You Can Tell My Sugar is Better...

... because I'm swearing a lot in my blog posts again.

The Beat Goes On: Or, the Protagonist is An Idiot Who Can't Commit (and should probably be committed)

"The easiest kind of relationship for me is with ten thousand people. The hardest is with one." - Joan Baez

As regular readers know, things have been fucking crazy here at Hacienda Chicago for the last, well... year, year and a half. A while.

I've been crazy and spastic and greiving and exhausted and sometimes, occasionally, hung over (though that won't ever happen again. Which is such an odd thing to think: I'll never be drunk again). Earlier this year, amid all the madness, Jenn and I decided to try and date. We've known each other for six years and been living together for three, and after we both ended rather disastrous relationships, it seemed to make perfect sense for the two of us - who got along so well - to date.

I'd been pretty exhausted by my last relationship, and the August end-date for mine and Jenn's (she'll be getting a teaching job; I'll be heading off to god knows where) gave me a really good excuse to keep up my emotional walls and keep going at a three-months-into-it level of commitment throughout the long haul.

Problem is, you get three or four months into it, and discover that the relationship you thought you'd gotten into wasn't the one she thought she'd gotten into. Because maintaining a three-months-into-it level of emotional intimacy only lasts, well, three months.

Then you need to decide if you want the relationship to grow, of if you want to continue keeping your desperate stranglehold on it.

My rules and boxes, all those things that made me feel "safe" inside of the relationship, were stifling it. And I had to make the choice of whether to give up on all those constraints that made me feel so safe, or end the relationship. Because if you can't trust that you and your partner will have each other's backs forever, you really shouldn't be in a relationship.

I trust Jenn with pretty much everything. The woman fucking saved my life; I know that when the shit hits the fan, if I ever need her when the world throws a punch, she can handle it.

It's not her I don't trust.

It's myself.

I don't trust my judgement in people. I've had too many people turn on me the minute I decided everything must be OK. And I've continued relationships far longer than I felt was right because I figured, "Hey, relationships are hard. I just need to WORK HARDER."

And, you know what?

There are things Jenn deserves in a lover that I can't give her. And I love her to death, and I want her to be happy. And if you're a decent fucking person, you'll walk away when you realize it isn't going to work. That's what you do. You don't try and keep your stranglehold. You don't try and change them.

You realize there's something fundamentally fucked up about the way you view relationships, and you stay away from people until you figure out what that is and how you're going to fix it.

I mean, there's all the romantic baloney about hey, maybe if I just meet the right person, things will be magically fixed and I'll be able to commit! But that may not be the case, and I need to face that possibility. It could just be that there's something fundamentally broken inside of me. I don't know.

What it likely means is that this was not the right place/right time for this particular pairing, or that something was just off. It just wasn't quite right, and I don't know why, and I can't articulate it. I just felt ending it was the right thing to do, and I feel like a lowly piece of shit for doing it, because it was, ultimately, a happy relationship. It was my first non-fucked-up relationship. I can look at it and go, "Wow, I learned so much about what it is to have a real relationship."

But there's something I'm missing in this whole "relationship" thing, because I don't think I really understand what relationships are. I mean, I would run into a burning building to save Jenn or my buddy Julian. I love them a lot. Would I have run into a burning building to save B? Or the psycho ex? No, I would not have.

But then, if you asked me, what's the difference between people who are your friends, and people who are your lovers? I would stare blankly and say, "Um... we have sex?"

And then you'd say, "Sooooo.... what's the difference between a relationship and a fuckbuddy?"

And I'd say, "Well, committment. Monogamy [I'm old-fashioned that way; other stuff doesn't work. Believe me. I know]. Love."

"Soooo.... what's committment?"

"Well.... when you say, `we'll be together X long, or until X.' And, to me, X can be an arbitrary date or a "until you hit me" or "until you disrespect me" or "until one of us no longer loves the other one" or "until you cheat on me" thing. And, to me, that arbitrary date sounded like a really great safety catch. Problem was, it also encouraged me to be all stoic and amazon-like and remind myself every day that soon, I was going to be alone. I wasn't going to have someone around forever. I needed to be able to take care of myself."

Because, you know, even if somebody never leaves you or hurts you or cheats on you, everybody dies.

People fucking die, and they leave you.

Everybody leaves you eventually, and you have to be prepared for that, and for me, for someone who so clearly fucked up in the longest relationship I ever had, way back when, I know what sort of person I can become if I rely on someone too heavily, if I get used to the idea that somebody else is going to fix everything. And, you know, to be honest, not only do I never want to be that stupid person again, but now that I do actually love the partners that I'm with, I never want to be that kind of a burden on them.

And you know, with the whole diabetes bullshit, that's a really terrifying thing. I was already terrified about being dependent on anybody, and waking up in a hospital, realizing that I'd so totally fucked up in taking care of myself, was just a huge blow. I don't trust myself to *not* want to be taken care of, for somebody to hold me every stupid night and tell me everything's going to be all right. Because I'm afraid that if I want that, I'll get used to that, I'll get dependent on it, and I'll become this burdensome woman who cries on somebody's shoulder every stupid night, and how unattractive is that?

"Hello, my name is Kameron Hurley and I'm committment-phobic. Every time my partner says, `let's think about forever," I cut and run."

Because you know, I have this little engine inside of me. I have this story. People come up to me and say, "How did you change your life?" or "Where do you get the courage to do what you've done?" or "How did you go from being sedentary to *not* being sendtary?" They ask me where my drive comes from. And I tell everyone the same goddamn story: for almost three years, I was someone I hated. I was in a relationship with somebody who wanted to keep me more than he wanted to love me, somebody who was more interested in being in control than in being partners.

I hated who I was. I hated what I looked like. I hated being full of fear.

And so I decided to change it.

And every night for a year I went to bed and closed my eyes and envisioned who I wanted to be, the things I wanted to do, the life I wanted to live.

And that life that I created in my head, in that life, I was all alone. I let go of this romantic wishy-washy notion of having this really cool partner who was my best friend and wanted to run off and have adventures with me. I let that go, because in order to have everything else, I felt I needed to give up something. And I chose to give up the romantic ideal. I chose to give up the forever-fairytale fantasy.

And that's worked for me for nearly ten years. For almost ten years, I've lived the life I wanted and did the things I wanted to do, and when confronted with someone who says, "You know, we could be those ideal romantic buddies. We could motorcyle around Rome and drink red wine in Cape Town and you'll speak Arabic and I'll speak Chinese and we'll have a little house by the ocean and fill it full of books and have drunken dinner parties and learn to cook Thai food," I think, "No, no. You can't have everything. That's impossible. I'm either on my own or I'm owned."

Because I was in a relationship, a "forever" relationship, that lasted a really long time, and he said he wanted those things, said that was the life he wanted too, and he was full of shit, and instead he joined the Marines and spun out my whole life for me, as if I'd already lived it: drunk and barefoot and pregnant, living in shitty Marine base housing and being shouted at and talked down to every day for the rest of my life so he could feel better about himself, so he could feel superior to somebody.

I'm not going to do that again. I'm not going to make a mistake again. I'm not going to be that person again.

I run on rage and anger and fear, and that's what powers me through everything: through grad school in foreign countries and lightless days in Fairbanks and broken pancreases and boxing classes where I feel like I'm the most uncoordinated person in the whole room. It pushes me past all my other fears: of looking stupid, of acting like an idiot, of dying, of being maimed or raped or used and thrown aside, because there is no more frightening place than where I've been, no more frightening future person than the one I used to be.

I link that person to "forever." I link that person to, "I will just relax now and assume I'm not going to get fucked over."

The safe place to be is, "I just won't let myself get hurt. I'll keep everything controlled and contained. I won't get attached." The safe place is, "Well, I don't need to get too attached, because it's not like this is Forever."

My Story has gotten me through a lot of shit. It's powered me through some really dark times when I went back to thinking I was a worthless idiot, no better than a wad of spent chewing gum. It got me through.

So to give up that story, to say, "Well, I can be the person I am and still do Forever," is really fucking scary. It's too much, and it involves me trusting myself - and my partner - to such a ridiculous degree that it's nearly impossible.

It's something I fear giving up. It's something I can't give up - right now, anyway.

But it's something I know I need to work on. The alternative is serial monogamy. The alternative is possibly finding a partner where everything *does* work, and giving up because it's too fucking scary.

Even admitting that it's something I know I need to work on sends my heart racing and my palms sweating. It's the most terrifying thing I will ever do, if I ever do it. It means confronting that base fear, the fear that drives me, the fear that I'll become the person I hate the most, that all of these things are tied together, that if I give in and say, "forever," it means I become a bawling submissive who flinches every time her partner looks at her.

I don't want that. I don't want to be that. I don't want to confront that. And I've gone nearly ten years not having to, not getting to the point where someone said, "No, really, this is fucked up." Or, at least, not understanding what they meant.

Jenn has called me on it. And I know she's right. Her and I may not be the best fit for a number of reasons, but if I'm ever going to have any kind of relationship that lasts more than three months, I need to confront this fear. I need to have some faith in myself, and in other people.

Cause, as Jenn taught me, not everyone is a fucker. And - most important of all - as my buddy Ian said: If I can't commit because some asshat I dated back when I was 18 scared me away from having a life partner, then, well, "He wins."

And, you know, if there's any other rage that can drive me as powerfully as the one that's gotten me through these last ten years, it's the idea that he wins.

This is my life.

I can make it into anything I want it to be. And I need to figure out how to do that without giving up who I've become.

The Bitch is LYING: Or, Dan Savage is a Fucktard

So, say you had this friend. You find her very attractive. She happens to be married and has four kids, and she takes you into her confidence and admits that her husband is an abusive fuck who's raped her, abused the kids, and threatened to kill her.

What would you do?

1) tell her that's really awful, and give her the number for the local women's shelter

2) run away with her and the kids and kill her husband for her

3) tell her she's a lying ho, because any woman who stays with a fucker who says they're going to kill them would be stupid, cause that makes no sense, then laugh in her face and break off the friendship

If you chose #3, you and Dan Savage will get along just fine!

Seriously.

Maybe I'm just shocked that the girl of your dreams—the girl of any man's dreams—would be a married woman with four children

Because women with kids are soooo not sexy.

and what may be the worst taste in men this side of Denise Richards.

Ah, you stupid women! Alwasy choosing fuckups! What's wrong with you?? Men never choose fuckups. Just hos. And that's different. That's about sex and clean kitchens.

Can this angel-on-earth pick 'em or what?

What a stupid ho! How can you like this stupid ho! I mean, no decent woman ever found herself in an abusive relationship with a fucktard, and any woman who is isn't worthy of love, obviously.

She married a bordering-on-homicidal asshole and now she's sneaking around with a bordering-on-homicidal dumbass, a guy so stupid that he would threaten the life of his lover's husband in a newspaper column.

And it's all her fault that you guys are bordering on homocidal. What a ho!

Have you bothered to confirm your lover's story?

Cause the bitch is LYING! Obviously. I mean, if a guy came up to you and said he'd just been mugged, why would you believe him? He's obviously just trying to get some sympathy in a vain attempt to get you to track down his mugger.

Your letter makes this woman's husband seem perfectly monstrous. In fact, he seems a little too perfectly monstrous.

Because most men are Really Nice Guys. There are no fucktarded guys in the world, just as there are no fucktarded women, except lying hos.

Have you entertained the possibility that you're being fed a massive load of shit, LIFE?

Bitch be LYIN'!!!!!!!!

Some cheaters invent elaborate tales of woe—the frigid shrew of a wife; the abusive husband—because the cheater wants to have her infidelities and her victim status too.

Because the very first thing every abused woman wants to do is run out and tell everyone that she stays with an abusive fucker! Because she gains so much self-respect when she says that out loud. "Hi, world! I'm too scared to leave this fucker who's hitting me because he says he's going to kill me, and the police won't help me and I don't know what to do."

Oh yea, I've heard that one a MILLION times from lying hos out to "get attention." There's nothing cooler than faking your own bruises and wearing frumpy sweaters in a vain attempt to appear pathetic!

It's incredibly empowering.

So, LIFE, before you run off and kill anyone: Have you checked her story out? If your lover's husband was tried for rape, then there are records out there somewhere—trial transcripts, newspaper articles. Have you looked them up?

Oh, YEA. Because if you REALLY want your abusive psycho husband to leave you alone, the BEST THING TO DO is make rape charges! He'll be out on bail the next day, then stalk you with a butcher knife and cut your head off because you made him "so angry" that he just couldn't contain himself! And if you're EVEN LUCKIER he'll plead the "crime of passion" defense and get off with a year of prison time and then go off and marry some other woman he thinks he can bully around.

OK, my chiklits.

So, let's say you have this friend who's told you all about this abusive fucker she's dating. What advice would, say, somebody like ME give you?

1) DON'T HAVE SEX WITH HER.

Sweet jesus on a fucking stick. Do not fuck this woman. If she's stuck in this relationship, she probably has low self-esteem and very little confidence, and hopping from one guy (or girl) to another with no break in between means you're going to be dating the same person who just got beat down for god knows how many years, and she needs to deal with that. If you're really her friend, if you really love her, you'll give her AT LEAST a year to get her shit together.

AFTER she's left the fucker.

2) TELL HER TO LEAVE THE FUCKER.

Give her some numbers for women and children's shelters. Inquire about her relationship with her other family members to see if she can lean on them. Show her how to fill out financial aid forms.

3) DON'T TELL HER SHE'S A LYING WHORE

When I was shacking up with a fucker in Bellingham, my friend Jen B. came up and visited for a weekend. I was feeling increasingly terrified about my relationship with the fucker I was dating, but every time I thought he was out of line, I made up little stories about how no, really, he didn't mean that. He was just under a lot of stress and pressure and that's why he called me shitty things and said I was stupid, and that was why, after a while, I started to believe me. I mean, I must be a pretty shitty, stupid person to stay with him.

Then Jen B. came up, and when the fucker went out to get something, turned to me and said, "How can you let him treat you like that? I had no idea things were this bad."

And it was like this huge weight fell off my shoulders, because I realized I wasn't crazy, I wasn't making it up, somebody else saw it too. Because when you're in a relationship with one person who's discouraged you from having any friends and you never get out, well, you start to believe that what they're doing and saying is totally "normal." Because in your close-knit little world, it is.

Don't tell her she's a liar. Because you'll just reinforce what she thinks about herself, and she'll stay with the fucker even longer.

4) DON'T TRY AND FIX HER

Her shit is her shit. Encourage her to take up quilting or kickboxing or take pottery classes or karate classes, but don't tell her you're going to save her or fix her or make everything better. Only she can do that. You can help her, sure, provide the information she needs to change her life; direct her toward those resources. But you can't do it for her.

5) DON'T OFFER TO KILL HER HUSBAND

Because that's just fucking stupid, you fucking retard.

6) BUT WHAT IF THE BITCH IS LYIN' TO GET VICTIM STATUS FOR AN AFFAIR?

Well, if you followed my advice in step one, this won't be a problem, will it, you fucktard?

Give Them Something to Live For

"Do you want to know how to eliminate terrorism? I'll tell you. In fact, I'll tell you about something that no one else knows. Something that has never been written about. You will be amazed, but it is true. Listen."

Woman, be a patriot! Marry yourself off for the cause!

On the one hand, giving people something to live for will stop them from doing crazy shit; or at least slow them down. As someone who does a lot of crazy shit, I can tell you that realizing how much my death would piss some people off, I do occasionally have some second thoughts now, like: well, it's not just me I'm living for. It impacts a lot of other people (sometimes I wonder if this is another reason why I have trouble with longterm relationships. I mean, if you're really partnered forever in an interdependent way with somebody and have kids, going bungee jumping might be a little irresponsible).

On the other hand, shipping in women and asking them to screw for the cause is a little weird. But then, it's not like they were forced over there or forced to get married, and you know: a lot of them probably wanted to get married, and hey, what a dating service!

In any case, it's a good example of thinking outside the box. Instead of fighting violence with violence, well... there are other options, and they're a lot more effective than smart bombs.

(thanks, Jenn!)

Ah, the Joys of the Dayjob

Nobody gets their lame asses in here before 9am on Friday: the HR Manager and the Design Center Director both have every Friday off, and nobody's fucking been to work this whole week, cause when we're slow, everybody's encouraged to take their vacation time, including our ever-punctual receptionist.

So I walked in this morning to a dark office and the security alarm going off. One of the junior architects had come in just after 8, set the thing off, and had no idea what to do about it.

I turned it off, security called, and I told them not to call the police, gave them the password that went with my verification code, and hung up. It's apparently a $100 fine every time the police show up and there's not an actual emergency. We know this because my own boss, Blaine, used to set the goddamn thing off all the time.

What a fun way to start the day.

Of course, nobody being in the office also means I get to screw off even more than usual today.

Fucking sweeeeeet.

I've got "The Women of Our Occupation" edits to do.

EDIT: Yup. They called the police. A fun visit from Johnny Law! Yay!

The Real Pirates

heh heh. I am easily amused.

(thanks, Jenn!)

I Drink Too Much Coffee

And yet, I have so few vices left...

Gone With the Blastwave

It's Red vs. Blue, only all apocalyptic and shit.

50 Most Popular Science Blogs

For your reading pleasure.

It's good for you.

The 40 Questions Meme: Cause it's Summertime @ the Day Job, So Why Not?

1. Have you ever been searched by the cops?
Oh, yea, right. I got out of my first speeding ticket because the cop used to work for my parents. Small towns!

2. Do you close your eyes on roller coasters?
No.

3. When's the last time you've been sledding?
What a poorly constructed sentence.

4. Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone?
Are we talking in the biblical sense, or actual sleeping? Cause, you know, people are sexy, but there are, indeed, people who should stay far, far away from other people. Like, forever.

5. Do you believe in ghosts?
Of course. I saw a ghost in a B&B in Cape Town. I will not stay there again.

6. Do you consider yourself creative?
Not particularly.

7. Do you think O.J. killed his wife?
Doesn't much matter what I think, does it?

8. Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie?
Keira Knightley.

9. Do you stay friends with your ex's?
No, but I'm hoping to change that.

10. Do you know how to play poker?
That's like asking if I know how to smoke a cigar and drink whisky. I mean, *Yea.*

11. Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
Yes. Hullo, Clarion!

12. What's your favorite commercial?
I'm partial to the Apple Computer 1984 commerical classic.

13. What are you allergic to?
My pancreas, apparently.

14. If you're driving in the middle of the night, and no one is around do you run red lights?
No.

15. Do you have a secret that no one knows but you?
Yes, several, but they're likely to come out in my fiction.

16. Boston Red Sox or New York Yankees?
Whatever.

17. Have you ever been Ice Skating?
Yes. Once. Never again.

18. How often do you remember your dreams?
Usually. I have a lot of crazy fucking dreams.

19. When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried?
This weekend, baby: Steph and Ian, you guys rock!

20. Can you name 5 songs by The Beatles?
Yes, but should I?

21. What's the one thing on your mind now?
I reserve comment.

22. Do you know who Ghetto-ass barbie is?
Do you mean "Who" or "What"? Cause if it's who, and Barbie's a real person now, that's fucking scary. I had My Little Ponies and GI Joes, and they had wars, dude.

23. Do you always wear your seat belt?
Yes.

24. What cell service do you use?
I don't have a cell phone. Which is really ironic because, of course, I work for a company that builds, designs and upgrades cell phone towers. Word of advice: don't get a Cingular phone for another 3 years.

25. Do you like Sushi?
Yes. Is Sushi really a capitalized word?

26. Have you ever narrowly avoided a fatal accident?
Yes. Several.

a) I was coming home from the movie theater I worked at one night and stopped at a red light on a deserted street. The light turned green, I moved my foot to the gas and started for the intersection, and a car full of guys ran the other light going about 100 MPH. They missed me by about a foot.

b) Got T-boned in South Africa while trying to cross two lanes of traffic. I wasn't driving, and was on the non-T-boned side, but if the guy would have been going faster... well.

c) My pancreas exploded, which I'd count as an accident of sorts.

27. What do you wear to bed?
Depends on the season, but I'm quite partial to my oversized Nanook Nick's shirt and shorts or sweat pants. Terribly unsexy, but very comfortable.

28. Been caught stealing?
Caught? No.

29. What shoe size do you have?
Size 11. Just like Kate Winslett!

30. Do you truly hate anyone?
No, because that would mean I'd have strong feelings for someone I didn't care about, and I have no interest in giving anybody that honor.

31. Classic Rock or Rap?
Scissors.

32. If you could sleep with one famous person, who would it be?
I reserve comment.

33. Favorite Song?
Currently? "Fix You" by Coldplay.

34. Have you ever sang in front of the mirror?
All the time.

35. What food do you find disgusting?
Those gnocchi things with the olives

36. Do you sing in the shower?
Only when I'm really, really, really happy.

37. Did you ever play, "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours"?
Not that I recall. I figured out plumbing pretty early.

38. Have you ever made fun of your friends behind their back?
Oh yes. Sadly. Though not many of those people are still my friends, so that says something about how close we were...

39. Have you ever stood up for someone you hardly knew?
Yes. The most memorable being in South Africa when I was waiting at a bus stop with this skinny blond chick and these two drunk guys came up and started saying all these really lewd, violently sexual things to her and telling her what they were going to do to her, and I turned on them both and started a screaming, swearing tirade about how it was disrespectful to harass people while they were waiting for the bus.

The guys moved on.

40. Have you ever been punched in the face?
Yes, but not hard, and she was wearing gloves. So.

Summertime at the Dayjob

I'm reminded of why I've kept this job for so long.

Cause for several months during the summer, I get paid to write and play computer games for 8 hours every day.

Man.

In Which the Protagonist is Chagrined

So, my buddies Ian and Stephanie were in town for the long weekend. They're living in Dayton where he's working toward a PhD in material science (we keep trying to call him a physicist, but it's "Material Science" apparently) and she's working as a medical receptionist to support the household before heading back to grad school herself (like me, she's a history major. Yay!).

Stephanie and I met when we were 14 via the high school drama department. We hated each other at the time. She was the backstage bitch, and I was the onstage bitch. Our most famous encounter was during a show where - because of the limited resources we had - I was supposed to get offstage from a scene and then go back onstage to move a bookcase once the curtain went down. Stephanie was stage managing, which meant it was her job to make sure all the shit got moved.

Well, you know, one night after a particularly great show where I just thought I was the hotest shit ever to hit the stage, I waltzed back into the green room, absolutely preening, and went to my locker to get some more chamomile tea (I did a lot of yelling in that particular show).

About three minutes after I walk into the green room, Stephanie tromps in - 5'4 and barely 120 lbs at the time - and you can practically *see* the steam coming out of her ears. She storms right up to me and screams, "You didn't move the *fucking* bookshelf! It was your job to move the bookshelf! I just about killed myself moving the goddamn bookshelf! Remember to move the goddamn bookshelf! Do you know how important this is??"

Now, a stage manager storming into the green room and screaming at an actor in front of God and everyone wasn't something that, well, happened. There was the heirarchy, right? If an actor fucks up, well, you come to them later, quietly, and set things right.

Oh, no, not Stephanie.

And never again did I forget to move the goddamn book shelf.

We didn't really become close friends until the theater rivalry was over and we started college and started re-examining what we were doing with our lives. It turned out that we had a lot more in common than we suspected, which is probably why we hated each other in high school. Now I think of Stephanie as the little sister I don't have (I mean, I have a sister, but, well, we really don't have anything in common); that is, someone who's loud and obnoxious like me, and even looks like me (when she arrived in Chicago and stepped out of the car, I saw that we had the same haircut), and who has the same sorts of fears and has overcome a lot of the same things. She also decided one day that she didn't like her life, and she's worked very hard to create a new one.

In any case, because I've always been on the move, and now that they are too, a lot of the "what's going on with Kameron" stuff gets transmitted via my blog (I told Stephanie she really needs to start one, too, but she's afraid it'll all be about quilting and scrapbooking, to which I'd reply, "So the fuck what?").

So, a few times this weekend, the subject of exes came up, and after hearing about the shitstorm that was my relationship with B and hearing a few things via the blog, Stephanie said she regretted not meeting him. I told her it was best she hadn't, because he'd probably have assumed that because I spoke to Ian, I must be flirting with him, and I'd have spent the whole weekend trying to convince him that I wasn't going to screw Stephanie's husband (who is nice and all, but I feel like I'm related to him, so that idea is just, well, *icky*).

And, really, how exhausting is it to reassure someone that you're not going to go out and screw the closest human being around the second he turns his back?

In any case, the four of us went out to a great pancake house in Evanston yesterday morning, and I was blabbing to Stephanie about how I'd had to break things off with B when I realized I didn't respect him, and if you can't respect someone, how can you love them? She agreed that that was a pretty mature thing to do.

"Apparently," Stephanie said, "if you talk to marriage counselors, you can figure out which couples will stay together and which won't by measuring the amount of contempt they have for each other. Once couples start down the road toward contempt, there's really pretty much none who can turn it around. Once you disrespect someone, things are pretty much over."

"It's fucked up, too," I said. "I mentioned him, what, five times in the five months since we broke up, and he thought I was, like, saying these really horrible things about him, that I was attacking him on my blog and calling him all sorts of names. All the stuff I said was true stuff. He's kinda wacky and all, but I never said the stuff he said. I mean, he was posting about how disgusting I was, and how I was a shitty writer and used all my friends and was going to spend the rest of my life alone and without love. Which, you know, I've heard before."

"I didn't get that," Stephanie said. "I thought you were being mature about how you felt."

"Oh no," Ian said, and turned to me. "No way. I totally thought you were trying to destroy him."

Me, Steph, and Jenn all looked at Ian, a little perplexed.

"Huh?" I said.

"I mean, you might as well have kicked him in the balls," Ian said. "When you tell a guy `I don't respect you,' that's the worst possible thing you can say. There's like this heirarchy of things you can do to a guy: kick him in the balls, tell him he has a small penis, and then, worst of all, tell him you don't respect him. It means he's not worth bothering with. Not worth anything at all. It's the worst possible insult."

"You're fucking kidding me," I said.

"Seriously," he said. "I honestly thought you'd thought of the worst possible thing to say to him, the one that would cut him the worst, and then posted it up on your blog to your international audience."

"Fuck," I said, "I so totally didn't mean to do that. I thought I was being really honest about the whole thing. I didn't want to be a jerk."

"Well, I mean, what's the female equivalent of that?" he said.

"What do you mean?" Stephanie said. "Of disrespect?"

"I don't know that a guy saying he didn't respect me would be so huge because -" I began, and then stopped. "Oh. The female equivalent is having a guy tell you he loves you and thinks you're the most amazing person in the world and then once he has sex with you says you're a dirty whore and he was only using you for sex."

"Oh, totally," Stephanie said.

"That's it," Ian said. "Same thing."

"Holy shit," I said. "I acted like an ASSHOLE."

"And I thought it was just a mature thing to say," Stephanie said.

Well, crap.

I somehow always manage to come across as more of a bitch than I really think I am, which is likely why so many people call me one. I mean, I don't *feel* evil.

Damn.

Top Ten Trivia Tips About... Me

1) Kameron is only six percent water.
2) Kameron is the oldest playable musical instrument in the world.
3) Michelangelo finished his great statue of Kameron in 1504, after eighteen months work!
4) In Eastern Africa you can buy beer brewed from Kameron!
5) Kameron is born white; her pink feathers are caused by pigments in her typical diet of shrimp.
6) Kameron cannot burp - there is no gravity to separate liquid from gas in her stomach.
7) Kameron can use only about ten percent of her brain!
8) 99 percent of the pumpkins sold in the US end up as Kameron.
9) In Japan, Kameron can only be prepared by chefs specially trained and certified by the government!
10) In Vermont, the ratio of cows to Kameron is 10:1!

You gotta go to Africa for the beer, really. Though that statue pretty much rocks, too.

Get your own tips

One of This Weekend's Discussions...

.. was why the hell aren't we talking about vaccinating girls and boys against HPV (or, rather, the four kinds of HPV that prevent 70% of all cases of cervical cancer). I mean, women aren't just magically contracting it all by themselves, any more than we reproduce through parthenogenesis.

My buddy Ian wondered if anybody had even tried the vaccine on men, and whether or not it'd even be effective.

Well, turns out, it is:

And there is still discussion about whether to vaccinate a group of people who don't get cervical cancer: men. HPV is a sexually transmitted disease, after all, and vaccinating men would likely protect their sexual partners.

There's a small advantage for men and boys: The vaccine protects against genital warts and rare cases of penile cancer.

Aha. So, studies on guys have been done.

Sooooo... why am I not seeing the idea of vaccinating boys being discussed in 90% of the articles about the vaccine?

Besides, you know, sexism?

On Not Being "Fat Enough"

"When Kathleen LeBesco gave a talk at an academic meeting last fall about how, as an overweight professor, she influenced her students' ideas about body size, there was only one problem: She wasn't fat."

Well. Fat's really a relative term, isn't it?

I mean, among a bunch of models and actresses I'd be considered a freakin' whale. I mean, Elizabeth Hurley has nightmares about being a size 14. And, you know, I'm a size 14. And according to the BMI, still fat, though it took a diabetic coma to get me here.

I'm currently reading a volume LeBesco edited called, Bodies Out of Bounds, which is mostly pretty good (after a stop-and-go iffy sort of start).

What interests me about this article is the assumption that because LeBesco doesn't currently have an obese BMI that she's suddenly not fit enough to talk about fat studies. Because suddenly all of her experiences as a fat woman in society are completely invalid?

Speaking as someone who can "pass" (for the moment, in some circles) I can tell you this: no matter what the scale says or what other people say, I still have an image of myself as a fat girl who takes up too much space.

You could argue here about what's more valid/important/real: society's perception of you, or your perception of yourself.

(via bfb)

The Crazy Life

I have a fucked up life. Not bad, fucked up, but just kind of fucked up right now. Things are up and down and crazy and full of sadness and hurt and laughter and storytelling and low sugar shaking and dancing in the kitchen and drinking wine and all that bittersweet shit.

I'm not a beautiful writer. I'm not always the greatest person. I might try to do the right thing all the time, but it's not neccessarily the best thing, or the smartest thing, but I do what I think is right.

Despite everything, I had a really good weekend.

And yea, I really fucking needed it.

Something about a phoenix, fire, ashes, burning everything up and starting over.

Sometimes I wish I could rewind my life and start over.

I suppose falling down seven times, getting up eight, is as close as I'm going to get.

In Which The Protagonist Starts Deleting Posts!

Ah, yes, Delete is a useful function, as any good LJer will tell you, so I've deleted this one!

I'll be taking a blogging break until late next week.

Just Keep Upping That Insulin

Upping me another 4 units: 24 in the morning, 18 in the evening.

I'm no longer spiking above 300 in the afternoons, and I can get myself under 200 at night by working out.

Calling him again on Monday for another dosage check.

This is such a bitch.

In Which The Protagonist Fucks Up, Again

Well, I dig my own holes.

Sex Talk

Well, the one good thing that came out of the whole "blowjob" fiasco running rampant in the feminist blogosphere are a couple of threads over at Bitch PhD. She's opened up a women's and men's thread for "honest" talk about sex: what you like, what you don't.

In this case, I actually like that she broke the threads up by sex; likely, it avoids some fighting/disagreements that would undermine the whole idea of the exercise, which is to feel that you can speak honestly without being attacked for it.

One of the things I don't talk about here is intimate sexual details, because, well, that's between me and my partners. But hey, you can post anonymously over at Bitch's place...