To Offend or Not to Offend…

 

edited photo of banana and cactus
Photo by Designecologist on Pexels.com

 

I started writing a post a few weeks back and.. it’s still saved to drafts, along with half a dozen other abandoned ideas but there is a difference.  Normally if I don’t flesh out a post, if it ends up in the “saved drafts” graveyard, it’s because I don’t feel like there is enough there, or I can’t figure out how to say it, or I am unclear on what I want to say.  But this one, I stopped because I could not figure out a way to present the thoughts without being just… horribly offensive.

And I don’t want to do that. But now that I’ve been sitting on it for a few weeks, I’ve been re-pondering and like… do I care if I’m offensive?  Why do I care?  I mean, I love y’all, please know that. I’m a fucking nobody, spouting nonsense on the internet so, if you take even 3 minutes out of your day to read any of this, you are a super star to me. But.. I don’t know you. I will probably never meet you.  If you think I’m being a royal cunt in one of my posts, will it actually affect either of us?  Probably not. It’s not that I’m not already offensive, I mean, I did just use the word cunt, I’ve blipped over anal sex, edible panties, like.. this is not a G-rated blog, g-string maybe, but certainly not g-rated.

But.. maybe it was the topic. I wanted to dive into comments my friend makes about “skinny bitches”, and I wanted to contrast that against if someone made a similar comment about a “fat bitch” and sort of why one is more acceptable than the other and talk about body types, and why we shouldn’t talk about them, and body shaming and self love and all the things.  But in breaking it down, in pulling those buckets of words up from the well of my brain, it just… it didn’t work.  I mean I do still want to tackle some of those thoughts, eventually. But the more I wrote, the more and more kind of awful and offensive it became so I stopped.

And I hate the idea of editing myself so as to not offend. If you’re that easily ticked off, you probably shouldn’t be here. And I believe in free speech. And I celebrate differences of opinions. But… the post goes unpublished still. I’m not even sure who I’m afraid I’ll offend. The two guys I matched with on Tinder? I just… I don’t know. I try to not be abrasive, but at the same time, sometimes things have to be sanded down a bit, you know? So, do I want my blog to be sandpaper? No. But do I want to feel like I can’t say something because it might hurt feelings?  No. Maybe I want to be like ultra fine grit sandpaper, which “is one of the most delicate abrasives”, per doityourself.com. (Yes, I did research sandpaper. Leave me alone. This is how I end up with a bizarrely broad knowledge base.)

I think I’d feel okay rubbing you the wrong way, if I did it delicately. Which sounds kinda dirty, but gentle, so I’ll let it stand.

You tell me to relax
And listen to these facts
That everyone’s my friend
And will be till the end
But know this much is true
No matter what I do
No matter what I say
Offend in every way
  ~White Stripes

Tinder Mud

Tinder Mud

I have a link to here on my Tinder profile. I know that is where most of my traffic comes from. (Hey Tinder peeps!). So let’s talk about Tinder.

If you were directed here, from there, you’ve seen my profile. Give me just a sec though to recap for anyone else. I have my profile so finely crafted. It’s been perfected over the time I’ve been in Tinderland. It is one of the best filtering mechanisms ever, truly.

(“There is no such thing as conversation. It is an illusion. There are intersecting monologues, that is all”

Let’s intersect each others monologues…

Looking to chat, to pass the time. Truly that’s it. If you’re looking for more, pass me by.)

So, pretty definitely clearly not looking for a hook up, or dick pics, or a boyfriend. It’s good. I have a female friend who is also on Tinder. Her profile is more of… “I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’m open to possibilities.”  Which is great. It’s also probably why she’s had half a dozen men start conversations with her with the great greeting of, “Anal?” (Guys… that’s not an opener. You gotta work up to that, both verbally and physically, just sayin’).

So, you know the whole symbolism of the lotus? The story basic white girls tell when they get that tattoo? (No judgement, I just spend $1000 covering up a tattoo so, there is nothing but love in that observation). The lotus blooms from mud. It’s not in some neat, well manicured lawn in the suburbs. It is like… “Here is some fucking disgusting muck, and I’m gonna mother fucking bloom.” And this is much like my Tinder experience.

I think I’m lucky. I think my profile is helpful. I don’t know. I still have a few guys who try to do something they maybe shouldn’t, but I also have amazing people who start conversations with me by asking about what I think the meaning of life is. My friend, who’s greeted with, “Anal?”… she’s still growing through the mud, I think. I feel like I am at the blooming stage. And each amazing interaction I have unfolds another petal.

When I mention Tinder people get all hoity-toity. “Why are you on there?”  “You know it’s just guys looking to fuck, right?” “Ewww, that app is gross.” And like.. sure, full disclosure, I have slept with two guys from Tinder, one well after a year of us being friends, and the other as part of a relationship of sorts, neither were rando hook-ups, but even if they had been.. whatever. I think it is like much of life. It is what you make of it.

For some people it is a hook up app. Good for that, good for them, get that booty, y’all. For some people it’s a means to feed an ego, or to boost confidence, or to distract them or.. I don’t know. If you’re using a hammer you could be hanging up a picture, or murdering someone, the tool is the same in either scenario. So, I guess I want to start looking at the other tools I have and making sure I’m using them to help me bloom as well, and I so strongly encourage you to do that too.

What Passing Out and Throwing Up Taught Me About Love and Friendship

It was my birthday a few days ago. Not an exceptionally exciting one. 33. Big whoop. But, a birthday nonetheless.  I, even when I was young, didn’t much care for the hoopla of birthdays. Like.. hooray, I was born… woohoo.. basically if I got a slice of cake and a gift or two, I was more than content. Super low-key is kind of my scene.

I have been in pretty much back to back to back super sad, controlling, borderline emotionally abusive relationships, so I didn’t have much of a social life for most of my adult life (I was allowed to go out, but the amount of grief and questioning and hassle I would have encountered, and then the amount of guilt I would have felt and.. it just wasn’t really worth it.) It is only recently (within the last year or so, but kind of ramped up the past… 4 months, I’d say) that I have really kind of gotten out and about on my own, out of my shell and into the world. And I have been so very, very lucky in that, the people I have found, the people who have found me, are gems, true treasures. I’m #blessed.

So, birthday. Yes. My birthday fell on a night that our regular Wednesday night hangout was doing 80’s karaoke. I wish I had a pun here using an 80’s song lyric, and I apologize for failing y’all. I drank. A lot. More than I should. More than I ever have previously. Or ever will again. (I’m not doing one of those “I’ll never drink again” things, cause let’s face it, we all know that ain’t true, but I am never drinking to that extent ever again. Seriously. Promise made here) And it was not great. At all. I don’t mind being Tipsy. I do that well. But drunk me… ugh.

So… I drank a lot. And I basically fell asleep on one of my new best friends. He’s a trooper, and I love him, and I owe him. He was so sweet. And then I threw up a little. One of my other new best friends was nice enough to call it spitting up, which doesn’t sound near as awful or embarrassing, so I love her too. I had a few people help me clean up. I had a friend help me home, help me shower, put my ass to bed, made me breakfast the next day (which I was still too sick to eat) and let me nap before driving me back to my car, still at the bar.

I am a control freak. Thoroughly. I don’t allow myself to be out of control, ever really. It freaks me out. Not only do I have issues giving up control, but I then feel guilt about those who have to jump in and help me. So it’s kind of a double whammy of uncomfortableness for me. But I was out of control and you know what? I was taken care of. Incredibly well. By multiple people. Some of whom I’ve only really known a few weeks. And I had a few people check on me the next day. And no one is shaming me or making me feel bad (they probably know I’m already taking care of that enough all on my own…) Not only am I control freak, but I am so blind sometimes to the love and support that does surround me. Maybe it’s a pride thing, I convince myself I’m so capable and so strong and that I don’t need anyone, and that doesn’t allow me to see truly how many hands are held out to support me when I do need it.

So, while I’m not suggesting you go out and get black out drunk and puke on people, I am saying that maybe sometimes it is okay to be vulnerable (maybe you can tell that friend about your past, maybe you can let that co-worker know about your sexual preference, maybe that person genuinely does want to hear about your bad day, or whatever it is for you). Again, I will not put myself in that exact position ever again. But the level of love and care that was shown to me did truly bolster my faith in people. To see so many people step up and give me their best, when I was at my worst… that was like.. the best gift I could have ever received. Also, not eating for two days/puking I did manage to lose 4 pounds, which is a pretty awesome birthday celebration, though right now I am kinda… hungry like the wolf… sorry, I had to.

 

Facebook Notifications and Loneliness

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Yesterday was my birthday. I’m old. It’s okay.

All day I got notifications on my phone, so and so wrote on my timeline. It’s nice.

And I write on people’s timelines when it’s their birthday. It’s just kinda what we do, right?

But man… people are lonely. Like.. deeply, devastatingly lonely. Even with all the Facebook notifications.

A guy I know, super busy and popular, successful, talented, smart, funny… lonely.

Another friend, he’s freaking brilliant, stable, caring… lonely.

Another friend, beautiful, stunning really, hard worker, sweetest thing… lonely.

What is actually going on here?

Why do we feel this/have this loneliness epidemic?

I think we’re broken. So broken. And I think we’ve been conditioned by bad relationships, by being lied to and cheated on and used and abused and… to expect people to only break us further. So, we either end up in this permanent loop of victim-hood, or we go the opposite direction and puff ourselves up and declare no one will ever hurt us again, and end up super guarded with walls around us so thick that our hearts become impenetrable. And both of those options suck. A lot. We live in fear, when it comes to love and connection and relating. We can share memes all day long, but are uncomfortable sitting down and sharing a meal. We can like your selfie on insta, but we can’t actually look you in the eye, in person.

I’m not anti-technology, I’m not against texting and posting and liking. I’m not. But that is like taking a vitamin, instead of actually eating the fruits and vegetables. It helps, but it’s not complete. It might keep you going, but it’s not going to make you radiant. It should be a supplement, not the sole… soul… supply.

 

Looking Average

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This is almost a follow-up of sorts to my last post (Being Okay is okay, or whatever the hell I titled it… ). I am a totally average looking woman. Top to bottom (oh la la). I’m about 5 foot, 3 inches-ish, depending on my posture and shoes. I weigh anywhere from 130 to a 140 pounds, depending on how stressed I’ve been and how much I’ve been drinking (mmmm, delicious, empty calories from alcohol), I have wrinkles, I have acne (because God hates me and wants me to look old as fuck, but still awful like a teenager, at the same fucking time), I have grey in my hair (which is never styled correctly and honestly is kinda turning into a mullet as we speak)… and you know what?  I’m okay with it. I mean, I’m using wrinkle cream and scheduling a hair cut soon, but….

So, guy tells me I’m beautiful. I argue. I know he can’t be like, “Oh, you’re so average, just my type!” I get it. I do. But… not every ugly duckling turns into a beautiful swan. It’s fine. And blah blah blah beauty is in the eye of the beholder… unless guys are blind, I’m not beautiful, and again, it’s cool.  When I have these types of conversations, I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m not insecure, or being all woe is me, fishing for compliments, I’m being honest with and about myself, and I’m happy that I’m able to do that.

I think because I’ve never been pretty, that has never been a crutch for me to fall back on, I’ve become more engaging, more clever, more kindhearted. Not that attractive people can’t be those things, I know a woman, she is fucking flawless. Airbrushed perfection. Photoshopped goodness IRL. And she has the biggest heart I’ve ever encountered. But, again, being honest about and with myself, if I were beautiful, I’d probably be a bitch. I’m kind of a bitch now, looking average so, God help erryone if I was good looking.

We put too much stock in trying to fit molds and expectations and having perfect eyebrows and.. I try to look good. I do. I wear make-up. I have cleavage sometimes. But I know what my limitations are, and I’m not killing myself trying to achieve things that are just impossible. I’m not trying to model. I’m not trying to chat up millionaire playboys. If we could start feeling good about looking totally average, instead of being sad about not looking beautiful, how much happier would we be?