So says the guy who called my show this morning fawning because I played Johnny Winter and a Loudon Wainwright III duet with his daughter ("Rock Me Baby," off White Hot Blues, and "You Never Phone," off the live album So Damn Happy).
I know that dude's called before because we had the same exact conversation about the Wainwrights. Nobody else ever plays them/that's my favorite song from that album/such a musical family/yeah well this song's about to end so Ihavetogopushbuttonsbye.
Exciting to know that I have at least one regular listener who doesn't know what I look like, but. This guy reminds me entirely too much of one of my dad's friends who's about fifty and creeps me out, therefore Caller Dude creeps me out as well.
Tuesday night, when we cleaned out the machine shop enough for the solar powered boat dudes, Donnie's dad complimented me on the button-up-and-tie route I wore for the team's public robot unveiling earlier that day. (We were suppose to not look like college kids because the press and our sponsors and the local media--all three of them--and the university president made appearances so we had to represent. I was the only one that really did but I have far too few excuses to wear my awesome red paisley tie anyway.) That sort of gave me pause too, but it didn't creep me out nearly as much as make me wonder if I should be creeped out or not.
Sexuality is such a delicate thing. I'm reading Slut! (Leora Tanenbaum), which is a book about the double standards of sexuality set for girls versus for boys. Basically, if a girl puts out, she's a slut, but if she doesn't she's a loser. If a guy puts out (is that even an applicable phrase for a male? I don't think I've ever heard it said except about girls), he's awesome. If he doesn't, he's just as much of a loser as his female virgin counterpart, but he has the option of becoming sexually promiscuous to earn respect among his peers. Girls don't have that option.
I also bought a book called Virgin: The Untouched History (Hanne Blank) which from what I can tell from the book jacket is about the importance of virginity in different cultural roles and throughout history.
I've recently started dipping into nonfiction studies of female sexuality, which I guess fascinate me because I want to understand my own sexuality and gender. Since being female has never really been an upfront important aspect of my personality, I think I want to sort of figure out a context in which I belong along some greater spectrum of pink fluffy things and militant feminism.
That, or I just like reading about sex. It could go either way.
At my Monday counseling appointment, Lisa basically told me I need more friends. Of course I need more friends. I realize that I am a hermit. No, I don't always like it this way. Did you realize, dear Reader, that boredom has weight? A weight that's like a giant stuffed pillow falling on you; it's so much more oppressive and fucking heavy than it looks.
But I've decided not to go back to the counseling center. I'm going to cancel my appointment that's next Wednesday, and I'm going to finish my bottle of 60mg Cymbalta but not refill it. There's no refill authorized on it anyway.
I'm just so fucking sick of trying to explain the fear I can't articulate and getting sidetracked into other issues that didn't even hurt until she put them in a certain light and using up entire boxes of tissue in one go and pretending my problems actually matter when I still have no idea what the fuck they are.
I'm not getting anywhere, and I don't know what to say to these people anymore, if I ever did at all. And no, I'm not going to group therapy. I'm not going to listen to either A. a bunch of people with problems so much deeper than mine that I'll be ashamed or B. a bunch of whiny bitches who just realized life sucks and can't get over it. Pot, kettle--exactly. No thank you. I hate myself when I'm like that so why the hell should I like anybody else if they're like that?
Watched an interesting American Dateline special online last night, about the Mormon church.
19 February 2009
15 February 2009
I can haz high schooler?
LOLcat speak. *shudder* The bane of my existence as a grammar freak and general activist for the You Write Well, Not Good movement. Yet it was all I could think for the last hour or so we spent in Greer Saturday.
Context: I did indeed end up going to the robotics scrimmage, waking up at 5:30am and riding a couple hours down the interstate with Bill and 1618's extra shit in his car, eating half a greasy McMuffin and a diet Dr. Pepper (no, I refuse to leave off the period) that tasted funny, taking a couple hundred frames and about half an hour of video footage of 2815's orbit-ball-chucking triumph throughout the day and 1618's eight feet of movement during the last practice match.
It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Embedded in that statement is my dread of waking up before the sun rises (it just seems completely unnatural and so fucking quiet I feel like I'm watching a secret death that happens every night) and the resigned boredom of spending the day with something I only half understand.
Robotics really must be growing on me, though, or maybe it was exciting to walk around looking at different stuff rather than watching the same people rivet (if I never hear the word "rivet" until next year, I'll be so eternally fucking grateful) the same sheet metal for three hours. Time passed quickly.
As I was looking for the extra women's room, I hear a voice behind me say, "Finally, someone else who likes to get their barings in strange places." I turned around and saw a tall-ish high schooler with eyebrow-length brown hair, round brown eyes, and faint whisps of peach fuzz down from his temples and across his lip. We talked a bit and I convinced him to go past the tables that blocked off the rest of the school and who knows what sort of adventure we would've had if an official hadn't come up and told us to get on the other side of the tables. (Who knew they video taped that shit?)
Then we just walked back to the doorway of the room where all the teams were setting up and talked some more until his friends grouped around us and I couldn't wait any longer to piss.
He was cute and adorably dorky, and I felt strong shy attraction (and he was a senior, so he's probably 18...), but.
But then I rode home with my boyfriend and we had such a stimulating Sunrise that his spunk arched into his eye. That's a record for both of us.
"I saw it coming."
The whole physicality of a relationship fasciantes me in ways surprising by their banality. Like, how a person's deoderant can define their whole personal scent. Bill has always smelled like pine needles, and it wasn't until we started getting naked together that I figured out it's because he uses Old Spice. It disappointed me that such a small choice as deoderant brand could be the source of such a deep, physiological-pyschological tie between people. Between lovers.
I love all the weird little ways the human body fits together, stuff we don't think about until it doesn't work anymore. I love the big pale plain of Bill's bare back; I love feeling him rub against mine. I love lying in bed with him tangled together like a couple of puppies.
This morning after his shower he shook his ass for me and I waved him over to the edge of the bed so I could tuck a few dollar bills into his tightie whities. It cracked him up. I don't know why. But making him laugh feels like a personal victory, so I tucked two quarters into his front little pocket too.
Alas, today has not been all sex and sleep and junk food (mostly, though). The astronomy unit 7 lab I attended lasted an hour and a half (sixty minutes more than the average goof-off session) and left my brain wrung dry with no new and/or useful knowledge whatsoever.
I hate this self-paced abomination of a class and sometimes wish it were a person so I could punch it in its face. The good news is I have two more labs and two review units to do and then I can dance the jig out of that forsaken basement (in the Earth and Water Science building, which I persist in thinking of as the Earth, Wind, and Fire Building) and go back no more.
Some of the old Sunday melancholy is creeping back. For the first month of this semester (month? Really? Damn. Could have sworn it'd been a year already.) it didn't make much of a peep at all. Tonight I am alone (roommate at her boyfriend's, boyfriend returned home) and I like the solitude but it reminds me how much of a hermit I truly am.
Current project:
Have not written still, as robotics lives on for one more long session (tomorrow), but I fleshed out an idea in my head while falling asleep Friday night. It'll be called "Protest" and it'll be about a girl watching her lover (although I need a different word for their relationship: "lover" seems way too old fashion and Victorian for a couple who gets naked together on a regular basis without wedding bands) get killed by an angry mob. Like, he'll just be walking back from her place, innocent, and they'll tear him to pieces simply because they're furious at something and he's the first person to cross their path. And then she can't do anything about it because of course he has a real girlfriend, so the girl can't even look like she's mourning or she'll become suspect...etc.
Not the most original plot in the world, I'll grant you, but it's something I want to write and that's the most important part.
Finished Godless (pretty decent but nothing unexpected from a guy who trumpets his atheism both on and off the page) and am now diving back into the comforts of Hello, I Must Be Going again. I've read this novel about a weird family trying to keep it together after the Vietnam vet dad kills himself at least three other times this school year.
Must find the motivation to take a shower. Where'd I put the blasted thing?
Context: I did indeed end up going to the robotics scrimmage, waking up at 5:30am and riding a couple hours down the interstate with Bill and 1618's extra shit in his car, eating half a greasy McMuffin and a diet Dr. Pepper (no, I refuse to leave off the period) that tasted funny, taking a couple hundred frames and about half an hour of video footage of 2815's orbit-ball-chucking triumph throughout the day and 1618's eight feet of movement during the last practice match.
It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Embedded in that statement is my dread of waking up before the sun rises (it just seems completely unnatural and so fucking quiet I feel like I'm watching a secret death that happens every night) and the resigned boredom of spending the day with something I only half understand.
Robotics really must be growing on me, though, or maybe it was exciting to walk around looking at different stuff rather than watching the same people rivet (if I never hear the word "rivet" until next year, I'll be so eternally fucking grateful) the same sheet metal for three hours. Time passed quickly.
As I was looking for the extra women's room, I hear a voice behind me say, "Finally, someone else who likes to get their barings in strange places." I turned around and saw a tall-ish high schooler with eyebrow-length brown hair, round brown eyes, and faint whisps of peach fuzz down from his temples and across his lip. We talked a bit and I convinced him to go past the tables that blocked off the rest of the school and who knows what sort of adventure we would've had if an official hadn't come up and told us to get on the other side of the tables. (Who knew they video taped that shit?)
Then we just walked back to the doorway of the room where all the teams were setting up and talked some more until his friends grouped around us and I couldn't wait any longer to piss.
He was cute and adorably dorky, and I felt strong shy attraction (and he was a senior, so he's probably 18...), but.
But then I rode home with my boyfriend and we had such a stimulating Sunrise that his spunk arched into his eye. That's a record for both of us.
"I saw it coming."
The whole physicality of a relationship fasciantes me in ways surprising by their banality. Like, how a person's deoderant can define their whole personal scent. Bill has always smelled like pine needles, and it wasn't until we started getting naked together that I figured out it's because he uses Old Spice. It disappointed me that such a small choice as deoderant brand could be the source of such a deep, physiological-pyschological tie between people. Between lovers.
I love all the weird little ways the human body fits together, stuff we don't think about until it doesn't work anymore. I love the big pale plain of Bill's bare back; I love feeling him rub against mine. I love lying in bed with him tangled together like a couple of puppies.
This morning after his shower he shook his ass for me and I waved him over to the edge of the bed so I could tuck a few dollar bills into his tightie whities. It cracked him up. I don't know why. But making him laugh feels like a personal victory, so I tucked two quarters into his front little pocket too.
Alas, today has not been all sex and sleep and junk food (mostly, though). The astronomy unit 7 lab I attended lasted an hour and a half (sixty minutes more than the average goof-off session) and left my brain wrung dry with no new and/or useful knowledge whatsoever.
I hate this self-paced abomination of a class and sometimes wish it were a person so I could punch it in its face. The good news is I have two more labs and two review units to do and then I can dance the jig out of that forsaken basement (in the Earth and Water Science building, which I persist in thinking of as the Earth, Wind, and Fire Building) and go back no more.
Some of the old Sunday melancholy is creeping back. For the first month of this semester (month? Really? Damn. Could have sworn it'd been a year already.) it didn't make much of a peep at all. Tonight I am alone (roommate at her boyfriend's, boyfriend returned home) and I like the solitude but it reminds me how much of a hermit I truly am.
Current project:
Have not written still, as robotics lives on for one more long session (tomorrow), but I fleshed out an idea in my head while falling asleep Friday night. It'll be called "Protest" and it'll be about a girl watching her lover (although I need a different word for their relationship: "lover" seems way too old fashion and Victorian for a couple who gets naked together on a regular basis without wedding bands) get killed by an angry mob. Like, he'll just be walking back from her place, innocent, and they'll tear him to pieces simply because they're furious at something and he's the first person to cross their path. And then she can't do anything about it because of course he has a real girlfriend, so the girl can't even look like she's mourning or she'll become suspect...etc.
Not the most original plot in the world, I'll grant you, but it's something I want to write and that's the most important part.
Finished Godless (pretty decent but nothing unexpected from a guy who trumpets his atheism both on and off the page) and am now diving back into the comforts of Hello, I Must Be Going again. I've read this novel about a weird family trying to keep it together after the Vietnam vet dad kills himself at least three other times this school year.
Must find the motivation to take a shower. Where'd I put the blasted thing?
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