i accidentally hit the busboy in the face. it’s his birthday.
the assistant kitchen manager is actually my physical ideal for men - real big, lumberjack type - and he loathes me, we’ve never had a conversation that was not him reprimanding me or yelling at me to clock out. this morning he curtly asked me if i had prepped enough fries and all i could think was “your dick is literally at mouth level”
ginny texted me because she was at my work for a drink so i hopped on the bus and went to meet her. my coworkers were pleased. my favorite waitress, who had been serving us, said “you looked so happy! whenever i walked by you were smiling.”
i only smoke when people offer it to me at parties, and then only halfheartedly. and also - this is silly - it took me a while to figure out how, because no one had ever shown me and i was embarrassed to ask. anyway the busboy gave me some weed earlier this week, as an apology, and i’ve been smoking it whenever i am on the verge of a panic attack, which is about two or three times a day, and it actually helps. earlier today i was starting in on my usual panic spiral, and i then smoked, and it stopped! and i put on some socks and went to the library and the grocery store and filled out some forms and texted a few people back and felt okay.
my drinking is verging on the unsustainable at this point, like, i don’t think i drink that much but i am definitely uncomfortable about the whens and whys of my drinking. what are acceptable coping mechanisms? what are useful, long term coping mechanisms? every mental health professional i’ve approached about this has shamed me about my drinking but also steadfastly refused to prescribe any alternatives. i am wary about smoking, because it makes me feel calm and good and capable, and at this point i automatically assume that whatever makes me feel like that is probably bad for me, or at least comes with some kind of debt.
like, don’t tell me not to carry bags of potatoes if you’re not willing to take the weight of those potatoes onto your own shoulders, you know?
i’m self consciously taken in by the busboy’s shit, like, we were sitting on the couch and i leaned into his shoulder and he laughed and said “wow, you’re clingy, aren’t you?” and i blushed and sat back up. on tuesday night he asked me to meet him at a restaurant and i am embarrassed about how excited i was about it. he was an hour late. the bartender came over about forty five minutes into my wait and said “this is for you,” and handed me a shot. but he showed up! you know, eventually. then we had a bizarre argument that i am literally incapable of transcribing because it was so, so weird and nonsensical.
"you’re, like -" he looked frustrated, "you shouldn’t be working in that kitchen." and i asked why not, and he said "because you’re a girl! you’re like, a delicate flower or some shit. i saw you carrying a bag of potatoes the other day! you shouldn’t have to do that.”
later he said “i wanna be your boyfriend but i don’t wanna be your boyfriend, you know?” and i said “i know.”
i haven’t shaved my head since the summer and now it’s the longest it’s been in at least four years and i’m pleased with it but now i genuinely don’t know what to do with myself during 2 a.m. existential crises
Southern California doesn’t know whether to bustle or just strangle itself on the spot.
Then there’s the simple fact that therapy costs money – sometimes lots of money – and I’ve never had expendable income; furthermore, because of other emotional problems I found it hard to hold down even a part-time job. On top of that, I come from a middle-class family, but my political sense of the world gives me a sense of guilt and shame about that privilege. I held a certain degree of hatred for therapy because I saw it as a rich people’s indulgence, a sign of bourgeois decadence and yuppie lifestyle. On top of all of that, going to therapy – even if I didn’t have all these other reservations and emotions – meant I would also have to rearrange my routine, maybe cut back on or drop out of some activities that I enjoyed in order to create enough time in my schedule for weekly sessions.
i think i am actually going to write my own zine called “how to get away with rape” and take this entire thing apart point by point (via lonelyapron)
I Wanted to Stop Raping People but I Wanted to Play Skyrim More: One Man’s Story
Jesus fucking Christ.
And you know, this is why this kind of wank feminism is not just counterproductive but insidious. At some point, it really is about your ability to hurt people, not your ability to feel bad about it. These justifications are just, I mean, sociopathy, this guy obviously doesn’t care about anyone but himself at all, but even if he were fumbling towards some sense of wrongdoing…it’s not for him to handle. “Accountability” processes should never, ever, ever privilege the participation of the abuser over the safety and dignity of the victim. He doesn’t get to set the pace, even assuming he’s not a monster.
WOW IT’S SO GOOD THAT [POPULAR PUNK BAND] PUBLICLY PROMOTED THIS ZINE AND THEN DUG IN THEIR HEELS AND REFUSED TO APOLOGIZE TO SURVIVORS FOR IT!! I MEAN, CAN YOU IMAGINE NOT PROMOTING AND DEFENDING THIS PIECE OF WRITING?? CAN YOU?? IMPOSSIBLE.
"i don’t like certain things about you."
"you do this thing, where you like, you know…"
"… hold you accountable for your actions?"
"yeah. that. i don’t like that."
You don’t know what love is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she’ll try to eat solid food. She’ll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she’s headed, you know she’ll wake up
with an ache she can’t locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.
later i was reaching for a pan and one of the aforementioned red bulls fell on me and spilled all over my shirt
the busboy apologized for not meeting me after my shift because he was sleeping on top of the freezer at work and but then he said it worked out after all, because while he was up there he found a windbreaker with two red bulls and a baggie full of muscle relaxers in the pockets