Okay, I’m literally starting to feel like my office is out to get me. I already jabbered enough last week about my “people issues” and what not, but let me tell you about the latest development. They’ve made the front door too heavy for me to open.
No seriously.
The fixer dude put in an automatic door closer dealie. Said dealie is so fucking tight that I either have to jump and yank my entire bodyweight against it (if I’m trying to get in), or throw a high-power ninja kick at it (if I’m trying to get out). The first time I tried to get in, I thought the higher-ups had forgotten to unlock it.
Look, I know I don’t use this often—truth be told, I usually would rather shave my head than use it—but my name is on the fucking building. Shouldn’t I be able to get inside it?!? And shut up you snarkies out there who want to make it all about me being to little/light. I have sufficient body mass to open a G-damn door.
Right, so my office hates me, it’s fine. Let’s move on.
I got hair!!! LOL. The hair fairy visited me, and I ended up with extensions down to my hips. It’s hot, especially when I’m only wearing heels and underwear…hehe. I have no idea how long I’m going to keep them, but they’re fun for the moment.
In other news, my g’rents are off on their annual trip south. I enjoy being able to use the bathtub, but I otherwise find the entire situation depressing. I realize I’m in my own apartment, separate from their living space, but I do miss them. Even when I don’t go up to visit them, I can hear them. This place is too…quiet, I guess, alone.
Or maybe I’m just lonely. ;)
I read an article in Slate today. It caught my attention while I read something Lauren sent me on why not everyone likes Little Miss Sunshine. (Thanks again, babe.) Right there, on the sidebar, there was this headline screaming something about loose women. The entire connotation of “loose” in that sentence cracks my shit up. I mean, seriously, did someone not do their kegels enough or what?
Whatever the situation may be, the article discussed a book called Unhooked: How Young Women Pursue Sex, Delay Love, and Lose at Both. Said book’s author, Laura Sessions Stepp seems to think that by talking to a couple of college students, she’s come to this fantastically new and charming conclusion about young women and their hook-ups. That’s actually a lie. Well, not the young women and hook-ups part, but the fantastically new and charming part. Misogynistic and arcane is more correct.
I plan on looking more into both the author and her text in the future. I would be researching it as we speak, but my internet is on the fritz—and you’re crazy if you think I’m getting my ass off the couch long enough to miss a second of Grey’s Anatomy—so I’ll make sure to write a part two on this little rant.
Until then, I’m going to have to say just a couple of things right quick.
First and for most, people, we need to have a little talk about sex. (…baby. Let’s talk about you and…er…sorry. Moving on.)
Sex’s primary function is for reproduction. Right, I think we can all agree on that point. The primary way of making sure us crazy humans procreate as much as possible? The reason we drop our shame and basic dignity by getting naked and sweaty…and sometimes super gross and dirty? Sex feels good.
Concept.
Look, I get not having an organism…I get not having good sex and sex used for hurt. I get all the messed-up, backwards, physical and mental blockages that can happen because of sex. But in it’s most primeval, basic form, sex feels good. Even if no body’s cuming and someone’s too little, or too *ahem* loose, or too big, or whatever, it still feels good. And who doesn’t like to feel good? Who doesn’t like to feel connected? No one, that’s who!
And yes, sex between two people who care very much about one another can be a simply beautiful thing that is in no way comparable to anything else in this world—that I have experienced, at least. But even with sex between those two people, there are times when lust prevails and the sex is simply an itch to be scratched. It’s simply about getting off. And it’s great and wonderful and fantastic that after getting off, you have the security of that care and/or love there to hold you. But you have no idea what one is without the other.
So when a young girl freshly independent and on her own sees something she likes—whether drunk or sober—and decides to get some, who the hell is anyone to tell her that she’s wrong. Who the hell is ALLOWED to tell her that the choice she’s making is going to make her less of a woman, less of a possible marriage candidate? Again, no one, that’s who! When she wakes up, or years later, she gets to decide. She gets to look at what happened and decide whether or not the residue was worth the pleasure. Not me or you or any crazy author who thinks that anyone with a vagina doesn’t get to play and should stay at home baking goodies for that elusive Mr. Right.
I’m also pissed that there was no mention of the reverse (Hello, you’re trying to tell me a girl who likes to get off is losing out on her future as a wife—do to intimacy issues—but a guy who likes to get off is simply carving out his perfect form of being her husband?? Yeah, no, I don’t think so, fuckers.) in the Slate article. Now, while that could simply be a fault of the reviewer and not the book itself, I generally find Slate very well rounded about such things and severely doubt it.
More to come on this one, kiddies.
In four days, I’ll officially be twenty-four years old. That’s almost a quarter of a century. It makes me think about all the things that I’ve done. It also makes me think of all the things I haven’t done. And…funnily enough, that’s it. I would expect to be sitting here pondering about other people my age and what they’ve done and haven’t done. I’m not. Maturity there, rearing it’s ugly head? Maybe.
But I think it may be something more than that. There is something there…just off in the distance, that I can almost see. Something…more? Maybe. Maybe there’s something more for me, something waiting for me, something wonderful and meaningful left for me to do.
Then again, maybe it’s just maturity. ;)
(Oscar picks up before Sunday night.)
Quote of the Moment: [on Sex & the City]“It’s like fake porn. Like, please watch our show, porn. The whole reason Eva Longoria has a job, porn.”
Soundtrack of the Moment: The Strokes’, “What Ever Happened?”
TV/Movie Quote: Friends—The One in Massapequa :
Parker: I'm sorry if I put a good spin on everything. It's who I am, I'm a positive person.
Phoebe: No, I'm a positive person. You're like Santa Claus...on prozac...in Disney Land! Getting laid!
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