Just a person

Am I the only woman on the face of the planet who thinks running ‘women only’ blogs or competitions ‘in support of female whatevers’ is detrimental to equality? Do we not declare that yes, we are unequal and we need extra help in order to compete in the real world by participating in these things?

By the Goddess, judge me on my work, not on my sex!

What a sad situation. I participate in these things to try and get my work read and noticed. I hope for the best. Yet I grit my teeth as I submit (truly, in every sense of the word) to this male-dominated ‘we are victims’ ideology.

Many a time I’ve submitted as a male, or as an unknown quantity (always the best) by using my initials only. Fallback is to assume I’m a man: again, I view that as a compliment. They don’t see me as a female writer, oh, please! Read my pitiful work and give me a nod because I’m a woman and I need it. No. Straight up addressed to “Mister”.

And what the FUCK is chick lit? Puh-leaze! Another male dominated term used to belittle anything with women or women’s issues as the focus. Suck it up, guys: as women, we’re expected to read and admire many pieces of literature with men as main characters (even the current Harry Potter series chose a boy to focus on, NOT a girl). Tit for tat. Deal.

But, no! Never has there been a more whining minority than that of men. Oh, we can’t read that; it’s for girls. Chick lit. Discount.

I can’t fucking write that. I can’t even fucking deal with the idea of a ‘chick lit’ category.

Managed to take care of all those traditionally female jobs in the household: dishes, laundry, hoovering, dusting, shopping. I do these things despite the stereotype, despite everything in me thinking good Goddess, I’m supporting all the bullshit chauvinists spout because I can’t wrap my head around the idea that keeping your personal space clean is a women’s only thing. It’s not. It’s a health thing. But let’s face it: if you live with anyone else, it’s also a support issue. Helping out people around you by keeping things clean, making their lives easier – that’s just caring and common decency, right? Or am I really fucked in the head?

What’s so difficult about being decent people?

What’s there to belittle or discount?

Do you see me? I’m a person. Can you hear me? I’m human. What’s it matter what set of sexual organs chance saw fit to equip me with?

All this bullshit makes me sick. Makes me wish I was sexless. No sex organs whatsoever. Not male, not female, not stuck somewhere in-between.

Just a person.




There are plenty of times I accept the old adage it’ll get a lot worse before it gets better. The disarray that a large scale cleaning project brings, the slogging work of trying to lose those last five pounds – been there, done that. But I did not expect to experience the workings of that old adage with my head.

The last 24 hours I’ve experienced some of the worst sinus headaches of my life. Pain around my eyes, pulsing at my temples, radiating down my neck and into my shoulders. Stuffiness on a scale I only get during the worst of sinus infections. Coughing, drainage – you name it, I got it. And the dizziness is worse.

Give me a weak laugh because this is me getting well.

My bro expects me to get out of the house today and meet him downtown for a Turkish pizza. I don’t want to disappoint him; he’s been talking about Turkish pizza since our favorite place went down for renovations (it’s open again, so now there’s urgency in his talk). But if I get socked with more of what I had last night, I hesitate to go out. My goal this morning is to ride out the day between codeine pain killers and smoke, doing my best to ease my own discomfort without sending me to sleep. We’ll see how well I do.

Back to script writing. My idea to gender bend the last script set me on fire. As I went thru my writing, modifying the he’s to she’s and him’s to her’s, I began to get a real sense of what I was creating. A lot of what I had in the original script stands, but some I have to write from scratch. This piece is not fantasy; it is not set in a reality where men can get pregnant (which is a problem because pregnancy jokes were a big part of the original). Not doing that. But the rest is getting flipped, even down to substituting ‘goddess’ for ‘god’ every single time, and ‘gals’ for ‘guys’. The point of doing this is to emphasize how our every day language, particularly the way it’s used in the US, is male orientated – and I’m doing that by flipping the references. I figure if anyone gets annoyed by hearing ‘goddessdamn it’ rather than ‘goddamn it’, I’m hitting my mark. But throughout my notes, particularly to the actors, I need to make it clear that this needs to be played absolutely 100% straight. The men, tho shown as caretakers and generally submissive to the females, can NOT be effeminate. The women, tho shown as blunt and abrasive, can NOT be masculine. These people simple are what they are. The behavior they express seems outrageous now: where once I had the father harping on about checking the oil in your car, now the mother is doing it – and it shows how strange that behavior is. The crassness of what was a brother and now is a sister seems doubly crass. The worry and control exhibited by what once was the mother and now is the father almost feels over the top.

And how strange to have my characters keep saying ‘daughter’. Hearing parents refer to their male children as ‘son’ is fairly common, but hearing them refer to their female children as ‘daughter’ is weird.

The cultural references I sprinkled throughout the script are tough to switch up, too. Not many female counterparts to reference, and most are not as well known.

Most of all, this work is an eye opener to me regarding how rigidly my own mind is set in male dominated roles and labels.

Other notes on the script: I’m tossing any reference to dates. This piece shouldn’t be shackled by any particular decade in human history. Actor direction has to include a bit on make-up. I want the actors to use make-up but only to the extent a male would: a bit of foundation, some powder, maybe a hint of blush under the lights, but that’s it. Only one character should wear any other make-up, and that’s a male – but only to the extent of some eyeliner and maybe a bit more blusher. These are people and just people; the paint shouldn’t reflect any particular sub-set of people.

I’ve even thought about the idea of doing as sexless as possible. Removing all references to ‘wife’ or ‘husband’, ‘he’ or ‘she’. I might still write a version like that.

…Whatever ick I feel over this illness is offset by my re-ignited enthusiasm for the script. And for that, I’m thankful.

Small flies of annoyance


About 5 in the evening yesterday my ‘not as tough as the swimming pool’ workout put me down. It was like a creeper bud: took a long time after the initial incident before I felt what I put my body through. By 9 I said goodnight, brushed my teeth, and don’t even remember falling asleep because it happened so damned fast.

I did get out for errands in the afternoon, too. Down to the market to buy stuff for dinner, back up to make the sauce. Down to the next shopping area over to buy some coffee on safe, lug it back to the apartment. Didn’t do the stairs – at all. I was concerned I may have injured my knee with some of the movements in the gym; it was a bit painful (just exercise; better today). Even stuck to my commitment and did my language lessons.

Saw only 4 stubs in the ashtrays this morning. No wonder I feel a little headachy.

My FB comment has, of course, drawn comments. Most people who know me know it’s one of those small explosions I do once in a while. That burst of anger that comes out fast and is, to the unobservant, uncalled for. My uncle has questioned me on it – again, of course. I’m trying to think of something that is (1) clear, (2) calm, and (3) unquestionable as a reply. Frankly, if you have to question why a woman fears Trump getting into office, well, I think your IQ must be somewhere around 80 then, right? And I’m gonna be completely un-PC right now: if you support Trump, you can’t call yourself a woman. You may have a vagina, but you’re not a woman. You’re a dude. Not even a guy, but a dude. No sane woman would stand up and say ‘Yes! Yes, please pay me less than a man even though I have the same qualifications. Please grab my pussy; it makes me excited. Please call me a dog and a whore – I like it and I call women dogs and whores myself. And of course if a woman claims she’s been sexually assaulted she’s a liar and to blame for the whole incident herself.’ No. You’re insane. Certifiable. Go seek help. And stay the fuck away from me.

And speaking of un-PC, I’m gonna share another very un-PC thought. I’m damned angry over people like Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner. I don’t care if they want to fork out money to have their dicks cut off. What I’m angry about is that they support gender bias through they’re “portrayal” of womanhood – primped, pushed up, and padded. I mean, if one of them – ONE OF THEM – when through the surgery and became anything close to a real woman – meaning no make-up, no push-ups, no this or that because that shit is fucking EXHAUSTING, just be a PERSON – I wouldn’t be on a tirade. But they don’t. Look at what society thinks a woman is: she must wear a dress, she must wear make-up, she must wear high heels, she must show cleavage, she must try to look sexy at all costs. Excuse me, but that shit’s got NOTHING to do with being a woman. That narrowed, bigoted, biased view – that stereotype – is proven out every time someone goes through sex identity surgery and comes out looking like a magazine cover.

How fucking dare you!

Goddamn it.

Am I the only one seeing this shit?

Society’s fucked, the planet is fucked, and none of us have to worry about going to hell because we’re already there. Give me one good reason – a good one, mind you – for any of these lines we’re drawing in the sand. Because I sure as fuck can’t figure one out.

So glad I’m going in the water today. Might sit on the bottom of the pool, holding my breath. Think for a moment or two about breathing in liquid because why, why, why go on when there’s so much shit piled up?

Goddess, I hate my family. Hate them to the core of me. Hate them beyond redemption. No wonder I have such a screwed up idea about “love”. I was made to say that word to all these people I can’t stand. I love you. Every holiday. Didn’t matter what they did or said; I had to always say that.

I can’t love someone who tells me in no uncertain terms that they think I’m less than. Put whatever you want in that comparison; I’ve heard them all. And I’ve always come out wanting in the judgmental eyes of my family.

Ach! Shoulda just stayed off Fuckbook. Shoulda just kept quiet – again. Shoulda, shoulda, shoulda.

In this maelstrom, I’ve been trying to breathe. Find that calm spot. You might have noticed I’ve got a bit of anger coming up. I’ve noticed that, too. And yes, I’m doing my damnedest to not bite everyone’s head off but it’s getting fucking difficult. Real difficult.

I guess this is the wall. There’s always a wall. In everything. A time when everything feels too much. A time when you so desperately want to give in. The wall. Christ, I’m fucking tired of facing these.

Didn’t take long to hit it, did it?

…No. No, it didn’t.

Right. Temporary set-backs. Small flies of annoyance. Things trying to distract me. Ohm. I don’t have to respond. Ohm. I have the luxury of staying off social media and not opening my email. Ohm. No one is gonna force me to talk to anyone I don’t want to. Ohm.

And as for small flies of annoyance, I need to remember this: flies are born in shit. They live one fucking day and then they die and return to shit.


Trespassers Beware: Tit for Tat


My usual cool zen space I begin blogging in is shattered at the moment. Saw a comment this morning that ticked me right off.

I was pretty fucking shook up yesterday. My own words haunted me for most of the day, a tell tale sign that my brain wasn’t finished processing everything I wrote. I kept coming to tears; do I really not understand what being a woman is supposed to be like? Scary thought. I’ve got used to all this womanly shit; the boobs, the vagina. I lived thru the fucking monthly cramps and mess. But I don’t often feel like a “woman” – whatever the fuck that is. I is what I is, to paraphrase Popeye.

So to get some crap ass comment about the horrors of external genitalia and sweaty balls just ramped up my irritation meter. Especially after laying my fucking SOUL down for all to read. Hey idiots, if you want to make a humorous comment be sure to leave a tell tale smiley face somewhere in it – :). Most of communication is non-verbal, so when you post a fucking comment to me about the HORROR of being a man – especially when it comes not from a man but a woman making fun of men – WITHOUT a smiley face it comes off shitty. Catty. Like you’re making fun of what I poured my heart into. Like you’re belittling the struggle I felt ALL DAY YESTERDAY. Um, FUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOU!

I’ve even got another window open right now. I’m looking at my post that elicited the comment. I reread it; was I flippant? Did I inject my post with my acerbic irony? No. Straight up honesty and pain. I talk about my fear, my anger, my confusion. And this elicits an ‘oooo, the horrors of hairy sweaty balls’? Again, fuck you. If I haven’t said it enough, fuck you again.

I did not make this space for you to make shitty comments on my post. I made this space for me. It’s my safe space. It’s where I let loose with everything I can’t say to anyone else, ever. For you to put that up on my post felt like the biggest diss – hell, how’s this one? YOU SOUNDED LIKE MY FUCKING CUNT OF A SISTER. How DARE you? How DARE you belittle anything I feel? You’re not walking in my fucking shoes. I don’t need your flippant comments; I lived with a fucking narcissist for fucking years and I know a goddamn shitty comment when I read it. What? Did you read my words and think I needed a fucking joke? What, in all my words about pain and fear and anger, prompted you to send me that? Huh? I can only assume it’s your own ignorance and fear. Ignorance on how to handle such a topic and fear that it hits a little too close to your own fucking home. Go fucking chew on your own fucking balls and think about that!

Don’t bother looking for said comment. I trashed it. First I wrote a reply. Then I posted it for about 3 seconds before trashing it. I don’t have to explain that; I am Queen here, absolute ruler, and I decide what comments go up and what comments get trashed (and even what comments go up and get trashed in the next breath). My space, my rules. These are my boundaries. Trespass at your own fucking risk.

Good goddess, I’m sounding like Zoe on Trash Diaries – not a bad thing! I admire the way she lets loose with everything, and her turn of phrase can capture a moment for me like no other blogger (thanks, Zoe). I appreciate all the comments from people who struggle with their own shit every damned day and let me know when I’ve hit a nerve with them. I appreciate all the ‘I feel that way too’ ’cause it makes me feel like less of a freak. Even the days I can’t take the words in, I appreciate them. Because if someone commented, that means for a split second they were thinking about me. What I said mattered to them. I mattered. And that’s a really fucking hard concept for me to grasp – that I matter, my life means something, I make a difference. But I’m not letting myself get walked all over. Not again, not anymore. Sorry, you missed that fucking train. Should have been there when I was 12. You could have stood in line with my fucking mother and sister to berate me. THEN, you could have got away with it. I would have taken it lying down. I would have walked away and felt bad.

FUCK feeling bad for your shitty thoughts. I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m not just going to walk away or be ‘diplomatic’. I know I want to EVENTUALLY reach a space of inner calm where words like yours can never touch me again. I also know I’m not there yet, and if you’d bothered to fucking pay a little more attention to me you would have known that, too. I WANT to be angry right now, to get it out, and baby! You just triggered the fucking mother load.

And if ye of the comment is still reading this (Oi! You KNOW it’s you!) then I suggest you take a long, hard look at your own fucking phobias and biases. Sounds to me like you spend your free time bashing men for fun, a sport no less despicable than bashing women for the same fucking reason. What the fuck are YOU afraid of? I’ve read a couple of your posts. Pretty easy breezy. Don’t read YOU getting down to the nitty gritty; oh, no! YOUR post is all sunshine and flowers with a little ‘my thoughts are running too fast’. Oh, fuck you! If you were really into it you wouldn’t be fucking posting such (as Zoe so eloquently put it) RAINBOW FARTING UNICORNS. What, are you a faker? ‘Cause that’s the way your fucking blog reads to me. I read no struggle, no pain. I see no tears. I hear an echo of excuses, that’s all.

So how’s it feel to be bashed, to have your inner thoughts called into question? That’s the way you made me feel. Tit for tat out here.

Just Call Me Fred


Beginning to wish days were 27 hours long. Seems I want to be awake 18 or so hours and then sleep a good 9 after. Not caffeine, just that annoying 10pm surge of energy that gets my feet bouncing at the end of my recliner. Bed time? Absolutely do not want to sleep no way, no how. Wake up time? Oh god I can’t open my eyes. Sucks, ’cause right now I got my timing down pretty good. Up early to swim or exercise (another day off today after my marathon walk yesterday), go to bed around the time most of the city does. Trying to live my life like a real life, you know? Not let myself sink into that  27 hour cycle that eventually whips me around so I’m awake and going when the entire world is asleep. That can be fun for a night. Two gets annoying. Three and I’m crying, wishing I could sleep when it’s nighttime.

It’s laundry day. Got to be; running short on my smalls. Laundry day is akin to making my bed or doing dishes: hardly seems worth it when it all gets dirty and has to be done over and over and over again. I’d rather just hop in the shower with all my clothes on, soap up and rinse off. Get everything clean in one go. Seems more logical to me.

So I did NOT end up wearing the sundress all day yesterday. Had fun, but the time came as it always does when I had to relax, take off that iron corset of a bra, and put some sweat pants on and let my legs splay open like a dude. Just my preferred way of being. The girly feelings were fun, and I HAVE actually got some cleavage now with the right bra on. Cool. Just seems like too much work, getting dressed and primped and what for? To look pretty? Can’t I feel pretty without all that shit? Seems like I should be able to. Seems like I should be able to feel just as girly in my sweat pants as I did in that dress, but DAMN! I just don’t.

Been a little worried about my own psyche for a few years now. Little to no contact with women. Yeah, I see them everywhere. I even talk to a few. On the street, casually. In the doctors’ offices. But I have no female friends. Only men. For years. I’ve been one of the guys for about 20 years, in fact. Hangin’ with dudes, talkin’ like dudes, actin’ pretty much like a dude. Or enough like a dude that for all the men I’ve hung out with over the last few decades, none saw me as a real female. I was the dude/woman, the one they could come to and complain about women and get a little insight but no backlash. Which is ok for my personal space. I wouldn’t have wanted any of those relationships tarnished by sexual desire. But then, every once in a while, a guy comes along who sees me as a desirable WOMAN and I just don’t know how to fucking handle it. Really. I do one of two things; either I go along with it, flirting and having fun until it goes too far and I begin to feel uncomfortable, or I freeze up and become this ice queen that shuts guys down in like 2 minutes. I can’t just BE. I can’t enjoy the attention but not draw more in. I can’t step away from flirting; it’s like an addiction for me…..

And it always has been. This is not the first time I’ve noticed I flirt beyond what’s healthy because I so NEED attention and approval, and sexual approval/desire is one sure way I can get it.

*sigh* Which is why I don’t wear dresses more often. Why I avoid makeup. Why I don’t even go out often. I can’t do it without searching the crowds, making eye contact, TRYING to flirt.

Feel like I should go and search out a damned app writer right now. Tell them to do their programming magic and give me an app that will send me some sort of gold star every day, some sort of approval system. Maybe that would fill the need in me. Doubt it. But shit! I gotta fucking find SOMETHING. Sex doesn’t fill it. Drugs don’t fill it. Cartoons and crying and screaming at the sun doesn’t do it.

Right NOW I really do wish I had a penis. Wish I was a guy and could just sit back and LAUGH at my own nonsense. Not worry about being a girl. Not worry about how having a vagina is just DIFFERENT, damn it. Slut is still a word that hurts, it was DESIGNED to hurt. Doesn’t matter how many young role models own the word on telly. And that word can and will be slung at any female who flirts (like I do), has sex with multiple partners (like I did), or really just has a strong sex drive (like I at least acted out on; don’t know if I actually HAD a strong sex drive). Suck-ola. And if you’re not sexually active, sexually strong, then you hear the opposite – ice queen, tease. Oh FUCK YOU WITH ALL YOUR FUCKING LABELS!

Why can’t I feel comfortable in a dress? Why do I feel disapproval from my brother (not enough courage to ask if it’s all in my imagination right now)? Why do my behavior and feelings CHANGE when I put on a dress? WTF?!?

Can I just say it? Fuck you, mom. Don’t know how you figure into this, but I’m sure you do, somehow. You figure into fucking everything these days.

Afraid to own up to it: I should wear dresses for a while and find out what the fuck this is. Have to BUY more dresses and ain’t got the cash. So, like, not a good idea ’cause we’re only just getting over the financial hump the move caused. Also, sounds risky. I could really go off into someplace where I don’t even know me anymore. I like the leg splayed punk in me. I like the dude in me. It’s comfortable. I don’t know. Just call me Fred.