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SingingSatellite
Wild Child
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2009
- Location
- EST
I don't know how this works. This is my journal, I guess? I'll rant, rave, and carry on much like Dennis Leary insists he does in his own lyrical genius. I'm also doing this with the full understanding that I don't really know anyone on this site, save for a few folks who I play with regularly. I figure this can't hurt, right? Especially since I don't tend to care if I annoy people. Actually, I like annoying people and pressing buttons. It's sort of how I roll.
Anyways. It's snowing, and I'm irritated. Everyone was getting all crazy since it's New England's first blizzard this year, though I don't see the big deal. I've got a shovel, my apartment's stocked, and my cat could care less, as long as the heat is on and I'm there to give her food. PLUS, my graduate classes don't start up again until January 17th, so I've got some time on my hands. Nowhere to be, honestly. It's kind of nice, especially since I worked my ass off for a solid four months without a break. Already I've read three solid novels, and I've got another two I'll read within the next week. Ah, reading for pleasure.
So what the crap do I write here? I mean, I pretty much don't care about what I have to say. So I'm writing because I'm bored, really. And I just watched this bitchin' Nat Geo thing about solitary confinement. Did you know the US is the only country left that uses long-term solitary? Fucked up, right?
I love how sexually curious I am, yet how controlled I keep myself. I guess this site is nice for that, I get to explore and still be the composed, cutesy funny good girl everyone sees me as outside. I'm fairly certain few people actually know what I enjoy, and mostly because it's viewed as deviant. Not that I care, but I hate having to explain that what others view as 'pain' doesn't register that way for me. Pain helps to ground me, help me focus and be composed and register me at a level of experience I don't get otherwise. It gives me total clarity, and I love it.
I hate when people ask about me getting microdermals, complaining about how much it might hurt. Obviously they don't get it. They're not only beautiful and permanent, they're a focus of pain in an area I'm highly sensitive in; my neck. Pain is such a misunderstood concept in the West, it makes me angry. I don't like having to explain why something makes me feel good to justify it, and I hate when people talk about sado masochism as if it's something only crazy people like. They don't get it. They can't get it. I often think, too, it's like homophobia. They fear it in themselves so they distance themselves from it. We do that with deviant behavior, don't we?
Anyways, maybe I just overthink. Graduate school does that, you know? Especially anthropology, questioning everything I know. Everyone should do that. Don't take what you know as fact. Chop it into pieces and dissect it. And then eat its face off. Or something.
Anyways. It's snowing, and I'm irritated. Everyone was getting all crazy since it's New England's first blizzard this year, though I don't see the big deal. I've got a shovel, my apartment's stocked, and my cat could care less, as long as the heat is on and I'm there to give her food. PLUS, my graduate classes don't start up again until January 17th, so I've got some time on my hands. Nowhere to be, honestly. It's kind of nice, especially since I worked my ass off for a solid four months without a break. Already I've read three solid novels, and I've got another two I'll read within the next week. Ah, reading for pleasure.
So what the crap do I write here? I mean, I pretty much don't care about what I have to say. So I'm writing because I'm bored, really. And I just watched this bitchin' Nat Geo thing about solitary confinement. Did you know the US is the only country left that uses long-term solitary? Fucked up, right?
I love how sexually curious I am, yet how controlled I keep myself. I guess this site is nice for that, I get to explore and still be the composed, cutesy funny good girl everyone sees me as outside. I'm fairly certain few people actually know what I enjoy, and mostly because it's viewed as deviant. Not that I care, but I hate having to explain that what others view as 'pain' doesn't register that way for me. Pain helps to ground me, help me focus and be composed and register me at a level of experience I don't get otherwise. It gives me total clarity, and I love it.
I hate when people ask about me getting microdermals, complaining about how much it might hurt. Obviously they don't get it. They're not only beautiful and permanent, they're a focus of pain in an area I'm highly sensitive in; my neck. Pain is such a misunderstood concept in the West, it makes me angry. I don't like having to explain why something makes me feel good to justify it, and I hate when people talk about sado masochism as if it's something only crazy people like. They don't get it. They can't get it. I often think, too, it's like homophobia. They fear it in themselves so they distance themselves from it. We do that with deviant behavior, don't we?
Anyways, maybe I just overthink. Graduate school does that, you know? Especially anthropology, questioning everything I know. Everyone should do that. Don't take what you know as fact. Chop it into pieces and dissect it. And then eat its face off. Or something.