Caution : What you could come across in the process.

Insignificant references to my life, an abstract and distracted thought sequel, monotony, inconsistency, vague vague perception, whorish intellectualism, feminist bullshit, armchair activism, causes I try to relate to, sharp sarcasm, even sharper criticism, frivolous details.

Nonetheless Happy Reading.

Monday, March 11, 2013

Woman, are we ready to talk about your day yet?

I am glad I get to you, in bits and pieces though, I still get to you.
I recite my thoughts like a hymn waiting to unfold, itchy at the edges. My life somehow makes sense when sprawled across a post it.

define my own tools and I define my failure and I notice.

Anger and creative hindsight – these are the tools with which I learn best. I guess I am not ashamed of being angry anymore, or bored or indifferent. I hung my shame out to dry and wither in the hot summer sun.
Having done that I now trust all the unfairness in the world to shake things up and stir up a storm.

If I see a beautiful bald woman and I can’t write about her – I call it a failure. I define my own failures.
I did see her today; she was the most beautiful woman I saw in a very long time. She was dressed all summery ready to swallow the sun if she had to, with piercing eyes that could take or leave all.  I realized it wasn’t her beauty that wrecked me; it was something that clamored back at me when she looked me in the eye. 
Where does she get that perverse yet astonishingly satishfying freedom from? - the one thing that I have been looking for all my life.
Happy fucking woman’s day – I mutter under my breath.

I don’t get what Woman’s Day is about – yes I am grumpy and no I didn’t dress up; yes I didn’t do my hair. Yes I got drunk, yes I’m in love, no I don’t do God anymore, or marriage – the institution repels me, suffocates me. I could do yoga, I could never give up meat, I am not a limited edition.
I sweat the details, for all practical purposes I adore the wrong kind of men, adulthood won me over when I was five.

I am not very excited about being a woman, probably because I am a feminist and I chose to run to the man I love to help me fix things I broke in the first place.
But I refuse to be a Stepford wife, I refuse to be told right and wrong because who let you decide all that stuff in the first place anyway.

Why be told you’ve come a long way? Isn’t that limiting ambition? Why be told you are lucky to be where you are?  Is that what we are going to do – keep telling ourselves how lucky we are? That we weren’t burnt or scarred or raped? Is that what we want to live off for the rest of our lives – luck? And what if we happen to be not so lucky one of these days?  Would we have run out of luck?

I get what tradition is all about – I however fail to understand what losing freedom is all about.
That kind of submission is worse than rectal smuggling.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot – I notice. I notice the way you hold your coffee mug – I think it is truly fucked up. 

Yours Sincerely,
More bad grammar and lazy writing.