switched blogs

My best friend’s big brother had just hit one of his dates, at 13. The day he met his soulmate, a boy in the year above him at his new school.

At five, we didn’t use the word “soulmate”. The way Anna explained it to us was instead: “One of them is the day you finish your biggest goal, one of them is when you meet your true love, and one of them is when you’re gonna… die.” That last word was whispered, but we all still heard it and felt how ominous it was.

We compared our dates, because of course we did. Counting on our fingers how far away the dates were. Some of them were close together, some where not. My numbers were special, being all the same day. What a day that would be. But 26 sounded so very far away.

As I grew up, I realized that 26 was not really very old, though. For a while, I felt very put upon. It wasn’t fair that I was going to hit all three milestones within a minute of each other. Not even getting a chance to enjoy my success or my true love before it was time for me to die.

I was there when Anna met her husband to be. We were 19, and she had been talking about nothing else for like a month in advance. But we got lost in conversation, and when he knocked on her shoulder to hand her something she had dropped, she didn’t know what time it was.

But as she turned to face him, I saw the numbers light up on both of their wrists for a moment, and then fade away. And I knew. Of course, I could’ve told by the looks on their faces as well, they were ridiculously and immediately besotted. I don’t know if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy or not, that priming yourself to meet your soulmate might make you more open to it when it happens, but I’ve seen it happen enough times to know that it’s the real deal either way.

It’s kind of strange, knowing what your life expectancy is like. The people with years ahead of them plan differently than the people who know they’re going to die young. I dated a bit, but never got serious. I’ve seen plenty of people have good relationships with people who are not their soulmates, perhaps even marriage and children, knowing that their soulmates are years away still.

But for me, I never got super into any relationship. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. And kids were never an option for me. Not that I didn’t want them, but leaving them motherless so young seemed cruel.

So I threw myself into my work. For me, my goal was to write a story that had a real impact on someone else’s life. A lot of the people I knew who were destined to die young had goals like mine, wanting to leave some kind of lasting impact on the world.

Researching my story, I made contact with a brilliant surgeon named Kathryn. She lived in another city, but we had a good online relationship. She was funny and smart, and didn’t treat me like I was crazy when I came with her with strange medical hypotheticals to work out for my story.

I put her first in the list of people I wanted to dedicate the book to, and invited her to the big release party, and to my surprise she said yes. I hadn’t told her it was on my date. I hadn’t told anyone about my dates for a long time.

I sat at a little table to sign my book for anyone who wanted it, and my publisher’s daughter came up, clutching the book to her chest and with a look of awe on her face that made me smile to myself.

“Miss Daren? I just wanted to tell you, this book changed how I look at myself, and…”

She kept talking, but I could barely hear her, because I noticed one of my dates had just flashed up and then faded away on my arm. So this is it, I thought to myself, as I smiled at the girl and signed her book when she offered it to me. My life’s goal all out of the way.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned around just to come face to face with the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. Tall and dark, with her braided hair in an advanced style and wearing an amazing red dress. I recognized her immediately from the photos I’d seen of her online.

“Kathryn?” I sighed, both so happy to finally see her in person and realize that hey, I actually got to know my soulmate, just without knowing that that was who she was, and at the same time so angry at a world that would give me such perfect happiness just to snatch it away. Angry at a world that would make me hurt her like this.

She had seen the numbers flash up on both of our arms and then fade away. She was smiling at me, and I wanted to be happy, but all I could say was “I’m so sorry,” before the stress of the moment, combined with an unknown congenital defect in my heart made the darkness rise up from behind my eyes and claim me.

And then something I never expected happened.

I woke up.

I woke up in a hospital room full of beeping machines and strange smells, and there was Kathryn in a chair next to my bed, still in that red dress and looking simply amazing, although kind of tired.

“How?” I managed to ask. “I was supposed to–”

“I know,” she whispered, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it gently. “Technically, you did. Luckily for both of us, I am very good at my job.”

“I never realized that it was even possible.”

“It’s rare, but it happens. Us surgeons are a stubborn bunch, and if we have to wrench you out of the hands of Death himself, then we will.”

I turned my arm over and looked at my wrist. A new number. Almost 80 years in the future. I took Kathryn’s hand, turned it over. Saw her one remaining number.

“We’re going to die together,” I said, disbelievingly.

“Only when we’re really old,” she replied.

And after a few moments, we both started laughing. And we laughed until we cried, and then laughed some more.

I can’t believe I get to grow old with her. I can’t believe I’m so lucky.

“Octopus,” she said, all curls and smiles.

“And what kind of animal is an octopus?” I asked.  I was looking for “fish” or “sea creature” but I would have accepted almost anything–”weird,” “gross,” even “slimy.”  “Underwater” or “it lives in the ocean” would have also been acceptable. 

She looks me right in the eye and says, happy as a clam, “It’s a cephalopod.”

And when I tell them ‘You gotta get a big sketchpad and maybe some ink’ and they say ‘but I’m not good at ink’

why is this how we raise kids, why are they afraid of trying something

kids who want to be artists, they really want to, but they’re afraid of failure and they don’t know it’s ok to just mess around, that you don’t have to produce great work every time you touch a pencil

moreover, that incomplete or unsatisfactory attempts are something to be ASHAMED OF and MUST BE HIDDEN

‘wait, you crossed that out? why?’

‘cuz it wasn’t good’

‘you didn’t finish it, that doesn’t mean it’s bad…’

And then the trauma when I sit down next to them (the younger ones) and try to work out with them what they don’t like about what they drew, exactly. Because they get so confused. I’m pointing out how the drawing works, and trying to get them to define where they think it doesn’t, and they just…

They don’t know. All they know is that their drawing sucks because it doesn’t meet some kinda arbitrary standard. 

My yearbook photo was a picture of some random baby off of Google I photoshopped my 17 year-old self’s head onto. It made it in.

Slipped a video titled “hot busty lesbian porn” into the personal folders of everyone in my computer class, which after they all crowded around to see what it was, turned out to be the video for Never Gonna Give You Up (it was 2007, so not yet a worn out joke). Thanks to them (like idiots) deciding to swarm a computer with sound, the computer lab filled up with cheesy ‘80s pop and the sound of me laughing so hard I ended up on the floor clutching my stomach.

Figured out that the school board internet filters blocked based on words and URLs, so I bypassed them simply by pinging their IP addresses, giving me free reign to Youtube and wherever else I felt like going to. I abused this power, and the fact I luckily had one of the computers with built-in speakers, to blast copious amounts of death metal all class.

Formed an air band called Minotaur Lizards whose career peak was “playing” a montage of classic rock songs during a school presentation.

Acted out the mock trial that made up the final for our senior year Law class as head prosecutor, wearing no shirt, no socks, a Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and shorts. Somehow got 10/10 for “appropriateness of dress” by being so utterly wrong that the teacher considered me to have looped back around.

Made sure that the yearbook contained the words “Harry Potter erotica”, and nobody realized until it had already gone to print.

Did accounting for some of the pot dealers in my year and ended up taking a good cash bonus home after my suggested “baked sale” hit it big.

Managed to get out of gym class the last two years on the promise to teachers that if I kept a friend, who was in a wheelchair and one of the above-mentioned dealers, occupied and out of trouble, I could skimp on doing class for non-test days and eke out a 75%.

Turned in so many bullshit essays and “I was bored on this vocabulary test so I write it all in haiku” results that teachers would be disappointed if I turned in ‘normal effort’ work.

Found out someone I really disliked hated my laugh, and dialed up how totally hilarious I found Cool Runnings so much that my laughter got him into a hissy fit that ended with his suspension.

Figured out the school’s weak exits where one could slip through without being noticed, and began selling this information to people once our school cut its truancy officer for budget reasons.

Managed to send through enough filthily-worded Valentine’s Day candygrams with the help of a friend on the inside that there were no candygrams the next year.

Did most of my work for my last year on a single piece of paper I’d just fold up and stick back in my pocket out of general laziness and my lack of need for notes. Math teacher kept poking fun at it, which led to an escalating war of attrition that ended when I handed in a test written on a corn tortilla.

“It asked ‘Do you really know yourself’ and asked for men to take part in a social science experiment to be shown on TV. It warned that the research would be a challenge and involve ‘hardship, hunger, solitude, anger’.

In the case of the BBC Prison Experiment, the mock prison did not devolve into the torturous, abusive hellishness of the Stanford Prison Experiment–even though the experimenters very deliberately attempted to create conditions that would destroy cohesion among the prisoners and encourage authoritarian behavior from the guards. Prisoners were told that they might be able to be promoted to guardhood in an effort to keep them divided, shaved upon entry to the prison, and the guards were encouraged to create the rules of the prison and enforce them in any way they saw fit. 

It’s important to note that one of the very first things the experimenters noted was that the guards were, at the very outset, uneasy about the status differences between themselves and the prisoners and conscious of their power. 

Because food–both quantity and quality–were very salient and powerful status treatment differences in the prison, there was almost immediately a showdown over food. (Prisoners were fed much, much smaller and worse-tasting food than the guards, and indeed prisoners were made to serve the guards their meals and watch them eat in part so everyone would be aware of these status issues.) 

The guards almost immediately felt guilty and attempted to share their sausages with the prisoners by giving them the guards’ leftovers… and the prisoners immediately go “not until we consult with the other prisoners,” and then collectively decide to refuse absolutely to take small rewards from guards in lieu of the right to good food. 

Guards tried repeatedly throughout the study to get prisoners to see them as basically equal, bar the circumstances of their current positions; prisoners instead repeatedly pointed out the actual circumstances of their current situation placed them at very different power levels indeed and insisted that guards actually change the system in order to make the conditions fair and equal. In general, prisoners quickly and collectively exploited the guards’ shame at the unequal conditions in order to receive fair treatment. 

At this point, out of curiosity, the experimenters introduced a new prisoner into the system, one who had been trained as a trades unionist… 

….and this unionist prisoner quickly chose to approach a disaffected guard, empathize with his unhappiness, and turn the blame for the situation at the unequal and unfair conditions set in the prison. Those conditions, of course, were set not by the guards–they were set by the experimenters. The very first thing, then, that this unionist does is build bridges to unify all the people in the prison. 

Prisoners steal the guards’ keys; guards choose instead of “cracking down” or punishing the prisoners to ask politely for the prisoners to help them find the keys, and cheerfully accept them when provided. This gives prisoners leverage for a negotiation, which is then deftly picked up by the experienced negotiator (although not without some pushback from another charismatic and decisive prisoner). 

Here’s what the negotiator had to say:

Negotiations begin. pDM outlines the forum proposal. One of the Guards points out that the Prisoners are asking to be rewarded for stealing the keys. pDM responds by outlining a stark choice. Certainly the Guards can refuse to accept his plan, but the alternative is a return to conflict: “It’ll not be the keys tomorrow, it’ll be something else. It’s a game. All I’m saying is that there is a way to resolve that game”.

pDM is confident. He knows he speaks for the Prisoners. The Guards, even in their own mess, are despondent. They know that they can’t handle the Prisoners. And so they accept the new order. Even if they have given up much of their power, at least this system might work and offer them some respite:

gTM: I’m in high spirits after that. gBG: It actually went alright. This geezer is alright. We can all deal          with him.

At this point, experimenters withdrew the negotiator to see what would happen to the egalitarian vision he set out. As it turned out, the prisoners peacefully overthrew the rule of guards (by, effectively, mounting a sitdown protest in the guard’s sanctuary) and decided instead to organize an egalitarian commune for the remainder of the experiment. 

It doesn’t, like, matter? Whether or not we assign a fetus “personhood”  doesn’t really change whether or not a pregnant person should be forced to give up their bodily autonomy against their will? 

Like, woman can not just STEAL men’s livers in the dead of night, even if they NEED those organs to live? The elderly don’t get to just go around and harvest the kidneys of the young in back alleys? You can’t just, like, kidnap a person and drain all their blood, even if it is used for life saving procedures. Fully grown, autonomous people with rights and consciousness are not allowed to violate the bodily autonomy of others, even in deadly situations. 

So…why would we let a fetus do this? Use another PERSON’S blood and uterus and stomach and everything else? For months? Altering their body irreparably? WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT? 

me, who got no time for this passive aggressive bullshit:

“So, what the fuck was that, Jesus?” someone asked as they’re all looking at the horribly withered corpse of the poor cursed tree.

“The power of prayer,” Jesus said absently.

“… wait, is cursing literally a form of prayer? Because some Wiccans are going to be really upset about that, like, they have a whole threefold law thing, is this… okay?”

“Listen,” said Jesus, “If I tell a mountain to get back in the sea? The mountain will get in the fucking sea. Do you want me to tell you to get in the sea?”

And they were all like, “Good demo, Jesus. Good lesson.”

Meanwhile, he was having the aforementioned public brawl in the temple.

I like to imagine him being just so angry, muttering under his breath while he braided together the scourge.