As I scroll through the endless stream of photos on the internet – mainly my tumblr – I can’t help but be overwhelmed by how many adorable queer folks there are. With amazing haircuts, clothing, artwork, music, everything. Babes all on the internet with super cute selfies, what more could one want?
Only as I as I spend more time seeing these images, I become aware of a question that always seems to be lingering in the back of my mind when it comes to my sexuality.
Am I queer enough?
Six weeks after meniscus repair surgery, I am currently re-learning how to walk. Actually, I can already walk, but with a limp – I’m re-learning how to walk “properly.” That is, like a princess, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Several times a week, in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror either at my physical therapists’ office or at home, I slowly take steps, deliberately bending and straightening my legs in a precise, exaggerated motion. According to my doctor and physical therapists, I have to re-learn how to hold my leg perfectly, 180 degrees-straight within a few weeks or else I’ll be stuck with an essentially permanent limp. Truth be told, the prospect of a lifelong limp is frightening enough to scare me into doing my draining physical therapy exercises, which I had otherwise been avoiding. Suddenly, I feel strong motivation to get fully invested in my exercises and “get better.”
In my 21 years of living I have never struggled so much as I have recently. My mother is all about helping family and although I’m neither for or against her decisions this was one that made my life difficult and irritated. Continue reading
Not too long ago, I became extremely aware of the food I put into my body. This isn’t to say I started a diet, or that I am eating healthier as a result of this awareness — or that my eating habits have changed at all. But maybe a year ago, I realized that I eat animals and other things that come from their bodies, and it started to make me sick.
So I did it!
After Months and MONTHS of growing my hair-countless hours sitting in a chair getting braids done, never ending conversations with myself about how great the end result will be and endless hours spent viewing pictures of afros on tumblr– I finally chopped my hair. Continue reading
Someone told me once that lighter colored eyes–the blues and greens and greys–are more sensitive to the sun than darker eyes, and the reason for this is the way that irises scatter and transmit light into the retina. For me, stepping out into the sun each day is so rough. I groan and gripe to myself every morning while attempting to shield my eyes until they’ve adjusted to what always seems like the most brutal brightness. Continue reading
Come along friends and allow me to tell you about the time that my body was invaded by an alien…
(No aliens have been harmed in the making of this post)
From my high school 365 Project.
My friend and I had been talking about assault. I was talking about how if anybody ever approached me violently, I would use my entire body against them. I would kick them in whatever sensitive areas I could perceive, rake my nails into their skin, and use my teeth like a sabertooth tiger gripping the haunch of a primordial deer. I would make them regret ever thinking I was somebody weak. I would make them regret ever thinking I wasn’t prepared. I was excited for that aggression. That excuse for the energy I can exert, the dominance I can show, the unbridled aggression that can finally be released. And that concerns me. Why do I want to rip off some poor fucker’s ear? Sure, if they assaulted me, a defensive maneuver or two is probably warranted, but why would I want them to bleed. Why am I so excited by this visceral urge? Why is my being able to service my aggression so enthralling? That’s what I really want to talk about. The embodiment of aggression.
“Oh shit,” I yell, “I need to make a blog post!” I grab a computer, sit down and open up a document.
I can’t think of one intelligent thing to say.
Yes, this is a post that is going up now. I have an idea of what I want to say now. Before, when I thought about it, I didn’t know what to put here. Me, disabled? There’s no way. I get out of bed on time every morning, I make breakfast, I go to school, I do things around the house, I work, take care of the animals… There’s no way I’d ever classify my constant state of movement as ever being disabled.
In 4 days I will not have had a cigarette for 11 months.
Unruly Bodies 