collision

then we do that awkward dance with our eyes

taking turns to detect pleasure in the brow

it happens like rainfall

a release of pressure

it’s done, but the petrichor lingers 

And no, for the last time, I will not make you a goddamn sandwich.

He put his hand on my arm, suggestively, and leaned into my ear, just loud enough so perhaps the students strolling past us might hear, “Will you give me that Becky”, his deep voice lapped up my attraction yet stimulated a reflexive disgust. Like the snow seeping into the drain below my sodden feet, I felt insignificant, obscure and lonely. Another speck to be precipitated and melted. 

Having the name Rebekah, my closer friends frequently teased me with the abhorant Plies song, “Becky”. If you haven’t listened to it, don’t. For me, it has to be among the most degrading and repulsive songs (if you can even call it a song). Sure, artists have the right to free speech, but what kind of man are you to talk about women in such a manner? Let me sample a few of the revolting lyrics for you:

“Keep that pussy, I want your throat
Front that head ‘fo you go
Wet yo mouth ‘fo you blow
Must get Becky ‘fo I bow”

or

“Tired of pussy, I’m retired
Ain’t fuckin’ her, got too many mouths
Will put poll right in her mouth
Babbit pussy ain’t my style”

So essentially, in case you haven’t caught on, he’s refering to a blow job. Head. Felatio. And when that boy came up and whispered those words in my ear, he wasn’t kidding. I froze, like my winter surroundings, and probably mumbled something like, “That’s gross”, but at the same time, my feelings for this boy were still present, and even though he insulted my dignity, I wasn’t ready to let him go yet.

What makes teenage girls feel that way? If anyone even dared to say something like that to me today (in a serious manner), there would be no chance of ever finding them attractive. I’d probably be fighting the urge to slap them in the face. But the more important question, at least that of which I’d like to focus on presently, is why we allow our boys and men to get away with these kind of comments.

To this day, that boy who made that comment to me has not been reprimanded by any female (minus myself) for his behavior. His guy friends respect him, being a part of a fraternity at a well-established university, coming from a well-off family, and pursuing a medical degree. Regardless of his orientation within society, despite his charm and allure, there is no justification in allowing this kind of conduct towards women. 

Why have we stopped teaching our boys to be men, real men, the men who respect their counterparts? I’m not asking you to pay for dinner. I’m not asking you to be the provider, the initiator. I’m asking you, the male, to please respect me, and all other women. I’m asking you to acknowledge that yes, I am a human being, not a sex object. That when I say no, I don’t want to put my hand down your pants, and no, I don’t want to kiss you on the first date, that you need to abide by my regulations. That no, I’m not a slut because I where a cleavage bearing shirt occasionally, and you have no right to refer to me as such. Where have we faltered in administering equality between our genders? 

I have a wide variety of “comfort movies”, most of them being Disney, Harry Potter, or Audrey Hepburn classics. However, a movie I have always kept dear to my heart since first viewing seven years ago is Colin Firth’s Pride and Prejudice (not Kiera Knightley, sorry she’ll never be Elizabeth Bennett to me). Yes, it is an overly-referenced love story, I agree. However, the progression of Mr. Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s relationship is undeniably perfect.   Despite his “good judgment”, he helplessly falls deeply in love with her, “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” She of course denies his original advances, but only later on realizes her mistake and eventually reciprocates his feelings. Past the paragon “love” quotes in the novel, the line that truly resonates with me is during the scene of Elizabeth’s confrontation with Lady Catherine Debourgh, where she declares her deservingness of Mr. Darcy, “He is a gentleman. I am a gentleman’s daughter, therefore we are equal.”  A little old fashioned, yes, but at the same time, even in 1813 there were female characters declaring equality and men at the ready to provide such means. 

If such a thing existed hundreds of years ago, long before the suffrage movement, the civil rights charge, where is it now? 

I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.
C. S. Lewis

dear 10 year old self

5th grade year. Still pretending. You want everyone to call you Beth. It’s not working so well. Still, you’ve made some decent friends despite your oddities. You cut your hair and you miss it now, but don’t worry you’ll do it again on your way here. 

10 year old self, you spend a lot of time wishing you were here. Don’t. You want to be 14 or 16 or 18. 14 is ok, 16 is better, but 18 isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Responsibility and pressure and life are all thrown at you at once, even if you never asked for it. You have to make decisions on your own and it’s not always fun because sometimes you just want to have someone tell you who you are because it feels like you are always doing the wrong thing.

I don’t mean to scare you, 10 year old self, but really. Sometimes I wish I was back there, in Mr. Dykhouse’s classroom, surrounded by nature wall paper and playing 4-square at recess. Don’t grow up too fast, 10 year old self, because you might not like it when you get here. I’m just warning you, I’m not trying to scare.

You just got your ears pierced and it wasn’t as scary as you thought it was going to be. By the time you get here you will have 7 more. 

10 year old self, life is crazy and interesting and just remember that you are the girl who loves horses and dolls and dresses and stop trying to be a tom-boy because you think it’s cool. 

skinny is not the new black

It’s funny how a song you’ve heard for years suddenly resonates with your current state of mind. You realize things about the song you maybe hadn’t before - the last lyric at the end of the second stanza, the xylophone in the background. I’ve recently had a similar revelation with the song, “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver. However, it wasn’t until the whole Birdy-cover hype reached me that I actually become cognizant that, wow, this song is talking about me. 

“Skinny Love” was never my favorite song when it first reached radios and the iPods of every student in my high school. Sure, everyone was humming along to the lyrics and I remember my best friend having a hay-day talking about Bon Iver’s genius to me. Yeah, it’s good, I thought, but nothing to marvel over. In fact, his voice kinda irked me in all honesty. Then, one magical day, I heard Birdy’s rendition, and I was catapulted into obsession. See, when I hear phenomenal piano songs, I’m instinctually compelled to attempt my own cover. It’s great fun, let me tell ya. And as I was messing around with the chords the other night, I actually payed attention to the words. First thoughts: “Shit”.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like an edifice of emotionality, ready for wreckage. Having only a few days left to stand, I’m constantly tearing up at the most trivial, stupid things imaginable. No, I’m not PMSing, actually, thanks for asking though. So I perfected my cover yesterday, but not until last night, as I lay in my unmade bed, unable to sleep, the tears festered in the corners of my eyes when I took into account the magnitude of what these words were saying to me.

Timing is everything, man. Funny how that stuff just happens sometimes. 

Let’s go through the song, shall we, and I’ll demonstrate how each lyric carefully describes my flawed love style.

Alright, beginning: “Come on skinny love, just last the year”. 
Pretty self explantatory, right? It’s a weak love,  a simple love. It’s like a summer fling, those stupid things I guess every female is supposed to experience at one point, according to Cosmo. But this love has potential, there’s a future here that the singer craves so desperately, but at the same time, realistically believes is going to falter. You hear the passion, the desire in the voice, but panged at the same time, with the sense of reality that, no, this love will not last. 
I’ve never been too lucky with love. Yeah, yeah, I’m 18 years old, growing up in a world full of over-sexuality which I fervently reject. But already I’ve been stamped everything from commitment-phobic, to over-loyal, to restless. It’s true, I bore easily when there isn’t constant action. I don’t fall in love with just anyone, and even when I do, I have significant reservations that haunt me. So this lyric, this one here, represents my hesitating love. 

Next: “I tell my love to wreck it all/Cut out all the ropes and let me fall”
Again, this has to do with waning love. In my past, I feel like I’ve broken more hearts than had mine broken. I’m not trying to flatter myself when I say that, I promise. But I’ve only had my feelings crushed significantly once in my life, and yes, it was a miserable, horrid state of mind, and I never wish it upon anyone. It’s funny how much a human can feel. At that point in my life, I thought I was experiencing every human emotion all at once: a typhoon submerging my frail city, a tornado lifting and dropping my built home. I feel, and I am sorry, that I’ve caused this eruption of horrid feeling to one too many human beings. I’ve lost friendships and struggled to regain them because of onesided feelings. My love, or loving me, rather, has sort of a negative counter-effect. In a way, I feel my love does wreck it all. I destroy hearts, not purposely, of course, but I do. It’s better to just let me fall. 

“In the morning I’ll be with you, it’ll be a different kind/I’ll be holding on the tickets/You’ll be owning all the fines”
I’ve skipped out on dealing with love. On dealing with emotion. I’ve been that girl that disbands the relationship as soon as significant feeling is brought into the picture.  And typically, I haven’t really been “caught”, so to speak, for doing so. Without much planning or thought, I’ve been able to shrug off those dreaded “talks” you have when a breakup is just around the corner.
One of these days, though, I’m guessing I’ll get my comeuppance. There’ll be that time where talking is simply unavoidable. That’ll be a good time.

“Now all your love is wasted/Then who the hell was I”
This lyric is particularly relevant and similarly powerful. Despite having profound friendships with fellow human beings, I often am convinced that I’m unable to fully love another human being. Slowly, I begin to find fault where it needn’t be, finding reasons to move on and forward. I crave the sensation of just meeting another, where everything is new and fresh. And love spent on me is often wasted, I feel.
And he’s right. Who the hell am I to take such a precious gem?

“Who will love you/Who will fight/Who will fall far behind”
At some point, I think these guys will catch on to the emotional battle of loving me.
In the end, at least if I keep this up, who will love me?
I’ll be the one falling behind.  

I guess I have some things to work on. 

the flowers, the wind, the trees

(i should go as far to say the universe)

had all loved you 

before I came here, a mess, unsure, still freshly burned

and just happened upon you

you followed me 

and now we find ourselves here

an entropic commotion ensues

i’m still in a funk

Still:

the open air feels hollow, heavy, hackneyed 

and every motion reciprocates this energy 

I’m not myself, things

have changed

I feel

like a corpulent cat

trying to tug itself through

humidity

A blank card

A consolation that “everything will be fine”

it won’t

I still feel like I can’t write 

Right