Tuesday, August 14, 2007

I hate you and your ptosisface!

It's funny. A week, maybe two ago, there was an article about ptosis of the breasts in the oh-so-misogynistic "women's section" of one of the newspapers here (I can't remember whether it was El Nuevo Diario or La Prensa, so I'm having a hard time finding it, but if I do, it'll be posted, never fear).

It was kind of confusing. You see, I was under the impression that women's breasts sagged naturally with age, and that was, you know, natural. Apparently I've got it all wrong. It's a DISEASE, and we must take DRASTIC MEASURES to prevent its life-threatening consequences, such as, um...un-perky breasts, and...non-perky breasts.

Yeah, so, you should have invasive breast surgery before anything like THAT happens! I mean, "saggy" breasts are a health hazard, folks. Yep.

In the article, it mentioned the usual medieval delights, like breast lifts and breast reduction with implants, but recently, I became aware of another charming procedure to treat this "condition". It's literally, a bra inside your chest.

The mind boggles. Hoyden About Town does a better job of dissecting it than I do. But basically, FUUUUUUUUUCK!?!?@>@>!>$

Ok, breasts will sag. There is nothing wrong with that. In fact, that is what they are supposed to do. Also, the immense majority of breasts are NOT, even when their owners are young; globular and gravity-defying, though I'm sure all the lad's mags and the plastic surgery industry would have us believe otherwise.

I am so, so sick of being told that my body is abnormal. You'd think my breasts had committed terrible crimes against mankind for the kind of comments I get about them; from the "WOW, are they real?!" to the snarky "oh, but it was a joke" to the ones that spend hours trying to tell me how much better I'd look after a reduction, to the ones that can't seem to let five minutes go by without commenting on their size.

Yeah, sorry, but no.

Fuck this shit. I don't need a reduction. I don't want a reduction. And I sure as hell ain't getting one to make everyone else more comfortable around me and my EVIL EVIL CHEST. Which by the way, I plan to keep intact even when it's struck down by the terrible affliction of ZOMG PTOSIS. Because as much as I can go on about mind over matter, my body has everything to do with myself, if one can say that without sounding lightly ridiculous. And this is how I look. And it's not a disease. It doesn't need surgery.

There is nothing wrong with my body.

I'm not changing it.

Deal with it.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Straighthate, part the second

Kill. Maim. Destroy. Demolish. Rip limb to limb and crush to pulp with my bare, nail-less hands. Not a shred of guilt, not one gram of remorse or mercy.

Yeah, I think know what blind fury feels like.

It's why I can never really feel human, not to the full meaning of the word. Who could, when you know that that force, that that entity lives inside you, waiting to strike, just that one moment that you don't say no.

But I'm more human then they are. All those men. So many men. Because I can say no. I can say stop. I can keep my inhumanity inside, but they, they caused it. And they're worse than I am.

It was the kind of day I've learned to take pictures of and use them to smile. My friend, protegé, and apprentice in evil ways, Ritsu came over. That time of year again: new hair; and no one's better at DIY hair care than Ritsu. Streaks, bleach, dye, straightening, he's done it all. And now he's salvaged my fried and faded ginger. Using methods yet unknown to man, it's now doubled in volume, soft, shiny, curly, and a black so black it seems to suck the light out of every place I go.


We talked about everything, pretty much. Bellydancing. Cosplay. Teachers. Contacts. Piercings of every kind under the sun. Even touched on the subject of being the black sheep of our respective families. What it had done. The resounding, silent mantra "Hey, freak has a NAME!".

But it was a good day. The anger is for another time. Today is a day to make fun of photographers, talk about prom, possessed phone books, Masons.

Today we wanted to watch a movie before Ritsu had to go home. So we left. Walking from my home to the movie theater, not quite so far. We're pretty people with unusual tastes, what can I say? He's a beautiful bishie boy, and I'm to makeup as he is to hair, so naturally, we don't look like your average pair of friends walking to the movies.

But I wonder. Does looking different warrant dehumanization, anymore than being a woman does? Why must we be the ones to have to walk like that, folding their stares like hate notes into our pockets so we could pretend they weren't there?

I'm a woman. It's nothing new to me. Any woman can tell you of the leers and the hisses and the catcalls. Of being degraded and stripped naked and subject on a daily basis, for no reason at all. No reason but being female and in public. And I find myself using the passive voice here, not because I think it's my fault, or any woman's fault, or because I think it's excusable for men to continuously do so.
It's not. It's despicable.

But I've become used to it, to a certain level. Like all women have. Maybe the killing rage that stirs in me isn't typical, even if it should be. But even though I am the only woman I know to act, to respond to their continuous attack, I know that it's not enough. And there are times when I feel that just shouting, just gesturing, just arguing will never be enough. I feel just like the ones who lower their heads and pretend that they didn't feel the catcalls rip into them.

But I deal. I deal with it the best I can. And I never stop arguing, shouting, and refusing to take it.

But it's one thing to live with it yourself, to refuse it/resist it walking with no one but your boxcutter. But today I was dehumanized again. Directly, of course, because that is what happens when a female dares show her face in a public space, but indirectly, to the point of nearly losing control, when they dehumanized one of my own right in front of me.

I've heard a lot of feminist arguments about whether men, as the dominant class, can ever awaken to the reality of the female experience. Today I saw just how much. And today I saw, again, just how different it is when they move to attack, not just you, but the loved ones around you.

Infuriating. The swarms of men. Boys. Teenagers. Their voices sound all the same to me now. And it hits me, over and over again, the same old questions, and all the variants that might apply.

Why are you doing this?
Why? What do you have to gain?
Would you say that to your sister, mother, daughter? Would you say that to your father, brother, son?
Does it hurt you, to see a girl and a boy walking along laughing at their own stupid jokes?
What is it about a short metal dyke and a skinny goth fag that you find so terrifying?
What is it in us that scares you to the point that you feel you must reassert your power through force, through intimidation, and through repeated verbal assault?
What have I done, or what has he done, that deserves this kind of response?
Isn't it enough that you control everything else?
Can't people like us even walk without fear of attack?

And maybe you know what it's like. Maybe you walk with your girlfriend, or your sister, or your niece. Or maybe you're just trying to spend an evening at the mall like everyone else does with your friend. Maybe you hear it directed at them, and feel it like it's the first time it happened to you. The powerlessness is deadening. No matter how much you retaliate, you can never stop it from starting. And like too many of us, I worry if Ritsu has learned to lower his head and pretend it isn't happening.

And it drives me nearly out of my mind that he will have to fight back. Because he shouldn't have to. Because he's a KID. A kid who's never hurt anyone, never been anything but kind to anyone, despite being dealt more bullshit than anyone should, especially at his age. And even though his merit is besides the point (no one deserves harassment and objectification, no matter who they are, how old they are, what they wear-the things everyone knows already), the fact that it is him, it is that sweet, wonderful, vibrant person who already has to handle too much- it hits a nerve. A war nerve.

Sometimes I really do lose everything. All sense of hope. All self-control. It's pretty well-documented here, I guess. But some people take it too far. And here I am using the passive voice again. And no, it isn't "some people". Some men. Homophobic, misogynistic men, which make up most of the lot, take it too far, and they do it every day.

So today I lost it. All that in my head, and some real winners decide it's a good idea to approach me when I'm alone and taunt me about him.

And why? I just don't get it. Why can't I hurt the people who violate me? Why is it forbidden to stab the stalkers, the harassers, the cat callers and the oglers?

I decided it was a good idea to hurl a cup full of ice cubes and some soda in their faces. Prudent? Most definitely not. Deserved? No. That didn't even come close.

I got away "safely", if you define safe as physically whole.

But I cannot stop thinking. That it was a huge, bright, public place, with hundreds of people, and armed security guards. And no straight woman, no queer girl or guy got out of there safely. Nor will they ever, I think. Not as long as the male gaze remains all-powerful. Male harassment the law that the world lives by.

As long as they can do that to me, to my friend, to every woman, LGBT, or anyone who is in the least bit different, we are not safe. I got out of there with my body unscathed, but the toll it took on my mind wasn't light. Those that are cowed into fear are as hurt as those who are provoked into losing control. And though I dare not presume to say it's on the same level, or that it can be simplified into some neat and tidy comparative package; I KNOW that it is real, just as real as any physical hurt. The lifelong sequels of dominance and intimidation hurt us just as badly as any battering. As any bashing.

And all at the same hands.

I really hate them all right now.

And childish though it may sound, I hate them more for spoiling my wonderful day. Because it was truly wonderful. Thanks for everything, Ritsu.

I'm off to make some voodoo dolls and whatnot.

Ed note: "Fag" and "dyke" are used, as always, in a satirical/reclamatory sense. Andrea Gibson reference is an Andrea Gibson reference. Just clearing that up.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Rantlet, the first

I promised a rant, but time sneaked up on me and before I knew it, it's 11 p.m., with physics yet to study and a shiny new Harry Potter book to read.

But one thing today has been bugging me too much to not spew out on the intrawebz like I usually do:

While showing some of Andrea Gibson's live recitals to my mother, who tends to appreciate art from a very educated and objective point of view, she made a comment: "This is pretty good. But why are you showing me lesbian poetry?"

I could give two hundred reasons as to why. But that isn't the point. What's making me see red here is the epithet. Why is it "lesbian poetry" and not poetry? Why does the author's sexual orientation make the art itself a completely isolated object? How come no one goes around calling poetry by heterosexual people "straight poetry"?

Why, according to her, are lesbians who make art not artists?

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Blue Blanket


there are days

when there is no way

not even a chance

that i'd dare for even a second
glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror
and she knows why

like i know why
only cries
when she feels like she's about to lose control

she knows how much control is worth
knows what a woman can lose
when her power to move

is taken away

by a grip so thick with hate
it could clip the wings of god
leave the next eight generations of your blood shaking

and tonight something inside me is breaking

my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of her pain
i could give every tear she's crying
a year---a name
and a face i'd forever erase from her mind if i could
just like she would
for me

or you

but how much closer to free would any of us be
if even a few of us forgot
what too many women in this world cannot
and i'm thinking

what the hell would you tell your daughter

your someday daughter
when you'd have to hold her beautiful face
to the beat up face of this place
that hasn't learned the meaning of


what would you tell your daughter
of the womb raped empty
the eyes swollen shut
the gut too frightened to hold food
the thousands upon thousands of bodies used and abused

it was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell

and she stopped believing in heaven
distrust became her law
fear her bible
the only chance of survival

don't trust any of them

bolt the doors to your home
iron gate your windows
walking to your car alone
get the keys in the lock
please please please please open
like already you can feel
that five fingered noose around your neck
two hundred pounds of hatred
digging graves into the sacred soil of your flesh

please please please please open
already you're choking for your breath

listening for the broken record of the defense
answer the question
answer the question
answer the question miss

why am i on trial for this

would you talk to your daughter
your sister your mother like this
i am generations of daughters sisters mothers
our bodies battlefields
war grounds
beneath the weapons of your brother's hands

do you know they've found land mines
in broken women's souls
black holes in the parts of their hearts
that once sang symphonies of creation
bright as the light on infinity's halo

she says
i remember the way love
used to glow like glitter on my skin
before he made his way in
now every touch feels like a sin
that could crucify medusa kali oshun mary
bury me in a blue blanket
so their god doesn't know i'm a girl
cut off my curls
i want peace when i'm dead

her friend knocks at the door
it's been three weeks
don't you think it's time you got out of bed


the ceiling fan still feels like his breath
i think i need just a couple more days of rest


bruises on her knees from praying to forget
she's heard stories of vietnam vets
who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs
she's wondering how many women are walking around this world
feeling the tingling of their amputated wings
remembering what it was to fly to sing

tonight she's not wondering
what she would tell her daughter

she knows what she would tell her daughter
she'd ask her
what gods do you believe in
i'll build you a temple of mirrors so you can see them!

pick the brightest star you've ever wished on
i'll show you the light in you
that made that wish come true!

tonight she's not asking
you what you would tell your daughter
she's life deep in the hell---the slaughter
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh
and she knows the war's not over
knows there's bleeding to come
knows she's far from the only woman or girl
trusting this world no more than the hands
trust rusted barbed wire

she was whole before that night
believed in heaven before that night
and she's not the only one

she knows she won't be the only one
she's not asking what you're gonna tell your daughter
she asking what you're gonna teach

your son

-Andrea Gibson

I promise I'll rant tomorrow.

Monday, July 9, 2007

From the desk of a soulless ginger

Regarding yesterday's incredibly depressing post: I don't take a word of it back. But I will admit, there's something glitchy about me. I will post that sort of thing from time to time. One might say it's a side effect of the oh-so-enjoyable chemical imbalances my big giant brain suffers from.

But never fear, invisible audience! I'll be right back to posting incoherent rants about male domination and random stupid things as soon as the muse (if there is one for those sort of things [Ed. note: there isn't]) decides to pay a visit!

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us

Thursday, July 5, 2007

I win!

So, to settle the ongoing debate amongst fans of Death Note on whether the character Mello is male or female (let's assume a binary stance on gender just for this post, mmkay?), I present my evidence:

I found Mello:

Mmmmmhmmm. Yep. That's right. Maddona is just Mello's stage name when SHE moonlights as a performer, because of course, with Mello's dramatic flair, it makes all makes sense now! Doesn't it? DOESN'T IT?!

Compare, my dear invisible audience:


Credits to the excellent Noelisa for the beautiful Mello drawing

Sunday, July 1, 2007

The chat logs, part the first

Composite Creature: I hate cabaret bellydancers sometimes.

Glow: Aha?


Glow: Sexbot? These boots are made for walking...

Composite Creature: One of these days these boots are gonna STOMP ALL OVER YOUUUU! [channeling Megadeth, circa 1985]

Glow: Actually these boots live a sedentary life. They like it under my desktop.

Composite Creature: My boots are for kicking patriarchal ass in the feminist revolution.

Glow: lol

Composite Creature: So yeah, they live under my computer.

Glow: LOL

Saturday, June 30, 2007

White feminism?

Ok. I am really, really confused here. As you, my imaginary audience, can ascertain, I am an avid reader of IBtP, Pandagon, Feministe, and the like. I too, am a radical feminist.

Radical feminism is all about overthrowing patriarchy. Patriarchy is the system which is keeping women, all women (which OF COURSE includes transwomen), along with gay men and transmen, subject to the dominant class of heterosexual males. Patriarchy is not only overt and violent, like FGM and "honor killings", but insidious and inherent to every culture in the world. Here in the West, it includes mandated femininity and sexism. Patriarchal domination has spawned a lot of nasty things. Right now, racism is inherent to the patriarchal system. Pretty much everywhere you go, the Aryan-er, the better.

Now what I just don't get. Brownfemipower. I remember a post of hers a while back accusing Twisty of being transphobic because in the hundreds of hundreds of comments each post of hers generates, she didn't read every single one and delete those that were transphobic. Besides the total lack of reason in that, what struck me was the label she had for that post. White feminism.

Normally, I'd say that was derisive and rude, but I know all too well about white privilege to complain about that. But I just do not understand the ideas expressed on brownfemipower's blog about radical feminism being a tool of racism, of radical feminists being the ones excluding and subjugating women of color. And I'm going to reveal a little bit of my youth here and say

HELLO?! Are you not GETTING IT?! If a white woman (or ANY woman) is racist, if she is classist, if she is homophobic, transphobic, then she is not a radical feminist. Ok?
She is against everything radical feminism stands for.

Another thing. I get the feeling that some of the transphobia attributed to radical feminism was due in part to those women-only space-thingies. Well, though I could not disagree more with the implication that transwomen aren't women, the idea behind those is (I presume) that women should be able to share their life experiences as women, including childhood experience. Most transwomen are brought up as men, and until they "come out", or start living as women, they have been (albeit unwilling) participants of a system that granted them privilege over their fellows. That gives them a significantly different life experience.

The oppressed is uncomfortable with sharing around the still/former opressor, and wants a "safe space" in which to do said sharing (I have issues with the exclusion of transwomen, but that's besides the point).

How is that any different with some internet community's racial policies? To wit, (and straight off Brownfemipower): "The voices of women of color will always be prioritized on this site both through the content of my posts as well as within the comments section."

How is it any different with any [insert ethnicity here]-only group's policies? Once again, any one person who embraces misogyny, racism, heteronormativity, trans and homophobia, xenophobia; is NOT a feminist.

This has been bugging me for quite some time. Because if patriarchy is ever going to be gutted, it's not going to be done by white women. Or women of color. Or transwomen. Or gay men. It has to be done by everyone, in conjunction. I mean, I'm not one for the whole touchy-feely unity thing. And I know that there are some resentments that go way back, not to mention the misogynistic women, self-hating gays, racist everybodies, and all that.

But hey, women? Yeah, we're all women. We're all oppressed Hey, gays? We're all oppressed too, look at that. And you know, most of us hate that oppression. So why the hate directed at each other?

I'd like to envision, if not a world rid of patriarchy, a world where all the oppressed can refuse/resist together.

And to continue on with my subversive little blurring of lines, what makes a woman of color? Because genetically, I'm probably a lot more "pure latina" than most women of color in the U.S. I speak Spanish fluently, better then most latinas in the U.S. But my skin is dead white. My mouth and nose are Caucasically nondescript. My cheeks are, to my dismay, rosy. And most people believe red is my natural hair color (now that it's more ginger). A good friend of mine would probably be rejected by Brownfemipower's standards. Despite her facial features and hair texture being Afro-Caribbean, her lineage 100% Afro-Hispanic, all that I'm guessing would be seen are her white skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair.

I don't want to stir the scheisse. When not irked by these matters, I really enjoy reading Brownfemipower. But damn. I guess I just had to get this off my chest.

Sunday, June 24, 2007


I don't mean to overexalt myself. I'm well aware of my status as a simple teen soprano, with barely a smidgen more talent then the general population. Most of what I am and what I can do, I owe to people far greater than myself who've had the patience to teach me how, and to a pit bull-like discipline (some say it's stubbornness, but fuck that).

But if there's one thing I know. One single little solitary thing that keeps me going these days, it's duende. And that's not something you can just get, just translate into words.

Duende. I don't think it can ever be described, but a tiny tiny fraction of what it really is: it's floating in a white, blank world. But the blank isn't really blank, it's just too colorful to exist. And all there is in that blank is one column of what seems to be air, but it could be water, could be fire, could be anything. you're the only one there, and all you can do is to push it out and up. You decide what it'll be, if you're strong enough. You decide what it'll sound like, and the sound is huge, it vibrates and threatens to shatter the entire world you're moving in, but that's all right, because it can never break, it's more fluid and amorphous than mercury. And it's better and more beautiful and more terrible and more heartbreaking than anything you've ever seen. And against all the white that isn't white, all that your eyes can truly, physically see, is one thing. Then, it was my coaches hand up in the air, telling me to hold it. And then it drops, so you drop the note too.

And when you come down, when you let the note go, you come back to that other place. The real world, I guess, though it's not as real as the other one that you're coming back from. And you can see again. And you can feel how the entire room is vibrating with the potency of that one note. The echoes too. You see that your hands have been gripping the edge of the piano so hard that there are your nail marks on it. And there are other musicians from the other classes peeking through the windows to see who it was singing. And you find that you're shaking, and you're not standing the way you were before.

And that's D above high C.

Thursday, June 21, 2007


There's really no excuse, but I just can't get enough of these things.

A - Available or Single? Neither. I just am.

B - Best Friend? Robot Boy

C - Cake or Pie? Pecan pie

D - Drink of Choice? Ginger ale or apple juice

E - Essential Item? iPod

F - Favourite Colour? Black and pink

G - Gummi Bears or Worms? GUMMIBÄRCHEN

H - Hometown? Oz

I - Indulgence? Chocolate, America's Next Top Model.

J - January or February? January

K - Kids? HEEEEELL nah

L - Life is incomplete without… My iPod, my guitar, and the internet

M - Marriage Date? HEEEELL nah

N - Number of Siblings? 1

O - Oranges or Apples? Granny Smiths

P - Phobias/Fears? Certain bugs.

Q - Favourite Quote. "I might repeat to myself slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound - if I can remember any of the damn things." Dorothy Parker

R - Reasons to smile. Shaking a hip belt really hard. Muting a power chord perfectly. Hitting a high D.

S - Season? Winter

T - Tag Three. Uh...Glow?

U - Unknown Fact About Me. I was in ballet half my life

V – Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animals? Opressor

W - Worst Habit? Procrastination

X – X-rays or Ultrasounds? Ultrasound

Y - Your Favourite Foods? Waaay too many to list here

Z - Zodiac? Capricorn

Friday, June 15, 2007

On walks and weight

I think I read something about how fat people walk lightly, like balloons that are just barely held down by strings to the ground. I can't remember the author because I can't remember anything these days. [Thank you, chemical cocktail!]

But when you think about it, it's true. I mean, with all the extra weight us fatties carry around, imagine if we stomped the way skinnies do? At least in my case, I know it'd create quite the tremor. Even this guy I know, who's really obese has this particular dinosaur shuffle that, if heard from an apartment below, would not be heard at all, it's so light. I know that I don't walk heavily. Going up metal staircases, all you can hear is a slight *tap* from my beloved combat boots. As opposed to the ginormous clatter whenever a lighter person walks on it. It's a survival skill auto-learned by the fat; men and women alike.

I've been told I saunter. I've been told I have all the physical mannerisms of a gay man when not performing. I've also been accused of "walking sexily". The hilarious bit is, get this, that said sexy *swish* or *sway* (sexy or effeminate or gay-mannish, whatever) is produced by one of my legs being significantly longer than the other from a nasty volleyball-related incident in eighth grade.

I have mentioned my disdain for sports. Well, they're mandatory to pass P.E. in my school. And in eight grade, P.E. was mandatory. So I had to pick, and the very first days I picked volleyball (later I switched to basketball, since there were no girls in it, forcing the teacher to make the team unisex, which is taboo for some reason, and I've always had the iconoclastic impulses you know and love). I mostly sat on the benches while the other girls played, since there is no sport in the world I loathe as deeply as that goddamn fucking volleying of balls. And that, my friends, is what made the fear of de-pointing such a big one: the P.E. teachers called me out on my non-playing status, and threatened to flunk me if I didn't play soon. And as we all know, there's no making up a P.E. class. You flunk it, you flunk eighth grade. At least in my school.

So one day, I actually played. And while jumping for the ball, I slipped (my trusty combat boots were not allowed, so I had to defer to my beloved-but-not-trusty pair of worn Converse hi-tops) and fell HARD on my right knee. When I got up, I found myself unable to put weight on it. And it looked funny. Not ha-ha funny, but grotesquely-angled funny. So I begged for a time-out. Mr. J., the friendly neighborhood P.E. coach No. 1 gave me the stinkeye and only five minutes to "walk it off". So as I sat down on the bench, rolled up my sweats and stared at my now deformed (dislocated, actually) right leg, I knew what had to be done. I will now refer to myself in the third person.

  • Miss Creature looks at the knee. She looks at the bench.
  • Miss Creature sees that the bench, instead of two separate "feet" going into the ground, has one upside down u-shaped piece of metal.
  • Miss Creature hooks the damaged foot around said piece, rendering the leg immobile if you push it to the right.
  • Miss Creature bites down hard, as she greatly dislikes: not so much being called a wuss, but that people assume she is from the get-go, because of the secondary sex characteristics that define her as a part of the sex class.
  • Miss Creature grabs knee with every one of her fetus fingers, and pushes it to the right.
  • Miss Creature stifles approximately 10,692,4394 screams.
  • Miss Creature observes that the leg, apart from throbbing like a mad octopus, seems to be fine. She limps back to the court. She goes back to playing volleyball.

And what happened, as I learned a few months and several tests and visits to the orthopedist's later, is that I fell so hard that some bone in my knee shattered. Just a little. Enough for some tiny splinters to jam into my ligaments, causing lack of development (though I only ever developed an inch or so since then), internal bleeding, and sharp stabb-y pains from time to time. Mostly cold weather, I snarl. Like when it rains. Like right now. ^_^ [Blame the meds, people. I would never use anime-ish, keyboard smileys if normal. Just lots of hyphenates and commas.]

So whenever some random fucktard accuses me of being a hypocrite because of, among other things my "sexy walk", I merely say "My right leg never grew, ya dumbfuck." And if the situation allows it, "Up yours."

Oh, and speaking of walks, you know whose I really love?

Bjork's. Not her walk-walk, I've never seen it; but I love how when she's performing, she advances making these totally agressive hand movements while walking forward. This while belting, stabbing the generational wisdom passed from Mariah impersonator to Mariah impersonator of standing making passive hurt faces, or leaning passively back while belting unhealthily high notes.

See what I mean?

Saturday, June 9, 2007


Today there were three girls in a bed. And we were not pretty, not as the patriarchy sees it. And we were not fulfilling patriarchy-approved sexual fantasies. We were watching a movie. We were talking about our lives.

A woman on the screen laid down, with bottles of pills all around her. We laughed and joked about it, because all of us know, all of us were alive and there to prove that overdoses rarely do the trick. We all know from experience. Some of us more than one experience. I know from two experiences with suicide-by-pill; the latest being...the latest, I guess.

A woman screams, howls with rage about how her mental illness has incapacitated her. Not the illness itself, but how everyone around her has become convinced that they must make every decision for her, and her life ceases to be in her hands and in her control, and she ceases to be human. It's patriarchy; textbook. She is dying of patriarchy. And every one of us could identify. We could all talk about it and make jokes about it because every one of us knows that. We know that to the point that all women do, and beyond; to the point where all mentally damaged people know that. We feel that dehumanization.

We've all been dehumanized.

I wrote about it last week. How I was dying, and all anyone could see was to what extent I conformed to patriarchal beauty standards.

Well take a good look, patriarchy. You and your pornification, you and your trendy girl-on-girl, you and your fucking beauty standards. Look at us. How we were today, together on that bed and you would have seen the real SuicideGirls. And they are not the girls who are pornalicious subculture objects. They are PEOPLE. We are people who bear with the burden of being young and female. Because no one has less power in this world than a female child.

Take a look at us. Take a good look. One underweight, two over. Their stomachs ravaged by the eating disorders and the side effects of the medication they need to survive, to cope. Of all the drugs they have pushed into themselves to fill that hole, that empty set, by nullifying it completely. Look at our scars. All kinds of scars. The addiction, the need to hurt ourselves more than you can ever hurt us, even though that's a losing battle. Look, if you can, into that space where everything becomes chaotic and dark and terrifying, that place where no one who hasn't been there will ever know or understand, and everyone who has will spend the rest of their lives trying to escape. Every victimization we have suffered, directly or indirectly, by patriarchal means, has left us fracted for life. Every hurt we have ever done to ourselves. Every glitter sore is a scream against the world we will never live to see changed, if it ever changes. A scream for every other female, and especially every other female child who will most likely end up where we are, until the world changes, or comes to an end, or every woman dies of patriarchy, dies of femininity.

We are what you hate. But we are still here, despite your efforts, and our contrary efforts. And I love you, girls, women, my friends. You are PEOPLE, despite the whole world trying to make you less. You are what beauty should be.

Fuck those other SuicideGirls, living tamely, reaping the rewards, empty as eggshells, as lightbulbs; of conformity. We're the real deal. Fuck the beauty standards that made my friends hurt themselves so much that I can feel it just standing next to them. Fuck the queerbashers who wounded me, fuck the rapist who attacked me as a child, and fuck the men who mentally, emotionally, and physically abused every one of us. Fuck the women who have internalized misogyny and wield it as a weapon against every iconoclast who dares to live her own life. Fuck religion. Fuck hairlessness and skinniness and stupidity and frailty and servility as The Ideal Woman. Fuck the patriarchy.


Sunday, May 27, 2007

Women get fucked over by pantyhose. More than usual.

From Wikipedia:

« A good hose for men is also made of carefully selected yarns with more reinforcement than women's, as men are, in general, more intensive users than women.»

Well, slap my ass and call me Deuteronomy, but the only way I can concieve of anyone using pantyhose more intensively is by what, dragging their legs over concrete? Do they mean using it more often? Because if that's so, are they actually telling me Pantyhose-Wearing Male A wears pantyhose more than Pantyhose-Wearing Female B? In a world where the wearing of pantyhose is the norm for many women, and for exactly ZERO men?*

No, what I see is a weak-ass attempt by teh Wikis to cover up the fact that women basically get screwed over by the clothing industry a lot. This time it's pantyhose. Amazing how even a garment thats traditionally worn by women exclusively gets instantly improved the second men start to use it. Oh, the huge manatee!

What also boggles the mind is the fact that, deducing from the Wikipedia article, men's pantyhose seems to be of better quality because it's worn for medical reasons; to improve circulation when sitting or standing all day. But the women who stand all day (who generally are expected to wear heels, in order to maximize the legly torture), they get the crappy hose!

I could go on for days about the unfair double standards for clothes. They drive me to buy men's garments, or make my own (since I've already been ostracized as a fugly man-hatin', psychotic dyke, I'm going to be punished for being unfeminine anyway).

But since I'm rather inclined to go watch Death Note at the moment, the need to kill the feminist in me for a few hours, lest I run the risk of my head imploding from a megadose of patriarchy, becomes imperative.

Oh, and please don't ask how I came to be blogging about discriminatory pantyhose. I don't know, ok? I was planning on doing something artsy today. Also, I know there are much worse things in the world than sexist pantyhose, but it's my blog and I can write WUTEVA I WANTZ LUL!!!11!!


*With the exception of female impersonators, perhaps. In which case, I still don't see how they use pantyhose more intensively, so that's a moot point.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Body image survey

From Christi Nielsen. Who rules.

Name: Composite Creature

Age: 17

Height: 5'0"

Weight: 170

Do you consider yourself attractive? Sometimes

Do others consider you attractive? A few people.

What is your biggest insecurity and why? My arms and chin: I can deal with big legs, hips, butt, breasts (and find them attractive, actually), but I think fat arms look really bad. I also hate double chins. I think it doesn't look like me. I also have issues with my large breasts.

Have you/Would you consider using plastic surgery? Why or why not? I have considered it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did it.

What is your relationship with make-up? I love it. Patriarchy be damned, it's fun; but I can and do live without it a lot.

How much money do you/think is reasonable to spend on your appearance? As little as possible.

What is your experience of dieting? I had a terribly warped body image as a child. It never struck me as how warped it was until I saw a picture of myself when I was a kid a few months ago: I remember that day, panicking about my huge stomach and thighs. I remember seeing my fat and being disgusted.

I looked at the picture recently, and nothing matched up. I saw a perfectly healthy nine-year-old. Not even close to fat. Stress eating balooned me up to where I am now, a good 40 or 50 pounds overweight ( a lot of it is muscle-I'm fucking hardcore, I am).

Have you/ anyone you know tried any specific diet programs i.e. Lighter Life? How did that affect your health? your moods? your relationships? I tried a metabolic thingy a while ago. I dropped weight very quickly, but also muscle mass. I was unhappy and stressed out, which led me to break my diet.

Do you have any experiences of eating disorders i.e. either yourself or someone you know? My warped body image. A dear childhood friend was anorexic and vomited a lot.

How did other people react to this; what was the fallout? Most people told her how great she looked. Her mother tried to make her eat, but she worked a lot and couldn't monitor her too closely. When she lived with me, I would try to make sure she ate healthily, but since I've lost touch with her, I hear she's relapsed.

Have you had negative experiences relating to your appearance and people’s reactions to it? Of course. I've had every single fat insult/fat joke thrown my way, from people I don't know to my immediate family, and everyone in between. I've been turned down from jobs where I was the better qualified candidate because they were looking for "stage presence" (singer's code for "you're good, but no one wants to look at you"). Nearly every store I go to will not stock my size in pants or shirts even though it's not even plus size.

What about positive reactions to your body? I have recieved "positive" comments, which are pretty much just people who find different body parts of mine fuck-worthy. Few have been really positive, but yes, several aesthete friends have complimented my body and proportions.

How has your body image and attitude changed over the years? I can't really stop caring, but I'm close. That's a good thing. I eat healthy and work out when I can, but I refuse to starve myself or sacrifice precious reading/writing/listening/fun time to working out when I have other things to do.

What do you love about your body? That it does what I need it to do, and looks pretty to me sometimes. I like my waist a lot.

What is your opinion on the media portrayal of women’s bodies? This would be too long. Way too long, so: it's fucked.

What would you change about the way you/ your friends/ your family/ general people see their bodies? I'd like them to throw traditional ideas about beauty into the metaphysical trash can, where they belong. Beauty can be big or small. Thick-waisted, wide-footed, hairy, shriveled, anything. Physical "beauty" doesn't mean anything.

What makes you feel beautiful? I'm ashamed to admit this, but when people I know call me beautiful. I can't really get over that.

Do you shave legs/pits/upper lip moustache? Yes, legs and pits. I hate it, but I still bend to that particular beauty standard against my will. Maybe someday I'll be brave enough not to.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

ZOMGZ, WWM got linked!

A deep feeling of warm fuzziness sweeps through me as I contemplate my URL on Global Voices Online.

Rodrigo Peñalba, you beautiful, beautiful creature. May viking penguins saunter delicately through your dreams.

Also, drugs are bad, mmmkay?*

*Fear not, invisible audience; they're not track marks, but the badge of honor of the fearless blood donor. Donate, betches!

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Why I don't read comics:

Not two minutes after putting up my last post, this picture was brought to my attention:

The oh-so-virile, musclebound hero stands protectively in front of his chattel: a withered, unfuckable crone whose only function is to nourish and serve males; and a nubile, pornalicious young orifice-on-legs (drawn to conform with the geekly fantastical standards to which the female body is subjected in comic books), who functions as a fuckable servant. Forget personality or even free will, they are nothing more than accessories, adornments of our hero's manly heroness.

How do you sleep, Mr. Lee?

Oh, the huge manatee!

I went to watch my friend Scarface's soccer match the other day. I find most sports boring and have never felt the compulsion to play or watch them, but it was a slow day.

Next to the field, on the courts, were some members of the girl's volleyball team, training.

The boys playing soccer wore knee-length, baggy shorts, and loose, airy shirts with their names or nicknames on the back. I never once saw one of them have to stop playing to adjust their uniform.

The girls playing volleyball wore short, tight shorts; more like swimwear than sportswear. Their shirts were short enough to show off their bellies, and tight enough to show off their breasts. They had to take continuous mini-breaks to tug everything back into place (flattering place, of course).

Before playing, the boys in soccer stood around, talking loudly, excitedly, kicking the ball around amongst themselves, showing off their m4d 5killz.

The girls giggled and made attempts at cheerleading routines. Seriously.

One could argue that the reason for this gap was that the girls were just silly, just vain. That they didn't take their sport seriously; you could even argue about how the cultural preference for soccer in Latin America is what causes other sports not to be taken as seriously, nothing to do with gender (I've heard that one more than you'd think, actually).

But then I remembered NH. She's been part of the girl's soccer team since I can remember. I remembered watching her during breaks in the afternoon classes, seeing her do every little inane warmup, guard the goals like her life depended on it, chase the ball with a vengeance. She plays in the afternoon sun, at temperatures over a hundred degrees when the rest of the team complains about the heat and the dust. She will not roll down the waistband of her shorts or tie her shirt into a knot at her midriff. Her uniform is not several sizes too small. On her, it is a uniform, clothes to compete in, not a fetching little Sporty Spice ensemble.

Like only a very small handful of the teenage girls on any team in school, she is there to play, even causing some of the boys to condescendingly admit to me (because of course, they have the last word in all sports-related matters) that she could give them a run for their money.

Considering that she is this way on and off the field, being brilliant, outspoken and transgressive, it's no surprise that she's deemed unfun, unfuckable, and unfemenine. Escaping categorization in the sex class, even if only within certain contexts has made her the object of taunts by the boys and girls who feel threatened by her.

The patriarchy is insidious, deceptive, and doesn't cease its indoctrination of every human being because of something like age. Many girls join sports teams to be part of a club: they love the idea of being a woman excelling in a man's world*, being tough, special, nonconformist; when in fact, they're just playing along, pandering to the status quo that that defines them as nothing more than slabs of meat.

But she strives to be the best, not limiting herself to "the best of the girls", or "the best I can be without appearing too competitive or masculine". Even if I can't get into sports myself, her one-woman struggle against the behavioral and social standards of "women's sports" impressed me before I even knew her. She runs hard, kicks hard, and doesn't mind looking ugly, dirty, sweaty or sunburnt. She is my hero of the day.

Saturday, May 12, 2007


On repeat: Lover, You Should Have Come Over, by Jeff Buckley.

On my desk: Velcro hair roller, nail clippers, cannabis incense, a picture of my dad when he was in the Navy, a guitar pick that formerly belonged to my best friend (and before that belonged to the guitarist from Mago de Oz).

On IM's: A conversation about how Disney and Lifetime are warping the minds of mothers everywhere.

On my screen: The same picture I've been staring at all day; tabs.

On my face: Nothing but moisturizer and sunblock, for the first time in a long time.

On my bed: A Tamuga shirt that doesn't belong to me, but that I want to keep.

On my mind: How my mind is so jumbled up at the moment. I can't think of anything long enough to write about it.

Maybe tomorrow.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Mexico decides women are human, Catholics complain

So, recently, the Mexican government passed a motion that would allow women to have an induced, non-therapeutic abortion in the first trimester, and reduce sentences for women who have abortions after the first trimester. In a predominantly Catholic country, to have the goverment recognizing women as human beings and forced pregnancy an affront to human dignity is pretty effing huge. I mean, here in Nicaragua, women have died after being denied therapeutic abortion. Not to mention all the pregnant pre-pubescent victims of child abuse who don't even get the comfort of knowing that they won't have to carry around their rapist's DNA.

I find it hilarious that the religious right get so worked up about how wrong it is to 'end an innocent life' (to the point where Ratzinger compared abortion to terrorism), but see nothing wrong with making death threats directed at the children of the legislators who approved the decriminalization:

For those who can't read Spanish, the fellow in the fetching skull mask (personification of death, Mexican day of the Dead, yada yada yada) is holding up a sign reading 'Pro abortists [sic]: The future of your children'.


In addition, these 'pro-lifers' showed so little regard for the lives of the people around them, that four hundred members of D.F.'s riot squad had to be called in to control the hordes of violent fundamentalists.

Although the hypocrisy of organized religion is already well known to the experienced patriarchy-blamer, this manifestation was so blatant, that I felt it deserved its own post. Suck it. Or if you like, suck on the sugar fetuses (fetii?) so lovingly prepared by the Mexican fundies. Apparently they felt this was a good way to be taken seriously.

Wednesday, May 9, 2007

Wednesday afternoon musings

On spending an hour having painful, poke-y things done to your ear with the anaesthetic worn off after the first four minutes, also known as keloid excision:


Hans, the friendly neighborhood body piercer:

"Does this hurt?"

Composite Creature:

"Um. A little, I guess."


Bye-bye, tragus-helix industrial bondage bar, hello sucky little PTFE barbells for the next six months.

Monday, April 30, 2007

It came from teh Int4rw3b5!!!1!!11

"Sir, we have a problem: the data has been transferred off the local web...onto the Internets."

"My God, which one?!"

[long pause]

"All of them."

*dies laughing*

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Tales of male fuckbaggery, parts I and II

Saturday's field investigations led to the shocking conclusions:

  1. Patriarchy is still the foundation of our society
  2. It sucks to be a woman in said society

To make a short story long, it began last week. My friend Glow, the child-prodigy photographer extraordinaire and I, decided to meet up and get all artsy together. The plan was to for me to slap on some draggish makeup, and flit around downtown Managua playing good photographer/crappy model. FUN.

The first location (namely, in front of a white wall in my house) was a bit limited. "Egads", said I "A park would present a world of backdropsical possibilities!" So off we trot to the Parque Japonés.

We got off to a fairly good start, and Glow got one or two really incredible shots until-

these pieces of shit started harrassing us. I believe they began to whistle, make kiss-y noises, and holler something about the effect of Glow's dress, or my top, or whatthefuckever. Being a dedicated, if mediocre model, I tried to avoid breaking concentration; hence my simple, but elegant response: I gave them the finger.

Bad idea.

The shouting became incessant. They started approaching us. We started to get very, very nervous. Now, I'm not so much a delicate flower as a holy terror in a mosh pit. But you can't overlook the fact we're still two 5' 0" teenagers with a backpack full of clothes, and they're grown-ass male fuckbags with a whole pack of grown-ass fuckbags behind them. This is the point where it's generally advisable to run.


Well, that sort of did the trick. They turned and ran to the other basketball court, though not fast enough to escape Glow's lens. But best of all, not twenty seconds afterwards, two security guards came running up to us. After explaining the situation (much to their credit, they didn't scoff or dismiss verbal assault as a waste of time, like some policemen I know), they told us to be careful, and that they would be sitting nearby now, even if they couldn't kick them out of the park (why not, I still don't know). But by then we were too weirded out and scared to stay any longer. We thanked them and left.

But since male privilege does not pertain exclusively to gang-y fuckbags in parks, as a few blocks away, we were verbally assaulted by another pair of cockmonglers.

This time I walked close enough for them to hear me and asked why felt the need to say those things to us. Being cockmonglers of the weaselly breed, their Cockweasel-in-Chief came up with some smirky story of mistaking me for their niece.


So, that's the sad story of two girls who had the audacity of being young, female, and pedestrians, but more importantly, young female pedestrians with NO MALE CHAPERONE! The horror! They were asking for it!

Hmmm. At least we got some great pics out of it. Props to Glow, whose deviantart boasts some of the more succesful shots from the first two locations, and to the two security guards at the park: authority figures who deserve that responsibility. And as Glow said, "I bet those fucks have never been questioned by a girl in drag queen lashes before."

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

What to expect in the near future:

  • Information on my grassroots attempt to organize a Take Back the Night rally here in Nicaragua. So far I've been lucky enough to have really great teachers and friends who've referred me to organizations like the Nicaraguan chapter of Católicas por el Derecho a Decidir and Red de Mujeres. More on that when I get in touch with them.

  • Although a lot has been written on the subject of Club Libby Lu and its ensuing horrors all over the feminist blogosphere (that word makes me snicker), it just so happens that a similar little shop of horrors has opened up in a mall conveniently close to where I live, so I'll be taking my faithful cohorts to investigate and report back here.

  • Chronicles of the rather sad and sorry attempt at the first all-girl band in the area. Ahem, my sad and sorry all-girl band. Heh.

Monday, April 9, 2007


The purpose of this blog is to chronicle life from my own, unique perspective, while managing to fit in some art reviews and patriarchy-blaming when I get the chance. Why this would be of interest to anyone, I plan to find out. Horghs all around.