I Want Taylor Swift to be a Lesbian

2 11 2010

Before anyone gets terribly up-in-arms about this: I am not a lesbian. I have not kissed a girl, and while I can’t quite say I wouldn’t like it, never having had the experience, I don’t imagine I would. I’m currently dating a male, and while somewhat more psychologically masculine than your average female, all signs point to straight. Even if I were a lesbian, I would not kiss Taylor Swift, for that matter – she’s far too skinny, and Pop-Country music comes out of that mouth. I would kiss Don Williams. That man sings real Country.

Along with all of that, anything said below here is to be construed as not only awesome, but also humorous. I don’t intend to offend anyone, their sexual preferences, or their sensibilities. If you are offended, I’m sorry about the splinters in your butthole. Maybe there shouldn’t be so many sticks up your ass.

ANYWAY.

It occurred to me the other day at work as the radio played Taylor Swift – I only briefly caught the line, ‘I fell in love with a careless man’s careful daughter…’

I thought, “Whoaaawhat?” before realizing that it was supposed to be the guy in the song’s saccharine love story singing the lines, even though Taylor Swift sounds nothing like a man. But the more I thought about it, the more that I realized I had been genuinely shocked. Country music’s sweetheart? A lesbian?

It would be the best thing EVER.

Think about it. It would be fucking revolutionary. The CMT station, and every television currently tuned in to it, as well as the brains of several viewers, would literally implode. The millions made by invasive coverage of this would not only stimulate the sagging entertainment industry, but also inspire several movies.

All the media hype and reaction aside, it would also potentially bring to the fight a whole slew of men and women finally made sympathetic to the plight of homosexuals, which would strengthen the fight for equal marriage rights. However, it also has the potential to so severely disappoint so many hopeful young men that they will all form a lynch mob and go straight for Swift’s throat.

Her songs might actually change to be about something other than sucky boyfriends – they would be about sucky girlfriends, for example, and instead of men ditching her for cheerleaders it would be about how her girlfriend left her for the large woman who drives trucks across the country.

With that said, I have now made my first ideal celebrity pairing: Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga. They would make such a great and contrasting couple, Taylor and her conservative nude-toned lipsticks next to Lady Gaga and her latest outfit corresponding to some animal’s body parts. I love it. I want this to happen.





Victory!

5 10 2010

For those who don’t know me terribly well, my boyfriend of three years has spent the last one fighting for physical custody of his son, who is in need of special education and medical care that his mother wasn’t obtaining for him. We received news last week that she has agreed to settle, and victory is basically imminent.

Personally, I’m extremely happy. I love this kid to death, and I can’t wait for him to be a bigger part of my life than he was even before now. But apart from that, I’m strangely remorseful. While his mother’s lackadaisical treatment of his medical issues was absolutely wrong, I know that she adores her son, along with his grandmother – they’ll both be losing him, and they’re both heartbroken. As glad as I am for the victorious outcome, I can’t help but be sad that people have to be hurt by this.

Then again, looking back on some of the things his mother said and did over the course of the last year and a half, not even including the entirety of the custody battle, I think I can find a nugget of sadistic pleasure in all of this. I do sincerely hope she gets the help she needs in order to properly care for her son.

This is the kiddo – I’m so excited to see him soon.





I Accidentally Implied I Was a Prostitute

27 09 2010

A meeting was set to occur between my WRIT101 professor and myself at noon on a Tuesday. Professor Myers and I were going to discuss my research project, and I didn’t want to be late. The one problem was that I had completely forgotten what his office number was – I remembered the building’s name, but the odds of my finding his office by searching every single classroom in the building were narrow. So, I figured I’d start early.

I stalked the Halls of Corbin for a solid half hour with no results, not even after listening for my professor’s signature resonant baritone. I was bordering on giving up when a kind lady noticed my desperation. She offered to show me where his room was, and let me use her computer to look up the number. After she showed me the way, I entered the room.

Myers said, “Good afternoon, Margaret.”

“Good afternoon, sir. It’s okay if I’m early?”

“Not a problem at all. Take a seat. Why are you so early?”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t remember the number for your office, and I got here much earlier to search around for it, but then a nice lady helped me.”

“Well,” he laughed, “never underestimate people’s capacity to take pity on you.”

“Psh, tell me about it. I got a cool two-thousand bucks last year because someone took pity on me.”

Dead silence followed for a clear and strenuous five seconds.

“…Let’s just leave that there,” he finally managed to stammer.

I realized what I’d just implied. “Oh, it was just a college grant…”

“No, no really, let’s get on with the meeting.”

I stop to think. The incident I was referring to had happened a full year ago, when I began the semester that marked the end of my meager college savings fund. I had no idea how I was going to pay for the spring semester, and was at my wits’ end. I couldn’t find a job in my city’s crappy market, and I had absolutely no work-study opportunities, since my parents are freaking loaded but want me to earn my own way through school. When I finally made it through hours of crossing campus to speak to different people only to reach the same financial aid advisor I’d seen at the very start, I broke down into exhausted tears. Taking pity on me, the advisor had told me to cheer up, and presented me with a list of options, as well as giving me an ACE grant, a free grant from the University. I’d gotten two-thousand dollars with only three hours of marching and a sudden, emotional outburst. Not too shabby.

But barring wasting more of my professor’s patience with that story, I was going to imply to him that I’d done something much, much more socially inappropriate than burst into tears. Was I really going to leave him with that impression of myself?

Heck yes. It was way too funny to just throw it all away.





Essay for WRIT101

3 09 2010

Note: At the beginning of Chapter 2 of Bruce Ballenger’s ‘The Curious Writer’, he creates a silly, fictional internal dialogue in the mind of an imaginary teen-to-college-age kid. It mostly involves being upset about learning things, wanting to eat potato chips, and wondering if the apparently omnipresent Ballenger can read their thoughts. It is very, very silly.
——————————————————————————————————-
Aside from his not-at-all asinine assumption that my internal dialogue sounds like a very hungry, paranoid teenager, Bruce Ballenger’s article about ‘Reading as Inquiry’ brought up some very good points. When reading, the vast majority of us do so simply for information, or requirement, or pleasure, but rarely as a method of questioning or investigation. Seldom do we read with the ferocious intent to delve into the heart of an issue, tear the meaning into pieces, and hungrily analyze it.
This is, honestly, because that kind of drive is exhausting, and as domesticated human beings we’ve had most of our ferocity bred out of us. But, when toned down a little bit, the idea is sound. Why shouldn’t we seek to learn more from our reading, after all? In understanding how we digest what we read, and how we can enhance that capability, we can improve not just our grades in class and our standing in school, but our capacity to truly understand the ideas and motives of others. Who in this class has read Mein Kampf? Lolita? If my parents had paid any attention when they nervously and furtively read The Catcher in the Rye, they probably could have handled my angst-ridden fourteen year-old self much more capably.
Having said that, admittedly, I’m not much of an investigative reader. I like reading, and I read often, but I mostly read novels and entertainers, because being in college I have had just about enough of education. On numerous occasions, I’ve picked up scientific documents, describing animal biology, physiology, and evolution, but those instances were motivated either by personal interest in the subject presented, or an overwhelming desire to win an argument. In most instances, I already know the subject fairly well. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t even be having an argument about it, and I wouldn’t need to win it because it wouldn’t exist. I don’t pick up and investigate engineering manuals, or my mother’s little monthly prayer booklets, because neither topic interests me much.
To give students the opportunity to read like Dr. Gregory House does, you must present them with, or allow them to present themselves to material that piques their interest. Not every student will be interested in research projects involving the life and times of eighteenth-century novelists and poets, and while this doesn’t mean students should never be made to write a paper about eighteenth-century novelists and poets, they shouldn’t need to do so unless absolutely required to. A student’s introduction to research must be stimulating, to prepare the skills they’ll require to someday write a passable report about eighteenth-century novelists and poets.
Reading with aggressive intent to learn doesn’t have to occur one-hundred-percent of the time. Part of why people like myself enjoy reading is its casual and free nature – attaching significance to leisurely activities only tends to make them tedious, and later reflection and analysis of readings can still provide plenty of information. However, for timeliness’ sake, it is important to learn how to quickly read and effectively process what one reads, and how to categorize newfound knowledge in one’s personal lexicon.





Now It Feels Like School

31 08 2010

I’m finally in my first art classes for the year, which are helping to make up for the intense amount of standing that my job forces me to do. It’s only been two weeks, and my feet haven’t stopped hurting since. I’m also doing my first homework, and bought my books this morning. My German book is called ‘DEUTSCH: Na Klar!’, which my boyfriend claims is super-hot when I say it, and I simply think it sounds (inappropriately) funny and continually say it.

It seems to be working out for me – I especially like the word for the alphabet, ‘Buchenstaben’, basically ‘what books are made out of’. I do like the language so far, and I feel like this will go way better than my attempts at learning Spanish. Granted, those were both at the hands of two incompetent women: one who didn’t even speak Spanish, and another who, upon finding out that unlike children in Arizona and Texas, teenagers in Montana do not know any amount of Spanish whatsoever, gave up and made us watch movies in Spanish the whole time. With English subtitles.





Guess who is always busy!

28 08 2010

I never have time! EVER. Which is why this blog is about as alive as lichen. Lichen is, technically, alive, but not so noticeably as, say, a frog.

School’s starting on Monday, and I have a job now, so that means even less time for me poor little blog. But at least that means more art incoming, and I already have a couple of plans for sculptures…

See you all someday! I’ll be chilling with Scott Ramsoomair in the Land of Ne’erupdate.





About That Month.

7 07 2010

Thank you to Anders for reminding me that I had a blog. It was necessary to do some refiling after spending a few weeks helping care for a rambunctious, adorable, sweet, and above all, time-consuming three year-old.

I even drew something nice which I can share this evening, because I love you all so very much. Let’s see if you can accurately rate the photo quality of this on a scale of 1-10 (hint: the answer is 1)

I got a new little sketchbook – more accurately, it is a notebook with the lines removed – which is made from all sorts of recycled paper, and also “recycled banana fibers”. I don’t know what to make of this, but I understand that it may mean my sketchbook is mildly radioactive. I don’t mind this at all, any sane person would murder their family for a nuclear drawing pad.