A lot has happened in the past six months, because fuck you, that's why. I have written a bit, even attempting NaNoWriMo, but this blog laid stagnant. As such projects are wont to do. But as my father first insisted I start this, now he insists I return; I inherited my wordcraft from him, after all.
Writing does not make one a writer. I'm not quite sure what does; nor can I doubtlessly proclaim myself to be one; nor can I ever. Harlan Ellison, in his astounding documentary, said "you aren't a writer until a writer says you're a writer." There may be hope for me yet.
Now to find what to say, what to speak of, what words to use. Or not. Some popular asstards don't bother, why should I? But I digress. Maybe. Hard to stray from the path when you're stumbling along blindfolded.
Fuck it, I'll return, if I remember, or not, what the fuck ever, and I'll say something, I suppose. Ish.
Maybe?
TTFN
Monday, January 3, 2011
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sexy Fun Times
Today's post is dedicated to my parents and conversations I have had with them in the past 12 hours. I am 1500 miles away from them, and I am blessed to live in the era of phones and Facebook. These words I am about to share are brought to you by another all-nighter and this fabulous coffee-with-my-sugar that I am currently drinking.
I was chatting with Moms about the usual--philosophy, ancient history, and sex. Part of what was mentioned was "sexy fun times," as I said, referencing not-sex (as I am a virgin still).
It appears to me that a common misconception amongst the general American population that "sexy fun times" only means actual intercourse, which is of course not the case. Flirting, hugs, tickling, poking, any contact really, and much dialogue applies. Anything that gets your heartbeat up a bit, anything that makes you tingle in the right places, or even makes you feel warm and fuzzy, is SFT. I have been experiencing such things since I was about twelve and discovered that sex was not just something my parents' closed their door for, allowing me free reign in the kitchen. Oh no, it is so much more.
Even looking at someone attractive, or thinking about them, counts as SFT. Really, it runs the gamut from little girls riding ponies to grannies reminiscing, and reliving, their prime. That's the beauty of sex in general, and SFT specifically. I am ever so grateful to be human, though I would have settled for wolvenness, or lycanthropy--but that is a story for another time.
In a similar vein, I am also blessed to swing both ways, and appreciate both my father's and my mother's taste in others. Scarlett Johansson, Jeffrey Donovan, and so forth. However, women are crazy, and really, how many curves does one relationship need? I fill the quota, as I say, and I would like some contrast up in here.
For my final note, women are really insane, and jealousy is completely irrelevant to sex. They overlap, and quite commonly in mainstream culture, but they are not mutually inclusive. There are women who feel threatened by the wandering eyes of their men (which is ridiculous, because how else would he have found you? and what do you think porn is? and how do your eyes wander?) and other women who are completely unphased by polyamory, in which their partner may become romantically involved with one or more others. Not to be sexist, for the reverse is also true, and men tend to be more volatile in their jealousy, though most would appreciate such freedom.
I suppose this entry does not really answer any questions, nor is it especially vivid or miraculous, but there you go. Maybe I'll enthrall you next time.
TTFN
I was chatting with Moms about the usual--philosophy, ancient history, and sex. Part of what was mentioned was "sexy fun times," as I said, referencing not-sex (as I am a virgin still).
It appears to me that a common misconception amongst the general American population that "sexy fun times" only means actual intercourse, which is of course not the case. Flirting, hugs, tickling, poking, any contact really, and much dialogue applies. Anything that gets your heartbeat up a bit, anything that makes you tingle in the right places, or even makes you feel warm and fuzzy, is SFT. I have been experiencing such things since I was about twelve and discovered that sex was not just something my parents' closed their door for, allowing me free reign in the kitchen. Oh no, it is so much more.
Even looking at someone attractive, or thinking about them, counts as SFT. Really, it runs the gamut from little girls riding ponies to grannies reminiscing, and reliving, their prime. That's the beauty of sex in general, and SFT specifically. I am ever so grateful to be human, though I would have settled for wolvenness, or lycanthropy--but that is a story for another time.
In a similar vein, I am also blessed to swing both ways, and appreciate both my father's and my mother's taste in others. Scarlett Johansson, Jeffrey Donovan, and so forth. However, women are crazy, and really, how many curves does one relationship need? I fill the quota, as I say, and I would like some contrast up in here.
For my final note, women are really insane, and jealousy is completely irrelevant to sex. They overlap, and quite commonly in mainstream culture, but they are not mutually inclusive. There are women who feel threatened by the wandering eyes of their men (which is ridiculous, because how else would he have found you? and what do you think porn is? and how do your eyes wander?) and other women who are completely unphased by polyamory, in which their partner may become romantically involved with one or more others. Not to be sexist, for the reverse is also true, and men tend to be more volatile in their jealousy, though most would appreciate such freedom.
I suppose this entry does not really answer any questions, nor is it especially vivid or miraculous, but there you go. Maybe I'll enthrall you next time.
TTFN
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Introduction Via Explanations Spawned In The Blood Of Coffee Beans
First, "iknowwheremycrazycamefrom."
I have started this blog at the slight insistence of my father, who has his own, hilarious, intelligent, and all around worthwhile blog as of fairly recently: http://ramblesofthenight.blogspot.com/. So it seemed only fair to name this blog for him, as well as my mother. As funny and smart as I am, I am a youthful wine, and he (and my mother) have aged finely in all regards. My crazy, my weird, and my awesome is completely from them, both by nature and by nurture. I am proud to call them my parents, to speak to them about every subject under the sun, and to agree and disagree with them. It's all about the conversation in my household, and I am finally interesting and autonomous, though their influence is very strong and will remain so for the rest of my life, even when they are gone from it in the realm of the physical. They will never be gone from my heart, my mind, and my soul (also known as the emotional, mental, and something-extra-and-not-quite-defined to the less poetic and more atheistic crowd).
Second, "An Outlet Of Madness."
I do not use the words crazy, insane, and mad with the full weight of mental illness behind it, though my genetic history is far from flawless. Alcoholism, depression, schizophrenia, and god-only-knows-what-else runs in my veins, and I embrace that wholeheartedly. Things would not be the same without my parents' disturbing past and my grandmothers' quirkiness and all of the rest, and I am happy for it (though not always for the negative consequences of such things, such as pain and anguish of yesteryear). In any case, here is where I shall share the crazy, with my father and whoever else cares to pop on by, and try to keep from losing my mind in the days and years to come.
Third (and final), "Mad Maddy MadamMoodswing."
My given name is Madeline, which I adore, and my nickname is Maddie/Maddy, depending on who is spelling it, and after years of swinging back and forth I am truly in love with my name and find that it suits me perfectly. It is not common in my age group, and while it vaguely hints at belonging to an older woman, it is not dated or downright boring like Ethel, Agnes, Estelle, and the like. My mother has a plethora of nicknames for me, including Madness, and I have friends that call me Mad and Mads and everything else that it is possible to shorten or modify my name into. As for the final part, it is a very old and always relevant, slightly negative yet completely loving moniker from Daddy, as I have always been a volatile and passionate little thang. I embrace it now, and am getting better at balancing and surpassing the negative with the positive, and it's all uphill from here.
In fact, everything is all uphill from here, including this blog. At least, that is what I am aiming for. Time for a bit of a cliche which, like most cliches, is cliche for a reason: It is not the destination, but the journey that matters [/paraphrase].
TTFN
I have started this blog at the slight insistence of my father, who has his own, hilarious, intelligent, and all around worthwhile blog as of fairly recently: http://ramblesofthenight.blogspot.com/. So it seemed only fair to name this blog for him, as well as my mother. As funny and smart as I am, I am a youthful wine, and he (and my mother) have aged finely in all regards. My crazy, my weird, and my awesome is completely from them, both by nature and by nurture. I am proud to call them my parents, to speak to them about every subject under the sun, and to agree and disagree with them. It's all about the conversation in my household, and I am finally interesting and autonomous, though their influence is very strong and will remain so for the rest of my life, even when they are gone from it in the realm of the physical. They will never be gone from my heart, my mind, and my soul (also known as the emotional, mental, and something-extra-and-not-quite-defined to the less poetic and more atheistic crowd).
Second, "An Outlet Of Madness."
I do not use the words crazy, insane, and mad with the full weight of mental illness behind it, though my genetic history is far from flawless. Alcoholism, depression, schizophrenia, and god-only-knows-what-else runs in my veins, and I embrace that wholeheartedly. Things would not be the same without my parents' disturbing past and my grandmothers' quirkiness and all of the rest, and I am happy for it (though not always for the negative consequences of such things, such as pain and anguish of yesteryear). In any case, here is where I shall share the crazy, with my father and whoever else cares to pop on by, and try to keep from losing my mind in the days and years to come.
Third (and final), "Mad Maddy MadamMoodswing."
My given name is Madeline, which I adore, and my nickname is Maddie/Maddy, depending on who is spelling it, and after years of swinging back and forth I am truly in love with my name and find that it suits me perfectly. It is not common in my age group, and while it vaguely hints at belonging to an older woman, it is not dated or downright boring like Ethel, Agnes, Estelle, and the like. My mother has a plethora of nicknames for me, including Madness, and I have friends that call me Mad and Mads and everything else that it is possible to shorten or modify my name into. As for the final part, it is a very old and always relevant, slightly negative yet completely loving moniker from Daddy, as I have always been a volatile and passionate little thang. I embrace it now, and am getting better at balancing and surpassing the negative with the positive, and it's all uphill from here.
In fact, everything is all uphill from here, including this blog. At least, that is what I am aiming for. Time for a bit of a cliche which, like most cliches, is cliche for a reason: It is not the destination, but the journey that matters [/paraphrase].
TTFN
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