Sometimes I get the incredible urge to wage psychological warfare on defenseless bystanders. Today someone updated his facebook status to read "Luke REDACTED is not giving up" and all I wanted to say was "too bad" possibly followed by "you're twenty, live with your mother, have 'MOM' tattooed on your chest above a roaring lion. I think it is high time you give the fuck up."

But I didn't. Still the urge remains. I want to crush him like a little bug for no real reason at all except that I think that he is pathetic. 

Diary, is this normal and healthy? And also, do you think that there are other people as clever and cruel as me? Because I'd like to meet them (him). 

Well, I'm going to go take a bath. 

Love,
Margot Fucking Conway.

Good morning, my Droogs.

So. Semester is over. YAY. I've discovered that I can't abide by FGCU in small doses, but if I take 21 credit hours a semester I can pretend it is a real  university. Also, I get out faster, so, that is nice. I have one full semester left, and 21 credits in the summer of whatever I want and then I'm done. More done than done. Cooked. Fried. Finished, devoured, evacuated, composted, and re-sprouted. 

My grades are coming in. Still one to go. So far I have A's in everything (five A's) but European History (B). God. That European History teacher was annoying: Mumbles, rambles about grandkids, happens to be 80 years old, and must. have. everything. done. exactly. this. way.  ALSO, he snorts and hawks giant loogies ALL THE FRICKIN TIME. Into a hanky. He saves his snot-wads for later...

We didn't get along. He docked me for "artful writing" on one of my pages. Really? You're going to dock me for being a good writer when I'm writing a paper on my interpretation of Soviet Literature (BTW, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is at once both fascinating and MIND NUMBING). He liked my paper on Triumph of the Will even less...

The thing that gets me about this school is that the professors recognize that it is a joke school, so they teach like all of the kids there are idiots. Pardon? I don't need to have my hand held. I don't need step-by-step instructions. I just need you to give me the assignments and not count attendance. I hate the lowest common denominator.  Ah well.

With Grad School on the horizon I've got something real to look forward to. I can go to the UW (GO HUSKIES), or, possibly, to the University of Sydney (or even to Auckland). University of Sydney is a possibility because, as a citizen of the great Down Under, it is dirt cheap. Auckland is a possibility because New Zealand is like Australia in that it is Australia's bitch. 

I'd really like to go to Melbourne, but they haven't got the program I want. Or, if they do, they have it very well hidden (in the basement, Beware of the Leopards... ). If I went to Melbourne I'd be able to be near my family. 

And speaking of Family, Shayne, my aunt, is getting married! To a guy I really like. She deserves her own family. She deserves to escape the shadow of her own mother. Not that I'm not super-proud of my heritage, but man, my family is nothing more than a butt-load of murdering, manipulating, bitches and assholes. (I guess that is to be expected of an Australian family...lol). I'd like to go to the wedding. I wonder if I can. Eh. Money money money, I ain't got none of it.

  Finally, I missed the date to submit to my school's literary journal. Whoops. All of my English professors tell me I need to be writing professionally (don't gauge by this. I write stupid talk here). So, I think I'll spend the rest of break looking into literary journals and shit. If I get published I'll let y'all know.  OK. I'm going to totter off now. I've become one of those deplorable people who must either keep busy or fall into a deep pit of despair. I feel the dangerous void and vacuum nearing. I should go get doin' something.  

So, I'm really into accents. I think they're awesome and fun and I love hearing how other people form words. So, for your viewing pleasure I give you accent.gmu.edu/index.php




I came across it when I was trying to learn all that I could about Wales (particularly Cardiff) because, well, that's what I fucking do when I have recurring dreams about places that I've never been to. (this round, let me assure you, is creep-tastic)

Anyway,
Happy Landings!

Ima talk 'bout food now:
( Riiiight here. Yup. Here is where I talk about food. And other stuff. But if you get passed the food bit I'll be surprised.  )

 I am tired of people trying to manipulate me. Really. 

There is a small boy laying in a bath tub. He's about three. The water is freezing, and he has run it so that it is just above his ears. His brother comes into the bathroom and sees a bright red flash in the opposite corner of the bathroom, over his brother's feet. This boy is seven or so. He climbs into the tub, and his younger brother sits up. "what are you doing?" asks the older. "listen," says the younger, "you can hear what's been making the sounds."

The house in which they have been living is rather strange. It's full of noises and things. The boys are listening for the cause.

The older puts his ears under the water and hears what his brother has discovered. In the walls, in the house, in the foundation he hears it. It's a whurring, hissing sound. He and his brother lay in the tub and listen. Above them, in the corner, the red lightning flashes again. "every three minutes and twenty seconds" the younger says, without his brother asking. 

They lay in the freezing tub listening, and watching and discussing where the sound is coming from. 


They are my sons. Well, my sons in my dream last night. It was a very cool dream. 

 You know what today is? 

Today is the first day of the best month of the year.

I fucking ADORE october. 

 There is a girl on my facebook friend's list with a profile picture that reminds me of some porn I once found on a friends computer. Every time I see it the straw she's sucking on becomes a penis. 
I've always wanted to tell her this, but I suspect that she would find it offensive. 

I've already posted this to two outlets. Once I do that I feel like I should post it to all of them (I must maintain equality between my internet profiles). Anyway, I wrote this as an argument against the existence of meaningless sex for an internet forum. Now for your reading pleasure:


 Let's start with the basics: who would want meaningless sex in the first place? I mean, seriously, I use the word “meaningless” for some very select things- homework, for instance. And I’d apply “meaningless” to both homework and sex in the same way. Of course I read the required reading (see: “I didn’t get tested, and I don’t plan on it”), Yeah, sure I proof read it (see: “protection? Whatever, I can pull out”), I took this class for its meaningful and insightful message, not because it was the only class left in my major and I’m trying to graduate here (see: “yeah, you were the only thing in the bar with the genitals I like and it’s dollar beer night, so let’s do this thing!”). If that sounds douche-y, well, it is. But lots of people take the word “meaningless” to its most literal and graphic extent. Want proof? Just go to textsfromlastnight.com or tuckermax.com.

One would hope that any interaction between two humans would be open, honest, and conscientious of the other party’s needs, stipulations, and concerns. “Meaningless” is none of that. 

But wait, you say, the word “meaningless” has yet to be used here. You are right, so, semantics and (guilt-ridden) homework metaphors aside we approach the topics of “sex for the sake of sex” and “sex is sex.”

Estrogen and Testosterone are terrifying things. So much of our lives are based on these little chemicals, how much of them our bodies produce, and where it’s all going! While estrogen is busy making me pissy every month for a week, testosterone is busy in boy brains beefing up the sexy-time cortex. During the gender-assignment process of a mammalian fetus (the 8th week in humans) a big ole surge of testosterone is delivered to the fetal brain (if the magic eight ball has promised “boy”) (side: did you know that the default sex for birds is male instead of female?) [http://www.nature.com/nature/journal.../427390a.html] (this article says that there may be more to it, as well). The testosterone surge basically kills off some of the cells in the communication centers of the brain and boosts the aggressive centers. In fact, too much testosterone in the womb can cause the child to have a smaller vocabulary and an inability to make eye contact (see: men are four times more likely than women to be autistic) [http://www.newscientist.com/article/...l-skills.html]. 

For the most part (mega-doses of the opposite sex-hormone to fetuses aside), women’s brains are fundamentally different from mens. A man’s brain is 9% bigger (on average) than a female brain, though both have the same number of brain cells (meaning the female brain is more dense), and each are designed to process information differently. Women are biologically more adept than men at picking up on subtle facial expressions, emotions, and are generally far more empathetic. 

All thanks to sex hormones, we are unequivocally different. We think differently, process information differently, and handle emotional experiences differently. So generally when women have interpersonal experiences they assign to them emotional responses. Sex included. 
Sex is highly emotional anyway: excitement, joy, maybe even a little fear. Yes, they’re low spectrum, primal emotions, but they’re there. Sex without excitement, is, well, is something you should get your doctor to look at, actually... Meaning is inherent to the act. That on top of the incredibly personal experience of sex (what with the strange sounds and faces and closeness...) makes for a potentially incredibly meaningful experience, at least on the part of the woman.

That is, of course, totally natural. Loveless sex may be, but it is never “just sex.”

There are other aspects as well that should not be disregarded. Take, for instance, its inherent predatory nature. Not only are we in constant competition for sexual partners (observe the similarities between the “wing man” and the first-time buck battling with everyone else in the herd for some nookie), but we are in constant competition during sex. Sex is, by it’s very nature, an invasion on the part of one partner. There will always be a shtuper and a shtupee. Someone always has to be on top, as it were. Someone always has to be in charge. Inequity is fundamental to the act. (I mean, seriously, the penis isn’t that hard to find- very much unlike the clitoris, which seems to elude everyone, their dog and whatever they’re trying to poke it with...)

But seriously, mantises lose their heads, dolphins rape each other, flatworms and snails have to stab each other, giraffes get hounded and pestered, macaques wait until their enemies are orgasming to attack each other and some species have to give chase before they copulate. And, as if to prove my point for me, humans get off on the predatory aspect of sex as well (just wade through all the S&M sites I had to in order to research this bit...) It’s not bad or wrong, but fear and sexual arousal are handled by the same part of the brain and are impressively closely related. [http://www.neatorama.com/2007/04/30/...ating-habits/], [fergodsake just google what you don't find there]. 

Finally, we are social creatures. We discuss what we do, we do who we do, and then we discuss what we do with who we do. And observe the proliferation of stigmatism associated with “casual sex.” Thanks to religion (mostly), and sexism and socializing there is a fundamental image of what “casual sex” is and what it means. Suddenly the aforementioned predatory inequities are compounded. Men become “players”, their antics condoned and applauded (for the most part), and women become “sluts”, “whores” (which in itself can become a plethora of derogatory slurs though the tactful use of modifiers like “crack”), and “skanks”. We may not all kiss and tell- but we also simply cannot navigate through society without encountering this double standard. Sex cannot simply be sex because we, as a collective society undermine that very fact. 

The only way that sex can ever be simply sex is in a society like that of the Bonobo apes. Sex is open, without stigma and used for absolutely everything. If we lived in a society like theirs our friend Donkey wouldn’t have to study conflict resolution- he’d just have sex to solve problems. They don’t favor sexual partners, or form attachments- the only relationships that seem to be taboo are mother-son relationships. It is a constant orgy and a society in which sex is so meaningful it has the luxury of becoming meaningless.

 as we all know, I'm taking twenty one credit hours in the fall, which is both daunting and exciting. 

But today I was emailed about a couple of open T.A. positions, and I'm pretty excited about it. One is a world religion class, and one is a communications class. I'd be willing to work both- especially if they pay. I've applied for both (actually, all three, the WR class has two openings), and am gearing up for a very crowded schedule this fall. 

This fall I'm going to ascribe to the theory that a busy mind is a happy one.

Wish me luck

 Dear Body Hair,
 I do not like you: you make me look mannish. Please stop fighting the inevitable all natural bee's wax. You just make it hard for everyone. You make it hard for Mr. Skin, and Mrs. Armpit nerve and Mrs. Bikini line. 
Sincerely, 
Margot 

I don't know what it is, but I'm goin' through some shit fuck emotional crisis that is gettin' real old real quick. I can't get Amy and Grandpa (and my dead bird, Moe) out of my fucking head. They're always there. I even dream about them. I can't shake it. Have you ever dreamed that your family was missing a holiday? That Christmas or Halloween was going by unobserved, sans decorations or festivities? You know how you feel when you wake up from a dream like that? I feel like that all the fucking time.

I'm depressed because my life is falling apart. Crazy Aunt Jenny is moving down here soon, and, as usual, she's going to be sucking on the dried up money-teat that is my family. I hate her more than words can say. I hate her selfishness and I hate her neediness and I hate her alcoholism and idiocy. I hate that she's not above beating the crap out of me, and I hate that I'm afraid of her.

Of what she can (and will) do to this family.

And I feel guilty. I feel terrible for just walking out on people, but I just do. Some part of me says that, after the alloted time, I need to start ignoring phone calls, avoiding texts, being absent.

And I'm anxious. I'm anxious and fucking terrified.

Because no matter how many short skirts I wear, no matter how much mascara and lip-plumper I slather on myself, no matter how hard I try (or don't try), I can't seem to find someone who likes me. Sure, I can attract them. That, I have become confident, isn't a problem for me (how egocentric and conceited, I know).

But as soon as I open my mouth. As soon as I quit being a pretty face and a small waistline, well, that's when I lose them.

And I'm constantly on the verge of fucking tears.

It's not like I want to fit in, I just want other people to not fit in.

I don't fucking want to compromise myself. I don't want to be anything but me, but at the same time I'm so fucking sick of the endless string of five minute conversations that end with excuses and me being left alone in coffee shops and bookstores and anywhere else. I'm sick of not being texted or called back. I'm sick of wondering what, exactly, my problem is.

What is it that's doing this?

It was easier (way easier) when I didn't feel pretty. It was way easier when I thought that other people were just as aware of (and creeped out by) my teeth as I am. It was easier when I thought that my indian nose had something to with it. It was fucking easier when I believed that big tits were essential. It was easier when I felt undesirable.

But it's not any of those things.

It's me. It's the Margot inside the bustless body that scares them off. It's those damned ideals and those damned jokes and that damned train of thought.

It's all the things about me that make me love myself.

 I'm bored as shit. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPpYwciPUT0

 My mother is OK with pretty much any guy I want to date. Except for when there's a real chance that I could actually date him. 

 So, I’ve always been Cool Margot to my little sister’s friends. They have always seemed to come to me with their problems, and I have always listened to their woes and given them sound advice (though, sometimes endowing a younger generation with balls that I never had). 

 

But I’m sorry, first boyfriend of my little sister who is only fifteen years old, I’m sorry. I cannot, simply cannot stand to hear about your first sexual experience or any sexual experiences following. 

 

That’s just unholy. 

But I just couldn't tolerate spreading this like wild-fucking-fire. with hyphens. It's that fantastic. 

www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jul/02/wrestlers-found-dead-mexico

Sometimes I have really terrible dreams. Dreams so vivid that they feel like I'm awake. And sometimes they are so bizarrely and effectively simultaneously outlandish and real that I begin to wonder what the FUCK is wrong with me? anyway, here is one such dream for your consumption, if you so desire. Very little embellishment, and very little is added for the sake of the plot.

( Droog Dreams )

 Vlog tomorrow. it's coming, my dears. be ready. 

It's about sex and feminism.