The Inherent Possibility of the Good Christian Boy

I recently decided to take a break from the dating world. It being summer, I wasn’t likely to meet any new prospects anyway and I wanted to continue my detox from my latest endeavors. My mom knows that I have trouble finding prospects in better circumstances (Working 99% of weekends and generally being a recluse will do that) so she asked her coworkers if they could think of anyone to set me up with. Only one came back with her daughter’s ex. The only description my mom and I got was that he was a Good Christian Boy.

            Of course, she was trying to cast him in the best light possible. God knows how she described me to him or my mom to her, for that matter. However unbeknownst to her, I’m a closet agnostic with bad past experiences with Christianity. So I’m probably one of the only people in Arkansas who would react to that with slight trepidation.

            My mom’s aware of both these things and initially we reacted skeptically at her coworker’s suggestion and basically shrugged it off.  Then, I receive word that GCB is actually interested and some Facebook finagling is going to be attempted to bring us into contact.

            I reacted with another dose of the aforementioned trepidation and my usual disbelief when confronted with a boy who might Like me. Then, I kinda warmed up to the idea. I wondered what he was told about me and assured myself that Christian probably wasn’t his defining trait. Plus, I try to be open-minded and give people a chance. (Up to a point, no chance for you, hobo)  

          As I have sat on this blog post refining it, at least a week has gone by since those conversations and I have no new updates. The entire issue has the possibility of fading into the background. Indeed, I had barely thought about it except for the time it took to write this. Sometimes, I don’t know if these flashes in the pan keep me sane or contribute to my madness. Whether they taunt me or provide hope.

It's My Party And I'll Blog If I Want To

I’m finding myself looking forward to my upcoming birthday more than usual. Growing up, I almost dreaded my birthdays. Getting older didn’t bother me. The celebrations were the trouble. I was so settled in my own little bubble, I didn’t know what to do with my meager supply of friends and lack of interest in group activities. My parents usually just took me to the movies sans friends.

For my seventeenth birthday, I got that happy, fuzzy feeling when I had enough acquaintances to have a normal party (I got 11 attendees!). Which was nice and all, but I found myself mainly hanging back and soaking in my perceived popularity instead of joining in very much.

My last birthday consisted of a low key affair that I’m more suited for and I’m planning on repeating with my nineteenth. So I’m not anticipating being the center of attention at a big shindig.  

Personally, I believe eighteen is starting to feel like a naïve age that I want to outgrow. I started it out feeling all mature and like I actually had my shit together. Then, I finally entered the dating scene and realized that I’m probably not as mature as I thought I was. For one, I went fairly far with any guy who provided an opportunity (there were only three, I only had sex with two and not a single one was very good). I put up with far too much shit in my first relationship with a guy I wasn’t that attracted to, all because he had a British accent and momentum, I guess. Then, I had my first encounter with a fascinating creature known as The Player™. I managed to (temporarily, thank God) fuck up my interactions with dad due to the aforementioned British Asshole. Word to the wise; make sure your minority boyfriend is worth it before you mention him to your racist Southern father. And I went my entire freshman year of college without finding That Place Where I Belong. I didn’t find any clubs or groups where I fit in, Craft Club notwithstanding. I’m the secretary and I don’t even fucking craft. I made a trapezoid pretending to be a scarf two years ago and that’s about it. I made a total of one friend (who I happen to love, btw) and that’s just because the stress of dealing with British Asshole has the same bonding experience as war.

Maybe I think being nineteen help my character judgment and prevent fuckups in my personal life, not likely. That I’ll be transformed into this cool, mature possibly sophisticated person with her shit actually together. Someone who goes forth into the world and interacts with people and is Part of Something Larger than Herself, without joining some creepy religious cult.

Logically, I know that day is going to come and go without magically making me the person I want to become. But it can mark the passage of another year closer to me finally meeting that person.

Introducing Myself to Mary Jane

          The scene opens on a party. Two groups of young people stand before a bonfire just starting to die down. I stand within a circle of my coworkers, overhearing a conversation after conversation about work.

            Eventually, the rest of my familiars went inside or left. The majority of my acquaintances started heading to one of their cars in a bout of chaos I had a hard time grasping at the time. What I did understand, however, was that I was not going to allow myself to be left behind completely alone with strangers so I raced after them.

            I found myself in the backseat with two other girls. One I worked with and she borderline annoyed me during that time (Let’s call her Sabrina). The other I met that night, Megan. My womanly intuition and the fact that I’m not blind told me that she had some sort of romantic type thing with the driver (or she wished there was, at least). The actual owner of the car sat in the passenger seat. I have decided to name them Josh and Drake, respectively. Due to the illegal nature of this post and the fact that I haven’t consulted them in any way shape or form, I have changed all their names.

            First, the first stop was to Kum N Go. Walking around the store, I had a feeling that I’ve spent awhile searching for, that feeling of late night hijinks with people that could have pretended to be my friends.

            Then, we drove around random streets while Drake prepared the joint. I remember finding the process very ritualistic. He gutted something that looked like a cigarette dressed like a cigar. Then, he packed it with the marijuana carefully and rolled it up. He licked the edge to seal it all together which is kind of gross now that I’m thinking about it.

            I had said earlier that I didn’t want to participate (I usually have an anti-weed policy for myself) so I was initially skipped as the joint made its rounds. However, as I watched its progression, I found myself wanting it. My earlier shots had mostly worn off and I wanted to smile and laugh and feel included.

            So I asked for some and tried my first hit of weed. My attempt wasn’t very successful. Apparently, smoking requires more than inhaling it. You’re supposed to like swallow it into your lungs. I guess to help me, Drake started shotgunning it. That’s where he put the joint in his mouth and inhaled the smoke to blow into the receiver’s mouth. The rest of the hits were consumed this way.

            The rest of the trip kind of blended together. One really hit home just before we stopped at another convenience store so the boys could pee. My throat felt all scratchy, but I had this general happy feeling that must be what being high is.

           So ends the broad strokes tale of my first experience with illegal drugs (besides alcohol). Other things happened. Somehow I had a minor faux pas after saying "Fuck Jesus". Not the best thing to say in the Bible Belt. I'm unaware of how this incident (or any of the others I plan on putting up here)will fit into my larger life story, but I'm gathering the puzzle pieces here. Even if none of them ever match up, but this will certainly be a journey.

Feminism: The Lonely Option?

          A conundrum has appeared to me. My friend, Truffles, and I were discussing the new Hunger Games movie (It’s awesome). Of course, the Peeta-Gale debate came up. I claimed Team Peeta, but Truffles asked if it would be more feminist for Katniss to be by herself instead.

            For some reason, this left a bad taste in my mouth and prompted me to hit my blog. It seems like a pretty sound theory. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle and all that shit. However, a feminist is still a person and most people (not just women, although that it is stressed more in our society) desire close connections with other people. Close connections that usually sometimes include romantic or sexual aspects. To suggest that Katniss (or any other fictional character or person in general) give up this basic human want to satisfy a feminist policy is absurd.

            Love triangles in general don’t lend themselves well to feminism (something I may cover in another post). We could squabble about which choice fits our particular brand of feminism, but I just wanted to take a moment to point out the flaws in the third option. I understand this is tricky terrain to walk around in and may the odds be forever in your favor.

Nerdy Valentines

I made these for my friends, and I hope everyone had a good v-day.

Brokeback Mountain

     I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I happen to live in the South. Rednecks are part of the local wildlife and the easiest way to aggitate them is to simply mention a little film known as Brokeback Mountain. This will usually result in said redneck responding, "Fuck that shit. I don't want to see two motherfuckers kiss." (They're not the most eloquent demographic).
     This got me thinking. They're gay. The last person they're going to want to kiss is a mother. Wouldn't calling them fatherfuckers, be more appropriate?

     These people have no concept of political correctness, I swear.

In unrelated news, I learned how to add pictures to my blog. And the union between two attractive people is hot, no matter what their gender.

2011 In Review

   A new year has begun. Traditionally, this is the time to reflect on the good times of last year and the promise of the year to come. However, no one ever said I was traditional so I can safely say that 2011 was a pretty . . . eventful year (I'm unsure how it falls on my shitfest to fucking-awesome meter). In no particular order, I . . .

1. Lost my best friend (in the she acted all bitchy and I stopped being friends with her, not the 'passed away kind of lost)
2. Got my first kiss (at eighteen. Don't judge me)
3. Graduated high school.
4. My wrecked car was fixed and returned to me.
5. Got a 4.0 GPA for my first semester of college. (Totally bragging right now)
6. Got myself a job.
7. Accidentally cut myself a lot at said job
8. Decided "what I want to do when I grow up"
9. Saw the Lion King in 3D!
10. Joined a writer's workshop and produced some of my best short stories there.

   You know, I initially looked on the past year with some major pessimism (number 1 was kinda traumatic) but most of those things are good things. Even the things I didn't include because I thing ten is the perfect list number. Good to know that my brain is doing a good job of repressing bad memories.