Today's words: Edge, Iron, Direful, Trite
Word count: 170
Completion time: 20 minutes
Summary: Straightened hair sometimes has a deeper meaning
--
The direful, untamed puffs of hair taunted me as I looked in the mirror
It was a trite affair – everyone did it but
I didn’t discover another motive ‘til my brother asked:
“Why are you trying to make yourself look white?”
I didn’t realise that by modifying my hair
I was doing the next best thing
To modifying my skin
I didn’t like my puffs because they were Afro, native, different
I sectioned my identity, tried to cut myself off
The iron was oppression and I held it tight
Trying to erase myself with a white rubber
Even black Barbie had straight flowing locks
I’d brush them til the strands gathered static
Til there were no more kinks
If I did the same to mine, my hair would rebel
The more I brushed, the bigger the afro
The more I edge from my race
The more it stares me in the face
Running fast or staying still
Makes no difference
It will always be here
Standing out against the light
Friday 28 February 2014
Wednesday 26 February 2014
#91 - Catching the Gay
Today’s words: Committee, Ray, Blood, Grade
Word count: 482
Completion time: 30 minutes
Summary: A boy desperately tries to chase away any gay feelings he may or may not harbour
--
When Cyprus was young, he thought that being gay was contagious. If a gay person sneezed on him, coughed in front of him, or if their blood somehow got mixed in with his, he was certain he’d grow up gay.
To try and battle this paranoia, in tenth grade, he put up an abundance of posters featuring scantily clad women in suggestive poses that were to act like medicine and repel any dormant homosexual feelings. He’d stare at his walls and burn the images into his retinas as he got into bed and touched himself, proving that he was straight, proving that if he came, he was definitely hetero. That was his ray of hope, his light at the end of the tunnel. He was straight. He was sure of it. The orgasms and desire to do nasty, borderline illegal things to the poster-women proved it.
When he reached university age (still a hardcore hetero, in case you were wondering), his ideas about ‘catching the gay’ had been muted by maturity, but he was still homophobic. He got the idea that gay people desired to make straight men gay too, not by a transferring of bacteria or blood cells, but by flirtation and coercion. He had no real evidence for this claim, but it stuck in his mind like a hardened piece of blu-tack.
At the final event for the first years, he followed the swarm of people to check out clubs that he might want to join. Rowing looked appealing, so did Climbing, maybe he’d even have a try at Kung Fu if he felt up to it. His eyes scanned the tables that were manned by students with encouraging smiles, willing people to check out their society. He smiled politely at most of them until he spotted the ‘LGBT community’. The committee members looked just as bright and cheerful as the rest of the groups in the room, which made Cyprus feel a little irritated, even offended.
The guy who was sat in the middle with short, neatly trimmed hair locked eyes with Cyprus and grinned, raising his eyebrows slightly. He had seen the guy before, but had no idea he was affiliated with that group. His temperature rose rapidly.
“Fuck this,” he said internally, pushing his way past the group of first year students to get to the exit.
Once he was out, he sat on a bench by the edge of the university grounds and snapped his eyes shut, grunting under his breath. The pulsating feeling in his crotch intensified, making him cross his legs and rest his forehead on his knees.
Once he had spent a sufficient amount of time burning the guy’s image from his brain, he got up and took the next bus home.
For the rest of the day, he decided to watch girl-on-girl videos in an attempt to detach himself from anything gay.
Word count: 482
Completion time: 30 minutes
Summary: A boy desperately tries to chase away any gay feelings he may or may not harbour
--
When Cyprus was young, he thought that being gay was contagious. If a gay person sneezed on him, coughed in front of him, or if their blood somehow got mixed in with his, he was certain he’d grow up gay.
To try and battle this paranoia, in tenth grade, he put up an abundance of posters featuring scantily clad women in suggestive poses that were to act like medicine and repel any dormant homosexual feelings. He’d stare at his walls and burn the images into his retinas as he got into bed and touched himself, proving that he was straight, proving that if he came, he was definitely hetero. That was his ray of hope, his light at the end of the tunnel. He was straight. He was sure of it. The orgasms and desire to do nasty, borderline illegal things to the poster-women proved it.
When he reached university age (still a hardcore hetero, in case you were wondering), his ideas about ‘catching the gay’ had been muted by maturity, but he was still homophobic. He got the idea that gay people desired to make straight men gay too, not by a transferring of bacteria or blood cells, but by flirtation and coercion. He had no real evidence for this claim, but it stuck in his mind like a hardened piece of blu-tack.
At the final event for the first years, he followed the swarm of people to check out clubs that he might want to join. Rowing looked appealing, so did Climbing, maybe he’d even have a try at Kung Fu if he felt up to it. His eyes scanned the tables that were manned by students with encouraging smiles, willing people to check out their society. He smiled politely at most of them until he spotted the ‘LGBT community’. The committee members looked just as bright and cheerful as the rest of the groups in the room, which made Cyprus feel a little irritated, even offended.
The guy who was sat in the middle with short, neatly trimmed hair locked eyes with Cyprus and grinned, raising his eyebrows slightly. He had seen the guy before, but had no idea he was affiliated with that group. His temperature rose rapidly.
“Fuck this,” he said internally, pushing his way past the group of first year students to get to the exit.
Once he was out, he sat on a bench by the edge of the university grounds and snapped his eyes shut, grunting under his breath. The pulsating feeling in his crotch intensified, making him cross his legs and rest his forehead on his knees.
Once he had spent a sufficient amount of time burning the guy’s image from his brain, he got up and took the next bus home.
For the rest of the day, he decided to watch girl-on-girl videos in an attempt to detach himself from anything gay.
Tuesday 25 February 2014
#90 - For A Black Girl
Today’s words: Flange, Tibia, Scrabble, Special
Word count: 421
Completion time: 30 minutes
Summary: A little girl realises early in her life that being black is not the same as being white
--
Gracie would sometimes wonder no-one in school that looked like her. It didn’t occur to her until she was around eight-years-old, when someone in the art lesson had asked for a ‘skin colour’ colouring pencil. Her fingers shot to the light pink implement and she took a look at the skin on the back of her hand; if that was ‘skin colour’, then what about her skin? And, how did she know which colour the boy had meant? Who taught her that? It certainly hadn’t been her teachers.
When she reached eleven, she was sent to a private school for high achievers (“special school for my special girl” her mum would sometimes sing). The building was beautiful – light grey stone surrounded by patches of ivy, royal blue roofs, and a cream and grey pebbled driveway that led up to the heavy oak doors like a red carpet to an awards ceremony. She felt grand, and yeah, pretty darn special...but that didn’t last very long.
Once again, Gracie was one of the only black children in school, and the only one in most of her classes, but this time, the kids were very aware of it.
It started off with looks, whispers behind hands, fake smiles, a small, easy diffusible scrabble in the yard, until one day she was elbowed at the top of a staircase which caused her to fall. Hard. Not only did she break her tibia, but her arm and a few teeth, too.
The last thing she heard before unconsciousness took over was that she should go back to the jungle and join the ugly flange of baboons where she belonged.
Bruises fade, cuts heal, bones fuse back together...but those words stayed with her until adulthood, occasionally making a prominent appearance when she descended a flight of stairs or scrutinized her flared nostrils in the mirror of her dresser.
When she recovered, she wished more than ever to be white; to be white meant to be normal, beautiful...something that she thought she could never achieve. She could google ‘How to make skin whiter’ and, ‘Bleach for black skin’ all she wanted but she would never look like the girls that everyone seemed to find most beautiful.
When mainstream society tells you that you’re unattractive, or that you’re attractive with ‘for a black girl’ as a disclaimer...it can make you feel like you’ll never be good enough.
You feel you’ll never amount to anything unless you shed your skin and pray for a lighter one to take its place.
Saturday 22 February 2014
#89 - My Life, Not Yours
Today’s words: Fund, Top, Exultant, Mundane
Word count: 384
Completion time: 19 minutes
Summary: If you haven’t figured your life out when you’re ‘supposed’ to...who cares? Live life on your own terms.
--
So, I’m lying here on the top bunk, one semi-bare leg poking through the wooden bars and my eyes are closed, imagining a future where, “What do you want to do with your life?” isn’t a phrase that exists. Nor does, “What do you want to be when you’re older?” “What university are you going to?” “What is your dream for the future?”
I inhaled, squeezed my eyes together tighter, and exhaled through my mouth. My life was mundane, fruitless, a dead-end...well, that’s what my relatives seemed to think.
“So, Emily,” my aunt’s high-pitched, whiney voice would begin, “what career would you like? You must be sick of that dull nine to five by now.”
“Oh, I dunno,” I beamed, exultant and carefree, “maybe one that involves me slapping that smug look off your face every time you decide that your voice is worthy of the same air that I breathe. You think someone would fund me for that? Cause I would gladly do that ‘til the day I die.”
Okay, I didn’t really say that; instead, I smiled sweetly, said, “it’s not so bad,” and walked away.
I turned my body so that I was on my right side and drew my legs up to my torso. I had just turned eighteen years old and already my life was deemed pointless unless I had some big goal in mind. I wasn’t a football player, or a contestant on Deal or No Deal who aimed for a certain amount of cash, I was an eighteen year old girl who had the rest of her life to decide what did and didn’t suit her.
Why should anyone care that my life wasn’t very exciting right now? Why should my parents look concerned when I say that I might give university a miss? Why am I made to feel guilty for not having my life planned out like a complex flow-chart?
What if I liked the way that my life was now? My job wasn’t very exciting, but I loved my co-workers, the money wasn’t bad, and I painted as a hobby...most importantly, I felt happy.
My eyes fixed themselves on a few university prospectuses that my parents had gotten for me, and I closed my eyes again.
Just...let me decide what’s important for me, okay?
Word count: 384
Completion time: 19 minutes
Summary: If you haven’t figured your life out when you’re ‘supposed’ to...who cares? Live life on your own terms.
--
So, I’m lying here on the top bunk, one semi-bare leg poking through the wooden bars and my eyes are closed, imagining a future where, “What do you want to do with your life?” isn’t a phrase that exists. Nor does, “What do you want to be when you’re older?” “What university are you going to?” “What is your dream for the future?”
I inhaled, squeezed my eyes together tighter, and exhaled through my mouth. My life was mundane, fruitless, a dead-end...well, that’s what my relatives seemed to think.
“So, Emily,” my aunt’s high-pitched, whiney voice would begin, “what career would you like? You must be sick of that dull nine to five by now.”
“Oh, I dunno,” I beamed, exultant and carefree, “maybe one that involves me slapping that smug look off your face every time you decide that your voice is worthy of the same air that I breathe. You think someone would fund me for that? Cause I would gladly do that ‘til the day I die.”
Okay, I didn’t really say that; instead, I smiled sweetly, said, “it’s not so bad,” and walked away.
I turned my body so that I was on my right side and drew my legs up to my torso. I had just turned eighteen years old and already my life was deemed pointless unless I had some big goal in mind. I wasn’t a football player, or a contestant on Deal or No Deal who aimed for a certain amount of cash, I was an eighteen year old girl who had the rest of her life to decide what did and didn’t suit her.
Why should anyone care that my life wasn’t very exciting right now? Why should my parents look concerned when I say that I might give university a miss? Why am I made to feel guilty for not having my life planned out like a complex flow-chart?
What if I liked the way that my life was now? My job wasn’t very exciting, but I loved my co-workers, the money wasn’t bad, and I painted as a hobby...most importantly, I felt happy.
My eyes fixed themselves on a few university prospectuses that my parents had gotten for me, and I closed my eyes again.
Just...let me decide what’s important for me, okay?
Thursday 20 February 2014
#88 - Only Human
Today’s words: Centralize, Glorious, Act, Detail
Word count: 138
Completion time: 8 minutes
Summary: 'Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable.' (Mark Twain)
--
Sometimes I feel like I want to centralize all authority in the world and rule this world on my own. In this one glorious act, I could feed those who starved, free the unfairly imprisoned, and bring justice to all the under-appreciated minorities around the world.
I like to think that no detail would be left unattended, that I would straighten out this earth with a fine-toothed comb until all the knots and kinks were gone.
If only it were that easy.
I think that maybe humans were just supposed to be greedy and destructive, that without these traits, there would be no human race. There will always be defective humans, but they’re not seen as defective...they’re seen as human.
“I’m only human.”
“You’d do the same.”
“It’s human nature, you understand.”
I do understand.
I’m human too.
Word count: 138
Completion time: 8 minutes
Summary: 'Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable.' (Mark Twain)
--
Sometimes I feel like I want to centralize all authority in the world and rule this world on my own. In this one glorious act, I could feed those who starved, free the unfairly imprisoned, and bring justice to all the under-appreciated minorities around the world.
I like to think that no detail would be left unattended, that I would straighten out this earth with a fine-toothed comb until all the knots and kinks were gone.
If only it were that easy.
I think that maybe humans were just supposed to be greedy and destructive, that without these traits, there would be no human race. There will always be defective humans, but they’re not seen as defective...they’re seen as human.
“I’m only human.”
“You’d do the same.”
“It’s human nature, you understand.”
I do understand.
I’m human too.
Wednesday 12 February 2014
#87 - I'm [Not] Sorry
Today’s words: Teeny, Boring, Edge, Iron
Word count: 464
Completion time: 32 minutes
Summary: Even if something you say or do wasn’t meant to hurt someone and it does...it makes sense to apologise
--
Accidents vary in their severity; some people swerve to avoid another car and are admitted to hospital, some slip on spilt liquid without a hazard sign, and some slam somebody else’s fingers in a door when they’re not paying attention. All of these are accidents, but all deserve apologies. None of them meant to cause any harm but once they do, the damage has already been done.
Astra’s young life was boring to any outsider, but to her, it was full of adventure, strange lands, and long journeys that would take days to get to. Once she closed her eyes, she was on a pirate ship with a loyal crew, next she’d be in Disneyland posing with Minnie Mouse, and on weekends she’d pop to space play hide and seek with aliens on Mars; it was a good life. Being partial to daydreams however, her teeny body was usually unaware of its surroundings: she’d bump into doors, people would trip over her in the street, and she’d need her name repeated at least three times before she answered (seven if she was in space, it was pretty far away after all).
One hot July afternoon whilst her father was ironing, Astra was fighting a tiger who she eventually managed to calm and befriend. As she put out her hand to stroke the striped feline, her real hand crept over the edge of the ironing board, retreating hastily when it made contact with the scalding iron. Snapping her eyes open and looking at her hand in confusion, she began to cry, then wail like her lungs would give out.
It was the first real pain that she had ever felt, it was nothing compared to a scraped knee or being knocked over in a department store by frantic shoppers; it felt closer, like it would never stop hurting.
Her father put the iron down and regarded her with a puzzled expression. “What’s wrong?”
“It hurts!” she cried between sobs that were heaving her whole body.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, so why are you sad?”
She continued to cry, holding her hand out for him to soothe.
“It was just an accident, I don’t understand why you’re so hurt. I was only ironing, I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose, Daddy isn’t like that.”
“It hurts, it hurts!”
“Stop overreacting. You’re acting like I meant to hurt you, darling, but I didn’t. All I wanted to do was iron. It’s your fault that you got hurt, don’t make me feel bad for your pain.”
He said all of this with a blunt, even slightly offended, tone.
He hadn’t meant to hurt Astra, but he had and that was blatant...yet, because it wasn’t his intention, he didn’t feel like he should be to blame.
Sound familiar?
Word count: 464
Completion time: 32 minutes
Summary: Even if something you say or do wasn’t meant to hurt someone and it does...it makes sense to apologise
--
Accidents vary in their severity; some people swerve to avoid another car and are admitted to hospital, some slip on spilt liquid without a hazard sign, and some slam somebody else’s fingers in a door when they’re not paying attention. All of these are accidents, but all deserve apologies. None of them meant to cause any harm but once they do, the damage has already been done.
Astra’s young life was boring to any outsider, but to her, it was full of adventure, strange lands, and long journeys that would take days to get to. Once she closed her eyes, she was on a pirate ship with a loyal crew, next she’d be in Disneyland posing with Minnie Mouse, and on weekends she’d pop to space play hide and seek with aliens on Mars; it was a good life. Being partial to daydreams however, her teeny body was usually unaware of its surroundings: she’d bump into doors, people would trip over her in the street, and she’d need her name repeated at least three times before she answered (seven if she was in space, it was pretty far away after all).
One hot July afternoon whilst her father was ironing, Astra was fighting a tiger who she eventually managed to calm and befriend. As she put out her hand to stroke the striped feline, her real hand crept over the edge of the ironing board, retreating hastily when it made contact with the scalding iron. Snapping her eyes open and looking at her hand in confusion, she began to cry, then wail like her lungs would give out.
It was the first real pain that she had ever felt, it was nothing compared to a scraped knee or being knocked over in a department store by frantic shoppers; it felt closer, like it would never stop hurting.
Her father put the iron down and regarded her with a puzzled expression. “What’s wrong?”
“It hurts!” she cried between sobs that were heaving her whole body.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, so why are you sad?”
She continued to cry, holding her hand out for him to soothe.
“It was just an accident, I don’t understand why you’re so hurt. I was only ironing, I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose, Daddy isn’t like that.”
“It hurts, it hurts!”
“Stop overreacting. You’re acting like I meant to hurt you, darling, but I didn’t. All I wanted to do was iron. It’s your fault that you got hurt, don’t make me feel bad for your pain.”
He said all of this with a blunt, even slightly offended, tone.
He hadn’t meant to hurt Astra, but he had and that was blatant...yet, because it wasn’t his intention, he didn’t feel like he should be to blame.
Sound familiar?
Tuesday 11 February 2014
#86 - Bi Erasure
Today’s words: Kaput, Jolly, Historical, Check in
Word count: 604
Completion time: 30 minutes
Summary: Being bisexual can sometimes feel like you’re stuck in limbo with the straight and queer community...made to feel insignificant by both sides when you desire acceptance from both
--
I had never been to a Brighton Pride before, so I felt particularly jolly and liberated that weekend; I was surrounded by people who understood and respected what it was like to be queer, something other than the heterosexual norm that I was forced to partake any time I turned on the TV or read any books. I wasn’t a passive character without development, I was the hero of my own story, someone with a group that for once had their voices heard, even amplified by pink glittery megaphones. Straight privilege seemed kaput for a weekend, and that comforted me, even if it was heavily constructed and artificial at times.
I stood tall within the mass of people; that was my crowd, those were my allies, I was one of them, I—
“Bisexual? That’s sort of half gay, right?”
“My mum calls it ‘one foot out of the closet’.”
My ears were lured to a conversation that took place right behind me. I decided to book a room and check in; my thoughts were with them and only them until I decided to check out again.
“My brother says that they just can’t make up their minds – straight or gay – so they pick an in-between until they can decide who they want.”
“This is why people don’t want to date a bisexual person...they could just change their mind and go for someone of the opposite sex.”
“You’re right. I know someone who dated a bisexual and they left them for another girl. You can’t test the food out from a buffet and put it back once you’re bored of it, that isn’t fair, it’s disgusting.”
“Bisexual people don’t know what it’s like for real gay people...they can go back to being straight if they run into any homophobes...gay people can’t.”
“So true. If a bisexual were dating someone of the opposite gender, no-one would even know that they were bi. They’re not oppressed, it’s just a convenient excuse to try and be quirky. Being gay is so much harder than being bi, bi people shouldn’t even be involved.”
“Yeah, why are they trying to hog some of the spotlight? You can’t choose to be a bit gay then go back to being straight, just like you can’t choose to be black for a day and go back to being white when you realise how oppressive it is on the other side.”
I checked out. I checked out in such a rush that I probably left half of my belongings in the unwelcoming room.
I had heard conversations like that before, but to hear it so blatantly, and on a day where queer people are supposed to feel proud and included? I had never felt so invisible. Where did I fit? It wasn’t in the straight community...nor was it in the queer community, apparently. So where was I supposed to go? Was I going to be forever stuck in limbo? People can’t tell me that I don’t exist, that I’m not valid; I’m standing right here, clear as day.
The conversation seemed historical in nature, something that, in several years’ time, they’d look back on and wonder why they ever said something so ignorant.
It was possible to fall for any gender at all, just as it was possible to fall for one.
With the muted conversation still, no doubt, continuing behind me I bit my lip, blinked back tears, and screamed my frustrations into the loud crowd full of vibrant colours and personalities.
It was my day, and no-one was going to make me feel bad for something that was out of my control.
Word count: 604
Completion time: 30 minutes
Summary: Being bisexual can sometimes feel like you’re stuck in limbo with the straight and queer community...made to feel insignificant by both sides when you desire acceptance from both
--
I had never been to a Brighton Pride before, so I felt particularly jolly and liberated that weekend; I was surrounded by people who understood and respected what it was like to be queer, something other than the heterosexual norm that I was forced to partake any time I turned on the TV or read any books. I wasn’t a passive character without development, I was the hero of my own story, someone with a group that for once had their voices heard, even amplified by pink glittery megaphones. Straight privilege seemed kaput for a weekend, and that comforted me, even if it was heavily constructed and artificial at times.
I stood tall within the mass of people; that was my crowd, those were my allies, I was one of them, I—
“Bisexual? That’s sort of half gay, right?”
“My mum calls it ‘one foot out of the closet’.”
My ears were lured to a conversation that took place right behind me. I decided to book a room and check in; my thoughts were with them and only them until I decided to check out again.
“My brother says that they just can’t make up their minds – straight or gay – so they pick an in-between until they can decide who they want.”
“This is why people don’t want to date a bisexual person...they could just change their mind and go for someone of the opposite sex.”
“You’re right. I know someone who dated a bisexual and they left them for another girl. You can’t test the food out from a buffet and put it back once you’re bored of it, that isn’t fair, it’s disgusting.”
“Bisexual people don’t know what it’s like for real gay people...they can go back to being straight if they run into any homophobes...gay people can’t.”
“So true. If a bisexual were dating someone of the opposite gender, no-one would even know that they were bi. They’re not oppressed, it’s just a convenient excuse to try and be quirky. Being gay is so much harder than being bi, bi people shouldn’t even be involved.”
“Yeah, why are they trying to hog some of the spotlight? You can’t choose to be a bit gay then go back to being straight, just like you can’t choose to be black for a day and go back to being white when you realise how oppressive it is on the other side.”
I checked out. I checked out in such a rush that I probably left half of my belongings in the unwelcoming room.
I had heard conversations like that before, but to hear it so blatantly, and on a day where queer people are supposed to feel proud and included? I had never felt so invisible. Where did I fit? It wasn’t in the straight community...nor was it in the queer community, apparently. So where was I supposed to go? Was I going to be forever stuck in limbo? People can’t tell me that I don’t exist, that I’m not valid; I’m standing right here, clear as day.
The conversation seemed historical in nature, something that, in several years’ time, they’d look back on and wonder why they ever said something so ignorant.
It was possible to fall for any gender at all, just as it was possible to fall for one.
With the muted conversation still, no doubt, continuing behind me I bit my lip, blinked back tears, and screamed my frustrations into the loud crowd full of vibrant colours and personalities.
It was my day, and no-one was going to make me feel bad for something that was out of my control.
Saturday 8 February 2014
#85 - Hetero Incognito
Today’s words: Mark, Poison, Fund, Juvenile
Word count: 585
Completion time: 39 minutes
Summary: Is someone still bisexual even if they get with someone of the opposite gender? No. Obviously not. Bisexuals who get with people of the opposite gender realise that heterosexuality is where it’s at. They shed their bisexual skin and step into the tight-fitting lycra clothing of the glorious hetero.
--
I think that everyone goes through a ‘bicurious’ stage, whether it’s to add a little interest to one’s personality, or because yeah, they find people of the same gender attractive, no matter how deep or not those feelings go. Once, a classmate was willing to fund me if I kissed a girl in front of him; that was how attractive same-sex relations were, so no wonder people wanted to be affiliated with it. Only a few people graduated from ‘bicurious’ to ‘bisexual’, and I was one of them.
I was made to think of other girls as any smart person would think of poison – something to avoid and not to be ingested by any means. But, dear reader, I had already acquired a taste of the sweet nectar that was a fellow females’ lips, to go back after that was unthinkable.
The first girl was Charli, who I spent four months with. In her I saw my future, my only light, and to be around her would excite only positive emotions. I’ll never forget the way her body felt whenever we embraced. The second was Madeleine.
I met her when I was a little older and she entirely caught me by surprise. I never expected to fall for someone like her but, like an enthusiastic bungee jumper with a weak bungee cord, I fell, and hard. We met at a concert through a mutual friend and ended up kissing during a song (or several) that I don’t even remember the name of. I would have kicked myself a thousand times if I didn’t ask for her number, so I did. We were together for a little over two years until the magic just dissipated.
For eight years I indentified as bisexual, until I met him.
The juvenile affections that I shared with Charli and Madeleine were a mark or smudge on a page compared to my feelings for Owen.
Yes, I had shared many years with girls, but the introduction of a penis into my life and my vagina felt like a fire hose that blasted away any and all of my bisexual tendencies. How could a mere vagina compare to the powerful, regal stature of the phallus? There is no better cure for bisexuality in women than a penis; was it not Freud who said that women have penis envy? That is all the evidence you need, wayward reader.
What of the men who do not possess a penis? Well, men are superior in any way regardless, as society makes sure to tell us, so how could I ever think myself bisexual when women are far overshadowed by men?
Owen treated me better than any woman could: he kept my emotions in check, made sure to inform me what clothes looked best on me, and paraded me around like a trophy he had won in a football game. I felt wanted. Hell, I felt loved.
The next time that you ask if a woman is really bisexual when they get with a man, the answer is no, no we are not. Even though we were attracted to women in the same way that we were attracted to men, men are superior in intellect, strength, and performances of the carnal nature.
The promise of a relationship with a man has forever eliminated any deep affection that I ever had for women, and I am glad for it. I am glad that Owen has shown me the light, and that light is entirely occupied by men.
Word count: 585
Completion time: 39 minutes
Summary: Is someone still bisexual even if they get with someone of the opposite gender? No. Obviously not. Bisexuals who get with people of the opposite gender realise that heterosexuality is where it’s at. They shed their bisexual skin and step into the tight-fitting lycra clothing of the glorious hetero.
--
I think that everyone goes through a ‘bicurious’ stage, whether it’s to add a little interest to one’s personality, or because yeah, they find people of the same gender attractive, no matter how deep or not those feelings go. Once, a classmate was willing to fund me if I kissed a girl in front of him; that was how attractive same-sex relations were, so no wonder people wanted to be affiliated with it. Only a few people graduated from ‘bicurious’ to ‘bisexual’, and I was one of them.
I was made to think of other girls as any smart person would think of poison – something to avoid and not to be ingested by any means. But, dear reader, I had already acquired a taste of the sweet nectar that was a fellow females’ lips, to go back after that was unthinkable.
The first girl was Charli, who I spent four months with. In her I saw my future, my only light, and to be around her would excite only positive emotions. I’ll never forget the way her body felt whenever we embraced. The second was Madeleine.
I met her when I was a little older and she entirely caught me by surprise. I never expected to fall for someone like her but, like an enthusiastic bungee jumper with a weak bungee cord, I fell, and hard. We met at a concert through a mutual friend and ended up kissing during a song (or several) that I don’t even remember the name of. I would have kicked myself a thousand times if I didn’t ask for her number, so I did. We were together for a little over two years until the magic just dissipated.
For eight years I indentified as bisexual, until I met him.
The juvenile affections that I shared with Charli and Madeleine were a mark or smudge on a page compared to my feelings for Owen.
Yes, I had shared many years with girls, but the introduction of a penis into my life and my vagina felt like a fire hose that blasted away any and all of my bisexual tendencies. How could a mere vagina compare to the powerful, regal stature of the phallus? There is no better cure for bisexuality in women than a penis; was it not Freud who said that women have penis envy? That is all the evidence you need, wayward reader.
What of the men who do not possess a penis? Well, men are superior in any way regardless, as society makes sure to tell us, so how could I ever think myself bisexual when women are far overshadowed by men?
Owen treated me better than any woman could: he kept my emotions in check, made sure to inform me what clothes looked best on me, and paraded me around like a trophy he had won in a football game. I felt wanted. Hell, I felt loved.
The next time that you ask if a woman is really bisexual when they get with a man, the answer is no, no we are not. Even though we were attracted to women in the same way that we were attracted to men, men are superior in intellect, strength, and performances of the carnal nature.
The promise of a relationship with a man has forever eliminated any deep affection that I ever had for women, and I am glad for it. I am glad that Owen has shown me the light, and that light is entirely occupied by men.
Friday 7 February 2014
#84 - A Helping Hand
Today’s words: Disgust, Testy, Dependent, Scale
Word count: 449
Completion time: 48 minutes
Summary: Sometimes we need someone else to fight our battles for us
--
I wouldn’t go as for to say that I was dependent, she just helped me out whenever I needed it. I needed her when I had to stand up for myself, to get out of embarrassing situations, to present my work to the class, to smile at strangers, to get out of bed sometimes when ‘mild distaste’ turned to ‘putrid disgust’ in reference to my hygiene, I needed her... Fuck. I needed her, didn’t I? On a scale of one to ‘drowning in the shallow end of a pool with armbands on’ how pathetic was I coming across? She was always at hand, appearing like an apparition in the mirror of a haunted mansion, ready to take my strings and control me if I got my limbs in a twist. It’s shameful to admit, but without her, I wouldn’t be able to pick myself off the ground.
A prominent fear of mine is to be faced with a testy person, someone who’s always prepared to demean me either by shooting me an ill-mannered glance or hinting heavily at my incompetence. I felt small, smaller than a mosquito and twice as irritating. What made it particularly bad was my tendency to cry at the smallest provocation, something which those types of people inspired most.
“I’ve explained it once already, what’s so hard to understand?”
This sentence was spat at me a week into my job.
“My daughter could probably get it, and she’s six,” I heard her mumble before she began to recite the command again.
“Hold on...”
She sighed. “What?”
“Do you speak to all your colleagues like this? And if so, are you expected to be met with a meek response like a child too scared to put their hand up to use the toilet? Just because you have a senior position in this company does not warrant you to be snobbish, impatient, and, quite rightly, a bit of a dickhead. Maybe if you presented yourself in a pleasant, more tolerable way, people would actually give you a bit of respect rather than bitch behind your back about the way your ass looks in those ill-fitting trousers that you insist on wearing every other day; wearing two sizes smaller won’t hide the fact that your backside could stop a locomotive in its tracks.”
It had happened again, she had come out to ‘save’ me.
The woman didn’t know what to say in response, so we both stood there nervously eyeing each other before she dashed past me, face flushed scarlet.
I knew I’d have to face her again, she worked on the same floor, but I hoped that my saviour would materialize whenever that time came.
Oh dear.
Word count: 449
Completion time: 48 minutes
Summary: Sometimes we need someone else to fight our battles for us
--
I wouldn’t go as for to say that I was dependent, she just helped me out whenever I needed it. I needed her when I had to stand up for myself, to get out of embarrassing situations, to present my work to the class, to smile at strangers, to get out of bed sometimes when ‘mild distaste’ turned to ‘putrid disgust’ in reference to my hygiene, I needed her... Fuck. I needed her, didn’t I? On a scale of one to ‘drowning in the shallow end of a pool with armbands on’ how pathetic was I coming across? She was always at hand, appearing like an apparition in the mirror of a haunted mansion, ready to take my strings and control me if I got my limbs in a twist. It’s shameful to admit, but without her, I wouldn’t be able to pick myself off the ground.
A prominent fear of mine is to be faced with a testy person, someone who’s always prepared to demean me either by shooting me an ill-mannered glance or hinting heavily at my incompetence. I felt small, smaller than a mosquito and twice as irritating. What made it particularly bad was my tendency to cry at the smallest provocation, something which those types of people inspired most.
“I’ve explained it once already, what’s so hard to understand?”
This sentence was spat at me a week into my job.
“My daughter could probably get it, and she’s six,” I heard her mumble before she began to recite the command again.
“Hold on...”
She sighed. “What?”
“Do you speak to all your colleagues like this? And if so, are you expected to be met with a meek response like a child too scared to put their hand up to use the toilet? Just because you have a senior position in this company does not warrant you to be snobbish, impatient, and, quite rightly, a bit of a dickhead. Maybe if you presented yourself in a pleasant, more tolerable way, people would actually give you a bit of respect rather than bitch behind your back about the way your ass looks in those ill-fitting trousers that you insist on wearing every other day; wearing two sizes smaller won’t hide the fact that your backside could stop a locomotive in its tracks.”
It had happened again, she had come out to ‘save’ me.
The woman didn’t know what to say in response, so we both stood there nervously eyeing each other before she dashed past me, face flushed scarlet.
I knew I’d have to face her again, she worked on the same floor, but I hoped that my saviour would materialize whenever that time came.
Oh dear.
Wednesday 5 February 2014
#83 - Not Human After All
Today’s words: Iron, Zap, Panoramic, Aggressive
Word count: 337
Completion time: 43 minutes
Summary: It’s easy to pretend to be something you’re not, but what if you genuinely feel that you’re something you’re not?
I only just discovered the term 'lycanthropy' (belief that you are or are transforming into another animal) the other day and I'm 100% sure that it isn't like this in the slightest, and it may come across as slightly patronising, but my brain wasn't doing anything for my creativity tonight.
--
My favourite game to play as a child was always ‘Cats and Dogs’, something that me and my siblings made up; two of us would act like cats, and one would act like a dog. The one acting like a dog would usually chase the other two on all fours, barking as the cats meowed and tried to fight back. It was essentially play-fighting with an animal element, and it often got pretty aggressive. I didn’t know what it was like to be the dog – I was always one of the cats. I didn’t see anything out of place about acting like an animal and I assumed that other kids felt the same, but that wasn’t the case.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you feel like an animal, right? I’ve seen you act like a monkey before, climbing trees and eating bananas.”
“I was pretending.”
“You don’t ever feel like a real monkey?”
“I’m a person, not a monkey.”
It felt like a sharp zap had hit my brain, like when a child sees their father dressed in a red suit, helping himself to cookies, milk, and a carrot that was supposed to be for Rudolph. I was forced to see a panoramic view of the world that had always been restricted by blinkers.
Other people acted like animals for fun, not because they genuinely felt like that animal. Others didn’t feel fur where there was none, wiggle a phantom tail, or twitch ears that were further up the head than normal.
Sometimes I would feel like a human being, but most of the time I felt like a cat, regularly getting on all fours, turning my head to lick my shoulder, and rubbing against peoples’ legs demanding to be stroked. Such behaviour is commonplace for a child, but when you proclaim your feline status as an adult, it’s not so easy for people to accept; it’s like trying to shout at people through an iron wall, they just can’t hear you...no matter how loud you meow.
Word count: 337
Completion time: 43 minutes
Summary: It’s easy to pretend to be something you’re not, but what if you genuinely feel that you’re something you’re not?
I only just discovered the term 'lycanthropy' (belief that you are or are transforming into another animal) the other day and I'm 100% sure that it isn't like this in the slightest, and it may come across as slightly patronising, but my brain wasn't doing anything for my creativity tonight.
--
My favourite game to play as a child was always ‘Cats and Dogs’, something that me and my siblings made up; two of us would act like cats, and one would act like a dog. The one acting like a dog would usually chase the other two on all fours, barking as the cats meowed and tried to fight back. It was essentially play-fighting with an animal element, and it often got pretty aggressive. I didn’t know what it was like to be the dog – I was always one of the cats. I didn’t see anything out of place about acting like an animal and I assumed that other kids felt the same, but that wasn’t the case.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes you feel like an animal, right? I’ve seen you act like a monkey before, climbing trees and eating bananas.”
“I was pretending.”
“You don’t ever feel like a real monkey?”
“I’m a person, not a monkey.”
It felt like a sharp zap had hit my brain, like when a child sees their father dressed in a red suit, helping himself to cookies, milk, and a carrot that was supposed to be for Rudolph. I was forced to see a panoramic view of the world that had always been restricted by blinkers.
Other people acted like animals for fun, not because they genuinely felt like that animal. Others didn’t feel fur where there was none, wiggle a phantom tail, or twitch ears that were further up the head than normal.
Sometimes I would feel like a human being, but most of the time I felt like a cat, regularly getting on all fours, turning my head to lick my shoulder, and rubbing against peoples’ legs demanding to be stroked. Such behaviour is commonplace for a child, but when you proclaim your feline status as an adult, it’s not so easy for people to accept; it’s like trying to shout at people through an iron wall, they just can’t hear you...no matter how loud you meow.
Monday 3 February 2014
#82 - Fraternal Psychopath
Today’s words: Waste, Division, Budget, Adjust
Word count: 477
Completion time: 56 minutes
Summary: What makes a psychopath?
Read more about what traits psychopaths usually have and what a psychopath actually is here, it's a lot more detailed!
--
He makes more money than should be allowed, could get out of any situation by turning on his charm, and he knows what a ‘budget cut’ entails. He helped with the division of labour in his workplace, saved the same company from bankruptcy, and he lived in a house that looked like it had been built by a zealous architect on The Sims 3.
He's 25-years-old.
I used to be jealous of teenagers who had been published, children who could draw better than most adults, actors and actresses who had starred in ten movies before the age of eighteen. Randall was on another level. What makes it worse was this – he’s my twin brother (he even came out of the womb first); I used to joke that he stole all of the good genes from me in utero, but that line soon turned accusatory, especially when I was annoyed with him.
He didn’t understand why I’d get annoyed because he doesn’t understand jealousy, he says that it’s ‘an excuse weaker people use to get sympathy.’ I get called things like ‘cretin’, ‘waste of space’, and am regularly told that I’ll ‘never amount to anything’. What makes these insults cut deeper is the fact that he doesn’t show any signs of remorse when I get upset and he never apologises unless I or someone else tells, no, demands it. He understands when he’s done something wrong, he just doesn’t think that he should have to apologise for it.
“It’s her fault that she got offended by it, I shouldn’t have to say anything.”
I used to think that he was just rude for the sake of it, but turns out he’s a psychopath.
He hasn’t hacked a prostitute to pieces or beaten someone to death with a smile, but he has several traits that justify the term ‘psychopath’: he doesn’t feel much guilt, he finds it hard to empathise, he’s selfish, and manipulative on such a large scale that I find it hard to tell when he’s being sincere. A few years ago, I discovered he told a lie so damaging that it could have ruined someone’s life and he didn’t flinch once; he grinned as if I was the guilty one.
Another example is his ability to adjust himself to different situations when he wants something out of it. Say that he and another person are considered for a pay rise, he will do or say anything to take the other person down, regardless of how ‘wrong’ or ‘immoral’. Nothing too sketchy, I mean charming the boss or threatening to blackmail the competition in secret.
Many people assume that psychopaths go crazy without much provocation or turn in serial killers, but that isn’t always true.
It’s likely that at least one person you know is a psychopath, mine just happens to be a lot closer than most.
Word count: 477
Completion time: 56 minutes
Summary: What makes a psychopath?
Read more about what traits psychopaths usually have and what a psychopath actually is here, it's a lot more detailed!
--
He makes more money than should be allowed, could get out of any situation by turning on his charm, and he knows what a ‘budget cut’ entails. He helped with the division of labour in his workplace, saved the same company from bankruptcy, and he lived in a house that looked like it had been built by a zealous architect on The Sims 3.
He's 25-years-old.
I used to be jealous of teenagers who had been published, children who could draw better than most adults, actors and actresses who had starred in ten movies before the age of eighteen. Randall was on another level. What makes it worse was this – he’s my twin brother (he even came out of the womb first); I used to joke that he stole all of the good genes from me in utero, but that line soon turned accusatory, especially when I was annoyed with him.
He didn’t understand why I’d get annoyed because he doesn’t understand jealousy, he says that it’s ‘an excuse weaker people use to get sympathy.’ I get called things like ‘cretin’, ‘waste of space’, and am regularly told that I’ll ‘never amount to anything’. What makes these insults cut deeper is the fact that he doesn’t show any signs of remorse when I get upset and he never apologises unless I or someone else tells, no, demands it. He understands when he’s done something wrong, he just doesn’t think that he should have to apologise for it.
“It’s her fault that she got offended by it, I shouldn’t have to say anything.”
I used to think that he was just rude for the sake of it, but turns out he’s a psychopath.
He hasn’t hacked a prostitute to pieces or beaten someone to death with a smile, but he has several traits that justify the term ‘psychopath’: he doesn’t feel much guilt, he finds it hard to empathise, he’s selfish, and manipulative on such a large scale that I find it hard to tell when he’s being sincere. A few years ago, I discovered he told a lie so damaging that it could have ruined someone’s life and he didn’t flinch once; he grinned as if I was the guilty one.
Another example is his ability to adjust himself to different situations when he wants something out of it. Say that he and another person are considered for a pay rise, he will do or say anything to take the other person down, regardless of how ‘wrong’ or ‘immoral’. Nothing too sketchy, I mean charming the boss or threatening to blackmail the competition in secret.
Many people assume that psychopaths go crazy without much provocation or turn in serial killers, but that isn’t always true.
It’s likely that at least one person you know is a psychopath, mine just happens to be a lot closer than most.
Saturday 1 February 2014
#81 - "I'm Depressed"
Today’s words: Farm, Crisps, Garden, Noun
Word count: 373
Completion time: 1 hour 1 minute
Summary: a lot of people trivialize mental
illness, especially ‘popular’ ones like depression and social anxiety, so this
goes out to people who are sick of people claiming to be sick when they’re clearly
just having normal reactions to everyday situations
--
“I have depression,” you say, finishing your crisps as you look me in the eye
It’s no surprise, right? You’ve not smiled once since
sunrise.
“Why do you think that?”
“I’m really sad.”
Okay, that’s a fact...
I won’t deny that you’re sad, that much is true
But that’s because Drew broke up with you...
Your last date was at a farm, a small place
outside of town
And when the day was done, the relationship was
too
You cried
Of course you did
You cried like you’d forgotten how to laugh and
Fell onto the path, asking him ‘why’
He said your name like a common noun and stated
“We’re just too different, we never should have
dated.”
And just like that, you guys were separated
“I might go to the doctor; I think I’m a hazard to
myself.”
It’s nice that you’re looking out for your health
But being sad after a traumatic experience
Is nothing that serious
“Give it a few days, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I have it: I’ve read about
it.”
You know when people sneeze and think they have
the flu?
That’s what this is. It’s a normal reaction, I’m
telling you!
I’d be concerned if you weren’t feeling blue!
“Look, I know you’re a mess, and I get that, I do
“But claiming it’s a mental illness? That’s really
not cool.”
“I didn’t eat for half a day yesterday, what does
that tell you?”
“That you lost your appetite (you fool)!”
Throw me the tastiest line, I still won’t bite
It’s been two
nights since he dumped you
Don’t trivialize a mental issue whenever it suits
you
Like the latest fashion trend that you’ll spend
Hundreds on just to look cool in front of friends
I have this and
I have that
You say it like you want to be depressed
Like you want to spend days in bed, missing work
Realising that life has lots its perks
Like you want to feel a relentless darkness
That lasts for days and days
Like a permanent eclipse
Why would you want that?
Who would ever wish for that?
Why can’t you see that your ‘depression’
Is a just normal kind of ‘sad’?
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