Typically narcissistic blogging.

Posts tagged “manners

Death and Social Media

Not too long ago, my Facebook feed was suddenly peppered with vague posts about the death of somebody who was part of a broader (but quite small) community of which I am a member. People refused to post the name of the person who died.

I was immediately filled with fear and anxiety that I was out of the loop on the death of somebody I might know and care about. It had happened to me with Sparkly (learned about her on Facebook, by accident), and I had been the person filling in people who were out of the loop on Donovan (learned he was in a coma when I was, without warning, added to a Facebook group to discuss it). And what I learned from both of those tragic events is that:

1. It totally sucks to learn these things via Facebook;
2. Learning these things via Facebook is inevitable;
3. Nobody, nobody should be out of the loop when somebody in a close-knit community is seriously injured, near death, or dead;
4. We need to take a serious look at how we handle tragedy on social media.

In the most recent circumstances, a small but very visible and active group within the larger grieving community seemed to think that not naming names would protect privacy, even as they posted details about his death that were far more invasive than his identity. This group was also inclined to criticize those asking for more information. When my very dear friend Rachel, who has lived through more brutal loss than the vast majority of the people I know, finally demanded that people name names, another friend commented, “If you are frustrated by not being in the in club over grieving with us, consider yourself lucky.”

Now, I understand that grief totally kills our communication skills. And this is why not a single one of us called him out on this comment. However, the essence of that comment should be addressed, because Rachel was not the only person who was essentially accused of being a vulture for asking.

I think we need to start with the assumption that nobody actually wants to be in that club. Nobody. If you really think somebody wants to be in that club, it’s time to do some unfriending and maybe look into a temporary restraining order. Okay? So let’s start with that foundational premise. Nobody wants to be in that club. If people are going to glom on for drama, that will become readily apparent, and they will not be anybody’s problem but their own.

I think we should continue with the general awareness that people die. I know, it’s something nobody really wants to think about, which makes all of these discussions about death much more difficult. Rachel’s response to the accusation of wanting to be in the mourner’s club nailed my reaction to this series of vaguebook posts: “Our community is very high risk, and I have lost more friends than I have digits to suicide, drugs, and motorcycle accidents. I found out in a million different ways. Because of this, fear strikes my heart EVERY TIME I hear ‘motorcycle casualty on the 880′ or any time [people] are posting about some unnamed tragedy.”

Marisa filled it out: “I’ve known too many quick-and-deads to ever, ever think that ‘if I knew them, I would know.’ I found out last week about a dear friend…via Facebook. But at least names were named. [...]Creating this kind of stress and anxiety in this incredibly high risk group is rude. It’s not telling anyone how to grieve; it’s asking for basic consideration.”

I’m not sure I know more than a tiny handful of people who have not been affected by tragedy and/or sudden death. Hell, just in case you think I am being insensitive, I have been struggling with depression and suicide ideation since I was a child. To top that off, I ride a motorcycle. In reality I–or any of us–could die any day. Every day. So many of my friends are similar: they suffer from extreme depression, are risk takers, get into accidents, and some of them have died. We are high-risk. With regard to the death of loved ones, I have not always been in the immediate loop. Nor would I expect even my closest friends to be in the event of my injury or death. Too many breaks in communication can happen. So assuming:

A. that everybody who should know does know is wrong.

B. that not naming names has no effect on those who didn’t know the individual is wrong.

C. that people who ask for the identity of the deceased are just social media vultures is—you guessed it—wrong.

I think we also need to think about how we handle information. Talking about a death in the community, not naming names, but offering other extremely private details is kinda like creating a really screwed up guessing game and it protects nobody’s privacy, ultimately.

For the record, when people understandably don’t want to guess, calling them vultures for asking for information is going to result in some ruffled feathers, especially when you have given just enough information to create the need to ask for more. You are hurting. I get it, and I have been there. I am so very, very sorry for your loss. But freaking out a bunch of your friends and then slapping them down when they ask for information is not the way to handle it. As my friend Normal pointed out in an analog example, “I don’t go to Lucky 13 and yell ‘one of us died and I feel sad!’ and then walk off to the bathroom without expecting a lot of follow-up upsetness.”

fat amyNorm gets a gif for that, because she nailed it.

We have all lost people. We are extremely aware of how truly fragile are the lives of our friends, family, and loved ones. And when somebody in a close-knit community feels the need to say that somebody who was a part of the community died, but not who it was, it does far more harm than good.

If you are going to withhold information out of respect to families and partners, consider withholding all of it and finding a more private forum for your initial response. In examples I have seen and heard of, some folks refused to name names publicly but explicitly offered to if contacted privately. It turns out I didn’t know the deceased, and I had the amazing and unfortunate privilege of getting to struggle with a feeling of intense relief even as I watched people I care about grieve.

I have read everything his friends have posted about him, and I have let those posts give substance to the person my friends have lost. This post is not about the fact that I don’t care; I do. This post is about the fact that people need to know, even if just to learn that their hearts won’t be breaking, this time. 


Privilege II: Yes, You Have Privilege

Since I posted “Privilege“, I’ve had a number of discussions with clueless folk about the privilege they do not believe they have or would like to discard because they are tired of being called out on it.

First, I am going to go over some basics in a list that is not comprehensive (please note, I am offering examples of experiences on a systemic level. Just because you, personally, have experienced something different doesn’t actually negate what I am saying below):

Congratulations! You have privilege.

White people: You have privilege. You aren’t immediately flagged as potential trouble in stores and airports. You are more likely to get a job than the more melanin-enabled. People don’t assume you will be lazy, or late, or trouble on the streets. You don’t get extra targeted by cops. There is no such thing as Driving While White. You get to wonder why the brown people are upset about racism in movies and tv, because it’s just entertainment.

Men: You have privilege. You don’t worry about being sexually assaulted if you go out alone. You don’t have to automatically wonder if that guy in the elevator with you is a creep. You get paid more than women. Nobody assumes that you don’t know what you are talking about professionally just based on your gender. You don’t have to sue companies for promotions, universities for tenure, newspapers to be allowed to get out of the researcher/secretary pool. You get to wonder why women get so upset when you approach them on the street.

Rich folk: You have privilege, and everybody knows it. You get to wonder how families can possibly live on only $250,000/year.

Straight people: You have privilege. You don’t have to constantly fight for the legitimacy of your intimate relationships. Your right to marry is not up for a vote. Nobody says things like, “I’m not heterophobic, but…”. You don’t have to wonder if your state will let you adopt a kid, or if you will have any parental rights over the kids you are helping to raise. You don’t get bullied, beat up, maimed, or killed for being openly straight. You get to wonder why the queer folk want to deal with the misery and complications of marriage.

Cisgendered people: You have privilege. You haven’t had to go through an extensive (and expensive) medical, psychological, and emotional process just to feel like your body is your own. You haven’t faced bigotry from every single community around you because your outsides don’t match your insides and you need to do something about it. You don’t get bullied, beat up, maimed, or killed for identifying as a gender that does not match the one on your birth certificate. You get to say stupid shit like, “That’s so weird. I would never put myself through that.”

Educated people: You have privilege. You have never had to have somebody read a document to you because you cannot. You have never faced the embarrassment and shame that our culture heaps on the uneducated. You aren’t stuck in jobs that nobody else wants because you never had the opportunity to finish grade school, let alone high school and college. You have never been without a voice. You get to wonder about and mock all the godawful grammar on the internet. (Approximately one in seven people in the US can’t even read this post I am writing.)

Able-bodied people: You have privilege. The world is basically designed for you. You don’t have to worry about elevators being out, people getting bitchy because you take up more space and time on public transit, or aisles being too narrow. You aren’t limited to specific jobs, specific forms of entertainment, or even specific locations. You get to complain about your inability to use handicapped parking spots.

Tall people: You have privilege. Just kidding! I know it sucks to be able to reach everything.

Second, I am going to make a point I seem to have to make repeatedly, but never seems to get taken to heart:

tumblr_lo6twkrWwN1qgy0fio1_500

The lack of one kind of privilege does not cancel out all other forms of privilege.

Grew up poor as shit, but still straight, white, cisgendered male? Guess what? You still  have privilege. Grew up poor, brown, gay, and male? Guess what? You still have privilege. Poor, brown, queer, female with an amazing education? You still have privilege.

I can keep going with the combinations until this looks like an LSAT question, but I won’t, because the LSAT sucks. (I get to make that shitty joke because I get to claim educational privilege.)

Third, I am going to expand on what I discussed in “Privilege”:

meme-privilege

It’s just something you have.

No, you didn’t ask for privilege. You aren’t necessarily looking for the special treatment you receive because of it. You may not even be conscious of it. That’s all well and good, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have it.

The thing about privilege is that the benefits are automatic and not always visible to the privileged. Which is another way of saying, you don’t notice you aren’t being discriminated against. Men don’t notice that they aren’t on constant alert against being sexually assaulted on the street. Straight people don’t notice that they aren’t being treated differently when with their partners.

When you get called out on  your privilege, nobody is telling you to change it. Nobody is telling you that you are a bad person because of it. Nobody is saying that it’s your fault. What you are being told is, people who do not field specific kinds of discrimination have a very different perspective on the world than people who do. What you are being told is, what is an intellectual exercise for you may not be for somebody else.

What you are being told is, take yourself out of your privileged shoes and put them in somebody else’s (let me guess—they don’t fit. Kinda uncomfortable, right? You’d like to take them right back off, right? Yeah. That’s what people are talking about when they call you out on privilege). This goes back to my initial post. Because ultimately you need to recognize that you have it. You should acknowledge it. And while acknowledging it doesn’t change the fact that you have it, it does go a long way toward helping you understand where people are coming from when they say, “Dude. You realize you just spilled a bunch of cold unpleasant privilege into my lap.”

In conclusion:

Don’t be afraid of those uncomfortable shoes. Seek them out. Walk in them for a minute, if you can. Marvel at the blisters and bruises. So that when you put yours back on, you can appreciate how well they fit, and how comfortable they are. That, metaphorically, is what you should be doing when your privilege is pointed out to you.

ETA: Since enough people have the need to make this argument, I feel it ought to be addressed. There seems to be a new “solution” to the use of the word “privilege” that seems to have been created by people who are deeply afraid of the word. I have tried to unpack it in this post, but I guess I can’t stop people just reacting to it instead of seeing that. So please let me state: calling discrimination “human rights violations” instead of using the word “privilege” changes absolutely nothing about the above post. All it does is try to shift focus and say, “I don’t have privilege, these people are simply being wronged.” Not only is the use of “human rights violations” a bit overwrought, it doesn’t work that way. People are being wronged, it’s true. But it is on a systemic level, and thus it is what actually creates privilege. The fact that people are suffering from various kinds of discrimination and lack of safety on a systemic level is the very reason that people who do not suffer—on that same systemic level—experience privilege. Taking the focus off of the privileged for these discussions does nothing to change that, it just makes those who are uncomfortable with it and think people who are using it are calling them bad people feel a little better in the moment. My suggestion is that you stop reacting to the word and start really considering what it means in this context.


Red Dead Redemption With Nijinsky

I’m sure y’all remember Moto, by now.

This handsome fellow is Nijinsky. Nijinsky is Moto’s long-suffering-yet-charmingly-(mostofthetime)-neurotic older brother.


Nijinsky is never more affectionate than when I am playing Red Dead Redemption. Without fail, every session of gaming involves a variant on this conversation:

Nij: Ummmm….whatcha doin’?
Me: Playing.
Nij: Soooo…. *headbutts my knee*
Me: Just a sec, buddy.
Nij: No. Right now. *paw on my leg*
Me: Nijinsky. Can’t you—
Nij: But I love you. So much. Right NOW. *nose on my nose*
Me: NIJINSKY I HAVE TO PROTECT THE WAGON FROM THESE BANDI—Well, fuck it. Now I’m dead.
Nij: *purr* *gentle headbutt*


Grief, and the Process of Totally Not Dealing With It

According to Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, there are five stages of grief, which may happen in any order:

  1. Denial: I’m fine. Whatever. This isn’t even happening.
  2. Anger: This is bullshit, I want to blame somebody or something and rage against it.
  3. Bargaining: pretty self-explanatory.
  4. Depression: Fuck it, I give up.
  5. Acceptance: Okay, fine, I’m mortal and so are my friends. I get it.

Currently, my five stages of grief seem to be:

  1. Acceptance: This is going to happen, and it hurts.
  2. Stowing: This isn’t about me. Time to man up, pack it up and deal with it until I know my friends and family have everything they need from me. Totally not an excuse for not dealing. Really. Stop looking at me like that.
  3. Drinking: Is that an open wound? Let’s treat it with alcohol. Shut up, it’s helping.
  4. Picking Fights: What do you mean I didn’t stow that grief deep enough?
  5. Going Fetal: This is potentially a lengthy process that may or may not involve steps 3&4.

Last night, after spending time with some of the family I shared with Donovan, I managed to dive head first into a series of miscommunications, pick a fight with and thoroughly upset the woman I’ve been seeing (Henceforth known as “C.”, because that shit’s too long to type every time), and to start crying in a moderately busy bar. Then, feeling absolutely awful about picking the fight and feeling absolutely awful about crying in public, I spent the rest of the night berating myself for letting my grief and anger bubble over onto these two women (her friend from work was also there, so I am sure I made the best first impression, EVAR) while trying desperately not to start crying again (floodgates were showing signs of opening at any moment) and wanting a do-over on everything.

The cab ride home was a somber affair, as I could not seem to stop the tears from falling but was still trying desperately to maintain some semblance of control (LOLZ). When we finally got home and went to bed, C. fell asleep instantly (she does this—to a ridiculous insomniac like me, this is nothing short of a superpower and I am phenomenally jealous), and the floodgates opened. I don’t remember stopping crying before I passed out, so I think it’s fair to say I actually cried myself to sleep, which I haven’t done since I was a kid.

I woke up this morning feeling entirely wrung out, still kicking myself over last night’s critical fumbles, not entirely understanding why C. even wanted to come home with me after my utterly dickish behavior and trying to sort out everything I was feeling. When one of her alarms went off and it was Mumford & Sons, “Little Lion Man” (a song that I associate almost entirely with Donovan), I discovered that I really was wrung out: I couldn’t cry any more. I did let out a rather pathetic whimper, though.

I have been trying to figure out what last night accomplished, apart from instilling in me the need for Gatorade and the desire to apologize to C. and her friend profusely and repeatedly. Perhaps the realization that my stages of grief, as they currently are, are not working for me or for the people around me. Perhaps the realization that dealing with my shit is better for me, which is better for everybody. Perhaps it was a giant slap upside the head alerting me that maybe, just maybe, I need to be more aware of what is going on internally. Perhaps it was all those things.

Oh, and a blog post that is way too long.


Caring For Your Introvert

To my delight, this little placard has been making its slow way through Facebook and Twitter:

Designed by Becky of Questionably Late, from text taken from this.

I would like to have this little placard in card form, so that I might hand it to new friends and new lovers, since asking them to go Google introverts and INTJs is like saying, “Yeah, I’m awesome and everything, but I’m assigning you some homework before we go any further.” However, it has been made abundantly and repeatedly clear to me that such homework is actually necessary.

Three years of my life were spent in love with an extrovert, and if that taught me anything, it’s that extroverts make the social rules by default. They are the point of reference for how such things as social aptitude and behavior are measured. They are the people against whom introverts are measured, which is inherently unfair, but true.

Media enforces this. It’s the rare movie or television show that allows introverts to remain introverts; most paint it as a triumph when an introverted character is brought out of his or her introvert cocoon to become a beautiful extroverted butterfly. Introversion has become something that can and should be “cured,” somehow. It is often conflated with antisocial behavior, which is bullshit, because introverts are often very social beings. Just not within the same parameters as extroverts.

Thus, in order to make their way in the world, introverts must somehow meet the social expectations created by extroverts. If they don’t, they are often misunderstood and shunned. If they do, this means they are constantly functioning outside of their comfort zone, which just isn’t healthy. It’s exhausting, and makes social interaction that much more work. I have managed to learn how to navigate as an introvert in a sea of extroverts, and because of this I have many wonderful friends. I fake it so well, in fact, that people still respond with surprise and horror when I tell them I am an introvert. However, the extroverts among my friends are generally pretty sensitive to the needs of the introverts in their midst. I would not be able to maintain the level of social interaction that I do if this were not true.

So this placard, which offers a dozen very simple, but very essential ways to respect the introverts in our lives, to consider their needs, and to understand that they are not just waiting for somebody to turn them from sad little introverted seed pods into bright and colorful extroverted flowers, is just freakin’ rad.

Thank you, Internet.


I’m Sorry, Puppies

As girl quickly traverses the spectrum from Young to Asshole, this week just keeps getting better.

Click image to make readable.
You won’t regret it.

“Better.” (11-second vid, has audio—in case you are reading this at work/school.)
Stupid compression.
Well. Maybe.


Being Single: Breaking Even

So, for the first time in a long time, I was really, really excited about a girl. Excited enough to blog about her and my inability to think straight when she was around, and when she wasn’t around, and so on. It was nice. And despite the poor choices she made in communicating her decision to no longer date me, I don’t regret going for it simply because it reminded me that I could be excited about somebody.

I don’t regret it despite the fact that she broke up with me via text message. I don’t regret it despite the fact that she felt the need to tell me [edited for spelling, punctuation]: “I recently met someone that I really like. Which doesn’t happen very often.” I don’t regret it despite the fact that this text message would appear to mean that, despite the efforts she went to to make me think otherwise, she never really liked me. So, also, I got played.

No, she was not my girlfriend, but still.

I regret the fact that those things happened. But I don’t regret pursuing her.

I haven’t exactly regained my lost faith in love and relationships, but I can conceive of pursuing a woman again, of opening myself to the possibility of love and relationship, and despite the vulnerability and bullshit that obviously come with it, that’s pretty damn cool.

And while I will miss having somebody to be excited about, my heart is no more broken than it was when I asked her out for drinks.

I think I just broke even.

Now, hopefully somebody will inform her: You can’t text message breakup.


“Oh, But We Didn’t Mean *You*.”

I spent St. Patrick’s Day at a punk rock show, which is the only legitimate way to spend SPD unless you are working or playing in a punk rock band. And I spent it with one friend who is pretty much family and two people I like very much. But that didn’t stop me from getting truly pissed off and simply walking away when, during the course of conversation, prejudice against fat became A Thing.

But that wasn’t even the entire issue for me. I understand that people have all sorts of stupid anti-fat prejudices and while I don’t necessarily accept it, I pretty much expect it and understand that I am going to have to field it to some extent or another (See: You Look Like You Lost Weight!). Tonight was extra special, though, because when I said, (and I am totally paraphrasing myself), “Wait a second, here, what’s with all the fat hate,” what I got in return was, “We aren’t talking about you, of course. We are talking about the really fat people.”

Yeah. No.

You don’t actually get to decide when your anti-fat prejudice becomes offensive. I don’t care if you are sitting in a room full of skinny people who have never been fat in their lives. You have no idea:

  1. Whether the skinny people around you have always been skinny;
  2. Whether the skinny people around you even see themselves as skinny;
  3. Whether the people around you see themselves as fat, pudgy, overweight, etc.;
  4. Whether the people around you have some body image issue(s) that you may be exacerbating with your weight prejudices; or
  5. Whether the people around you have been told they are fat by family, friends, society, magazines, movies, whatever.

Additionally, you don’t get to choose what level of fat is okay or not okay. First of all, you don’t know whether the really fat people are really fat because they take breaks from eating giant pizza pies by eating chocolate cake or because there are other things going on with their genetics and health. Second of all, why are you even judging people for eating giant pizza pies and following that shit up with chocolate cake? Honestly, fuck you if you do. Pizza and cake are delicious.

Look, skinny people, I am not actually looking to be part of your skinny club. I don’t need or want you to tell me that you think I am okay even though the rest of the fat people in the world are kinda gross to you. That’s right up there with, “You aren’t like all the other Blacks/Jews/queers/Muslims/etc.—you’re cool.” Or the asshole I worked with last year who was confused that there were non-Blacks who were upset at his use of the word “nigger.” Or the woman who came up to my mother when we lived in Savannah, who was so excited that I was light-skinned enough to “pass.”

No. I’m not trying to be like you. I’m trying to be accepted as me. Not-skinny, not-white, not-mainstream me.

I guess the moral of the story is, when somebody calls you out on your prejudice, don’t try to bring them into your circle to make them feel better, somehow. Stop. Collaborate and listen. And look at what you are saying, what you really intend to say, and whether what you have to say is prejudicial or bigoted. Because what you have to say probably does not become less prejudicial or bigoted just because you don’t think your audience is in any way affected by what you are saying.


Privilege

Okay, I have been observing an incredibly frustrating pattern in conversations relating to privilege, which is that, in short, people who have privilege loathe being told they have it and will bend over backward to try to invalidate any claim they might have to it, as if being sensitive to various issues, or at least not outright misogynist/racist/antisemitic/homophobic/transphobic/etc. somehow removes any inherent privilege, like fancy stain remover.

People will point to some action they have taken in the past to support the rights of some group of people—be it women, minorities, GLBTQ, the socially awkward, whatever—and say, “But I did this thing. So I’m totally not acting privileged, so you should totally shut up and stop attacking me (because criticism totally = attack).” Worse, I’ve seen people say, “Whatever, I don’t know why you are whining. Get over it.” This response is extremely common in discussions about misogyny in comic books and the video game industry, and pretty much always comes from men. Go figure.

So I am going to boil privilege down for you, and for very easy reference. Because privilege is not something you got on you, like dirt. Privilege is not an accessory you can discard when it seems inconvenient. Privilege is not something you can whittle down with actions, like it’s just below your health bar in a video game.

You need to stop thinking about privilege in terms of attitude (although, that’s part of it), action, inaction. Privilege is, if we condense it down to its most fundamental aspect, the ability to walk away from a given struggle and know that your rights will not be affected in the slightest bit by the outcome of that struggle. Privilege is the ability to throw up your hands and say, “I’m done arguing about this,” or, “this can wait for the next election,” or, “Why are we still discussing this— isn’t this settled/aren’t there more important issues in the world?” It’s the ability to say, “I don’t like the criticism I have gotten over my part in this discussion, so I am leaving the discussion entirely.”

I’m going to repeat the primary point, here, just to be as clear as possible: Privilege is the ability to walk away from a given struggle and know that your rights will not be affected in the slightest bit by the outcome of that struggle.

So, folks: stop being bitches about being called out about your privilege. Recognize it for what it is. Make damn sure you understand what it means—about your approach to the world around you, about the issues you have never had to study and fully understand, about the opportunities you take for granted—and own it.


You Look Like You Lost Weight!

“You look like you lost weight!” I don’t know why people think this (or any variation on this) is an acceptable compliment. I really, really don’t.

I had a girlfriend once who had me in the gym between 3 and 5 days a week, eating flavorless shit and being generally worried about everything I put in my body. I looked good, but to be honest, I was pretty miserable.

“Don’t worry,” she’d say, “I’ll want you no matter how you look.” But she only really praised the way I looked when I was at my thinnest, and would make comments specific to the weight I had lost. Relatedly, the number of times I have expressed interest in a woman and heard, “Oh, she’s looking for somebody…um…athletic,” or something to that effect, which is just like saying, “You’re too pudgy for this one, move on,” is officially too many.

Perhaps most scarring, the only compliment my mother has ever given me on my appearance, since childhood, has been about my weight (or, when I’ve just gotten it cut, my hair). Growing up, my entire understanding of my physical attractiveness was based on my weight, and my perspective is not unique.

Now, I know that we live in a world where “thin” is somehow synonymous with “attractive,” and that fat is considered unattractive, gross, unhealthy, etc. There are lots of blog posts and articles about that, and lots of people much more willing to have the argument about how fat doesn’t automatically mean unhealthy, unattractive, or gross, so I don’t really intend to delve into that discussion. Rather, I am going to discuss this so-called compliment.

“You look like you lost weight!” and “Have you lost weight? You look great!” and “Are you on a diet? Because you look fantastic!” are all, despite whatever encouragement and good feeling are behind them, backhanded compliments.

1. It unnecessarily enforces the “thinner is better” idea.
2. It suggests that the person was insufficiently attractive before the weight was lost.
3. It suggests that the person is only attractive because the weight was lost.
4. If no weight was actually lost, it suggests that the person only looks good to you at the moment because they happen to look a little thinner.

Before you accuse me of being oversensitive, consider just how stigmatized even a little extra weight is. Look at television, magazines, the requirement that men be perfectly cut bodies, the transition of Angelina Jolie from gorgeous curvy vixen to bony, underfed Hollywood victim. Look at fashion—not just the models, but the way that clothes are designed for the thin. Look at how fat people are portrayed in movies and television, as either evil or comic relief.

Now think about this supposed compliment. Why couldn’t you just say, “You look amazing/beautiful/gorgeous!” or, “How handsome are you, is that a new shirt?” or, “Hot damn!” Why would you mitigate a compliment with the suggestion that an individual looks that way because of his or her weight? Even if it’s true. Regardless of whether you think that fat is ugly, and regardless of whether you actually think that this person only looks good because he or she has lost weight, why not just compliment him or her? Why not remember that part of what makes this peson attractive is personality, smile, eyes, hair, dimples, and so on, and so forth? Why not forget which size jeans this person wears for the seconds it takes to compliment him or her?

You don’t need to put your assumptions about beauty and health on your friend’s plate—believe it or not, we overweight types don’t want to eat everything that is put in front of us. Reconsider your choice of words. Compliment the person, not the size.


Deaf, Blind, and Definitely DUMB

So, I have this problem: I have no fucking idea when a woman is interested in me. None whatsoever. All the signs in the world might be present, but if those signs are not written in Sharpie on card stock and if they are not extremely explicit (like, “HI WHISKEYPANTS I WANT YOU OMG SO BAD LIKE WHOA COME TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF I AM THE 99%”) and if I am not beaten over the head with those signs…? Turns out, I’m clueless.

Turns out, I miss a lot of opportunities.

Turns out—fail.

This is plainly an issue of self-esteem. I always assume that the gorgeous, delightful, impossibly sexy woman with whom I am speaking (or with whom I am flirting, if I get up the nerve) has much better and hotter prospects and thus is not at all interested in me. Sometimes I am right. Sometimes I discover I am very wrong. Sometimes, after an encounter, I discuss with my friends and they say things like, “So then, you kissed her, right?” And then I say things like, “No. Was I supposed to?” And then they smack me upside the head and/or mock me, and I am left to wonder: Should I have kissed her?

Now, I know that I am actually a pretty decent catch for both short- and long-term relationships. I’m smart, funny, kind, and my looks frighten away neither small children nor animals. But knowing that doesn’t help me to know whether somebody is thinking, “Hey, I dig that Whiskeypants person.” And I don’t think I am ever going to be cocky enough to assume.

But you know, this post isn’t about the fact that I’m an idiot with regard to the beautiful women who surround me. Ultimately, that’s just fact: I am an idiot with regard to beautiful women.

This post is just to say:

Women—

If you are at all into me, if you think you might want to hang out, or make out, or get drinks, or let me carry you to my bed—IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, UNHOLY, OR JOSS WHEDON PLEASE TELL ME.

I don’t care how you tell me. Note, e-mail, text message, smoke signals, semaphore signals, sign language, messages coded into the TARDIS—it doesn’t matter. So long as you LET ME KNOW.

This information will make things much more fun for the both of us. Please, take pity on me.

Please.


Not For Profitt

Rand Paul supporter Tim Profitt has expressed a desire for an apology from Lauren Valle, the activist whose head and shoulder he stomped on the other day. This charmer said he stomped on her because his bad back made it impossible for him to bend over (to what–punch her?) and then continued, “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. I would like for her to apologize to me, actually.”

Man, I feel you. I hate it when those goddamn uppity lily-livered communist “activists” who are half my size get assaulted and wrestled to the ground right in front of me and I have to stomp on them because of my bad back. And I do have a bad back, folks, so I ain’t just playin’. Anyway, she was asking for it. Did you see the way she was dressed?

Profitt, I feel your pain. And I think that in addition to an apology, you should ask Valle for any resulting chiropractic, massage, and prescription expenses. Stomping her like that must have really thrown out your back.


Dear Club Patrons

I have one question and some observations for you.

Were you raised by angry mangy starving rabid wolves with mullets?

If you were, please stay at home from now on until you learn some manners. If you were not, then I am sure the rest of this post will be old news to you.

1. When you walk into a club, do not assume that the staff is in any way less intelligent, less well-read, or less educated than you are. What we are able and/or willing to do with our intelligence and education is our business. Assume instead that we are intelligent people who recognize and note when we are being condescended to by you.

2. In that vein, show some respect to the people around you. The bartender is not some drinkmixing robot. The coat check person is not just a trained monkey. The floor staff and barbacks are not just there to inconvenience you. When we say ‘excuse me’ or tap you on the shoulder, move. Don’t look at us like we insulted your shoes. Everybody who is working around you is working to make your experience better and safer. Try to remember, these are other human beings with whom you are dealing.

3. TIP. That tip jar ain’t just there for show, kids. That extra buck for the bartender, coat check, kitchen staff–ain’t gonna kill you. Show some appreciation for the service, security, and tasty food and drinks being provided to you. I find that people who have never been in some part of the service industry tend not to realize the difference that tips can make and how much we rely on them. I was always a good tipper. Then I became a bartender. Now I tip double what I used to.

4. Know thyself. Do you really want to be that asshole getting carried out of the bathroom and through the crowd covered in your own vomit? Do you really want to be that person starting fights with the security staff and being an embarrassment to yourself and/or your friends (if you still have any by the end of the night)? If the answer to either or both is yes, please stay at home. It’s fun to go out and get tipsy. It stops being fun when you have not only poisoned yourself, you have poisoned the experience for those around you. Pace yourself and take note of your condition. It will make the drunk that much more fun, believe it or not.

5. Trash cans: use them. For real, people. And not just to throw up into when you’ve had too much to drink. Or pee in when you are too drunk to find the bathroom.

6. If the music goes off and the lights come on and you are one of the 20 or so people who insist on clapping and dancing like it’s the end of Strictly Ballroom while we try to close the club and go home–please die in a fire.


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 846 other followers