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@texash210-blog
I got my offer letter on my dads birthday. My official first day in my new work position was this past Monday the 25th. I only told a handful of people in my life. Iām terrified to make a big announcement. Iām afraid Iāve bitten off more than I can chew. I cry every day to work knowing that I canot fail. I gotta succeed for Cadence; for our future.
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(The Mothman Dabbles in Etymology) by Robert Wood Lynn, published in Mothman Apologia
[Text ID: You should know I was not the first to think the word forgive implied an exchange, a deal. Bags, bills, palms. After all it means, at its root, to give completely. Or in some translations, to abandon, as in a debt or grief.
With this knowledge, I entered the world determined to prove that giving and abandonment were the same thing. All my life and now to discover they just looked alike as the shadows cast by mercy. /End ID]
If I can choose my daily driver: 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Black. Chrome bumper and accents. Wire rims. Custom upholstery. Superb sound system.
Self documenting. Because Iāve been wondering when this moment would happen. And itās finally happening. Iām 34 years old. It seems like just overnight Iāve lost handfuls of hair, my skin elasticity has slightly decreased. I have very fair forehead wrinkles and crows feet. And to confirm what i was thinkingā¦ I found my first batch of baby grey hairs on my left side of my forehead. Iāve been increasingly moody and and I have a new uncomfortable feeling when I have my period.
Iām SUDDENLY crossing over to my middle-aged body.
I must note, Iāve torn my body up more than ever the past three years doing any and every laborious job while raising toddler without his dad. This brings me back to a similar feeling I had after observing my new body after recovering from pregnancy. The paralysis of my abdominal muscles caused from the cesarean procedure. The new hips that connected to my lower back pains.
My pregnancy experience was awful. I was so physically uncomfortable on so many levels. First, I was pretty much prisoner to the confines of my exās parents house. The only places to sit were the high table stools, the dirty worn sofa, or the mattress of our disgusting bedroom that sat on the floor without a box spring. Most often the last choice. Having to get up and down from that position was exhausting and i never just relax comfortably. I remember crying quietly to myself, wishing for a comfortable chair. I recall thinking how I would be so happy for even a folding chair. I just wanted back support and my feet to touch the floor. Why am I crying about this all over again right now? Why am I rambling?
Why was I such a dumb fuck for putting myself in that position and too stupid to figure out how to get it out?
Garbage.
Goodnight.
PS- the way to avoid such tragedies as well as get out of them is to not give a fuck about other peopleās happiness before yours.
A general question was asked. Whatās something you had in high school that you wish you had now? I couldnāt think of anything materialistic. So I thought about my younger reflection and I Ike my body now. So I thought deeper and finally I thought of something. I wish I still had that quietly raging hunger to make a great worldly difference; to cure the gluttonous disease of civilization.
I wish I had strengthened my inner voice and learned to use it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I want to be alone. Forever. With no one. I'm happy that way. I miss good sex (always hard to find anyway) but I manage on my own. That's what I want and I'm tired of people trying to convince me otherwise. How is it so hard to wrap one's head around? Having a legit partner means having to give a fuck about one more personās selfish feelings. I donāt care to deal with that.
I canāt say Iām asexualā¦ because lately I think about fucking almost every semi-attractive individual in front of me. Itās the effort required to entertain someone who is most likely a waste of oxygen, just to slide on a dick. That is enough to turn me off to trying. I donāt have time for that.
And why do I keep dipping my toes in the relationship water when I absolutely know itās not gonna work out? Iām a lonely, horny, dumbass.
If we ever stop talking, just send me a song
I donāt believe anything on the internet, television or radio anymore. Itās all tainted.
Peach š¤š§š½āāļø
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Really missing you, Ninja Paul. I celebrate you and I grieve you this evening, evenings before and Iām sure many evenings after. Tonight I celebrate you by surrounding you as two lonesome bulls as we used to. I realize now how sheltered I was from the rest of your life, the rest of the people that knew you. My eyes have never cried this much for anyone or anything. Iām sorry for all the years I let slip between us in our dumb stubbornness. Iām sorry I didnāt make more of an effort to meet with you once we did reunite. I took your beautiful soul for granted thinking youād always be around. I miss you so much and Iām sorry and hurt that youāre gone. And I just wish I could be around people who knew you as I grieve your passing. I donāt think youāll ever understand the impact you had on my life. You opened my eyes in so many ways I canāt even begin to put it into words. I love you and I miss you, Paul Edward Rana.
I enjoy hearing and feeling the friction of graphite against paper. Itās not the same satisfaction with ink. Although, this southpaw appreciates the pleasures of a quick-drying, fine tip, ballpoint pen. More specifically a Zebra .5mm, but it a till doesnāt beat the sensory activation of a BIC clicky pencil.
Rock N Roll is still alive, my friends.
I fell on my bike today. TWICE. Iām an idiot. The first time I fell because I couldnāt detach my cleats. One was too tight and the other was installed backward by yours truly. I bruised the palm of my left hand significantly. The second time, something caught my attention in the woods and my front tire caught the sidewalk edge. My leg got scrapped. I think Iām hurt more by the fact that I scuffed my new bar tape than I am of my injuries.
Itās almost ritualistic that I take a decent crash in the early days of getting back to riding. Iām glad opportunities have presented themselves to get me back on the saddle. Iām very grateful, Universe, but if I may ask one thing. Please help my hand heal quickly so I can continue make a living. š
Itās INSANE to me how controversial romance novels are. Romance novels. Like, being openly a fan of them immediately opens you up to people constantly coming at you like ābut donāt you think itās ~limiting- and ~juvenile~ to have a genre of books with happy endings for women?ā
Like.
No?
Why is it such a big deal to want to read stories where women have sex and then donāt die at the end? Jesus Christ.
Why is the concept of female characters being happy seen as less creative than female characters suffering? (Trust me, creating a world where women win in the end takes a lot more creativity and artistic vision lmfao)
Anyway, literary bros will pry my romance novels with their happy endings from my cold dead fingers.
Or die in the very beginning of the book. But no one calls out James Patterson for writing another formulaic thriller in which a woman is horrifically killed after getting laid and then some man solves her murder. Every. Damn. Time.
But hey, those romance novels where women get happy endings are so limiting, eh?
Real talk: realizing how common it is for female characters to be punished for on-the-page sex with death was a big part of my embracing the romance genre. Once I noticed it I couldnāt unnotice it. Itās everywhere. A woman having sex in literature or non-romance genre fiction is the literary equivalent of a red shirt on Star Trek.
Itās not just the sex thing, though thatās a key element. Itās that, in romance novels, the heroine gets to be cared for the way she normally would care for everyone else. Itās wish fulfillment in that her romantic partner will do emotional labor, spend a great deal of time thinking about her, or sacrifice his desires or fortune or reputation to be with her, or spend days nursing her back to health, or risking his life to save hers. In romance novels, youāll find men taking care of children, talking about their feelings, putting effort into their appearanceāeven if they are adorably bad at it. Watch how many romance novel protagonists fall in love with a man who happens to be rich or handsome, but she didnāt give in until his behavior changed and he starts mentoring her, or providing for her, or being gentle toward her, nourishing her, listening to her, appreciating herā¦ I suspect romance novels are looked down upon not for being juvenile formulaic ābeach readsā but because they paint a fantasy world that leaves men feeling uncomfortable or even emasculated. But whether youāre a Midwest housewife or a big city CEO, women who read romance novels just want to read about men loving women the way women are expected love everyone elseāwith a nurturing and protective form of unswerving loyalty. Great sex they donāt have to die for is also a huge bonus, but the *romance* part of the novel is genuinely more about the woman being appreciated (for her beauty or spunk or intelligence at first, and then for all of her by the end).
āwomen who read romance novels just want to read about men loving women the way women are expected to love everyone elseāwith a nurturing and protective form of unswerving loyalty.ā
THANK YOU.
According to the website smartbitchestrashybooks, which analyzes romance novels to a great degree, one common element of the average romance novel is what they call the grovel.Ā That is, thereās a turning point near the climax of the book where the leading man says, in effect, āI hurt you.Ā I had my reasons, but they donāt make it right.Ā I am devastated that I hurt you, and I will do whatever it takes to make it okay again.Ā Leaving you is completely on the table even though I find the prospect horrific.ā
And thatās a very important fantasy.Ā To have your feelings, your pain, be made so absolutely central to the narrative, to someone elseās world.Ā You could call it a power fantasy, but I donāt think thatās exactly right.Ā Itās a significance fantasy.Ā A romance story is a story in which the woman is the most significant damn thing in the book.
And when you think of it like that, you realize why some people are really, really threatened by it.
I will never not reblog this.
I donāt read romance novels and I think itās okay to enjoy laughing lightheartedly at some of the names and tropes. But Iāll be damned if Iāll ever shame anyone for reading them. Romance novels are feminism, and theyāre a powerful form of female expression in an industry that is still rife with misogyny, despite the fact that the majority of people who regularly read fiction are women.
Let women read romance novels in peace! (With the caveat of course that we also talk about the sometimes racist, queerphobic, ableist, and misogynistic tropes that the genre sometimes employs and how we can support making the genre less harmful to marginalised groups āš»)
(Also fuck James Patterson. Heās an untalented hack whoās made his fortune off of ghostwriters and laziness. He is the literary equivalent of that one Buzzfeed comic artists with sameface syndrome who everyone loves despite the fact that they steal from smaller artists and really arenāt talented in the slightest. He appeals to the lowest common denominator of the literary community and passes himself off as a king of fiction and this got long but I cannot stress enough, FUCK JAMES PATTERSON.)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I wonāt break in a pair of high heels, but Iāll walk around my house like a gawddamn duck in my new bike cleats.
I miss and look forward to the days when you can recognize the die hard city cyclists just by their bikes. The first thing any fellow rider pays attention to is what kind of bike they are on. Those psycho city smashers were my favorite riders. Adrenaline junkies. Youāll know their whole riding style and which shops they frequent before you ever catch their name. Just always out and about. I miss that life. I hope I get to show my kiddo that life someday soon. Freedom of two wheels. Maybe hopefully a lot safer. Ha.
