Budskipper skipper of buds

My own gender was a costume that felt itchy to wear

An essay from 13 year old me

I wish I could claim it was my internalized misogyny that had me thinking, "I'm not like other girls," my whole childhood. It wasn't my disgust over womanhood that kept my circle of friends mostly male, my skirts unused, and my earrings hidden away.

My childish pettiness had no problem labelling myself as a girl with confidence when I won against boys. I adored the women in my life beyond as mothers and caregivers, but as individuals who worked harder to push against stereotypes; which I was already aware of while learning division. Dare I say, before the "feminist woke mindset" was a thing, I already disliked most of the men in my life including my own friends, I held a 10 foot pole between us before I trusted them. I've mulled it over for a decade and no angle to be viewed could define my discomfort with womanhood as born out of internalized misogyny.

Even now that I am a vocal feminist, there is this feeling of discomfort I feel when wearing heels and putting make up ; not physically, though I finally got used to it. Vigilance when I'm with a group of women, and somehow I find myself gravitating to the first nerdy man I find in a social group. I used to reason that most women I meet just do not have the same interest as me, maybe, but so do men. I feel more comfortable arguing with a disagreeable man than trying to befriend a woman. I used to push the idea that men are so simple and therefore easier to socialize with, and women are complex, but that isn't true, and I knew it. I would joke that "women scare me," but there is some truth to that.

I think I really am just afraid of women. My greatest fear being their rejection.

Hanging out with girls felt like i was a cockroach in a den of butterflies. They stare when I enter the room, looking dishevelled because I'm not used to looking at mirrors. Being called the tomboy when I dont particularly present as one. Accusations of being a lesbian before I even wondered about it myself. Getting praise when I decided to "put in extra effort". Never being asked if I had an extra pad with me. Never being told any gossip. Noone asking who I have a crush in.

Even innocent acts catch me off guard. Why did she fix my hair? Did I make it wrong? Why did she give me a different shade of lipstick? Was I stupid to pick that shade? I longed for a snide comment rather than assuming their resentment. Dressing conventionally feminine felt like dressing in drag. While others felt sexy and confident, it felt like a performance I wasnt given the script of.

I don't believe that it's their fault, but I hope it's not mine. I refuse to hold resentment.

What are we, if not the culmination of our experiences, defined by our actions and the words that leave our mouth. It matters not how I see myself... my true thoughts and beliefs.

If my hands are stained, it doesn't matter if I see myself as clean. Tears do not wash off the dirt off my skin. Is it my own delusion? Myself comforting me through the regret? She, my therapist, told me that some of us simply do not have the privilege to uphold our values. A righteous peasant forced to steal, or his family would starve. I insisted I was never in such a desperate situation, I was and still am privileged. She told me I that that's not what she meant.

What's my excuse then? A roof over my head, a decent meal, clean water. It's humiliating to be sitting here in front of her. It's humiliating to pay her to listen. It's humiliating to hear her pen scribble away on the paper.

Everything I did to everyone, was, is humiliating

I am a rat. Scurrying to the first sign of food, running away at the slightest noise. I bite when a hand reaches out to take me out of the trap.

She asks, "Are you a literal rat? With ears and a tail?"

No

A few insults, and he looks like a beaten dog, admittedly the lack of a comeback dissapointed the vampire.

Lestat doesn't need the mind gift to know the young man is positively paralyzed with embarrassment. He takes the tambourine on the coach and throws it back at Larry.

In the heat of the moment, with the help of the Mind Gift Lestat catches a stray thought from Larry

So he pushes and pushes and pushes the guitarist to his breaking point until he not only gets better at playing an instrument but also in bed with his hand wrapped on Lestats neck out of anger.

Daniel picks the book from the floor. "Blonde, French, and a drama queen with a flair for the dramatics." He sees that the book is obviously read through, with annotations, scribbles, and angry cross-outs of some of the entries. "You must be Lestat."

"A bright reporter with a point of view, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist turned fiction writer," Lestat says with venom in his words.

Lestat breaks in Daniel's apartment, angry about the book he harasses an old man. But wait, who turned Daniel? It can't be! This is a golden opportunity to get back on Armand stealing his lover. Translation: Lestat and Daniel just rage baiting each other

Never thought I'd be making a tumblr post in this year and age, last time I was here I was 12 and defending an unsavory ship

Anyways this is my tumblr acct cuz of the whole Twitter fiasco