Fooled by B/Hollywood movies, we often forget the things a woman shouldn't be. Dependent and Distracted among the Dont's, Disenchanted and Driven among the Do's.
I'm not talking about single ladies. I'm reaching further than Beyonce and telling all the ladies in the house to put your hands up. Why? Because you can. Because you came into this world as an independent female with your hands way up, reaching for your new life, and there is absolutely no reason to stop that now.
Why do people try to tell us otherwise? Why is being single something that causes people to say, "Don't worry, we'll find you someone"? And why is this something we never seem to grow out of? Don't tell me that I need someone to make my life complete. Don't tell me that someone else, better yet a stranger, can help me better than I can help myself. I don't buy that - sorry I'm not sorry.
Don't get me wrong - I think relationships are great. Marriage can be cool too. Heck, as humans of course we need some companionship. But there's more to that, which is what people forget to tell us. When was the last time you saw a movie about a kickass chick and her crazy independent life? No love, drama, or relationships attached? Why aren't we being fed this kind of soul food - the kind that gets you off your ass and doing you day in and day out?
That's the kind of sista-friend energy I'm looking for. A world where females know that these irreplaceable hours are not your partner's or your crush's or your whatever's. So be a little selfish, act a little coy, and don't be afraid that the right guy won't come chasing after the whirlwind you leave trailing behind you. Because this is YOUR time on Earth, so make it younique - if you're going to share this precious gift with someone, they better be damn well worth it.
3.26.2012
What's black and white and red all over?
In the 5th grade, I told a lie to my teacher.
Well, maybe not a lie. But I definitely "withheld the truth." It was indoor recess and I was playing with one of my best friends Jonathan. We were playing who-can-make-it-on-the-desk-first. The opponents? Him vs. the nifty teacher's pointer I held in my hand. We laughed and we dueled until his butt met my stick in a way that is not as dirty as it sounds. The pointer cracked, and we both froze. "It's cool, don't worry, I'll just put it back like it's still together and she'll never notice." I ran to the chalkboard, carefully lay the pointer down and arranged it to look whole.
Naturally, when Ms. Whatshername returned and went to use it, she only picked up one half. Glaring at the class, she demanded a confession. This was her favorite pointer, she said. Her 5th grade class from 12 years ago gifted it to her, she said. My heart wrung with distress. How could I confess now? After that sob story, who wants to be responsible for such an insensitive move? I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, my palms creating an attractive little puddle on the wooden desk in front of me. No one answered. I was in the clear.
The next day during outdoor recess, I was held in by my teacher. Someone had spared me the trouble and confessed for me, and I got a yelling that is still horrifyingly vivid in my mind. I stood and listened for thirty minutes. About why lying was wrong, about how it is a nasty habit to fall into, and about how hurt and surprised she was by my deception. As tears filled my eyes, I couldn't meet hers. I stared at the colorful border lining the wall, trying to find some happiness in its cheery demeanor. The effort was to no avail - I felt disgusting, ashamed, and angry at the tacky little tattle-tale that ratted me out. As if I needed any more evidence that stupid boys had stupid cooties.
For the next month of school, I cowered in my teacher's presence. I wasn't as participatory, I played it very safe, and avoided all eye contact with her unless absolutely necessary. I was a pathetic excuse of a human in my mind, and I vowed to never lie again.
I went on to middle school, leaving the incident behind me. But one day, something strange happened. Having the opportunity to cheat with a classmate, I politely refused his offer and felt good about doing it. I immediately remembered the day of the pointer, the talk in the hallway, and the impression it left on me. I emailed my teacher, thanking her for instilling the lesson of right and wrong. Though I resented everything about the period when I was that guy, I was grateful for her words that knocked some sense into me.
As I look back on it now, I'm not as grateful as middle school Avani was. Of course I understand the gesture - to teach me that lying is wrong. But what I'm not quite sure I can parse is the notion that there is always one wrong that opposes one steady right. I was so shaken up that day, that the idea of a white lie was blasphemy to me, for a really long time. I didn't get it - how can there be exceptions to a rule? That's not what I was taught in the 5th grade.
And here lies a fundamental problem. The world, as full of color as I love to see it when I walk outside each day - is somehow always black and white to me. Hidden beneath the hue of the trees are roots that are grounded in either good or bad soil in my mind, and I can't seem to shake that idea. It is always one extreme or the other, and the grey lines of moderation are constantly blurred. Why can't I seem to find this balance? Because I always try to follow a rule. A safe set of steps that logically lays out what things mean, and how to proceed. Instead of finding the middle way between "you're approaching the grey" and "you're just kidding yourself," I push towards the polars. Something about staying as far away from the middle ground as possible makes me feel safe. Like I am either completely off, or completely on, and that's more appealing than being neither one of the two.
And sure, maybe that's just an issue that stems from an obsessive personality. But a part of me thinks that the red rage in her eyes 10 years ago left me too scared to ever try to approach color again.
Well, maybe not a lie. But I definitely "withheld the truth." It was indoor recess and I was playing with one of my best friends Jonathan. We were playing who-can-make-it-on-the-desk-first. The opponents? Him vs. the nifty teacher's pointer I held in my hand. We laughed and we dueled until his butt met my stick in a way that is not as dirty as it sounds. The pointer cracked, and we both froze. "It's cool, don't worry, I'll just put it back like it's still together and she'll never notice." I ran to the chalkboard, carefully lay the pointer down and arranged it to look whole.
Naturally, when Ms. Whatshername returned and went to use it, she only picked up one half. Glaring at the class, she demanded a confession. This was her favorite pointer, she said. Her 5th grade class from 12 years ago gifted it to her, she said. My heart wrung with distress. How could I confess now? After that sob story, who wants to be responsible for such an insensitive move? I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, my palms creating an attractive little puddle on the wooden desk in front of me. No one answered. I was in the clear.
The next day during outdoor recess, I was held in by my teacher. Someone had spared me the trouble and confessed for me, and I got a yelling that is still horrifyingly vivid in my mind. I stood and listened for thirty minutes. About why lying was wrong, about how it is a nasty habit to fall into, and about how hurt and surprised she was by my deception. As tears filled my eyes, I couldn't meet hers. I stared at the colorful border lining the wall, trying to find some happiness in its cheery demeanor. The effort was to no avail - I felt disgusting, ashamed, and angry at the tacky little tattle-tale that ratted me out. As if I needed any more evidence that stupid boys had stupid cooties.
For the next month of school, I cowered in my teacher's presence. I wasn't as participatory, I played it very safe, and avoided all eye contact with her unless absolutely necessary. I was a pathetic excuse of a human in my mind, and I vowed to never lie again.
I went on to middle school, leaving the incident behind me. But one day, something strange happened. Having the opportunity to cheat with a classmate, I politely refused his offer and felt good about doing it. I immediately remembered the day of the pointer, the talk in the hallway, and the impression it left on me. I emailed my teacher, thanking her for instilling the lesson of right and wrong. Though I resented everything about the period when I was that guy, I was grateful for her words that knocked some sense into me.
As I look back on it now, I'm not as grateful as middle school Avani was. Of course I understand the gesture - to teach me that lying is wrong. But what I'm not quite sure I can parse is the notion that there is always one wrong that opposes one steady right. I was so shaken up that day, that the idea of a white lie was blasphemy to me, for a really long time. I didn't get it - how can there be exceptions to a rule? That's not what I was taught in the 5th grade.
And here lies a fundamental problem. The world, as full of color as I love to see it when I walk outside each day - is somehow always black and white to me. Hidden beneath the hue of the trees are roots that are grounded in either good or bad soil in my mind, and I can't seem to shake that idea. It is always one extreme or the other, and the grey lines of moderation are constantly blurred. Why can't I seem to find this balance? Because I always try to follow a rule. A safe set of steps that logically lays out what things mean, and how to proceed. Instead of finding the middle way between "you're approaching the grey" and "you're just kidding yourself," I push towards the polars. Something about staying as far away from the middle ground as possible makes me feel safe. Like I am either completely off, or completely on, and that's more appealing than being neither one of the two.
And sure, maybe that's just an issue that stems from an obsessive personality. But a part of me thinks that the red rage in her eyes 10 years ago left me too scared to ever try to approach color again.
3.21.2012
Home, Interrupted.
Have you ever felt like you were trapped in your childhood? I'm not talking about the fun days when you'd swing on monkey bars - or if you were like me, hang on the first one as your potbelly weighed you down. I mean like you are unable to shake off whatever this "immaturity" is, that makes people look at you in that "Oh, honey" kind of way.
I feel it most when people ask me certain questions. With a cocked head and a look of impatience, "When are you going to stop dying your hair?" "Do you really need to paint your nails 3 different colors?" Or a disgusted glance followed by intense ear-contact, "So...have you thought about taking out those piercings?" Sometimes it's more generalized, like, "You got this out of your system, so are you going to calm down now?" And sometimes there are questions hiding behind questions, like, "How many hours a week do you dance?"
Separately, these things seem small, irrelevant even. But together, they hit a nerve. Collectively, they make up who I am, how I choose to live, what makes me feel like me when I walk into a crowded room. Why? I have no idea. Why not? I again have no idea. But for some reason, the why-not is answered with a because-it's-childish. Because it's not something grown-ups do, and one day, I'll have to grow out of this phunky phase of mine.
The problem is - this doesn't feel like a phase. No, this feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be, and exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. The problem is, this childish cage that everyone thinks I'm trapped in, is actually pretty cozy.
So maybe I'll rub my belly like a bowl full of jelly and just hang on this monkey bar for a while. Because It feels like home. And I'm not okay with being evicted before I even move in.
I feel it most when people ask me certain questions. With a cocked head and a look of impatience, "When are you going to stop dying your hair?" "Do you really need to paint your nails 3 different colors?" Or a disgusted glance followed by intense ear-contact, "So...have you thought about taking out those piercings?" Sometimes it's more generalized, like, "You got this out of your system, so are you going to calm down now?" And sometimes there are questions hiding behind questions, like, "How many hours a week do you dance?"
Separately, these things seem small, irrelevant even. But together, they hit a nerve. Collectively, they make up who I am, how I choose to live, what makes me feel like me when I walk into a crowded room. Why? I have no idea. Why not? I again have no idea. But for some reason, the why-not is answered with a because-it's-childish. Because it's not something grown-ups do, and one day, I'll have to grow out of this phunky phase of mine.
The problem is - this doesn't feel like a phase. No, this feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be, and exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. The problem is, this childish cage that everyone thinks I'm trapped in, is actually pretty cozy.
So maybe I'll rub my belly like a bowl full of jelly and just hang on this monkey bar for a while. Because It feels like home. And I'm not okay with being evicted before I even move in.
3.18.2012
Once Upon a Time
We like to think that our lives are like storybooks. Each stage posing as another chapter in our interesting and unique novels that we can call our own.
Sorry to all the Cinderellas and Huck Finn's out there - it's not.
Our life isn't a plot that's waiting to unfold. It's guided by a couple of sentences. Not a lot, just a few that somehow snake their way into our brains and plop down, budding into a million more snake baby sentences that work off of it.
Let me tell you how this works. Take the sentence, "The dog is brown."
Now, imagine you are looking at Clifford the Big Red Dog and uttering that to yourself. Of course at first, you laugh at how stupid it sounds. It's nowhere near brown, and probably never will be, no matter how hard you squint your eyes or say the words.
But then, your homie comes along and says she can see a speck of brown amidst the red. She points it out, and you inch closer despite the reluctance to approach something so absurd. You may take a step, even two if you're feeling ambitious. But then you stop, because let's face it - this dog ain't gettin any browner.
You're chillin. You're satisfied. You know you're right and your friend is a dinkus.
But what about the cousin? Your cousin surely knows better. After all, he's your blood, so he must be a genius, given how smart you are. He sees the brown too. "You're not looking hard enough. I'm telling you it's there. Get your head out of the clouds. This dog is brown." You take a couple steps closer. You think you might see it! But you stop yourself - are you just seeing what you want to see? Filling in the missing pieces to make yourself seem less insane?
You stop a good 2 inches away from the dog. You're holding your ground, however shaky it feels underneath your feet. It's red, it's red, it's red. Wait...it's brown?
All of a sudden, by some combustion of surreality, the dog has become brown. You're smiling! You're not stupid! It's right there in front of your face. They were right, you just had to get real to see the surreal.
You're grateful that they pointed out the truth. You tell your friends about this brown dog, and suppress any shred of doubt you might have about its validity. You arrange to make a life out of this giant brown dog. You can make millions, billions! Come on - who the hell has ever seen such a thing? It's the perfect plan that makes perfect sense.
This seems like happily ever after, of course. The protagonist overcame her obstacle and finally saw truth to reach a lucrative "the end."
But it's not.
Because you'll never see it, but Fairy Godmother is singing Bippity Boppity CRAP right behind you, with a look of melancholy on her face, and the snake inside your head is smirking.
The dog is red.
Sorry to all the Cinderellas and Huck Finn's out there - it's not.
Our life isn't a plot that's waiting to unfold. It's guided by a couple of sentences. Not a lot, just a few that somehow snake their way into our brains and plop down, budding into a million more snake baby sentences that work off of it.
Let me tell you how this works. Take the sentence, "The dog is brown."
Now, imagine you are looking at Clifford the Big Red Dog and uttering that to yourself. Of course at first, you laugh at how stupid it sounds. It's nowhere near brown, and probably never will be, no matter how hard you squint your eyes or say the words.
But then, your homie comes along and says she can see a speck of brown amidst the red. She points it out, and you inch closer despite the reluctance to approach something so absurd. You may take a step, even two if you're feeling ambitious. But then you stop, because let's face it - this dog ain't gettin any browner.
You're chillin. You're satisfied. You know you're right and your friend is a dinkus.
But what about the cousin? Your cousin surely knows better. After all, he's your blood, so he must be a genius, given how smart you are. He sees the brown too. "You're not looking hard enough. I'm telling you it's there. Get your head out of the clouds. This dog is brown." You take a couple steps closer. You think you might see it! But you stop yourself - are you just seeing what you want to see? Filling in the missing pieces to make yourself seem less insane?
You stop a good 2 inches away from the dog. You're holding your ground, however shaky it feels underneath your feet. It's red, it's red, it's red. Wait...it's brown?
All of a sudden, by some combustion of surreality, the dog has become brown. You're smiling! You're not stupid! It's right there in front of your face. They were right, you just had to get real to see the surreal.
You're grateful that they pointed out the truth. You tell your friends about this brown dog, and suppress any shred of doubt you might have about its validity. You arrange to make a life out of this giant brown dog. You can make millions, billions! Come on - who the hell has ever seen such a thing? It's the perfect plan that makes perfect sense.
This seems like happily ever after, of course. The protagonist overcame her obstacle and finally saw truth to reach a lucrative "the end."
But it's not.
Because you'll never see it, but Fairy Godmother is singing Bippity Boppity CRAP right behind you, with a look of melancholy on her face, and the snake inside your head is smirking.
The dog is red.
3.14.2012
Ego, Superego & It
There are moments in your life when you realize that you are not like other people.
I used to think there was one specific instance. An "AHA!" moment when you finally understand that you are not understood. But I'm beginning to think that this isn't true. This realization comes in spurts. Those few moments of clarity when you realize your vision isn't so clear.
Like when you become so passionate about a part of your life that is so incredibly insignificant to people around you, it drives you to insanity and you continue like a crack addict anyway. Or when you immediately become attached to a person you barely know, or haven't even met yet. Or when you are consumed by any sort of feeling, really, that your psyche tells you is totally irrational, but somehow also utterly and completely real.
Maybe It's these moments, or maybe it's other, smaller ones. Like how watching an old woman serve you coffee makes your heart fall out of your butt, but when she smiles with recognition, you want to fly. Or when an acquaintance sends a thoughtful text, and you want to run and befriend her and thank her for being a beautiful person. Or when the barista says that they still have Caramel Brulee Syrup leftover and you want to jump over and attack her out of complete joy.
Maybe It's the things you do. Like color to feel like you have the control to keep your life inside the lines. Or make arts and crafts to remind yourself in a tangible way that you have the power to create something real. Or take solo walks with your iPod and let the music raise your skin as you confront everything, or everyone, you have been running away from.
Maybe It's stubborn, and everytime you try to suppress its evil, it comes back with a stronger vengeance than the last time. Maybe It's suffering, and each time you fail to nourish its potential, it partially dies. Maybe It's condensed, and each time you try to unpack it, you come a little closer to its core.
I can't tell you what It is. But I can tell you that above all, it's patient. It is something deeply rooted, waiting, to rise up into the sunshine.
I used to think there was one specific instance. An "AHA!" moment when you finally understand that you are not understood. But I'm beginning to think that this isn't true. This realization comes in spurts. Those few moments of clarity when you realize your vision isn't so clear.
Like when you become so passionate about a part of your life that is so incredibly insignificant to people around you, it drives you to insanity and you continue like a crack addict anyway. Or when you immediately become attached to a person you barely know, or haven't even met yet. Or when you are consumed by any sort of feeling, really, that your psyche tells you is totally irrational, but somehow also utterly and completely real.
Maybe It's these moments, or maybe it's other, smaller ones. Like how watching an old woman serve you coffee makes your heart fall out of your butt, but when she smiles with recognition, you want to fly. Or when an acquaintance sends a thoughtful text, and you want to run and befriend her and thank her for being a beautiful person. Or when the barista says that they still have Caramel Brulee Syrup leftover and you want to jump over and attack her out of complete joy.
Maybe It's the things you do. Like color to feel like you have the control to keep your life inside the lines. Or make arts and crafts to remind yourself in a tangible way that you have the power to create something real. Or take solo walks with your iPod and let the music raise your skin as you confront everything, or everyone, you have been running away from.
Maybe It's stubborn, and everytime you try to suppress its evil, it comes back with a stronger vengeance than the last time. Maybe It's suffering, and each time you fail to nourish its potential, it partially dies. Maybe It's condensed, and each time you try to unpack it, you come a little closer to its core.
I can't tell you what It is. But I can tell you that above all, it's patient. It is something deeply rooted, waiting, to rise up into the sunshine.
3.09.2012
From the inside of 26 heads
Avani.
Ew. Look at that. That tiny biddie “a,” always creepin in the middle. No matter how many times we try to tell her to speak up, she doesn’t respond. It doesn’t make any sense! She makes herself known in every other group we put her with, but for some reason she wants to be mute when she’s with them.
Who even put her there? I mean clearly it’s because she’s pretty and ups the “group hotness” level or whatever. It wouldn’t make any sense otherwise.
She probably thinks she’s so cool. Rolling with Avni and having everyone stare at her as the mysterious silent chick, always trying to figure her out.
What really pisses me off is how she plays so hard to get out. Seriously? Who wants a clingy Alpha at your side all the time.
I guess we do have to give her one thing though. She knows when to shut up. I mean it’s weird at first – a letter with no sound, but I guess sometimes, you have to really know the power of words before you choose to partake in them.
3.06.2012
Nicomachean Ethics
"For single and straight is the road of the good; the bad go bad in every which way."
Sorry Aristotle, the 2nd one sounds like way more fun to me.
Sorry Aristotle, the 2nd one sounds like way more fun to me.
3.03.2012
Quest For Completion
She peeked into the portal to everything she was hiding from.
She let it all in. Conceding to the irrational emotions about silly little things, the fears big and small, the nightmares and daydreams of a tiny little girl who doesn't know any better. She knew that sometimes, you had to be consumed by these ridiculous sensations in order to move past them. She knew this in theory, but in practice, it was much larger, much scarier than she thought.
She let each thing hit her - one by one, taking their best shot. They came in random order - no ascension or pattern to keep her somewhat stable. She stood and braved it - her inner self.
Then suddenly, amongst all the straws, she encountered the last one. She curled into her soul and shut her eyes so tight as if they would fall out with any less pressure. Her mind swirled with mayhem and her core cringed with disgust and cognizance of everything she is and everything she isn't.
And then, she ran.
She runs faster and faster until her limbs are robotic and she can't feel her own motion and her sweat becomes dry and her fingers are cold but she doesn't care because she's running and she's running and her cheeks are jumping with every thump she hits the ground with and her legs feel as though they could go on like this forever and her chest feels harder with every pump of her arms and pump of her heart and she RUNS.
She runs, because she realizes, it is the only time she is truly, and (in)completely, on her own.
She let it all in. Conceding to the irrational emotions about silly little things, the fears big and small, the nightmares and daydreams of a tiny little girl who doesn't know any better. She knew that sometimes, you had to be consumed by these ridiculous sensations in order to move past them. She knew this in theory, but in practice, it was much larger, much scarier than she thought.
She let each thing hit her - one by one, taking their best shot. They came in random order - no ascension or pattern to keep her somewhat stable. She stood and braved it - her inner self.
Then suddenly, amongst all the straws, she encountered the last one. She curled into her soul and shut her eyes so tight as if they would fall out with any less pressure. Her mind swirled with mayhem and her core cringed with disgust and cognizance of everything she is and everything she isn't.
And then, she ran.
She runs faster and faster until her limbs are robotic and she can't feel her own motion and her sweat becomes dry and her fingers are cold but she doesn't care because she's running and she's running and her cheeks are jumping with every thump she hits the ground with and her legs feel as though they could go on like this forever and her chest feels harder with every pump of her arms and pump of her heart and she RUNS.
She runs, because she realizes, it is the only time she is truly, and (in)completely, on her own.
3.01.2012
Hilarious
What girls want:
What guys don't want:
http://www.independent.co.uk/
What I conclude:
What guys don't want:
http://www.independent.co.uk/
What I conclude:
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