Somehow it’s going to happen. I’m fucking going to Germany in December. Maybe it will be the craziest thing I’ve ever done in life so far.
Lately I’ve just been wanting to see how exactly how crazy I can get (hanging upside-down 200 feet in the air to kiss the Blarney stone, getting all these piercings, going blonde, going to Germany to visit a boy I met in Ireland and never even kissed…) which I’m not sure is necessarily a good thing.
I just kind of don’t feel anything but anxious and I really want to feel more than that.
I’m gonna make more coffee and go to school and do everything I should have done these past few days. And hopefully somewhere in between all that shit I’ll start to feel passionate about music again. God I really hope so.
If women covering up their bodies worked, Afghanistan would have a lower rate of sexual assault than Polynesia. It doesn’t.
If not drinking alcohol worked, children would not be raped. They are.
If your advice to a woman to avoid rape is to be the most modestly dressed, soberest and first to go home, you may as well add “so the rapist will choose someone else”.
If your response to hearing a woman has been raped is “she didn’t have to go to that bar/nightclub/party” you are saying that you want bars, nightclubs and parties to have no women in them. Unless you want the women to show up, but wear kaftans and drink orange juice. Good luck selling either of those options to your friends.
Or you could just be honest and say that you don’t want less rape, you want (even) less prosecution of rapists.
|November 15, 2012 | Filed under:||BizTechNews | Posted by: bowatkin If you don’t believe that racism in the job market is real, then please read this article by Yolanda Spivey. Spivey, who was seeking work in the insurance industry, found that she wasn’t getting any job offers. But as an experiment, she changed her name to Bianca White, to see if employers would respond differently. You’ll be shocked and amazed by her phenomenal story.|
|Yolanda Spivey Writes:||First, I created an email account and resume for Bianca. I kept the same employment history and educational background on her resume that was listed on my own. But I removed my home phone number, kept my listed cell phone number, and changed my cell phone greeting to say, “You have reached Bianca White. Please leave a message.” Then I created an online Monster.com account, listed Bianca as a White woman on the diversity questionnaire, and activated the account.||That very same day, I received a phone call. The next day, my phone line and Bianca’s email address, were packed with potential employers calling for an interview. I was stunned. More shocking was that some employers, mostly Caucasian-sounding women, were calling Bianca more than once, desperate to get an interview with her. All along, my real Monster.com account was open and active; but, despite having the same background as Bianca, I received no phone calls.|
I dyed my hair blonde. I’ve been thinking about it for a while but it was always one of those things that the chances of actually doing it were pretty slim. But then I did it, and now I just wanna do it again but even more blonde. I like it because no one would ever expect me to do it. And to top it off, I used plant-based hair dye called Naturtint. The probability of being great for my hair is fairly low, but hey I didn’t have to bleach it and it worked really well.
The real meaning behind this, though, is to try things and not be afraid of what other people will think. It’s time to make that transfer in my musicianship. No more back-burner bullshit for me. Front and center, girl. You can be a better singer. You can be a better counter. You can be a better student, learner, and teacher. Let’s work hard and go blonder!
p.s. i still have hope. em. call me stupid, yeah it’s three months late, but i don’t care.
way too caffeinated. again. hahahaha.
The I Am of me
is buried in a sea
of crawling lips and sweaty thighs,
music, desperation and stupid little white lies.
The I Am of me is shaped with marigolds and Ziploc baggies that all are filled with plastic lights or delicate somethings from that hellish sea…
The I Am of Me is part spine-bent, part twisted knee, crackled-poppy-skin, and desert eyes that never clean.
The self asks questions with answers waiting greedily at the tip of her tongue, “If these teeth sink so easily into bone is it worth it to even call them teeth?” What it looks for is silence, sharpness and how many times you’ve flossed in one day.
The self asks questions, answers desperate to roll out of her mouth, like vomit full of mushroom pizza and too much beer, “If these beads of sweat forget to dissipate into the skin surrounding, will your fingers find me or will they slip away, licking salty liquid from their tips?” What it looks for is that quiet night, hoisted hips on foreign sink, his eyes like the epitome of sex, breathing her in like air he’d never tasted in his whole fucking life.
If the I Am of me binds a target to the sea, the sea of sand so hot even the sand-fleas bleed, the sand so quiet but so keen, does the keeping of your sweat, your skin, the little beads behind your eyes, keep the I Am of me from falling into the crowded mouth of sleep?
The I Am in me is full of breath like spoiled milk, like soaking wounds in vinegar,
and bellies full of heavy water.
The I Am in me is five feet of in-betweens, stoned and drunk and half-asleep,
And hates that you’re awake like me.
hey, at the risk of sounding like a total dumbass, can I ask you out? or should I just let that ship sail? either way it’s cool, but I’d like to know my chances you know?