Another tattoo identifies me. As the needle entered the “spicy” area of my flesh, I experienced resolution. Clarity was exemplified.
The dynamic static of my actions are not sustainable, not in a culture that lacks fantasy, and not without deliberate praxis. You continue to amaze, define, and challenge me. Invention stretches boundaries. Evolution is non-negotiable. Please don’t mistake my meandering for dilution of desire, in fact it is quite the opposite.
An Escalade, a night with the same sex, and some of the best original jokes I’ve heard in a long time; what is a Saturday night adventure.
I’m reading a book entitled, Queering Bathrooms: Gender, Sexuality, and the Hygienic Imagination. Only an inch into the book and I’m feeling urges to take a personal day so I can finish this exploration of fringe academia. Who knew you could think about bathrooms, sexuality, gender, architecture, and intersections of power for a living?
Sheila Cavanagh states, “…the unconscious, like the toilet, is a dumping ground for the unacceptable impulses, practices, identifications, and desires.” It’s enough to make you blush.
Since I can’t take a day off, I’ll have to settle with bringing the book to work and reading it in the bathroom. I will be able to privately think about “how the gendered spacial design of the public bathroom is dependent upon a cissexist and heteronormative ideal.”
It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who thinks of such things and it heartens the soul to know that the education system isn’t completely anemic of stimulating knowledge production.
I missed Feminist Coming Out Day (March 8th, mark your calendars for next year). I can’t reconcile the image below in a way that is comfortable to me. I’m both impressed and honestly horrified at the intensity of those amazing t-shirts. An explosion of transgressions that dares you call them anything but a feminist. It’s also radically essentialist with little context as to why this equals feminism. Maybe it’s the juxtaposition of cunt with vajajay that’s throwing me off.
It’s National Abortion Provider Appreciation Day. A sincere thank you to those who risk their lives-doctors, nurses, volunteers, security guards, administration-to ensure women have access to safe, legal and affordable abortions. Now more than ever, they need our support.
“What relationship can you have with yourself if you systematically hand your genitals over to someone else?” – Virginie Despentes
Waiting in the Walgreen’s pharmacy line, listening to a man get medicine for his cat (to be picked up by his wife), I was seething. Having been told that I couldn’t refill my birth control prescription until my pack was “80% complete” because “people would buy more than they needed,” I stood at the nexus of body, choice, and a child-free future.
I didn’t want to be the “crazy lady” but I also didn’t want to roll over and take it. I knew the women behind the counter were not to blame for this injustice; this discrimination against my sex. They were simply reading the computer. However they were responsible for spewing its bullshit on me and justifying that “insurance companies don’t want to pay more than they have to” mantra. I don’t want to have to pay more than I have to either: dollars, grief, and potential unwanted pregnancy.
In the end, after my blood pressure returned to normal, I walked out with three more months of apparently highly addictive estrogen and progestin. I was lucky this time and I know it.
It seems like we’re all fighting for autonomy these days. Ironically, me and the Tea Baggers might actually be yelling about the same things. Stay out of my bedroom and I’ll stay out of yours.