MOOP!

Sunday morning, I was already a bit worn-out and brainsick when I saw The Truck. It was parked in front of a church, just outside of Harvard Square, and the back of it had some "sweet" Christian platitude about how we have all sinned and are all going to hell.

(Clearly, this truck belonged to the jackass kind of Christians, who would rather yell at you for how bad you are, than do anything to make the world a better place. I much prefer the Christians who actually do Good Things, and who may quietly pray for your soul, but don't get all in your face about it)

And that was annoying, primarily because it was in my way, but I could've slid right by it and never given it a second thought, until I pulled alongside it and read the quote written bold on the side.

I don't remember the exact wording, but the message was very very clear: WOMEN ARE VILE AND CORRUPTED CREATURES, AND THEIR ONLY GOAL IS TO WEAR SCANDALOUS CLOTHING TO TEMPT MEN TO WICKEDNESS. I don't think it actually said "BURN THEM ALL" as part of its message, but that's certainly what it felt like.

And reading those words, when I am tired and lost and in the middle of a grand existential crisis about whether I can even ever think of myself as a woman at all...it felt as though I had been punched between the ribs, deep where my Self resides. Because I can deal with so many things, deal with Boston drivers and not getting jobs and weird looks when I am just myself on the T.

But I can't deal with being hated.

And I especially can't deal with having that hate slapped across my face too-early in the morning, when that hate has nothing to do with me, with anything I am.

Just with the fact that the single lucky sperm of my da that made it into my mom's egg just happened to be carrying an x-chromosome instead of a y. Something that I could not even begin to control, because I literally couldn't have existed in time to control it.

Hatred because of my DNA, without ever knowing me, without ever meeting me. I'm given to believe that's normal. I am woman(ish, sometimes, approximately, in body only, who knows?) and therefore I hear sexism in jokes from friends, ("women amIright" and "because I'm the boy" and somehow the jokes aren't ever funny or maybe just the reminder isn't.) and rants on the internet, and vitriol from those who think so low of me they imagine I only exist to tempt and so low of men they imagine they only exist to be tempted.

I don't like being hated. I'm service oriented, a Girl Scout, a Herald (before there was a blue box there was a white horse, and given the choice of Companions it's never even been close.) someone who exists on this world to make it better, to make people happy, to make your life easier.

But how can I make your life better if the only thing that would please you was if I no longer existed?

~Sor
MOOP!

Dear self: I don't have room in my luggage¹ to pack pads². Seriously, could you have picked ANY OTHER TIME?³ Luv, Kat.

***

In other news, I am an irresponsible fuck up⁴, and this is why we⁵ can't have nice things.⁶

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Actually, you can end the sentence right there. Yep. Fucking female-ness.
2: And tampons are icky. *shudders*
3: Especially with the convention, and the plane ride and the moving in, and you already KNOW I'm not going to be nice to you this weekend, come on.

4: I lost my drivers permit. I haven't even had it for a full week. Yes, I have looked in my pockets. And purse. And the car. And just about EVERY FRIGGING PLACE in this entire house. More ideas would be appreciated though.
5: We being 'me and the denizens'
6: Nice things being 'my drivers permit'

*throws things against the wall. No, not anything specific, just things.*

So, I have a dock-thing for my ipod that functions as an alarm clock or a set of speakers. This is a good thing. Since I don't have Seren to play music for me (which I prefer as said clockbase is across the room and I am lazy) I tossed my ipod in there and let it play musics.

It was doing fine, and then, Jacqulynn (my ipod) froze. Fine, reset, whatever. More music time.

She froze again. Six or seven songs along, just spontaneous "hi, I'm no longer playing music" Different song and everything. Currently, I am listening to her with my headphones, to see if she's going to randomly freeze again.

At this point, my first response would normally be to desperately back up all the music and photos on her. Oh, wait. Fuckity fuck, yo. If she freezes again, I am going to turn her off and not touch her until I've gotten the pictures off of her. (music too, if I can swing it, but that's less important)

This has not been a good week for me and electronics.

~Sor
MOOP!

ETA: At least *something* is behaving --I had been trying to figure out a way to label all the mail I get from assorted groups and things at school as "Lesley", but the way labels work, I had to create a seperate label for each e-mail. Which sucks. So, on a whim, I tried filtering just "@lesley.edu" and it worked like a charm. Yay gmail!

Uhm. Yeah. Happy belated mothers day to fishgreenlittle, who I haven't been talking to long enough to remember she's a mommy!

Anywho. Senioritis has hit me pretty badly, but most of my classes don't actually have any work to do anyways. We're reading a story in German class that is progressing at about a snails pace --mainly because a lot of the kids in my german class are morons.

I've got a whole bunch of shtuff to do. I'm thinking of starting up with a set of 43 folders, mostly because it's a cool idea. 43 folders is basically a set up for getting stuff done, you get 12 hanging folders (one for each month) and put 31 manilla folders (one for each day) in the first one. Then, as each day goes by, you put the manilla folder into the next months folder. Toss stuff that needs to get done on that day into that days folder, as well as other shtuff --if you have tickets to a play on the 21st, you dump them in that days folder ferinstance.

It's also slightly boggling to realize that my little orange indexcard book, which I love above all others (well, a lot of other notebooks at least) is essentially just an extrememly high class HPDA. I should post piccies.

Uhm. Yeah. If you're Tho, you probably went all bouncy-squee at those last two paragraphs. If you're anyone else, you probably just ignored it. That's about the right thing to do.

Otherstuff...Oh! I gave blood on Saturday, and unlike my last bloodgiving expiriment, where I fainted a lot at the end and took forever to recover, this one went by really fabulously. I pretty much just skipped the entire "gonna be fainting now oh hi floor" part and went straight into "Yay, the world is awesome WHEEE!" part. So that was pretty good.

And of course, I got green tape, because that is the awesomest colour. Yay me!

Mum's back from her cruising around the south pacific. I'm sure better accounts of that will show up in her journal shortly.

Only nine days left in school, and two of them don't even have any class. I'm somewhat psyched about this.

I am decidedly un-psyched about graduation though, mostly because of the stupid ass-requierments they have for walking across the stage as a girl.

I have to wear a skirt.
I can't wear sneakers.
I have to wear white or other light pastel colour.

I
Am
going
To
STAB
Something.

Ew. Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew. This is especially a problem as I don't own a white skirt or dress (And REALLY don't intend to) and I don't own white shoes, nor do I ESPECIALLY intend not to wear white shoes that aren't sneakers.

(I also apparently have to wear hose, but I dismissed that without even thinking, since I will skip walking the stage entierly before I put on hose. Or shave my legs. If they don't like it, they can suck my big fat nonexistent dick. It costs a WHOLE lot more then a diploma to make me wear pantyhose.)

Soyeah. I'm thinking I'm going to be hitting up the local thrift store a bunch, nevermind that I'm broke out of my mind (I owe mom HOW much?), looking desperately for something I can wear. I may also see if the tears matched with "I'm broke!" works on our sponsers for getting me out of the shoe problem.

(And may I note that my mother does not own any of this shit either, and it's rediculous to try and find something that I'll just hand down to Aly since she's half a foot taller then me.)

Again, I'm pissed. If I didn't care about walking across stage, this wouldn't be a problem. But I really do. So I have to find this white nonsense.

And a very large part of me wants to wear the shitty white, then pull off my robe and roll in the grass the second I'm free. Mmmmm,green. Green is a nice colour.

Yeah, bell's gonna ring soon, so I better go. I'll rant more later.

~Sorcy
MOOP!

PS: If you desperately want a proper graduation announcement from me, and suspect you are not on my list, drop a comment to that extent.

It was just a daydream --that's what it felt like, that's what it had to be. Nothing else. And then, at the end of it, I woke up. Daydreams don't let me wake up.

I remember...
the first meeting with the Bad Guy, and realizing that he was totally and completely evil.

Having my nessecary reporter ID card stolen by him, while I was curled up outside his window.

And stealing it back by leaning precariously through the window and grabbing it away before he could stop me. (A very "me" thing to do)

That the bad guy was, at the beginning, Cillian Murphy, only Nik was playing him in this version or something. At the beginning. When the dream was still set in a movie.

And we were in a movie, and I remember telling my assistant (Aly?) to google Cillian Murphy's name, knowing that we'd have to add effects so it only got movie Cillian and not reallife Cillian.

The bad guys assistent, feeling me up. Forcing a kiss. Then later, I went to tell the police, report the pedophilia. Said assistent was playing goalie in the game of whateveritwas, and was actually a ten year old girl. All charges of sexual harassment were dropped, and from the booing of the croud, I figured that I needed to hide.

Miss Bev (A friend of mines mum and my ex math tutor) was there. She was going to help me hide --it's nice to have allies on the side of good. She suggested the best place was back up in my hotel room.

I hated my room. The way the hotel was designed, it was at the very end of a looooong hallway. I had to turn my back to open my door, and somehow, I knew he was watching me. It was no longer a movie.

Fear.

And I joined up with Nathen, and he helped me to get outside. Still predawn, perhaps five in the morning. We determined to hide all the stuff that had been in my backpack --I wasn't going to need it in my Final Battle.

We dumped what I wouldn't need into a paper bag, and found a manhole. We pried it up, but the sewer was too full. So we had to find somewhere else.

We buried it near a tree as the sun rose, me and Nathen in the middle, and more and more people arriving with the dawn. Shayla was definently there -she drew a beautiful marker for the bag, a portrait of me- as was Aly, and many friends of Nathen's.

And before I went off to defeat the badguy or lose my life (And/or virginity? It was a bit unclear as to whether he planned to rape me, kill me, or both) I awoke.

*********

Never have a daydream that isn't.

~Sor
MOOP!

Well...shit.

I just...figured out something reasonably important about myself.

...okay, we're being honest here. A painful and different thing for me, I know.

Its something pretty damn important about myself.

I've known for some time that I don't trust people real well. Probably a good lot of you know that as well --I've certainly bitched about it in some form or another, and if I haven't bitched here, it only means I never posted those rants. But last night, somewhere in between getting lost and getting home, I put it all together, and I think I finally have a pretty comprehensive picture of why.

I don't trust people, because I am dead scared of people leaving me. Or being taken away from me, is probably the slightly more accurate description. This *certainly* fits all but one (two?) of the crushes/relationships I've had in the past...oh...I was gonna just let it be from ninth grade, but then I let myself think back farther, and it reaches to at least fifth.


Reasons, bitching, evidence, history:

( Friends )



( boys (and girls) )



( Moving )



( <s>Daddy's Girl</s> )



( And one for the future... )


So yeah. There you go. Sor, in a nutshell. A crazy, paranoid, fucked up nutshell.

But at least I've figured out WHY I'm crazy. At least I can figure out someway to do something about it.

Have a good day.

~Katarina

MOOP!