I'm going to start this by saying that I do not hate men. I love men, actually. Men are my sexuality. I'm a cisgendered, heterosexual woman, and I love men. I'm a white woman, and I love men. I'm a "submissive", and I absolutely love men. There...now that I've pandered to the fragile male ego, and we're crystal clear about where I stand with my opinion of men, I have an announcement to make:
I am a feminist.
I want equal pay for equal work.
I want men to look at housework as their responsibility, too.
I want men to take an active approach to childcare.
I want women to be able to enjoy guns, or cars, or video games, without being told they're only doing it for attention.
I want men to be able to cry when they're upset, without being told they're acting like a woman, and not have that be the worst possible insult you can throw at them.
Mostly, though, I want every little girl, across the world to be able to hold her head up high, and walk proudly, without fear of getting ridiculed, or raped, or murdered. I want every child to have an equal opportunity to grow and learn and become successful adults. I want little girls to be able to grow up, and marry the man she falls in love with. I want little boys to be able to make friends with girls without any stigma attached to it. I want little boys to be able to wear pink. I want little girls to be interested in science.
I want men and women to be equal.
Period.
I'm tired of seeing thin men, and overweight men, and short men, and tall men, all end up with a woman of the same body-type, while women who aren't thin are left in the cold, because we're disgusting.
I'm tired of seeing women in bikinis, or less, selling hamburgers, or cars, or ice cream. I'm tired of women's bodies being cut off at the head, and used as beer bottles...as objects.
I'm tired of seeing women being portrayed as objects.
I'm tired of men in media being considered "sexy" if he's tall and muscular, but at best "funny" if he's overweight. I'm tired of men being forced into the role of "protector and provider" in magazine ads, and car commercials, and movies.
It's about time we saw men and women as what we are: multi-faceted, complex, emotional, strong, weak, and most of all...human.
We're all the same species, and we have so much potential to go so far, in science, technology, the arts, anything we set our mind to...but we can't do that when half of the world's population is being forced out of the workforce, because they were sold to be married, and they're not allowed to attend university. We're not going to make it through this crazy world with only half of us toeing the line. It's time for everybody to stand up and pull their weight. It's time for us to start working as a team.
There's so much untapped potential, trapped in the minds of women who never got the chance at a higher education, because she was pressured into getting married young, so she could have more children; in men who were forced to take a job at a young age, because he was expected to support his new wife, instead of going to college, and following his dreams.
The world we live now is biased, and it's unfair for both sides. It doesn't have to be that way, though. We can all stand up and fight for equality. We can stand up and let our voices be heard.
The problem is, it's not happening. There are too many men pushing back at the Feminist Movement, because they're afraid of...well, what are you afraid of? I've seen a lot of "anti-feminists" say things like, "well i won't date you, if you're a feminist" and "you're oppressing my penis!"...really? Is that how little you think of the women around you? Do you honestly believe, in this day and age, that a woman's only goal is to get married? Do you honestly thing we're only here to have sex with you?
If that's the case, then you're part of the problem.
Women deserve the same respect and peace of mind you have. Have you ever been shushed in a board meeting, in favor of your coworker's opinion? Have you ever clutched tighter to your purse as you walked through a crowd? Have you ever been in fear for your very life as you walk home in the dark, alone? If you're a man, probably not. Women have. Every woman has had a moment in her life when she was mocked or made fun of, or threatened, simply because of her gender. That's it. Not because she's rude, or an unpleasant person, or because she went looking for a fight...just because she's a woman.
If you're a woman, and you've gone your entire life without ever feeling uncomfortable in the presence of men, or because of a commercial, or even a statement made by another woman regarding your life choices; if you've never been told that your skirt is too short, or your top is too tight, or your body hair is disgusting; if you've never felt pressured to wear makeup, or high heels, or have sex; if you always feel safe, appreciated, and loved; if you make the same amount of money as a man in your exact position, with your exact training, then I congratulate you. You're part of a very small group. Don't you wish every woman on the planet felt that same sense of security, of self, of accomplishment and pride? If yes, then you need feminism. If not, then...I feel sorry for you, and I wish you had been given the gift of empathy, as a child.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Lucy: Movie Review
I’ve read quite a few reviews of this movie, and most of them are negative. I don’t understand it. Perhaps, those naysayers are simply too pretentious and caught up in their own ideals of what makes good entertainment to give anything which doesn’t fall into their concrete guidelines a chance…or maybe they’re just angry that a woman got so much screen time? Eh, who knows.
Frankly, I don’t care.
I loved the movie, and here’s why: It offers a unique perspective. There have been several “explore the possibilities of the mind” movies, in the past decade or so, and most of them are, predictably, entertaining. People are utterly fascinated by, and completely ignorant of, the human mind. Why do we think? Why do we dream? How are memories stored? These are all questions that nobody really has an answer to. (Except one: 42) There are several theories, though.
I watched Inception when it came out, and I rolled my eyes at the end. It’s meant to make you think, I guess, and my significant other thought. I didn’t. The ending was predicable, as most Hollywood “blockbusters” are. Limit was an ok movie, in the same genre, and it entertained. I didn’t walk out of the theater thinking that my mind had just been blown, however.
(Spoilers after the break. This is a movie review, so there is going to be discussion about plot-lines and characters.)
Lucy blew my damn mind. Not because of the method in which Scar-Jo’s character attained her “100%” because that’s been done, but with the way she handled it. There was no lust for power, no desire for riches or fame, no drive to explore the world. No. The almost first thing she did was call her mother…
She was lost, and she needed answers, so she sought those answers from a leading Neuro-Scientist, “Professor Norman” (played by freaking Morgan Freeman, everybody! Woo!). She contacts him and asks what she should do. He tells her, “Share your knowledge.”
So, she does. The entire movie is a race against the clock: Lucy’s ultimate demise, the Drug Lord and his goons who are chasing her, Time itself. Her goal is to meet Professor Norman, and share what she knows. She gets there, and picks up a “reminder” along the way.
There’s action, and death, and drug use. The brief kiss could have been left out, but I believe it was put there for a reason, all the same…not sure it’s a good reason, but hey. I’m not the writer, here; Luc Besson is. And that guy! He can tell as story. The Fifth Element, Transporter, Leon: The Professional, From Paris with Love, Colombiana…
So much awesome under Mr. Besson’s belt. He is genuinely one of my favorite story-tellers, so perhaps I went in to this movie with an already biased idea of how good it was going to be…or maybe it’s just a freaking awesome movie!
This isn’t what I would call an edge-of-your-seat thriller, but it’s still thrilling. All-in-all, I have to give it 8/10 stars, or whichever method of measurement you’d like. It’s a good movie. It’s worth the ticket price. It’s worth the 89 minutes of screen-time. The ending is …ugh! But, it’s still worth it!
Go see it. If you like Science Fiction…real, true, unrealistic, Science Fiction…you’ll love this movie! If you’re looking for spaceships and explosions and half-naked women, and gratuitous romance, you won’t.
Friday, July 4, 2014
Seeker
I've read and heard so many people in the medical field refer to those who are in pain as "seekers". There's a profile that goes along with the title: someone who visits emergency rooms for minor injuries, including toothaches...or those who visit the emergency room often. Of course, the latter has a different title: Frequent Flyer. Medical staff look down upon these people, the seekers and frequent flyers, with disdain; cursing them for taking the doctors away from "real" illnesses.
Yeah...if that doesn't speak to the failure of the American medical "system" I don't know what does.
Where to begin? I suppose the beginning will do, eh?
I was 14, when I first noticed the ineptitude of the medical professionals in my area. I had never been to a doctor before, save for getting vaccines. This time, my mother decided that what ailed me was out of her territory, and took me in to see the professionals. I was having severe abdominal cramping. The nurse looked at me, looked at the word "endometriosis" that I had written on my hand, in health class, decided that I was faking it, and sent me home.
My mother was furious. The pain kept up for another week, getting so bad that I collapsed in the living room, and my mother took me back to the ER. They poked and prodded, and asked questions, but they never took blood tests...they never gave me an ultrasound, or did any real diagnostics. They treated me with a prescription for Tylenol and cold/warm compresses.
I wasn't insured. So, instead of taking every possible precaution, the doctors did the bare minimum to keep costs down. I didn't understand it, then, but I do now.
The pain was caused by ovarian cysts. Cysts that, had they been diagnosed 14 years ago, would have been taken care of with little-to-no side effects. Now, I am all but infertile. It took nearly 10 years before I had decent medical coverage of my own, so I avoided hospitals and doctors like the plague. I collapsed, again, at my boyfriend's house, and he took me in, despite my protests. They did an ultrasound, immediately, and gave me excellent pain killers...and I got a diagnosis: Ovarian Cysts. And a treatment. I'm cyst-free, as of 4 years later...I'm also uninsured, again.
I can't go to a regular doctor's office, because nobody takes uninsured patients. I am forced, when I need even minor care, to seek Emergency medical attention. I've been to the ER a dozen times in the last 2 years, and I'm starting to notice the looks I get when I walk in. Disdain. Irritation. Annoyance.
Most recently, I broke a tooth. It's been about 6 months of managing the pain, with over-the-counter meds, and trying to keep the hole clear of debris to minimize the risk of infection. I'm at a breaking point, however, in that I can no longer manage the pain. I reach my daily limit of pain meds, everyday, before bedtime, and have to suffer as I'm trying to fall asleep. I can't eat. I can barely speak, but there's nothing I can do, because I'm unemployed, and uninsured, and with the way the medical system in this country is set up, I would have to fork out nearly $1,000 to get the tooth pulled. I can go to the ER and maybe get narcotic pain killers, but they can't pull the tooth. Dentists won't take payments so, short of pulling the thing myself, there's really nothing I can do.
America cares more about money than it does the health of its citizens.
Maybe I'm just biased, but that doesn't seem right.
So, despite being in pain, and despite having a legitimate medical complaint, I am looked down upon when I enter the Emergency Department, looking for pain management. I'm thought of as a Seeker, a drug addict, a pill-popper, because I have done all that I can, and have gotten nowhere...because I need help. I avoid going to the ER, more than once every 3 months, because I don't want to be labeled as a Frequent Flyer...I avoid medical care, because I don't want to be looked down upon, or thought less of....
Due to the unprofessional acts of nurses and techs, I'd rather suffer than be labeled.
All because I don't have insurance.
All because I'm unemployed.
It's bullshit.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Family
My mother, Margaret, passed away on May 28, 2014. She and my father, Edwin, who passed away June 20, 2003, raised me as their own, from my 3rd birthday, until I turned 19, and left the nest...and beyond. I started calling them Mom and Dad when I was in first grade, because I wanted to be more like the other kids at school. Everybody had Moms and Dads, not Grandmas and Grandpas, raising them. My father's eyes misted over when I called him Dad, the first time, and I haven't stopped, since.
Dad taught me how to fix roofs, how to grow the perfect Roses, how to stick up for myself, and when to walk away. I was Daddy's Girl. We played catch in the yard. We worked on the cars. He let me shift the gears in our little red truck. He was my father; he truly adopted me.
Mom stayed at home with me. She taught me how to read and write. She taught me how to cook, and clean. She taught me when to be playful, and when to be serious. She taught me class, and when to bow out gracefully. She gave me the skills I needed to become a successful woman.
They taught me that blood does not mean family.
These two people gave up their retirement, their "easy years," to raise another child. They had already raised five, they didn't have to take me in, but they did, because I was family. Family was important to them. Who knows how my life would have ended up, if I hadn't been taken in by them.
My childhood, my teen and young adult years have been negated... The fact that my mother raised me, fed me, gave me a home when I would have ended up in foster care, or worse. None of that matters, any more. Because of one person's selfish need to be validated, my mother became not my mother in the span of one memorial service. My father became not my father, in that same time. I lost the only family I've ever known, because one person needed to feel important, better, justified...whatever it was.
During my mother's memorial, her children were asked to stand. her three sons, her daughter...but not me. Because of one person's selfishness, my name wasn't read.
Never mind the fact that she's the only mother I've ever known, and she earned the title of Mom. Never mind the fact that she would be as angry and upset as I am, to have the last 28 years erased, at the snap of a finger.
Nobody spoke up.
Nobody corrected.
I walked away, after the memorial service. A scene would have been justified; yelling would have been right. I could have deepened that person's grief. I could have corrected everyone's misconception of my parentage, but I didn't. I simply walked away.
Because my father taught me when I should walk away, and my mother taught me to be the bigger person.
Dad taught me how to fix roofs, how to grow the perfect Roses, how to stick up for myself, and when to walk away. I was Daddy's Girl. We played catch in the yard. We worked on the cars. He let me shift the gears in our little red truck. He was my father; he truly adopted me.
Mom stayed at home with me. She taught me how to read and write. She taught me how to cook, and clean. She taught me when to be playful, and when to be serious. She taught me class, and when to bow out gracefully. She gave me the skills I needed to become a successful woman.
They taught me that blood does not mean family.
These two people gave up their retirement, their "easy years," to raise another child. They had already raised five, they didn't have to take me in, but they did, because I was family. Family was important to them. Who knows how my life would have ended up, if I hadn't been taken in by them.
My childhood, my teen and young adult years have been negated... The fact that my mother raised me, fed me, gave me a home when I would have ended up in foster care, or worse. None of that matters, any more. Because of one person's selfish need to be validated, my mother became not my mother in the span of one memorial service. My father became not my father, in that same time. I lost the only family I've ever known, because one person needed to feel important, better, justified...whatever it was.
During my mother's memorial, her children were asked to stand. her three sons, her daughter...but not me. Because of one person's selfishness, my name wasn't read.
Never mind the fact that she's the only mother I've ever known, and she earned the title of Mom. Never mind the fact that she would be as angry and upset as I am, to have the last 28 years erased, at the snap of a finger.
Nobody spoke up.
Nobody corrected.
I walked away, after the memorial service. A scene would have been justified; yelling would have been right. I could have deepened that person's grief. I could have corrected everyone's misconception of my parentage, but I didn't. I simply walked away.
Because my father taught me when I should walk away, and my mother taught me to be the bigger person.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Fandoms
God, seriously...where do I start?
The most irritating thing to me is when a Fandom starts acting like their way of experiencing what they like is the only way. This happens a lot in the novel-to-movie, or comic book-to-movie genre. It's disgusting, and irritating, and I can't stand people who act superior to anybody, especially those who like the same things that they like.
There was a time, in our childhood, that we would see somebody with a tshirt, or lunchbox, of our fandom and suddenly be best friends with them. Now, it's all questions and useless trivia and hate.
"Have you even read the book?"
Well, no, but-
"Then you're not a real fan!"
Um...I kinda am, actually. I love-
"How can you say that you love it, when you know nothing about it?"
Because I know myself...? Why are you such a snob?
"I'm not a snob! I'm a REAL FAN!"
...
And, on it goes...
It's un-fucking-believable that there are people in any fandom that act like that, but they're everywhere. Along with the "Quizzers" are the "Spoilers". I have carry an avid hatred for people who try to ruin somebody's fun. These are the Game of Thrones people, the Divergent people, the ones who purposely post on social media about major plot points, and spoil the ending.
What's the point of that? Do you feel superior, now that you've ruined somebody's chance of enjoying the same fucking thing that you enjoy?
Does it make you feel tough, or smart?
Fuck. Off.
I read the Lord of the Rings series, and The Hobbit, when I was in middle school. When the LotR movies came out, I didn't spoil anything. I watched the movies, and my friends' reactions to the things I knew were about to happen. It's an amazing thing, watching somebody experience something for the first time. It's like experiencing it, for yourself, as a newbie.
Same thing with Harry Potter.
Same with Eragon.
And Hulk.
And Batman.
Yet, there are these bratty children out there, now, who spoil the fun of everything that comes out.
I've never read Divergent. And, now, I'm not going to bother watching the movie, because I know how it ends. The franchise lost a potential fan, because of other fans.
Mind-blowing. And idiotic. And fucking childish.
The most irritating thing to me is when a Fandom starts acting like their way of experiencing what they like is the only way. This happens a lot in the novel-to-movie, or comic book-to-movie genre. It's disgusting, and irritating, and I can't stand people who act superior to anybody, especially those who like the same things that they like.
There was a time, in our childhood, that we would see somebody with a tshirt, or lunchbox, of our fandom and suddenly be best friends with them. Now, it's all questions and useless trivia and hate.
"Have you even read the book?"
Well, no, but-
"Then you're not a real fan!"
Um...I kinda am, actually. I love-
"How can you say that you love it, when you know nothing about it?"
Because I know myself...? Why are you such a snob?
"I'm not a snob! I'm a REAL FAN!"
...
And, on it goes...
It's un-fucking-believable that there are people in any fandom that act like that, but they're everywhere. Along with the "Quizzers" are the "Spoilers". I have carry an avid hatred for people who try to ruin somebody's fun. These are the Game of Thrones people, the Divergent people, the ones who purposely post on social media about major plot points, and spoil the ending.
What's the point of that? Do you feel superior, now that you've ruined somebody's chance of enjoying the same fucking thing that you enjoy?
Does it make you feel tough, or smart?
Fuck. Off.
I read the Lord of the Rings series, and The Hobbit, when I was in middle school. When the LotR movies came out, I didn't spoil anything. I watched the movies, and my friends' reactions to the things I knew were about to happen. It's an amazing thing, watching somebody experience something for the first time. It's like experiencing it, for yourself, as a newbie.
Same thing with Harry Potter.
Same with Eragon.
And Hulk.
And Batman.
Yet, there are these bratty children out there, now, who spoil the fun of everything that comes out.
I've never read Divergent. And, now, I'm not going to bother watching the movie, because I know how it ends. The franchise lost a potential fan, because of other fans.
Mind-blowing. And idiotic. And fucking childish.
Friday, May 30, 2014
The Collie
My parents used to tell me stories about my grandfather, on my dad’s side. He was a very religious man, and was very in-tune with the teachings of the Bible. He was also a Medium, of sorts; he attributed his skills as a gift from God. He never claimed to be a shaman, or anything, but he was sometimes accused of being a Satanist, because of his gifts. People in the late 1800s always blamed things they didn’t understand on witchcraft and devilry. Hell, we do that, today, don’t we?
Dad told me stories about how grand-dad was able to just touch somebody, or talk to them, and whatever was ailing them would fade away. I never met the man, nor do I even know his name, but I feel a sort of spiritual connection with him, through my parents’ stories.
The story that stuck with me, the most, and still gives me chills, is the story about The Collie. The story goes that grand-dad loved dogs, but was weary of strays, especially Collies, and all-black dogs. Collies are a death omen. He used to say that if a stray Collie was to enter your yard, it will announce the death of a person close to you. The dogs will appear usually a couple days early, and leave on their own accord. You can't force them away. As they leave, they will sit next to you and howl, then look toward the person who is dying.
I became a believer of that one, last night.
I had a dream about a Collie, and it terrified me. I was sitting on my front porch, having a cigarette, when the dog came trotting up my driveway. In my dream, I kicked at the dog, and screamed, and tried to scare it away, but it sat, and calmly howled, then looked West. The hospital where my mother was admitted to, is West of my house. I screamed “NO!” The dog came up to me, and laid its head on my lap as I cried.
I woke, this morning, to my phone ringing.
My mother had passed away in her sleep. I firmly believe that the dream was her way of saying goodbye to me, the only way she could. She’s gone to heaven, to be with my dad, now, and I’m happy that she’s no longer suffering. I’m also so deeply saddened, as most people are, by death. I miss her like crazy, and my heart hurts. I’m happy, though, that she has reunited with the man she spent 49 years on Earth with, and spend the rest of eternity in bliss. If anybody deserves peace and happiness, it’s her.
Rest in peace, Mom. I’ll see you again, some day.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Feminism
This is a long one to illustrate a single point about "fuckboys" and why I am perpetually single... Bear with me.
I was raised in a misogynistic household. Sure, my father taught me how to throw a ball, and work on cars, and he made sure that I had dreams...as long as my dreams included being a wife. Because, through all the lessons he taught me, it always remained clear: a woman's place was in the home.
As we would work on the car, he would say little things that I would smile and nod at, because I was too young to truly understand the meaning of them.
"We'll teach you how to change your own oil, so you can take care of yourself until a husband comes along."
"You need to know how to change your tire, just in case it blows out when your husband isn't with you."
I didn't understand what he meant, only that he wanted his daughter to know how to take care of herself. Best father ever!
As I got older, and got into my first serious relationship, my father stopped teaching me things.
"You have your boyfriend, now. You don't need to know that."
I was hurt by it, because I only saw that my dad didn't want to spend time with me.
I didn't get it. My father, for as good a man as he was, was a misogynist. I carried those values with me through a lot of my social interactions. I never expressed my opinion around boys at school, but would talk animatedly with other girls. Even now, as a 30-year-old woman, I have a hard time speaking up, sometimes. I'm getting better.
A man sent me a message on a dating site, the other day, so I checked out his profile. As soon as I saw that he was still married, I sent him a simple message...well, here, I'll let you read the exchange for yourself:
The test he is referring to is a joke I have at the beginning of my profile. It states that there will be a test afterwards, because my profile is...basically a novel. His response to my "You're married." message seems pretty innocuous, but I've been down this road before.
Whoa. Just...whoa, dude.
That came out of left field. He was interested in me, until I turned him down flat. It took me several tries to get the message worded correctly, too. I am very careful when I turn men down, because of this reason. I hate being flat-out insulted because men can't handle the idea that a woman doesn't want to talk to them. My first thought was, "Hey, that hurt." Then, I was angry. I am fed up with these little boys who think that women are here to serve them. I usually don't respond to these types of messages, but this time:
This time I spoke up. I tried to stay as civil as possible, but that didn't last long. I am so boiled-over with anger at men that I cannot continue to sit on the wall and not say anything. This time, I stand up. This time, my voice will be the loudest one in the room.
Women deserve to be able to have a normal exchange with someone, without fear that they are going to be personally insulted, the second their opinion doesn't line up with the male's. Women deserve the same respect as men, period. We deserve to be heard, and listened to.
No, I'm not a feminazi. I'm not a bitch. I'm not any of those other colorful words which have been thrown my way. I am a woman, and a human being, and I deserve respect. I deserve to have the same voice as a man's, and I deserve to have my opinion valued. I don't deserve to be called fat or ugly, just because I didn't swoon when a man spoke to me.
I deserve to be treated like a fucking human being, because that's what I am!
You don't have to be nice to me, or any other woman, just don't be an asshole.
It's really not that hard to not be an asshole.
I was raised in a misogynistic household. Sure, my father taught me how to throw a ball, and work on cars, and he made sure that I had dreams...as long as my dreams included being a wife. Because, through all the lessons he taught me, it always remained clear: a woman's place was in the home.
As we would work on the car, he would say little things that I would smile and nod at, because I was too young to truly understand the meaning of them.
"We'll teach you how to change your own oil, so you can take care of yourself until a husband comes along."
"You need to know how to change your tire, just in case it blows out when your husband isn't with you."
I didn't understand what he meant, only that he wanted his daughter to know how to take care of herself. Best father ever!
As I got older, and got into my first serious relationship, my father stopped teaching me things.
"You have your boyfriend, now. You don't need to know that."
I was hurt by it, because I only saw that my dad didn't want to spend time with me.
I didn't get it. My father, for as good a man as he was, was a misogynist. I carried those values with me through a lot of my social interactions. I never expressed my opinion around boys at school, but would talk animatedly with other girls. Even now, as a 30-year-old woman, I have a hard time speaking up, sometimes. I'm getting better.
A man sent me a message on a dating site, the other day, so I checked out his profile. As soon as I saw that he was still married, I sent him a simple message...well, here, I'll let you read the exchange for yourself:
The test he is referring to is a joke I have at the beginning of my profile. It states that there will be a test afterwards, because my profile is...basically a novel. His response to my "You're married." message seems pretty innocuous, but I've been down this road before.
Whoa. Just...whoa, dude.
That came out of left field. He was interested in me, until I turned him down flat. It took me several tries to get the message worded correctly, too. I am very careful when I turn men down, because of this reason. I hate being flat-out insulted because men can't handle the idea that a woman doesn't want to talk to them. My first thought was, "Hey, that hurt." Then, I was angry. I am fed up with these little boys who think that women are here to serve them. I usually don't respond to these types of messages, but this time:
This time I spoke up. I tried to stay as civil as possible, but that didn't last long. I am so boiled-over with anger at men that I cannot continue to sit on the wall and not say anything. This time, I stand up. This time, my voice will be the loudest one in the room.
Women deserve to be able to have a normal exchange with someone, without fear that they are going to be personally insulted, the second their opinion doesn't line up with the male's. Women deserve the same respect as men, period. We deserve to be heard, and listened to.
No, I'm not a feminazi. I'm not a bitch. I'm not any of those other colorful words which have been thrown my way. I am a woman, and a human being, and I deserve respect. I deserve to have the same voice as a man's, and I deserve to have my opinion valued. I don't deserve to be called fat or ugly, just because I didn't swoon when a man spoke to me.
I deserve to be treated like a fucking human being, because that's what I am!
You don't have to be nice to me, or any other woman, just don't be an asshole.
It's really not that hard to not be an asshole.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Women Are Human
Jesus I'm in a mood, today.
I can't seem to shake this feeling of irritability, and I don't know exactly what triggered it.
I saw a post on Tumblr, this morning that caused me great rage. I saw a post on Facebook that made me sick to my stomach. Maybe today just isn't the day for social media. Maybe today is one of those days I should have just stayed in bed.
I need to write, though, or I may just snap.
First off, if you disagree with anything I say in this post, you can kindly fuck off. Yes. For this post, I am taking a stand. Either you agree with me, or you're wrong. Period.
Rape victims.
Are.
Never.
To.
Blame.
There is no reason or situation where the phrase, "Well, if you were more careful, this wouldn't have happened." is acceptable. NO!
"If you would wear more modest clothing, you wouldn't have gotten raped."
"Maybe you should put more clothes on!"
"Stop wearing tight pants!"
"Damn, baby, you look so good, I could rape you."
The fury I am feeling is all-consuming.
How dare you make the victim of a violent attack feel guilty?
How dare you make a woman feel guilty for wearing what she feels comfortable in?
How dare you use that word as a synonym for sex?
How dare you?
The Rape Culture is sickening. It's purely disgusting. Those of you who condone this type of behavior are no better than the predators themselves. Those of you who tell women to carry mace to protect themselves, because, well, "men are just men" are fucking sick.
It isn't just full-grown women who are taught that they are always responsible for their safety, and if they get hurt, then they are to blame...at least a little bit.
Little girls are being told that their pants, or their dresses, or their shirts are "inappropriate" because they distract boys, or because there are predators out there who will take advantage of the way they're dressed.
We're standing aside and allowing people to fill our daughters and nieces with fear, over their clothing choices. We're making them self-conscious from a very young age, and it saddens me. These little girls become more fashion-oriented, than science or math oriented, all because of some off-hand comment that adults made.
"Is this dress good enough?"
"Are these pants too tight?"
..."Will I be hurt if I wear this?"
Those are the questions our daughters are asking in the mornings, instead of:
"Do I have my homework done?"
"Is there going to be a test today?"
"Should I study on the bus, just in case?"
Why are we allowing this to go on?
We need to stop making little girls, and women, feel like the only important thing about them is how they look. This includes the "slut shaming" and putting down women for being too fat, or too skinny, or too tall, or too short, or too blonde, or not blonde enough. Focus on what's important. Focus on the kind of people they will be when they grow up.
Do you want your daughter to keep her opinions to herself, in front of men, because she's afraid of being rejected?
Do you want your niece to feel guilty because a predator attacked her?
Do you want your mother to be more concerned with her new tube of lipstick than her heart medicine? (My mother...)
No. Of course you don't. You want them to be treated with respect, not because they're women, but because they earned that respect by never backing down, by standing up for their beliefs, and by being human.
It's really that simple.
Women are just as human as men.
We all deserve the same treatment.
I can't seem to shake this feeling of irritability, and I don't know exactly what triggered it.
I saw a post on Tumblr, this morning that caused me great rage. I saw a post on Facebook that made me sick to my stomach. Maybe today just isn't the day for social media. Maybe today is one of those days I should have just stayed in bed.
I need to write, though, or I may just snap.
First off, if you disagree with anything I say in this post, you can kindly fuck off. Yes. For this post, I am taking a stand. Either you agree with me, or you're wrong. Period.
Rape victims.
Are.
Never.
To.
Blame.
There is no reason or situation where the phrase, "Well, if you were more careful, this wouldn't have happened." is acceptable. NO!
"If you would wear more modest clothing, you wouldn't have gotten raped."
"Maybe you should put more clothes on!"
"Stop wearing tight pants!"
"Damn, baby, you look so good, I could rape you."
The fury I am feeling is all-consuming.
How dare you make the victim of a violent attack feel guilty?
How dare you make a woman feel guilty for wearing what she feels comfortable in?
How dare you use that word as a synonym for sex?
How dare you?
The Rape Culture is sickening. It's purely disgusting. Those of you who condone this type of behavior are no better than the predators themselves. Those of you who tell women to carry mace to protect themselves, because, well, "men are just men" are fucking sick.
It isn't just full-grown women who are taught that they are always responsible for their safety, and if they get hurt, then they are to blame...at least a little bit.
Little girls are being told that their pants, or their dresses, or their shirts are "inappropriate" because they distract boys, or because there are predators out there who will take advantage of the way they're dressed.
We're standing aside and allowing people to fill our daughters and nieces with fear, over their clothing choices. We're making them self-conscious from a very young age, and it saddens me. These little girls become more fashion-oriented, than science or math oriented, all because of some off-hand comment that adults made.
"Is this dress good enough?"
"Are these pants too tight?"
..."Will I be hurt if I wear this?"
Those are the questions our daughters are asking in the mornings, instead of:
"Do I have my homework done?"
"Is there going to be a test today?"
"Should I study on the bus, just in case?"
Why are we allowing this to go on?
We need to stop making little girls, and women, feel like the only important thing about them is how they look. This includes the "slut shaming" and putting down women for being too fat, or too skinny, or too tall, or too short, or too blonde, or not blonde enough. Focus on what's important. Focus on the kind of people they will be when they grow up.
Do you want your daughter to keep her opinions to herself, in front of men, because she's afraid of being rejected?
Do you want your niece to feel guilty because a predator attacked her?
Do you want your mother to be more concerned with her new tube of lipstick than her heart medicine? (My mother...)
No. Of course you don't. You want them to be treated with respect, not because they're women, but because they earned that respect by never backing down, by standing up for their beliefs, and by being human.
It's really that simple.
Women are just as human as men.
We all deserve the same treatment.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Pets: Part Two
Heartbreak
I've delayed posting this one, for a while now. I think it's about time to share the story of three baby kittens who touched my heart in a profound way, while they were on this Earth. Here goes:
My sister and I have decided to split the responsibility of hand-rearing three abandoned feral kittens. Apparently, Mama Kitty had six, and left these three behind. It's understandable, since she's fighting to feed herself. Six babies would have overwhelmed her. It's the nature of the beast, and it sucks, but that's where awesome rescues come in, and volunteers like us step up!
I'm honored to get the chance to try and save these little guys' lives, and raise them to be awesome house-cats!
At the moment, I'm sleep-deprived, irritable, and starting to wonder if it was such a good idea...and it's only been ONE DAY!
(I'm really not cut out for this "Mom" thing...)
The last 24-hours of my life:
Yesterday, March 22, 2014
HOUR ONE! (Roughly 16:00, or 4 P.M.)
I'm really, really excited! I haven't bottle-fed a kitten for almost a decade, but I'm sure it's just like riding a bike, right? ...er...right??
Alright...
"Step one: put formula in bottle." ..alright easy enough.
"Step two: warm formula." ..ok...? how? Do I microwave the bottle? NO! Bad. Uh...OH! OH! Boil water in the microwave, and place the bottle inside the water! I. Am. A. Genius!
"Step three: test temperature of formu-" OW! SHIT, THAT'S HOT! *glare*
*amended* "Step three-and-a-half: let formula cool."...
"Step four: FEED THE KITTENS!!" ...alright...um...open up! Open...UP! Um...hmm...please open up? *quickly put bottle in kitten's mouth mid-squeak* HA! I win. :P
HOUR TWO!
Repeat all steps from hour one, for two more kittens...then the fun part!
"Rub the genitalia of the kittens so they can poop and pee."...ewwww!
*rub rub rub* OH! Oh, GOD! How much did you eat?! *fights back gag* Oh, geez....oh, geez...oh, geez!
Ew! Ew! ...Oh, good, you're done! NEXT!
The next two kittens weren't as "backed-up" so there was far less gagging and cringing. Hey! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this! Place kittens back in warm box and relax for a minute!
HOUR FOUR!
Whoa, wait, what? It's already been two hours? It's time for another feeding...NOW? Gosh, can't I just take a breather?
*kitten screaming from within the shoe box*
... apparently not...
Warm formula, test temperature, let formula cool, feed...
erm...feed?
Please, may I feed you?
I promise you want this!
No, don't squirm!
HEY! Careful!
I'm going to drop you!
*slip bottle into kitten's mouth, mid-scream* (Wait, is that my scream, or his...?)
HA! I win, again! BOOYAH!
Help kitties go potty, again. It's far less gross, this time! Hooray for small victories!
HOUR SIX-AND-A-HALF! (roughly 22:30)
Wait...hey! How did the second feeding take longer than the first? I thought it went much smoother than that train-wreck of a first one!
Whatever...
Warm formula, test formuuuuu- *yaawwwnnnn* Oh, my...-la. That was a good one. Eye-watering, jaw-cracking...the whole works! Yup! Great yawn!
Feed- WAIT! Let it cool first, dummy!...*whistles* Sorry, little buddy. Almost scorched you, there...
...
*hums "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!"*
...
"...some as big as your head!"
Alright! Feed kittens! Aww...look at them! They're so adorable! They're finally figuring out this whole bottle thing!
.........................................................................................
This went on, pretty much around the clock for 24 hours. I dropped the kids off with my sister with the intention of getting some very-much needed sleep. I got about 4 hours of rest when my sister calls me, crying.
We'd lost the two black and white ones.
I hopped in the only car and high-tailed it to her house, to console her. I've been here, before. Losing babies is horrible. You always have that niggling feeling in the back of your mind that you did something wrong; that somehow, you killed them. She didn't do anything wrong, of course, but that's how it feels.
I was able to calm her down, and after a failed attempt at kitten CPR, we had her dad bury them. He even gave them a little grave marker, which was very touching.
Once the sorrow had abated, we both knew that we had to pour whatever was left of our hearts into the last remaining kitten...and we did.
I took over the care, the next morning, and spent the next twelve hours, or so, holding the baby, and coming up with a more efficient feeding method. He was the smallest and weakest of the three, and he was the survivor. I named him Ash.
I knew, in my mind, that the odds were stacked against him. He likely didn't get the colostrum (first milk) from his momma, so his immune system was very susceptible to disease and infection. I knew there was a damn good chance he wouldn't make it. Against my better judgement, I named him anyway. That's all it took. He had a name. He was in my heart.
He was eating like crazy, and I was able to get him to use the bathroom, after some coaxing and a tip from a local veterinarian. He was warm and he was active, and he seemed to be doing great!
Then, the next night, when I dropped him off at my sister's house, I noticed that he was acting strangely. He was bending his neck all the way back until his head was touching his shoulders. My heat sank. That's the same thing the other babies were doing, just a few hours before they passed over to Rainbow Bridge. I was staying on the couch at my sister's house, that night, because I wanted her to be completely comfortable with the new feeding method that he had taken to.
I got about 4 hours of sleep that night.
I took him back to my house that morning, fed him, bathroomed him, and got him warm. I was letting him rest in the box when I heard this pitiful little meow come from him. It sounded so weak. I peered inside and Ash was doing the neck arching thing again. I picked him up and he took his last big breath in my hands. I tried to resuscitate him, to no avail.
I cried and held him closely. Then, I took him to my sister's to be buried with his siblings.
It's heartbreaking to lose the little ones, especially because it's so easy to become attached to them. This isn't the first time I've seen newborn kittens die, but it was the first time it hit me so hard. This little 6-day-old baby wormed his way into my heart. I bonded with him, and he with me, I think. When he'd squeak, I'd hold him close to my chest, and he'd calm down. I talked to him, even though he probably couldn't hear me. I'd watch him sleep in his little shoe box.
The only solace I have from this whole experience, is that we gave that little guys 4 more days of full-bellies, and warm beds, than they would have had, if we hadn't volunteered to care for them. Ash and his littermates didn't die lonely and cold. They went out of this world warm and loved.
Times like this make me question my decision to become a Veterinary Assistant. How can I possibly be able to handle this kind of heart-break for the rest of my life? Am I really cut out for this? Yes. I just have to remind myself of the animals that I have helped save. My sister and I have taken in numerous stray and lost dogs, and reunited them with their families, over the last 10 years, or more. I remember bringing home stray animals when I was a kid. This is what I was meant to do. It's my calling.
Ash, and his story, will remain with me for the rest of my life. He will serve as my inspiration to continue to push through the pain and sorrow, to keep trying my hardest to save the lives of animals, to keep bringing strays into my home and showing them love and compassion.
Because of Ash, I will give every animal the opportunity to feel loved, and warm, and safe, before they leave this planet...
That's what they all deserve.
I've delayed posting this one, for a while now. I think it's about time to share the story of three baby kittens who touched my heart in a profound way, while they were on this Earth. Here goes:
My sister and I have decided to split the responsibility of hand-rearing three abandoned feral kittens. Apparently, Mama Kitty had six, and left these three behind. It's understandable, since she's fighting to feed herself. Six babies would have overwhelmed her. It's the nature of the beast, and it sucks, but that's where awesome rescues come in, and volunteers like us step up!
I'm honored to get the chance to try and save these little guys' lives, and raise them to be awesome house-cats!
At the moment, I'm sleep-deprived, irritable, and starting to wonder if it was such a good idea...and it's only been ONE DAY!
(I'm really not cut out for this "Mom" thing...)
The last 24-hours of my life:
Yesterday, March 22, 2014
HOUR ONE! (Roughly 16:00, or 4 P.M.)
I'm really, really excited! I haven't bottle-fed a kitten for almost a decade, but I'm sure it's just like riding a bike, right? ...er...right??
Alright...
"Step one: put formula in bottle." ..alright easy enough.
"Step two: warm formula." ..ok...? how? Do I microwave the bottle? NO! Bad. Uh...OH! OH! Boil water in the microwave, and place the bottle inside the water! I. Am. A. Genius!
"Step three: test temperature of formu-" OW! SHIT, THAT'S HOT! *glare*
*amended* "Step three-and-a-half: let formula cool."...
"Step four: FEED THE KITTENS!!" ...alright...um...open up! Open...UP! Um...hmm...please open up? *quickly put bottle in kitten's mouth mid-squeak* HA! I win. :P
HOUR TWO!
Repeat all steps from hour one, for two more kittens...then the fun part!
"Rub the genitalia of the kittens so they can poop and pee."...ewwww!
*rub rub rub* OH! Oh, GOD! How much did you eat?! *fights back gag* Oh, geez....oh, geez...oh, geez!
Ew! Ew! ...Oh, good, you're done! NEXT!
The next two kittens weren't as "backed-up" so there was far less gagging and cringing. Hey! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this! Place kittens back in warm box and relax for a minute!
HOUR FOUR!
Whoa, wait, what? It's already been two hours? It's time for another feeding...NOW? Gosh, can't I just take a breather?
*kitten screaming from within the shoe box*
... apparently not...
Warm formula, test temperature, let formula cool, feed...
erm...feed?
Please, may I feed you?
I promise you want this!
No, don't squirm!
HEY! Careful!
I'm going to drop you!
*slip bottle into kitten's mouth, mid-scream* (Wait, is that my scream, or his...?)
HA! I win, again! BOOYAH!
Help kitties go potty, again. It's far less gross, this time! Hooray for small victories!
HOUR SIX-AND-A-HALF! (roughly 22:30)
Wait...hey! How did the second feeding take longer than the first? I thought it went much smoother than that train-wreck of a first one!
Whatever...
Warm formula, test formuuuuu- *yaawwwnnnn* Oh, my...-la. That was a good one. Eye-watering, jaw-cracking...the whole works! Yup! Great yawn!
Feed- WAIT! Let it cool first, dummy!...*whistles* Sorry, little buddy. Almost scorched you, there...
...
*hums "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!"*
...
"...some as big as your head!"
Alright! Feed kittens! Aww...look at them! They're so adorable! They're finally figuring out this whole bottle thing!
.........................................................................................
This went on, pretty much around the clock for 24 hours. I dropped the kids off with my sister with the intention of getting some very-much needed sleep. I got about 4 hours of rest when my sister calls me, crying.
We'd lost the two black and white ones.
I hopped in the only car and high-tailed it to her house, to console her. I've been here, before. Losing babies is horrible. You always have that niggling feeling in the back of your mind that you did something wrong; that somehow, you killed them. She didn't do anything wrong, of course, but that's how it feels.
I was able to calm her down, and after a failed attempt at kitten CPR, we had her dad bury them. He even gave them a little grave marker, which was very touching.
Once the sorrow had abated, we both knew that we had to pour whatever was left of our hearts into the last remaining kitten...and we did.
I took over the care, the next morning, and spent the next twelve hours, or so, holding the baby, and coming up with a more efficient feeding method. He was the smallest and weakest of the three, and he was the survivor. I named him Ash.
I knew, in my mind, that the odds were stacked against him. He likely didn't get the colostrum (first milk) from his momma, so his immune system was very susceptible to disease and infection. I knew there was a damn good chance he wouldn't make it. Against my better judgement, I named him anyway. That's all it took. He had a name. He was in my heart.
He was eating like crazy, and I was able to get him to use the bathroom, after some coaxing and a tip from a local veterinarian. He was warm and he was active, and he seemed to be doing great!
Then, the next night, when I dropped him off at my sister's house, I noticed that he was acting strangely. He was bending his neck all the way back until his head was touching his shoulders. My heat sank. That's the same thing the other babies were doing, just a few hours before they passed over to Rainbow Bridge. I was staying on the couch at my sister's house, that night, because I wanted her to be completely comfortable with the new feeding method that he had taken to.
I got about 4 hours of sleep that night.
I took him back to my house that morning, fed him, bathroomed him, and got him warm. I was letting him rest in the box when I heard this pitiful little meow come from him. It sounded so weak. I peered inside and Ash was doing the neck arching thing again. I picked him up and he took his last big breath in my hands. I tried to resuscitate him, to no avail.
I cried and held him closely. Then, I took him to my sister's to be buried with his siblings.
It's heartbreaking to lose the little ones, especially because it's so easy to become attached to them. This isn't the first time I've seen newborn kittens die, but it was the first time it hit me so hard. This little 6-day-old baby wormed his way into my heart. I bonded with him, and he with me, I think. When he'd squeak, I'd hold him close to my chest, and he'd calm down. I talked to him, even though he probably couldn't hear me. I'd watch him sleep in his little shoe box.
The only solace I have from this whole experience, is that we gave that little guys 4 more days of full-bellies, and warm beds, than they would have had, if we hadn't volunteered to care for them. Ash and his littermates didn't die lonely and cold. They went out of this world warm and loved.
Times like this make me question my decision to become a Veterinary Assistant. How can I possibly be able to handle this kind of heart-break for the rest of my life? Am I really cut out for this? Yes. I just have to remind myself of the animals that I have helped save. My sister and I have taken in numerous stray and lost dogs, and reunited them with their families, over the last 10 years, or more. I remember bringing home stray animals when I was a kid. This is what I was meant to do. It's my calling.
Ash, and his story, will remain with me for the rest of my life. He will serve as my inspiration to continue to push through the pain and sorrow, to keep trying my hardest to save the lives of animals, to keep bringing strays into my home and showing them love and compassion.
Because of Ash, I will give every animal the opportunity to feel loved, and warm, and safe, before they leave this planet...
That's what they all deserve.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Pets: Part One
This is a new one for me, ironically. When I consider how much my pets rule my life, I'm shocked I haven't written more about the treatment and care of our pets. Really! I have 4 cats, a German Shepherd, and my sister and I are forever picking up and rehoming strays. So, now that I've had an epiphany, with the help of said sister, I am going to start a series of blog posts about pets. I have no clue how many "Parts" this series is going to be broken up into...10? 15? ...108? Who knows?!
These pet posts will be available at: http://simplyfurry.blogspot.com/ as well as here on my personal blog.
Aaaaand, here we go:
Topic #1: PETS ARE FOREVER!
If you commit yourself to doing hours of research, driving to the pet store, breeder, or local shelter, paying the adoption/purchase fee, buying food, beds, toys, tanks, filters, heat lamps, I.D. tags, and whatever else your animal requires, you're committing yourself to caring for an animal for the rest of its natural life.
Pets are not status symbols. They're not a method to "keep up with the Joneses." They're not toys. They're not anniversary gifts. They're not temporary distractions from heartache. They're not lawn ornaments.
They are a life-time commitment. Period.
With this commitment comes a lot of responsibility. You know what responsibility is, if you're over the age of ten. Your parents (if they were worth their salt), your teachers, your pastor, they all tried to teach you how to be responsible for your decisions, how to own up and follow-through with your commitments. They wanted you to be a person whose word is solid and reliable. Don't forget that when you bring an animal into your home.
Dogs typically live between 7 and 15 years, cats can be as old as 20, birds and turtles/tortoises live for decades! That's YEARS of costly vet visits, thousands of pounds of food, gallons upon gallons of water, millions of little pet turds to clean up, hundreds of training hours, and every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that you're capable of shedding.
I think you get the point I'm trying to make, especially if you're an animal lover like myself.
I decided that this post would be the first one, because this is the one that hits closest to home...
My roommates/landlords have an affinity for trying to one-up, people. Their friends get a new car, they get one a year newer. New TV at the neighbor's? Well, theirs is 3-inches bigger! Et cetera! A little competition among friends is good, and to be completely honest, it's just FUN! However, when you bring that competition and desire to be better than your friends, into your choice to get a pet, you...well, you just plain piss me off!
Case in point: My Leonidis, the pain-in-the-ass German Shepherd.
My landlords got Leo (then short for Leonardo) because their coworkers got a GSD puppy, and "Aw, look how cute it is!"
*sigh*
German Shepherds are not a lazy man's dog. Believe me, this dog is no exception!
This adorable pup (now nearly two years old) came into a house with a spoiled Pomeranian (don't even get me started with that thing...), and two cats, not including my clutch of cats that live in my trailer with me. My roommates' hearts were in the right place, but they just plain didn't have the patience or drive to give this dog what he needed, at an early age, to make him a well-balanced adult. I told them that they needed to train him, because they kept getting upset that he was pooping in the house, or chewing on cords/shoes/the couch. I told them that GSDs need a lot of maintenance, and training, or they go a little...bonkers...yeah, that's a good word!
Their response?
"We'll deal with it later."
REALLY RIGHT NOW?!
Well, as you have probably figured out, "later" never came. Leo's behavior got worse, because he was never taught what not to do, or how to act. He was never socialized with other dogs, or people. Eventually, they decided that they couldn't "deal with him" because he was "dangerous". (He wasn't dangerous. Just bored out of his skull.) He ran over their grandkid, he nipped, he jumped on people, he destroyed everything he could get his teeth on; he was just...bonkers. So, they decided to get rid of him.
I just...
Grrr...
My sister and I said, "No, you're not!"
She decided to take him in, and help him. He needed a lot of it. The only problem with her having him was that she was working 12-hour days, and the roommates she had weren't exactly...responsible enough for her to trust to take care of him when she wasn't there, so he continued with the destructive behavior, even though he did make a vast improvement. When she was home, he was an angel, but he reverted as soon as she left. It was an unhealthy cycle that eventually stressed them both out. Then, he jumped into her neighbor's yard, one day, and her neighbor threatened to shoot Leo. That went over like a ton of bricks, and Leo came back here, under my care.
I have been his official owner, now, for about 3 months and he is a completely different dog. He gets regular exercise. He has rules and boundaries, and he is disciplined when he's being a dick. He's bitten me, a couple times, because he was never properly socialized, he's destroyed (and I mean d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d) some of my things. He's chased my cats. He's done all kinds of things that people usually send their pets to the pound for.
I didn't.
I stuck with him, and I pushed through the frustration and the tears, and even the blood, and one day it just clicked. We had a bond, and I was the pack leader. It wasn't easy, and I still consider him a "work in progress", but I've seen enough of a change in him to be able to see that light at the end of the tunnel. I was exhausted and sore, and frustrated beyond belief for the first couple weeks, but I stuck to my guns, and I didn't give him an inch, and now the jumping has all but stopped, the chewing only happens when he doesn't get his daily run, the charging after kids/other dogs/cats has slowed (with the exception of my orange tabby, with whom Leo likes to play tag...there is nothing funnier than an 8-pound-cat chasing a 100-pound-dog around the yard).
That's what I'm trying to tell you people who like to pick up and dump animals left-and-right. To those of you who get rid of animals because they destroyed your favorite shoes, or because they grew out of being "cute, or because you're simply bored with them, or because they got diarrhea on your new carpet, or because you had a baby. The animals only act out because you let them. Period.
If you cannot take control of a lesser-species, how the hell do you expect to be successful as a manager, or a parent?
...?
Seriously, though, if you can't control your dog, how the hell are you going to control a group of humans who are probably smarter than you?
Yes that was harsh. Yes, I probably insulted you. No, I don't care.
When it comes down to the choice between a human's feelings and an animal's well-being, I will side with the animal. Every. Time.
Honor your commitment to your four-, two-, no-legged pets.
Yes, there are times when it is in the best interest of the animal that you give up ownership to somebody who is more capable of caring for them. But none of those reasons are ever because you WANT to. Those reasons only come out of need, and those reasons will break your heart, every time.
I've had to rehome pets in my lifetime, because I was homeless, or because my Big Boy (my oldest tabby) was getting attacked. I rehomed a pitbull, because I was living with people who wanted to start a dog-fighting ring, and I had nowhere else to live. I have never rehomed an animal because they were an inconvenience. And, I have cried, as each one of those animals walked out my front door for the last time.
If it doesn't break your heart to "get rid" of them, then don't get rid of them. Find another way to fix whatever problem you're having with them. Change your own routine. Do whatever you possibly can to care for them, and then some, because that's what you signed up for.
Don't back out of the contract because of a little bit of adversity. Cleaning diarrhea out of the carpeting, replacing chewed up shoes, repairing window screens and, yes, even whole doors, are all small potatoes when you consider that no matter how shitty your day was, no matter how many people screamed at you, or how worthless the outside world made you feel, to that animal, you are the one. You are it. You are literally their whole world and they rely on you for their food, their shelter, their drink of water. They don't play unless they play with you. They greet you at the door with open hearts and wagging tails, and lots of kitty purrs, in my case. You're their best-friend, and they will never, ever turn their back on you for anything, ever...
Even when you turn your back on them.
These pet posts will be available at: http://simplyfurry.blogspot.com/ as well as here on my personal blog.
Aaaaand, here we go:
Topic #1: PETS ARE FOREVER!
If you commit yourself to doing hours of research, driving to the pet store, breeder, or local shelter, paying the adoption/purchase fee, buying food, beds, toys, tanks, filters, heat lamps, I.D. tags, and whatever else your animal requires, you're committing yourself to caring for an animal for the rest of its natural life.
Pets are not status symbols. They're not a method to "keep up with the Joneses." They're not toys. They're not anniversary gifts. They're not temporary distractions from heartache. They're not lawn ornaments.
They are a life-time commitment. Period.
With this commitment comes a lot of responsibility. You know what responsibility is, if you're over the age of ten. Your parents (if they were worth their salt), your teachers, your pastor, they all tried to teach you how to be responsible for your decisions, how to own up and follow-through with your commitments. They wanted you to be a person whose word is solid and reliable. Don't forget that when you bring an animal into your home.
Dogs typically live between 7 and 15 years, cats can be as old as 20, birds and turtles/tortoises live for decades! That's YEARS of costly vet visits, thousands of pounds of food, gallons upon gallons of water, millions of little pet turds to clean up, hundreds of training hours, and every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that you're capable of shedding.
I think you get the point I'm trying to make, especially if you're an animal lover like myself.
I decided that this post would be the first one, because this is the one that hits closest to home...
My roommates/landlords have an affinity for trying to one-up, people. Their friends get a new car, they get one a year newer. New TV at the neighbor's? Well, theirs is 3-inches bigger! Et cetera! A little competition among friends is good, and to be completely honest, it's just FUN! However, when you bring that competition and desire to be better than your friends, into your choice to get a pet, you...well, you just plain piss me off!
Case in point: My Leonidis, the pain-in-the-ass German Shepherd.
My landlords got Leo (then short for Leonardo) because their coworkers got a GSD puppy, and "Aw, look how cute it is!"
*sigh*
German Shepherds are not a lazy man's dog. Believe me, this dog is no exception!
This adorable pup (now nearly two years old) came into a house with a spoiled Pomeranian (don't even get me started with that thing...), and two cats, not including my clutch of cats that live in my trailer with me. My roommates' hearts were in the right place, but they just plain didn't have the patience or drive to give this dog what he needed, at an early age, to make him a well-balanced adult. I told them that they needed to train him, because they kept getting upset that he was pooping in the house, or chewing on cords/shoes/the couch. I told them that GSDs need a lot of maintenance, and training, or they go a little...bonkers...yeah, that's a good word!
Their response?
"We'll deal with it later."
REALLY RIGHT NOW?!
Well, as you have probably figured out, "later" never came. Leo's behavior got worse, because he was never taught what not to do, or how to act. He was never socialized with other dogs, or people. Eventually, they decided that they couldn't "deal with him" because he was "dangerous". (He wasn't dangerous. Just bored out of his skull.) He ran over their grandkid, he nipped, he jumped on people, he destroyed everything he could get his teeth on; he was just...bonkers. So, they decided to get rid of him.
I just...
Grrr...
My sister and I said, "No, you're not!"
She decided to take him in, and help him. He needed a lot of it. The only problem with her having him was that she was working 12-hour days, and the roommates she had weren't exactly...responsible enough for her to trust to take care of him when she wasn't there, so he continued with the destructive behavior, even though he did make a vast improvement. When she was home, he was an angel, but he reverted as soon as she left. It was an unhealthy cycle that eventually stressed them both out. Then, he jumped into her neighbor's yard, one day, and her neighbor threatened to shoot Leo. That went over like a ton of bricks, and Leo came back here, under my care.
I have been his official owner, now, for about 3 months and he is a completely different dog. He gets regular exercise. He has rules and boundaries, and he is disciplined when he's being a dick. He's bitten me, a couple times, because he was never properly socialized, he's destroyed (and I mean d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d) some of my things. He's chased my cats. He's done all kinds of things that people usually send their pets to the pound for.
I didn't.
I stuck with him, and I pushed through the frustration and the tears, and even the blood, and one day it just clicked. We had a bond, and I was the pack leader. It wasn't easy, and I still consider him a "work in progress", but I've seen enough of a change in him to be able to see that light at the end of the tunnel. I was exhausted and sore, and frustrated beyond belief for the first couple weeks, but I stuck to my guns, and I didn't give him an inch, and now the jumping has all but stopped, the chewing only happens when he doesn't get his daily run, the charging after kids/other dogs/cats has slowed (with the exception of my orange tabby, with whom Leo likes to play tag...there is nothing funnier than an 8-pound-cat chasing a 100-pound-dog around the yard).
That's what I'm trying to tell you people who like to pick up and dump animals left-and-right. To those of you who get rid of animals because they destroyed your favorite shoes, or because they grew out of being "cute, or because you're simply bored with them, or because they got diarrhea on your new carpet, or because you had a baby. The animals only act out because you let them. Period.
If you cannot take control of a lesser-species, how the hell do you expect to be successful as a manager, or a parent?
...?
Seriously, though, if you can't control your dog, how the hell are you going to control a group of humans who are probably smarter than you?
Yes that was harsh. Yes, I probably insulted you. No, I don't care.
When it comes down to the choice between a human's feelings and an animal's well-being, I will side with the animal. Every. Time.
Honor your commitment to your four-, two-, no-legged pets.
Yes, there are times when it is in the best interest of the animal that you give up ownership to somebody who is more capable of caring for them. But none of those reasons are ever because you WANT to. Those reasons only come out of need, and those reasons will break your heart, every time.
I've had to rehome pets in my lifetime, because I was homeless, or because my Big Boy (my oldest tabby) was getting attacked. I rehomed a pitbull, because I was living with people who wanted to start a dog-fighting ring, and I had nowhere else to live. I have never rehomed an animal because they were an inconvenience. And, I have cried, as each one of those animals walked out my front door for the last time.
If it doesn't break your heart to "get rid" of them, then don't get rid of them. Find another way to fix whatever problem you're having with them. Change your own routine. Do whatever you possibly can to care for them, and then some, because that's what you signed up for.
Don't back out of the contract because of a little bit of adversity. Cleaning diarrhea out of the carpeting, replacing chewed up shoes, repairing window screens and, yes, even whole doors, are all small potatoes when you consider that no matter how shitty your day was, no matter how many people screamed at you, or how worthless the outside world made you feel, to that animal, you are the one. You are it. You are literally their whole world and they rely on you for their food, their shelter, their drink of water. They don't play unless they play with you. They greet you at the door with open hearts and wagging tails, and lots of kitty purrs, in my case. You're their best-friend, and they will never, ever turn their back on you for anything, ever...
Even when you turn your back on them.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Police Officers: Heroes in Blue, or Villains with Guns?
I want to start this one off by redirecting you to a local news page that posted a video of a incident that occurred last year. I want you to especially concentrate on the comments section of that video. It is...amazing, to say the least.
https://www.facebook.com/KOAA/posts/10203286864874680
Now, I want to direct your attention to my comment; I so very badly wanted to continue my rant, but I decided to turn it into a blog discussion, instead. Yes, I said "discussion". I want to hear from my readers, whomever you are, whether you agree or not. Do you think the officer did the right thing?
For a different perspective, here's another link:
http://www.centredaily.com/2014/03/04/4066904/video-albuquerque-officer-shot.html
This article states, "Ortega is not seen holding a gun in the video...".
That is false. You can clearly see him toss the firearm over the van as he runs.
This is the comment I left on my local News crew's Facebook post about this incident, after reading through the nearly 100 comments:
"Good lord. A lot of hostility toward cops in this thread. I truly hope that none of you ever needs help from the police...wow.
The being said, I absolutely think the officer did the right thing in this instance. He, and other officers, are trained to "Protect and Serve", and to enforce the law. This man BROKE several laws and put people's lives in danger...
If the officer would have let this man go, and he would have been allowed to continue committing crimes, the argument would be that the officer was "negligent". Since he was shot and taken into custody, the officer is suddenly deemed "overzealous"? Really???
Are there crooked cops, and egomaniacs behind the badge? Absolutely, just as there are egomaniacs behind the keyboard (as this comment thread proves).
I absolutely cannot stand this attitude the public takes toward the men and women who protect us. They put on vests and load their weapons, and keep *your* children safe, all while praying to make it home to *theirs*. It's amazing how one group of people can be, simultaneously, the heroes AND the villains...how does that work?"
I'd love to elaborate upon that, further. Here is my full opinion of the police: They are heroes. Period.
These are men and women who put their lives on the line to help complete strangers through difficult times. They dry the tears of abused and battered women. They provide teddy bears to children who have just watched their house burn down. They stop and help stranded motorists along-side busy, treacherous roads. They are out in the elements 365 days a year. No matter what is going on in their personal lives, no matter how bad the weather is, how icy the roads are, how bad that flu is kicking their asses, how deep the flood-waters are...they are there, with the courage to help their community.
They are not teddy bears, themselves. They are armed public servants. They protect their community with deadly force when it is required. When the wolf comes howling at your door, you call the police, because simply the thought of someone coming to your rescue is comforting. They are sheepdogs, overlooking their flock, because they really, truly, just want you to be safe. They want your children to be able to play in the yard without fear of getting kidnapped. They want you to walk to the corner store without fear that you are going to get killed.
Yet, somehow, somewhere along the road, they've become Villains; arch enemies of the people. Children in elementary schools are being taught to fear and loathe the police, by their (no doubt) criminal parents. They are being taught to hate the very people who have the means to help them.
Whaaaa???
I just...
Wow.
Yes, officers sometimes make mistakes. They are human. I truly believe, however, that in the heat of any potentially scary moment, the first instinct is usually the best decision. Could the officer have done something differently? No. In that moment, he did what he believed was the absolute best thing: he stopped a dangerous criminal from going loose, back into society, the quickest way he could. He shot him.
Now, six months later, the media has gotten hold of the tape, and are starting to sling adjectives around. They are calling the man dangerous, "trigger-happy", negligent, overzealous...etc...
(I have to stop here. I need a deep breath, or I'm going to explode...)
It's easy to look back at any situation, from the comfort of an office chair, and say, "That could have been handled more efficiently." However, until you've been placed in the exact scenario, you can never know what that officer was thinking, or feeling, in the seconds before he pulled the trigger and stopped a dangerous fugitive in his tracks.
It's easy to place blame on the officers, because to be frank, officers are easy marks. It's easy to blame them for all the things that have gone poorly in your life:
Late for work? "Damn cop should have just let me go. He didn't *have* to stop me. Surely there are worse things out there than speeders!"
Find yourself landed in a jail cell? "Fuckin' PIG! He could have just let me go! Surely there are worse things out there than drunks."
Got a ticket:? "Jesus Christ! Why did that asshole have to stop me? It's only a headlight!"
...it's easy to redirect blame. It's easy NOT to take responsibility for our own actions. Cops are easy to hate, simply because of the nature of the job. They, in the very basest sense, are professional scolders. Whenever you do something wrong, and get caught, there they are in all their uniformed glory to tell you exactly what you did, and make you pay for it. Nobody likes being scolded, and nobody likes being disciplined.
What nobody considers is what the police officers have seen earlier in the shift, what they've gone through in their careers that make them so hardened, so unlikely to "let things slide."
The public doesn't see the dead pedestrian, caused by a car going too fast to stop at the red light.
We don't see the carnage of a fatal accident, where the driver was drunk; the child who is now parent-less.
We don't see the wife-beater who got away, simply because the license plate lights on his car were out.
We just don't SEE...
I get so very pissed off at people when they trash-talk the police. Perhaps it's because I have friends who are officers, or perhaps it's because my uncle was a Deputy for a short time...or maybe it's just because I was raised right.
Don't take me the wrong way. I'm not an angel. I have my fair share of speeding tickets. I have a misdemeanor on my record. You know why? Because I screwed up. Me. Not them. I am pissed at myself for doing something stupid, not them for doing their jobs...
Until we are thrust into the same situations that the men and women in blue deal with, everyday, for 20 years or more, we cannot understand the split-second decisions they make. Until we walk in their shoes, we cannot judge them for their mistakes. Until we wear the badge, we should leave the Kangaroos out of the Courts.
https://www.facebook.com/KOAA/posts/10203286864874680
Now, I want to direct your attention to my comment; I so very badly wanted to continue my rant, but I decided to turn it into a blog discussion, instead. Yes, I said "discussion". I want to hear from my readers, whomever you are, whether you agree or not. Do you think the officer did the right thing?
For a different perspective, here's another link:
http://www.centredaily.com/2014/03/04/4066904/video-albuquerque-officer-shot.html
This article states, "Ortega is not seen holding a gun in the video...".
That is false. You can clearly see him toss the firearm over the van as he runs.
This is the comment I left on my local News crew's Facebook post about this incident, after reading through the nearly 100 comments:
"Good lord. A lot of hostility toward cops in this thread. I truly hope that none of you ever needs help from the police...wow.
The being said, I absolutely think the officer did the right thing in this instance. He, and other officers, are trained to "Protect and Serve", and to enforce the law. This man BROKE several laws and put people's lives in danger...
If the officer would have let this man go, and he would have been allowed to continue committing crimes, the argument would be that the officer was "negligent". Since he was shot and taken into custody, the officer is suddenly deemed "overzealous"? Really???
Are there crooked cops, and egomaniacs behind the badge? Absolutely, just as there are egomaniacs behind the keyboard (as this comment thread proves).
I absolutely cannot stand this attitude the public takes toward the men and women who protect us. They put on vests and load their weapons, and keep *your* children safe, all while praying to make it home to *theirs*. It's amazing how one group of people can be, simultaneously, the heroes AND the villains...how does that work?"
I'd love to elaborate upon that, further. Here is my full opinion of the police: They are heroes. Period.
These are men and women who put their lives on the line to help complete strangers through difficult times. They dry the tears of abused and battered women. They provide teddy bears to children who have just watched their house burn down. They stop and help stranded motorists along-side busy, treacherous roads. They are out in the elements 365 days a year. No matter what is going on in their personal lives, no matter how bad the weather is, how icy the roads are, how bad that flu is kicking their asses, how deep the flood-waters are...they are there, with the courage to help their community.
They are not teddy bears, themselves. They are armed public servants. They protect their community with deadly force when it is required. When the wolf comes howling at your door, you call the police, because simply the thought of someone coming to your rescue is comforting. They are sheepdogs, overlooking their flock, because they really, truly, just want you to be safe. They want your children to be able to play in the yard without fear of getting kidnapped. They want you to walk to the corner store without fear that you are going to get killed.
Yet, somehow, somewhere along the road, they've become Villains; arch enemies of the people. Children in elementary schools are being taught to fear and loathe the police, by their (no doubt) criminal parents. They are being taught to hate the very people who have the means to help them.
Whaaaa???
I just...
Wow.
Yes, officers sometimes make mistakes. They are human. I truly believe, however, that in the heat of any potentially scary moment, the first instinct is usually the best decision. Could the officer have done something differently? No. In that moment, he did what he believed was the absolute best thing: he stopped a dangerous criminal from going loose, back into society, the quickest way he could. He shot him.
Now, six months later, the media has gotten hold of the tape, and are starting to sling adjectives around. They are calling the man dangerous, "trigger-happy", negligent, overzealous...etc...
(I have to stop here. I need a deep breath, or I'm going to explode...)
It's easy to look back at any situation, from the comfort of an office chair, and say, "That could have been handled more efficiently." However, until you've been placed in the exact scenario, you can never know what that officer was thinking, or feeling, in the seconds before he pulled the trigger and stopped a dangerous fugitive in his tracks.
It's easy to place blame on the officers, because to be frank, officers are easy marks. It's easy to blame them for all the things that have gone poorly in your life:
Late for work? "Damn cop should have just let me go. He didn't *have* to stop me. Surely there are worse things out there than speeders!"
Find yourself landed in a jail cell? "Fuckin' PIG! He could have just let me go! Surely there are worse things out there than drunks."
Got a ticket:? "Jesus Christ! Why did that asshole have to stop me? It's only a headlight!"
...it's easy to redirect blame. It's easy NOT to take responsibility for our own actions. Cops are easy to hate, simply because of the nature of the job. They, in the very basest sense, are professional scolders. Whenever you do something wrong, and get caught, there they are in all their uniformed glory to tell you exactly what you did, and make you pay for it. Nobody likes being scolded, and nobody likes being disciplined.
What nobody considers is what the police officers have seen earlier in the shift, what they've gone through in their careers that make them so hardened, so unlikely to "let things slide."
The public doesn't see the dead pedestrian, caused by a car going too fast to stop at the red light.
We don't see the carnage of a fatal accident, where the driver was drunk; the child who is now parent-less.
We don't see the wife-beater who got away, simply because the license plate lights on his car were out.
We just don't SEE...
I get so very pissed off at people when they trash-talk the police. Perhaps it's because I have friends who are officers, or perhaps it's because my uncle was a Deputy for a short time...or maybe it's just because I was raised right.
Don't take me the wrong way. I'm not an angel. I have my fair share of speeding tickets. I have a misdemeanor on my record. You know why? Because I screwed up. Me. Not them. I am pissed at myself for doing something stupid, not them for doing their jobs...
Until we are thrust into the same situations that the men and women in blue deal with, everyday, for 20 years or more, we cannot understand the split-second decisions they make. Until we walk in their shoes, we cannot judge them for their mistakes. Until we wear the badge, we should leave the Kangaroos out of the Courts.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Day two
So, after my little mental breakdown last night, I broke down and bought a pack of cigarettes with the last of my change.
Yeah.
I'm still quitting, but I've decided to take baby steps. I smoked one before bed, after I removed the nicotine patch, and I smoked one this morning, before I put a new patch on. (I can't wear nicotine patches for 24 hours because they give me nasty, vivid, wake-up-screaming nightmares.)
It's helped. I'm less jittery, and my mind is more calm than it was yesterday. Christ that sucked, so much. I'm surprised I got to sleep, at all. It felt like my mind was being invaded by a thousand urges, and not one of them were my own. Never want to experience that again, thanks!
I've had a couple really strong cravings, today, and I've "treated" those with a few drags off a cigarette; just enough to mellow the urge, and take the edge off. The little "nic-fits" I let slide. Those I can talk myself out of, or distract myself from. I'm using the nic-fits to clean. I get a craving, I start cleaning. There's one thing I hate worse than cigarette cravings and that's washing windows. It's a punishment, and a reward, all at once. At least my house will be spotless by the time this is all over.
I'm going to start tomorrow off by going outside and smoking. Once my ashtray is removed from sight, and smell, I think I'll have less of an urge to smoke. It's pretty cold out, this time of year, at 5,000 ft above sea level. That should be a deterrent all on its own. Besides, my orange cat hates smoke, so I'll be doing him a favor, too.
I actually felt really guilty when the clerk handed me that pack of cigarettes; as if I was letting myself down, somehow. Once I sat back and actually thought about it, the reason I got that pack is because I was discouraged. I know that if I had had another day like yesterday, I would have given up and gone back to smoking a pack per day. I know myself well enough to know that if something makes me miserable, I stop doing it.
I'm crossing my fingers that I'm able to follow through, this time. Blogging about it is actually helpful, so I'll keep doing that. I've also upped my caffeine intake, so that will help with the ADD symptoms. It's hard to drink coffee without smoking a cigarette, though, so that's a hurdle all its own.
Day two, half-way over; 12 more to go!
(14 days is the time-frame most psychologists give for starting new habits, and that's the way I'm looking at it. I'm not breaking an old habit, I'm starting a new one.)
Yeah.
I'm still quitting, but I've decided to take baby steps. I smoked one before bed, after I removed the nicotine patch, and I smoked one this morning, before I put a new patch on. (I can't wear nicotine patches for 24 hours because they give me nasty, vivid, wake-up-screaming nightmares.)
It's helped. I'm less jittery, and my mind is more calm than it was yesterday. Christ that sucked, so much. I'm surprised I got to sleep, at all. It felt like my mind was being invaded by a thousand urges, and not one of them were my own. Never want to experience that again, thanks!
I've had a couple really strong cravings, today, and I've "treated" those with a few drags off a cigarette; just enough to mellow the urge, and take the edge off. The little "nic-fits" I let slide. Those I can talk myself out of, or distract myself from. I'm using the nic-fits to clean. I get a craving, I start cleaning. There's one thing I hate worse than cigarette cravings and that's washing windows. It's a punishment, and a reward, all at once. At least my house will be spotless by the time this is all over.
I'm going to start tomorrow off by going outside and smoking. Once my ashtray is removed from sight, and smell, I think I'll have less of an urge to smoke. It's pretty cold out, this time of year, at 5,000 ft above sea level. That should be a deterrent all on its own. Besides, my orange cat hates smoke, so I'll be doing him a favor, too.
I actually felt really guilty when the clerk handed me that pack of cigarettes; as if I was letting myself down, somehow. Once I sat back and actually thought about it, the reason I got that pack is because I was discouraged. I know that if I had had another day like yesterday, I would have given up and gone back to smoking a pack per day. I know myself well enough to know that if something makes me miserable, I stop doing it.
I'm crossing my fingers that I'm able to follow through, this time. Blogging about it is actually helpful, so I'll keep doing that. I've also upped my caffeine intake, so that will help with the ADD symptoms. It's hard to drink coffee without smoking a cigarette, though, so that's a hurdle all its own.
Day two, half-way over; 12 more to go!
(14 days is the time-frame most psychologists give for starting new habits, and that's the way I'm looking at it. I'm not breaking an old habit, I'm starting a new one.)
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Thank You for NOT Smoking
Does anybody have a drill I can borrow, to bore a hole in my head, and let the minions out?
Christ this sucks.
I have Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I was actually diagnosed when I was very young, about 5 or 6, so it's not just "Oh Shiny Syndrome", though I have that too!
I've noticed a slight increase in my symptoms over the past year. I'm having more problems focusing on a task, but when I do finally focus, it's getting harder for me to pull myself away from it than it used to be. I daze off into La La Land, more often, and it's harder to track conversations. I get burned out, more easily, by menial, repetitive tasks, so keeping a job is extremely difficult. It's really hard to get me to do anything I don't have an interest in. However, if I find a task that I find stimulating, I spend "too much" time doing it...like the 6 hours I spent reorganizing the candy display at my most-recent retail job. Yeah, boss-lady was *not* happy!
One of those misunderstood things about ADD is that Hyper-Focus is actually a very popular symptom, as is inability to follow directions in the order they were given.
For example, if you suspect that your child has ADD (doubtful; s/he's probably just being a kid), ask them to do a series of tasks: clean your room, take a shower, brush your teeth, change into your pajamas. If they do everything in order, and completely, they're aliens. That's a joke. I digress...
If, when you check on your kiddo, they have their PJ bottoms on, before the shower, and they're standing in the middle of their still-messy room, with a toothbrush in their mouth, looking confused, they might just have ADD. Note that I'm not in any way a medical professional, so...y'know, be a responsible parent and take your kid to the doctor, instead of taking the word of some random blogger...just sayin'.
ADD is treated with stimulants. I don't believe in taking a pill for any minor disorder that has to do with the mind. I believe that the mind is it's own most powerful medicine. (There's exceptions...just overall...)
Mind over matter, right?
HA! Nope.
I did a lot of research as I got into middle school, and my symptoms started becoming "weird" to the other kids. I, like most other young people, just wanted to fit in, so I bottled up my urges, I bridled my impulses, and I kept my mouth shut. Coincidentally, I had a lot of headaches when I was a teenager, and I tended to explode in fits of temporary psychosis...just ask my mother. I was fucking crazy.
I learned that caffeine is a great treatment for mild ADD, which is what I consider myself having; haven't been back to a doctor to check the "severity", ever, so...I take my word for it. After all, I know me best, right? Meh, in theory.
So, I started drinking coffee when I was 11. Yup. I've been a coffee-drinker, ever since. Coffee, especially that which is high in caffeine, like espresso, is...awesome. Just awesome. I love it. It helps bring me back down to Earth, and it quiets the thoughts in my head. It also stops that weird tingly feeling in my hands, and keeps me from fidgeting as much as I normally would...
SO! Now that we're done with the back-story...
Nicotine is also a stimulant.
Ain't that just the shit.
I've decided to quit smoking.
For the past, oh, 15 years or so, I've been a smoker. I've come to the conclusion (which may be a bit premature, considering this is my first day, but...) that I have been treating my ADD with two stimulants, over the years, not just caffeine. The blend of coffee and cigarettes has kept the worst of my symptoms tampered down.
Today has been brutal. I can't concentrate on anything. I feel like I'm half-asleep from the nicotine withdrawals, but my mind is going 9000 miles per hour. I can't get my leg to stop shaking, and my hands are in a desperate search for something to mess with. There's a strong pressure right behind my eyes, I keep getting short, but sharp, headaches, and my thoughts are jumbled and practically incoherent, not to mention LOUD!
Now, despite the fact that I want to drill a hole in my head to vent the pressure, I am still determined to quit smoking. If I have to double-up on the black coffee to do so, then so be it. I want my white teeth and pleasant breath back. I want the yellow stains on my fingernails to go away. I want to live to see my 60th birthday, without being on oxygen. Not to mention, that shit's expensive! Seriously, you figure I smoke a pack a day, which is roughly $5 per pack. $5 x 365 days = $1, 825 per year. Yeah! I spent two months of my minimum wage job, each year, just working for cigarettes. Yikes! What could I have spent that time and money on, instead, I wonder?
This is the end of Day One of being a non-smoker. And might I just say, this shit sucks!
Christ this sucks.
I have Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I was actually diagnosed when I was very young, about 5 or 6, so it's not just "Oh Shiny Syndrome", though I have that too!
I've noticed a slight increase in my symptoms over the past year. I'm having more problems focusing on a task, but when I do finally focus, it's getting harder for me to pull myself away from it than it used to be. I daze off into La La Land, more often, and it's harder to track conversations. I get burned out, more easily, by menial, repetitive tasks, so keeping a job is extremely difficult. It's really hard to get me to do anything I don't have an interest in. However, if I find a task that I find stimulating, I spend "too much" time doing it...like the 6 hours I spent reorganizing the candy display at my most-recent retail job. Yeah, boss-lady was *not* happy!
One of those misunderstood things about ADD is that Hyper-Focus is actually a very popular symptom, as is inability to follow directions in the order they were given.
For example, if you suspect that your child has ADD (doubtful; s/he's probably just being a kid), ask them to do a series of tasks: clean your room, take a shower, brush your teeth, change into your pajamas. If they do everything in order, and completely, they're aliens. That's a joke. I digress...
If, when you check on your kiddo, they have their PJ bottoms on, before the shower, and they're standing in the middle of their still-messy room, with a toothbrush in their mouth, looking confused, they might just have ADD. Note that I'm not in any way a medical professional, so...y'know, be a responsible parent and take your kid to the doctor, instead of taking the word of some random blogger...just sayin'.
ADD is treated with stimulants. I don't believe in taking a pill for any minor disorder that has to do with the mind. I believe that the mind is it's own most powerful medicine. (There's exceptions...just overall...)
Mind over matter, right?
HA! Nope.
I did a lot of research as I got into middle school, and my symptoms started becoming "weird" to the other kids. I, like most other young people, just wanted to fit in, so I bottled up my urges, I bridled my impulses, and I kept my mouth shut. Coincidentally, I had a lot of headaches when I was a teenager, and I tended to explode in fits of temporary psychosis...just ask my mother. I was fucking crazy.
I learned that caffeine is a great treatment for mild ADD, which is what I consider myself having; haven't been back to a doctor to check the "severity", ever, so...I take my word for it. After all, I know me best, right? Meh, in theory.
So, I started drinking coffee when I was 11. Yup. I've been a coffee-drinker, ever since. Coffee, especially that which is high in caffeine, like espresso, is...awesome. Just awesome. I love it. It helps bring me back down to Earth, and it quiets the thoughts in my head. It also stops that weird tingly feeling in my hands, and keeps me from fidgeting as much as I normally would...
SO! Now that we're done with the back-story...
Nicotine is also a stimulant.
Ain't that just the shit.
I've decided to quit smoking.
For the past, oh, 15 years or so, I've been a smoker. I've come to the conclusion (which may be a bit premature, considering this is my first day, but...) that I have been treating my ADD with two stimulants, over the years, not just caffeine. The blend of coffee and cigarettes has kept the worst of my symptoms tampered down.
Today has been brutal. I can't concentrate on anything. I feel like I'm half-asleep from the nicotine withdrawals, but my mind is going 9000 miles per hour. I can't get my leg to stop shaking, and my hands are in a desperate search for something to mess with. There's a strong pressure right behind my eyes, I keep getting short, but sharp, headaches, and my thoughts are jumbled and practically incoherent, not to mention LOUD!
Now, despite the fact that I want to drill a hole in my head to vent the pressure, I am still determined to quit smoking. If I have to double-up on the black coffee to do so, then so be it. I want my white teeth and pleasant breath back. I want the yellow stains on my fingernails to go away. I want to live to see my 60th birthday, without being on oxygen. Not to mention, that shit's expensive! Seriously, you figure I smoke a pack a day, which is roughly $5 per pack. $5 x 365 days = $1, 825 per year. Yeah! I spent two months of my minimum wage job, each year, just working for cigarettes. Yikes! What could I have spent that time and money on, instead, I wonder?
This is the end of Day One of being a non-smoker. And might I just say, this shit sucks!
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Obligation and Entitlement
Men, please, just....listen for a minute, would ya? This is going to come off condescending as fuck, I'm sure, but I don't give a damn. Haven't had my coffee, yet, so you can just...get over it or die pissed off. Either way, not my problem.
And, women, there's something in here for you, too! And it isn't going to be much nicer...
:)
Onto the topic of the day!
Entitlement and Obligation. Both these states of being piss me off, to no end. There are a lot of different variations to both of them, but I'm going to focus on dating, and more specifically SEX!
I'm a slut. I know that, most of my friends know that, and I've developed a reputation as "the girl to call when you're horny," which I find extremely entertaining...but that's a whole 'notha blog post.
I have a FetLife profile. For those who don't know, FetLife is a social networking community dedicated, in the simplest terms, to letting your freak flag fly. It's a place where folks in the BDSM lifestyle can go and not be ridiculed or...well, feared. (They're not as scary as people think they are. Promise.) It's also a place for folks like myself, who like a little kink in the bedroom, but can't fully commit to being a Dom or a Sub, to meet people and share experiences with. It's a welcoming place for society's so-called "underbelly". It's pretty freaking awesome, actually. ...but it's not without it's faults.
I have pictures of my naughty bits posted on said profile. Men have this strange idea that because they've seen a picture of my pussy that they are somehow ENTITLED to getting to see it in person. They think that because they came into a tissue over it, that they should be able to come inside of it. Vulgar, yes? *nods*
That's a false sense of entitlement.
No, I don't have to sleep with you, just because you deem it necessary, because of something you saw on the fucking internet. I don't. My body is mine, motherfucker. You have zero...let me say that again: ZERO rights to it. Period. I decide what I do with it. I am not obligated to you in any fashion, whatsoever.
I saw your cock, dude. Doesn't mean I expect to jump right on it. The difference is, I wouldn't try. Why? Because, despite the circumstances behind how I met you, you are a goddamn person. You have feelings and dreams and insecurities and...a life outside the bedroom! What, what?!
Guess what, douche, I'm a person, too. Yes, to the horror of many men, women are real people. We have real emotions and real thoughts and real opinions...and a real foot to shove up your ass, when you push us too far. Trust me, sweetie, no matter how tough and "Dominate" you think you are, a size 9 steel-toe boot to the balls will drop you. And I will do it with a smile on my face, if you corner me.
"But you put your pussy online. If you don't fuck me, that's false advertising." ...*takes a deep breath*
I'm not a car, dickhead. I'm not "advertising" anything. I posted pictures of myself because I'm proud of my body, every single piece of it. I did it for me. Not you. Got it? (No, probably not...)
"If you don't fuck me, you're just a tease." ... (Really, right now?)
Ok, A) I never said I wasn't going to fuck you, ever. I like being tied up and vulnerable during sex. I will not do that with someone I do not know. Period. If I don't trust you, you're not binding me... and B) If you think I'm teasing you, that's your problem, not mine. I never give false expectations. I have never, ever, said to a man "Come fuck me!" and not followed through. I have a list of guys who can back me up on that. (Keep up the bullshit and you won't ever, never ever, be on that list. Promise!)
Men, you need to get off your fucking high horses and come back down to reality. You are not entitled to jack shit that you haven't earned. Sex is a big fucking deal. A huge deal. It's not just rutting and cumming. It's trust and release, and vulnerability, for both sides. If you can't grasp the fact that emotions will be involved, especially when it's good, then stay out of the pussy and practice grasping your own cock til you grow the fuck up.
Ok, guys, go lick your wounds while I tear into my fellow females.
First of all... What the hell are y'all thinking?!
Stop fucking guys just because you think it's going to keep them around. Stop fucking guys because you think you have to, because you sent them a picture of your boobies...or other parts. Doesn't matter. Stop doing things that you know you're going to regret immediately afterward! Just STOP!
I've consoled many a friend, many times, because they regretted sleeping with a guy. The most popular reasoning I get, when I ask "Why'd you do it, then?" is: "Because he would think I was a tease if I didn't."...
So fucking what?!
Never ever, EVER!, do anything you don't want to do. To me, that's easy, now. There was a time when I was insecure and wanted to make people like me, so I feel ya! Sex is closeness to another human being, on a level you cannot experience anywhere else... It feels like the man really likes you, in the moment, and that, especially for an insecure person, is strengthening... Guess what, though? Your ability to lay on your back and spread your legs doesn't make men like you! It simply makes them like to cum when you're around. Vulgar, yes? *nods*
Stop being easy. Jesus.
I'm a "slut". ...I think I've mentioned that before...
I like sex. So, I get it, really, I do. Sex is great, and it's exhilarating and it's...just fun! Endorphines rock, dude! Sex is a good, healthy thing, when it's done for the right reasons!
Sex becomes not fun when you do it for the wrong reasons, i.e. because the guy expects it, and you feel obligated to live up to his expectations. Fuck his expectations right to hell. And fuck you for being a little bitch and not standing up for what you want. And deserve! Grow a pair and realize that this world will not stop turning if one penis doesn't enter your vagina. I promise, it won't.
Your body is yours, ladies. Yours. Not his. Not your mother's, even though they like to think that they own it, because it came out of their uterus. Nope. Sorry, Ma. It's ours. Fuck off.
And, hey, if some douche stops talking to you, because you didn't fall on his dick out of obligation or insecurity, that's his problem. Not yours. If he wants pussy that bad, he can call an escort service and pay for it, or he can go without. Won't kill him.
Another thing! Stop agreeing to sleep with them, without protection, if you don't want to. "But baby it feels so good!" ...yeah, you know what else feels good? Not having herpes. If you choose to go without a rubber, that's your risk, and I won't fault you for it. I've done it. But don't act shocked when you get an STD, or those two little lines show up on that pregnancy test. You made a decision; live with the consequences.
I feel like I'm pandering to teenagers, because it seems like common sense to me. Don't force yourself on anybody, by the use of guilt, and don't give in to make them like you. Treat others like you want to be treated...
Better yet! Ladies, behave as if you would want your daughter to behave, were she put in a similar situation. Would you want her to lay down, just because she showed her tits to a guy and she felt obligated and pressured? ...Think about that for a minute. Let that anger and shame get you worked up. Now, hold onto that feeling and harness it for the next time you decide to lay down for a man you don't want to lay down for.
And, guys...you still here?... Treat women like you would want men to treat your daughter. Simplicity at its finest. If some jackass told your daughter that she was obligated to sleep with them, because she sent them a picture of her tits, you'd probably want to kill them, or at least make them bleed, right? (If you're a good Dad, then the answer is a resounding YES!) Then why the fuck are you doing it to someone else's daughter?!
Oh, and just a little PS, at the end here: Ladies and gentlemen, if both parties aren't fully involved in the consent to sexual activities, be it second-thoughts, or inebriation, or whatever the case may be, that's rape. If a woman says STOP halfway through intercourse, and you don't stop, fellas, that's rape. Ladies, if a guy decides that he doesn't want to fuck you, even after he's hard, but you jump on anyway, that's rape! Don't go there. Just...stop. The orgasm is not worth breaking somebody's spirit.
I could go on for hours about this shit, and maybe I'll post another blog about it, once I've had coffee and nicotine, but for now, let's just not be a dick, K?
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