ask, Well?

“Triple A,” Liz answered aloud. The boys glanced between them, then literally shrugged it off.

Satisfied with Liz’s assessment, Sam leaned in to her partner, capturing his attention and leaving poor Rock on his own. When Liz suggested they go and play some games, the look on his face made her anxious. Paper Mark shot him a warning glare, urging him to do his duty as wing-man, while Sam continued to prattle on, oblivious.

Rock manned up eventually, extended his hand then took it back. Offered his arm but let it fall. Sam took pity and pretended not to notice his struggle, setting out for the closest booth on her own. He caught up quickly and pulled money out for both of them before Liz had the chance. She frowned, but inwardly commended his chivalry.

“Look, Rock,” she said as she pulled out a five, “you really don’t have to impress me.”

“Rock?”

Crap! What was his real name? She couldn’t remember, so she just continued her thought, hoping he wouldn’t get offended.

“You don’t have to worry about keeping me busy. As long as he doesn’t hurt her, I’ll leave Sam and Paper Mark alone. She’s a big girl, she can handle it.”

Rock blanched. “Paper Mark? You, um... You saw that?”

Liz turned her head to the side and gave him the best Duh look she could muster. Did he really think women didn’t notice things like that? Then she thought of Sam and thought that maybe most of them didn’t. Instead of getting defensive, as Liz had learned could happen when calling a man on his bullshit, Rock seemed properly embarrassed by their game.

“It’s not that-” he tried. “I didn’t- I mean, you’re not-” He gestured to Liz’s body and shrugged his shoulders as though it explained everything. Oddly enough, it was the closest thing Liz had gotten to a compliment in a while.

“Come win me something,” she said. “It’s been a long time since Sam got me a gentleman.”

In the time it took him to win her two overstuffed dragons and a framed print of Marvin Martian, Liz learned that Rock’s real name was Brent, he still lived with his parents, and he’d just gotten out of a volatile relationship. From what Liz could tell of the details—that were really none of her business—Rock’s ex was a tad irrational, but he may or may not have driven her to it.

Rock never stood too close or indicated he wanted more than a friendly sounding board, but Liz was used to that. She jumped in surprise when he patted her shoulder awkwardly and thanked her for listening as they approached Sam’s previously appointed meeting place.

Liz smiled genuinely in response. “No problem. Thank you for the prizes. And thanks for not ditching me.”

Rock bristled and Liz took it as a cue to explain herself.

“Most guys do. Paper Mike would have.” Rock continued to stare, as though expecting her to continue, so she did. “I mean, he’s a solid Triple A, and you’re not. But those guys usually stick together, and-”

“What the hell is a Triple A?”

“Oh, uh, Average American Asshole?” Liz tried to soften the blow by quickly qualifying, “But you’re not one. Obviously you hang out with them, but there’s hope for you. Just stop picking dates from across the room, and I think you’ll be fine.”

Rock, who had grown steadily more red as Liz spoke, clenched his fists a few times. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my friends, and you have no room to make judgments about us. I mean, you left your friend alone with some guy you called Triple A after two words and a handshake. What kind of person does that make you?”

An adult, Liz wanted to say, but held herself in check. Ignoring his flinch, she grabbed Rock by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. She saw anger at what she’d said. Anxiety for what she’d do. But under all of that, beneath a dozen shaky layers of bravado and insecurity, she saw heart.

With unapologetic confidence she said, “You’ll be a good man someday, Rock” and continued on her way.

“I’m twenty-four,” he called once he’d shaken off the confusion. Liz smiled to herself but didn’t look back. It amazed her how little people understood about themselves. What did a number prove anyway?

Sam approached and stormed past in a huff, neither greeting nor turning to see if Liz had followed.

“Triple A?” she asked as they climbed into the car.

“Shut up, Liz.”

Liz turned on the radio, drowning out Sam’s dramatic Please ask me what happened even though I claim not to want to talk about it sighs. Being friends with a woman could be so tiring. Liz spared a moment to fondly remember the old days. In high school she’d had a drama-free male best friend, only one failed attempt at dating, and no one at home really knew or cared what she got up to.

She’d had freedom, once upon a time. Now, she had Sam.

The radio clicked off about halfway home, cutting Liz off mid-lyric as she sang along.

“That guy was a creep,” said Sam. Liz shrugged; she’d as figured as much. Sam wasn’t really looking for input anyway. “We’re up in the ferris wheel, right, and we’re talking about a band-”

“Which band?”

“I don’t know, that one you listen to with the song I like. Anyway, we start making out-”

“Because of the song you like?”

“It has that part about electric kisses and I wondered if they were real.” Sam batted her eyes coyly, indicating she’d played the unsuspecting idiot well. “Now stop interrupting. So we’re making out and he puts my hand right there. Like, there, you know? And I’m like, what does he expect me to do right here in public? As soon as we got on the ground, I walked away. He can call me when he has some respect.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.” She said it forcefully. She would not be budged on this.

“So you seduced him, he took further than you expected, you told him he was a jerk, then gave him your number.” Liz tried, in vain, to see the logic. Sam chose not to understand her confusion.

“Think he’ll call?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Liz looked at her friend—beautiful, blond, blue-eyed Sam—and gave her the honest answer: “I have no idea.”

Sam squirmed for a moment, uncomfortable under Liz’s judgmental gaze, before turning the radio up. Neither of them spoke on the short drive home, although Sam’s phone did alert them to several text messages.

“You’ll miss this,” said Sam as they pulled into the drive. “Admit it. Next week we graduate, and the week after that we fly home … to the real world. Just two weeks. Try and have some fun. Oh, I know!” She perked up and clapped excitedly. “We can go the concert tomorrow! Didn’t you recognize the band on the flier?”

“We don’t have tickets, Sam.”

“Oh, I got tickets.” Sam adjusted her cleavage. “Just try and play along for once.”

“Did you have to wear that shirt?”

Liz looked down at her faded favorite and nodded. “It’s comfy.” It’s also the band we’re seeing, she added in her head. “Look at this way, you’ll be super hot standing next to me.” Sam hit Liz with her bag but smiled as they made their way to the ticket agent. Poor man didn’t stand a chance.

Two General Admission wristbands later, Sam and Liz had an hour to kill.

“Bumper cars?”

“We’re not twelve, Liz.”

“Ferris wheel? I promise not to get handsy.”

“Haha. Too funny.”

“So, same thing we do every night, Pinkie?”

“One man at a time.”

Liz felt his stare before she saw him. At the very center of the closest seating area, beckoning them forward with his eyes, sat the destroyer of her peaceful evening. He wore a blue collared dress shirt and black suit jacket, ridiculously overdressed for a night dodging cow poo. An inch or so of shiny black hair stuck out in ways that hinted at indifference, but Liz knew better. Every aspect of his haphazard look had been meticulously engineered to seem so.

As a general rule, Sam let the men come to her, but one look at GQ’s electric blue eyes and Liz knew he’d be an exception.

She was right. Of course.

Liz saw nothing special about him, good or bad, so her vague warning of “Be careful” had little conviction to it, though she remained on her guard. He stood as they approached and shook hands with Sam, but not Liz. Liz respected that, though not enough to leave them alone just yet. She couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but something about the guy made her uneasy.

Sam cleared her throat and Liz made the usual introductions. “I’m Elizabeth and this is Samantha.”

“Samantha Browning, but you can call me Sam.”

“Jonathan,” he said, turning Sam’s hand to kiss it. “Truly a pleasure … Samantha.”

Sam flushed and shuddered. He was British. She was done for.

“Shall we, then?” He motioned to the other seats at the table, offering Sam the chair closest to him. Liz plopped down directly across from him, dedicated to becoming the roadblock every man feared she’d be.

“I love your accent,” said Sam. “Where are you from?”

“Caught that, did you? I’m from a small village near London. Ever been?” Liz had always wanted to go to London, wanted to go lots of places, but the damp, rolling greens of the UK in particular had always called to her. She didn’t tell Jonathan that, just smiled and shook her head.

“So what brings you to our town?” Sam asked, fingering the charm on her necklace. To his credit, Jonathan didn’t even glance downward.

“Seems we have something in common,” he said, holding up his arm to show his neon yellow wristband.

“You don’t strike me as the General Admission type,” said Liz.

“What do you mean?” He seemed genuinely bewildered.

Liz motioned to his tie, knotted just loosely enough to appear casual. “Little formal for standing room only, don’t you think?”

“Oh this? Nothing wrong with looking your best, eh Samantha?”

Sam giggled flirtatiously but glared daggers at her friend. Liz took it as her cue to butt out.

Over the course of the evening, they learned many things about Jonathan. He was twenty-five, single and had recently acquired his Master’s in Cultural Anthropology from a nearby university. Recently, his life consisted mostly of traveling the world, looking for different cultures to study and trying to decide how best to write his dissertation. Thus far, he’d been through most of Asia and parts of South America.

Sam just couldn’t hear enough of his exploits. She listened intently to each word that he said, Ooo-ing and Ahh-ing in all the right places, her eyes following the motion of his lips as he spoke. Anytime he paused for breath, Sam found five questions to ask him. She seemed intent on learning an entire world’s worth of knowledge in one night.

Liz, on the other hand, was bored stiff. The way he talked about each country and its people was all too reminiscent of a history lesson for her. She felt as if she were back in her old living room, trying to tune out one of her father’s shows.

“So what’s been your favorite country so far?”

“Easily, that would have to be Peru. The fascinating thing about Peruvians …”

Liz tuned out then, and after twenty minutes of monotonous droning, she was convinced she did not like Jonathan. She had no idea know why; there was nothing not to like about him. His smile was charming. His dimples were cute. When Sam spoke, he made eye contact and repeated key phrases—a clear indication of perception. Something just wasn’t right.

“If you’ll please excuse me.” Jonathan’s propriety interrupted her thoughts.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Sam squealed as he disappeared behind the snack stand.

“He’s interesting,” Liz lied.

“He’s absolutely fascinating! Did you hear all the amazing things he’s done? All of the exotic places he’s been?”

“And I’m sure this has nothing to do with dark hair, blue eyes, and a charming English accent?”

“Of course not!” Sam tried to look offended. “But while we’re on that subject, isn’t he adorable? His smile just makes me melt!”

“I don’t like him,” Liz confessed.

“What? Why? What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything. He just gives me a bad feeling.”

Sam was completely nonplussed. “Is he dangerous? Crazy? Controlling?”

“It’s nothing serious. I just don’t trust him.”

“So it might be a personal problem then? Maybe you’re seeing that you wouldn’t like him. That’s fine with me, you can’t have him anywa-”

“He’s lying to us, Sam!” Liz hadn’t thought the words until they’d escaped but knew them to be true.

“Lying? Why would he-”

“Refreshments, ladies?” Jonathan had returned with a tray laden with snacks and beverages. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I picked something from every food group. I hope you don’t mind.”

It wasn’t unheard of for one of Sam’s nicer or more desperate dates to try and ply her meddling friend with free food or alcohol, but Liz’s dislike for Jonathan grew exponentially when he placed the heavy tray directly in front of her. Sam snatched the lemonade, leaving Liz with the rest. Jonathan seemed pleased by this.

“What will you be having?” Liz asked, pushing the tray slightly away from herself.

“None of that, unfortunately. I have a strict diet to adhere to. Nevertheless, I am positively famished.” He reached into his jacket and pulled a small plastic bag from the inside pocket. As if in response to their yet unasked questions, Jonathan continued to speak. “Trail mix is actually very good for you. I’m able to keep it as part of my diet because it is rich in protein and other essential nutrients. It also contains the proper amount of carbohydrates. It really keeps my energy up!”

Jonathan laid out the mixture in carefully measured portions on his own empty tray, then picked through it to find exactly the right combination of pieces per bite. Liz couldn’t quite unravel his formula, but noticed he favored pretzels, rationed peanuts, and seemed to be avoiding fruits altogether. He spent an inordinate amount of time chewing and swallowing, seeming to savor every morsel, grinding it to a fine paste before passing it on to his stomach. Finally, Jonathan followed every bite with a gulp from one of the water bottles.

Liz knew it was impolite to stare, but his meticulousness was something to behold. Never in her life had she seen such care taken with a snack. She wondered if he’d had a bad experience with choking as a child.

Or maybe he was just an anal retentive freak.

Eventually he finished eating, and so the show was over. He rolled the remaining pieces, mostly raisins, up into a napkin and brought his tray to the trash. Draining the last of his bottled water, he pulled a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled down a few lines before looking up.

“How’s the corn dog, Lizzie?” He smiled in her direction.

“Fabulous, Johnny,” she answered thickly, mouth still full. “Little dry though. Needs mustard.”

He laughed politely as if he saw nothing wrong with her manners. Sam, however, looked fit to kill.

Jonathan plowed through, oblivious. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Almost seven years.”

“Seven years, you say? And…do you know everything about one another?”

“Umm…yeah. I’d say so. Pretty close anyway.” Liz looked to Sam for confirmation, but she just stared at Jonathan. Or rather, she sat facing him, but seemed to be concentrating very hard on something just out of reach.

“Hmm… And how old are the two of you?”

Sam’s brows were furrowed with effort. Her face began to turn red and her eyes were narrowed in on an invisible target. Liz had the sneaking suspicion that she had stopped breathing.

“Twenty-one and twenty-two.”

“When Samantha stopped eating, did she tell you why?”

Liz wasn’t sure what surprised her more: the unexpected question or Sam’s bizarre response. As soon as the words escaped from his mouth, Sam yelped and jumped out of her seat.

“I- I’m sorry. Thought I saw a spider.” Slowly, she lowered back into her seat, staring blankly ahead as though afraid to make eye contact.

“Are you okay?” Concern for her friend took precedence over Liz’s astonishment.

“What? Oh yeah. It’s just . . . I hate spiders. You know that.” She chuckled feebly in an attempt to dismiss her outburst, but the damage had been done. Liz’s mind was instantly abuzz.

What is going on here? How does he know she’s stopped eating around me? Why did she freak out when he mentioned it?

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut, but Jonathan seemed perfectly at ease with this mysterious new development as he scribbled in his notepad. For several minutes the only sound was that of a pen scratching on paper and the excited laughter of nearby children.

Liz looked to Sam, seeking confirmation before grabbing her bag and preparing to leave. Finally.

“Elizabeth, please, before you go, I would like to offer an explanation to the both of you.”

Liz sighed, but lowered into her seat, knowing Sam would want to listen. He was just too pretty to walk away from.

“I’d noticed Samantha wasn’t eating, and it piqued my academic interests. I’m particularly interested in that sort of thing. I suppose you could say it’s my specialty. I travel the world studying the rituals and conduct behind food in various cultures. You may have noticed that I have some peculiar eating habits of my own.”

Liz was unable to disguise a snort at that statement.

He smiled knowingly. “I admit that it is a little silly, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” He turned to Sam. “I don’t necessarily like to discuss it though, and I would understand perfectly if you felt the same. I would judge by your reaction that you do. Please pardon my curiosity.”

“No, I don’t like to talk about it,” she said. “It’s sort of embarrassing, maybe some other time.”

Jonathan searched Liz’s face for a reaction. Now too tired to care, she twisted reassurance into her smile and dug out her headphones. Sam could chat as much as she liked, but Liz wasn’t going anywhere.

They had already missed the opening act when Jonathan finally stood to leave, having decided to forgo the concert after all.

“So Elizabeth, Samantha tells me you’re graduating this weekend,” he said as she gathered her things. Only Liz could lose something without ever leaving her seat. “Well, my brother and I were planning an evening out on Friday anyway, and I was hoping you would join us. Samantha has already expressed some interest and assured me you would love to come along.”

Sam’s eyes stated, in no uncertain terms, We will be going!

“Of course…sounds like fun.” Liz’s voice sounded flat but no one seemed to mind.

“Excellent! I’ll ring you later in the week then, shall I?”

Liz gave Jonathan a vast smile as he made for the exit, letting it falter once he’d turned his back. What a load of…

“Oh my God, Liz. I think he’s the one.”

“Fabulous.”

__________________________________________________________________

So... Give me your honest praise. lol JK  Whaddya' really think?


And now I'm thinking of moving this back to the plane. Sigh 

Had a little chat with The Spill Canvas today...

(If you read this on my FB, there has only been 1 minor update)

Nick Thomas, Spill Canvas frontman, aka the voice in my head, has created a Kickstarter campaign for his upcoming solo album. I was initially just going to donate enough for a t-shirt, but tier $250 caught my eye: a 60 second personalized song.

Figuring I had nothing to lose I said (in much more of a ramble), "Hey, Nick. I wrote a book and one of the characters is a musician. Can we extend the 60 seconds? If I gave you the lyrics I wrote, would you make it a song for me? Can I distribute it with my book as a free promotional tool, maybe even for my own Kickstarter to publish? I will also, in all likelihood, get a tattoo of it."

Nick said (to paraphrase), "Writing songs takes a lot of time. How long we talkin' here? If you buy the song, I'll say whatever you want as long as it's not explicit and it's yours. You can do whatever you like with it." After another waffling, gushy response from me he said, "I am sure we could figure something out and create an awesome song!" (That's a direct quote. ... Squee!) And he only quoted me an additional $20--because I requested a t-shirt. What can I say? I got excited about the t-shirt.

So.... dipping into savings because... yeah. NICK FUCKING THOMAS WILL PUT MY WORDS TO MUSIC!!! And I have pledged to at least tell everyone I know, in any way I can, about what he's doing and why they should support it.

If you like The Spill Canvas, donate to him. 

If you liked my book, donate to him.

If you want to see me fulfill my dream of a sheet music tattoo, donate to him.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, Google "The Spill Canvas", then donate to him.

If nothing else, because he's willing to do pretty much whatever it takes for his fans, even though he's successful enough to be 2/3 toward his goal in less than 24 hours.

Mention me in a comment and maybe he'll cut me some slack and put a little extra oomph into my song. Eh? Eh?

This is like 3 dreams coming into fruition, not to mention real motivation to see the whole thing through this time.

The Universe says, "Alexis, look at this. See what can happen if you keep your goals in mind and don't let them fall by the wayside."

And I say, "Okay, okay, I'm up. I'll try. I'll succeed. Even if it's only noticed by a small group of friends, I am going to accomplish something! Before another 3 years go by, and I have nothing but 'someday' to show for them."

The Nick Thomas Solo Album Kickstarter:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nickthomasmusic/nick-thomas-solo-album