the one where we didn’t die.

The world didn’t end.

So that’s good.

Though I had no such skyward hopes of heavenly transcendence as I am acutely aware of my heathen status, I can’t deny I was looking forward to my starring role in the Battlefield Earth theatrics of modern times should Jesus choose to pay us a visit and smite the shit out of all of us sinners.

I had a tough leather jacket, a bikini top, and a school girl skirt just for the Sucker Punch occasion of it all.

But dude, he’s Jesus- regardless of your belief system (of which I obviously have none), I give the guy more credit than his self aggrandizing fanatical followers and venture a guess that he can in fact differentiate between sinners of the death and destruction watch the world burn and get all stabby for fun sort- and the others of us, those that choose to ascribe to a less rigid form of social structures and moral imperatives perhaps, but still fundamentally good people. People who (gasp!) have grown up ideas about right and wrong that have nothing to do with sex before marriage and the gender of the love of your life- and much more to do with the care and keeping of our fellow citizens and a universal search for happiness of our own while supporting exactly whatever alien ideas of contentment it is that others seek.

I’m much less stabby and much more peace, love, and rainbows lately, can you tell?

And while I know the exact cause of my new found life is grand, love the world, unicorns and glitter for everyone outlook on la vida, the details of said about face are boring- the stuff of Lifetime movies and every song ever written by Taylor Swift. SO rather than bore you with the very human details, suffice it to say life is good.

So very, very good. And I thank God (science?) everyday for it.

So had there been a rapture of the float upwards sorts this past weekend, I was pretty secure in the fact that 1. Regardless of my affinity to live and die bad girl, I am in fact a good person and 2. If going to heaven meant spending eternity with the fundamentalist backwards sort of Christians who preach hate rather than love, I would elect to stay here among my heathens thank you very much.

The costumes are better any way- I’d choose post-apocalyptic leather over a halo any day.

more is better.

I think everything has happened in the last two months. And everything is the sort of thing you’re supposed to blog about as opposed to the pretty pictures of bondage clad sea creatures and pencil and ink criminal masterminds that usually populate my posts.

 

The catch 22 of my having-all-the-fun, writing-none-of-the-things contortion of sorts is when you’re doing the everything, you have time for approximately nothing.

 

All of the above? Is a half truth.

 

I have in fact been living a life that includes all of my favorite things. There have been scantily clad women, Disney characters, 2 tattoos, 14 hair colors, holidays I hate, holidays I love, dress up days, dress up nights, high heels, higher heels, comic books, comic movies, comic tattoos, late nights, early mornings, and times when the two have become one and I then want to fall asleep on top of, under, or in my desk. There has been an obscene amount of jazz and burlesque and an even more obscene amount of wine, but as is the case with all three, even an obscene amount is never enough. There has been play, and work and an awesome sort of alchemical turning of work into play because of the presence of my favorite plaything.

 

But there have also been an abundance of nights where I eat and drink and read Harry Potter (again and again) and have all the time in the world to do with whatever I please. And I please to do nothing, nothing in the form of going to the bookstore to drink copious amounts of tea, watching every Universal horror flick ever made (73 times), coloring in my eyebrows until the boy calls me Groucho, discussing with Flora the various reasons for which we are going to hell (said list is extensive and updated daily), and going to bed at an hour of which my mom would approve.

 

And it’s glorious.

 

It’s all really fucking rad.

 

So my resolution for 2011?

 

Is more of the same. More of the new, more of the old, MORE.

 

Because by some divine joke, the life of this sinner? Is fucking heavenly.

 

a villainous sort of day.

whip cream dream.

When your Halloween costume includes a corset, whip cream, and a garter belt, you know you’re either A. a drag queen B. a whore or C. really fucking awesome.

The answer is C.

Obviously.

And while I am positively giddy about the theatrics in store at our chosen Halloween destination this year, mostly I just want to play dress up- and to a girl that manages to make Strawberry Shortcake costumes into office attire, that means donning an outfit where the amount of clothing is a directly inverse proportion to the amount of sparkles on said cloth.

I was never good at math, so, translation for the lingually minded: I shall be nude. And covered in glitter.

For years (years in which I was fat and flat) I endlessly taunted womens’ adherence to the yearly celebration alternately deemed whore-o-ween. I sneered at tarted up versions of storybook characters and lamented the lack of creativity that went into Leg Avenue’s apparel selection. I nodded my head as other women tore apart the slutty get ups of their scantily clad cohorts, I put myself on a pedestal of “well- I never.”

And then I realized that- all of that- is nothing more than slut shamming- belittling women for showing off bodies THEY ARE REALLY FUCKING PROUD OF. And that? Is in staunch opposition to my chosen feminist agenda of celebrating women. All women. Even the nearly naked ones. ESPECIALLY the nearly naked ones.

Because now that I include myself in the pasty-plastered mini-skirted masses, I realize I’m excited about the costumery, the camp, the whip cream of it all! I am dressing exactly how I want to because…

I . WANT. TO.

And if my I AM WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR proclamations weren’t evidence enough that my public panty frolicking has nothing to do with appeasing the ever present male gaze, perhaps the fact that I will be spending the evening with my equally nude and studded best friend and a half million gay men will prove that girls have more fun when they’re allowed to do exactly as they fucking please.

hair?

And in my latest theatrics to properly justify my title as the enfant terrible, I have waged a one sided war on my follicles in an effort to live up to another nickname- this one bestowed on me by a boss friend of mine- Katy Perry.

That’s right bitches- I want my hair to match soul, or you know, at least my shoes.

Said plan is currently only in the contemplative stages- as truthfully, it has been for months- a fact that causes me pause.

I am the she-devil-horse-of-a-different-color, no?

No. Apparently not.

Because while my boyfriend wants blue, my brain wants black, and my over processed hair wants blonde, I find myself stagnant. Granted, said stagnation is currently ruminating on an awesome shade of ruby, but my reticence to say fuck all is out of character and more than a bit worrying about what the future holds in terms of brash and ball busting bitchiness.

One hair color? What’s next? Housewifery?

I shudder.

And am calling the goddess of all things hair.

It’s time for change.

It’s always time for change.

and i live with an enabler.

Let me just start this by saying I was wearing a Juicy tracksuit so that you get a clear idea of just how much I’d detoured from my pin-up and pop art reality to a place I’m not entirely sure should exist, but if it has to, I certainly shouldn’t be required to take up residence there.

This is the part where I should tell you that once upon a time I fancied myself a Martha. A student of cropping tools, baking tins, handmade fuckery, and invitation suites.  I not only knew what the fuck decoupage was but may have in fact been known to scour thrift stores to secure furniture not even your grandma wants so I could turn it into a smiling puppy bedecked monstrosity worthy only of Regretsy fame, but certainly not a place in your living room.

I tend to gloss over this portion of my past the way some people skirt around their issues of drug addiction or puppy killing. I’ve worked through my issues. Bludgeoned the Martha portion of my brain, and now only get crafty when converting my never used refrigerator into a shoe closet.

But last Sunday, I somehow found myself crossed-legged on the living room floor, clad in a $200 track suit, hand-addressing a half-billon envelopes in make-believe calligraphy, and contemplating the finer points of adhesives and the exact radius of a ribbon’s curl within an A7 envelope.

Either 1. Something had gone TERRIBLY wrong in my own little self-centric universe or 2. I was throwing a baby shower, which would in fact corroborate my first point. So the answer, I suppose,  is C. All of the above:  obviously something has gone terrifyingly awry because I have somehow found myself showering babies. Or something.

It’s not that I don’t love my sister in law. Or babies. I do in fact adore the shit out of said lawful relation and am as yet undecided as to whether babies are in fact little Lucifers disguised only by their pigtailed heads and cherubic cheeks, or whether they are just lesser demons intent on nothing more than covering the world in shit and snot and other bodily fluids while simultaneously ruining your body, stealing you free time, and lighting your money on fire.

See? This is why the Katie throwing a baby shower thing is a sure sign of the apocalypse. I plan on inviting Voldemort and just being done with it.

But that was before the relapse. Before I returned to the bar, hit the bottle, and was a full blown addict in a matter of hours. And by bar I mean Paper Source, and by bottle I mean sticker aisle, and by hours I mean seconds.

So, while I THANKGOD foresee no baby shaped objects in my future, near or otherwise- I am all sorts of Juicy sweatpant wearing, Stepford wife baking, let’s Martha the shit out of this bitch on board to throw the most spectacular baby shower in all the land.

See, kids? Addiction is fun.

tattoos and fuck yous.

I’ve never had a man hurt me so badly.

It felt like he ripped my heart out and set it on fire. And then laughed at the slowly molting organ- snickering at me while I squirmed uncomfortably and begged him to stop.

He hurts me worse every time I see him.

And yet I go back.

I beg for more while contemplating my affinity for Ike Turner-esque acrobatics with a man I hardly know.  I fear I’m a textbook example of abusive love but then realize my dramatic theatrics have caused me to wrongly asses a situation in which the man I’m with is nothing short of awesome sauce and the love that keeps me crossing off days on the calendar until I can next see him has nothing to do with him (not entirely true), but rather is a symptom of my one true love: art.

Before you vomit at the aforementioned statement of pretentious proportions, I should clarify that while I heart art of the paint on canvas, or performance, or sketched and symbolic sort, the art I happily endure pain that is surely akin to birthing twins. Simultaneously. Sans epidural. Is art of the ink on skin variety.

And while I usually pride myself on some sort of masochistic heightened ability to endure pain, around hour 4 last night, I was… a bit squirmy.

And then I broke a mirror.

And threatened my lovely artist with bodily harm and bite marks if he didn’t stop stabbing my rib cage with purple needles I know I said I wanted this but holy balls I think I may die, just kidding I swear I’ll be good more please more.

I’m sure it sounded like we were having awesome sex of the safety word necessitating variety behind our little curtain, but no- that’s just his needle (that’s what he tells all the girls…).

So while today I’m a bit sore (lie. may in fact die.), I’m the leaps and bounds sort of closer to completing a piece that makes me giddy and defines my soul or something emo in two words: zombie storybook.

Up next? My armpit.

And I promise, there will be bite marks.

i think i may merge with the mers

If Jennifer and I were ever to procreate, this would surely be the result.

cupcake feminism and other inventions

I consider myself a cupcake feminist.

I dress like a confection, bathe myself in frosting, and tend to bask in the adoring glow of those who succumb to a proximity induced sugar high.

It’s not all sprinkles though.

I may be strawberry flavored, but I come with bite.

It’s like this: you’re drawn in by the thigh highs, and by the time I start spouting feminist vitriol, it’s too late- you’re slack jawed in awe at the sight of the gams and shall be a mass produced fembot of sorts in short order.

It’s simple: I refuse to believe that sexuality and feminism are mutually exclusive. Instead, I’m convinced they’re complimentarily.

But while I may subscribe to a burgeoning brand of feminism, one complete with elective sluttiness and brazen displays of cleavage, I am the first to admit that my world views are perhaps not yet echoed by the patriarchal hierarchy.

But I’m going all Ghandi: being the change I want to see in the world or something.

Living as an example.

An example of a world that includes mini skirts AND gender quality.

But I know that often my message, my intent, my convictions, are misunderstood, wrapped as they are in a package of plastic and push up bras.

And I’m called a slut, or a bimbo, or a bitch.

And usually?

Usually I don’t care.

Because I’m secure enough in my own femininity, aware enough of my own intellect that I feel no need to spout SAT adverbs in an attempt to PROVE my worth above and beyond my D cup.

But sometimes?

Sometimes I care.

Sometimes I am so blatantly horrified by how misconstrued the varying messages of female sexuality (or lack there of) are interpreted and internalized and expounded against.

By women.

Because we are our own worst enemy.

And while I yearn to celebrate broads- in all their forms, and flavors, whether they be sans sprinkles, or the glitter on top kind of wonderful- I ‘m wary.

Because celebrating women would mean celebrating this very special brand of enmity we have for each other. The kind that convinces us that to feel better about ourselves, we need to attack and belittle and mock and HATE each other.

Case in point? Case which incited this diatribe 400 words ago?

An article in Allure, a glossy I can’t say I frequent as I am usually absorbed by 1. a pumpkin spice latte and 2. a tattoo tattler, but none the less a respectable publication that doesn’t oft-pretend to be about more than cup sizes and mascara- except when it does.

Except when it makes my head explode.

Said cranium theatrics were as follows:

Exhibit 1: Aforementioned magazine’s attempt to eviscerate outsized images of femininity in their current issue by way of slut shamming a certain golfer’s mistresses who shall be NUMBERED instead of named and subjected to pseudo-psychology as explanation for their penchant to look perfect.

Exhibit 2: Chastisement by outside sources who have earned letters after their names for their ability to manufacture said bodies they mock.

Exhibit 3: Comparisons to cartoon characters, children’s play things, and animals of the fall of Eden sort.

Exhibits 4-40: Suggestive Pictures! OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE BOOBS!

Exhibit 41: Apologies for the boobs. Apologies for the lips. Apologies. Apologies. Apologies.

Exhibit 42: Ending quote from titled someone or other using big words arranged as such as to pretend to reiterate what your mom always told you: real beauty is on the inside, but in reality are saying: THESE WHORES ARE DUMB- YOU ARE BETTER THAN THEM.

In all honesty, I made it not a word past Betty Boop before one pumpkin spice latte wasn’t enough. In fact I had to shoot faux squash flavoring like a gourd obsessed junkie to make it through the rest of the pages long slut-shaming attempt at an attack on gender.

Because if they do need to apologize for anything, it’s not their racks.

Because they’re adults.

Because it’s their choice to do whatever they want with and to their bodies.

Because in spite of the antiquated opinions of the editors, girls shaped like them, girls shaped like me, we do exist, and regardless of the status of our racks, WE ARE REAL.

Because despite the warm fuzzies sci-fi incites in me- I am decidedly not animatronic.

And I have to wonder- after such childish comparisons are made, does anyone feel better about themselves? More womanly? More real? Does someone win?

No. No one wins. We all lose.

And we look ridiculous.

Squabbling amongst ourselves about what exactly is right and wrong when it comes to body part warfare. Our eyes are removed from matters of any import, our trajectory skews south of equality, we concern ourselves with waist-to-hip ratios of women WE’VE NEVER MET rather than the fight that’s in front of us- to live the way we see fit.

The distractionary tactics of woman-on-woman verbal hate crimes are nothing if not reactionary devices to appease the masses with fangless fluff- and while I’m usually a proponent of all things fluff, in this case I choose the fight over the frosting.

i sometimes wish i was a whole different kind of cool