1. I think my completely forgetting about my blog for a couple months just proved that whole “a watched pot never boils” saying, or maybe it’s just that I’m so awkward that my consistent presence drives people away. It’s hard to tell, but thanks to everyone who started following me while I was gone. It’s been an interesting couple of months, full of messy conflicting emotions and crippling self-doubt, but hey, I’m still here and shit.

     

  2. Anonymous said: So I just got a clarification on what asexual is. But I thought about it and realized that what I asked isn't what I meant to ask. I understand that it's when there's no sexual attraction to anyone. But is there still a romantic attraction? Would a romantic attraction be more than just a friendship? Sorry if my question is confusing.

    Sexual attraction and romantic attraction are two different things. It is completely possible to be asexual without being aromantic. Many asexuals experience romantic attraction and have romantic relationships. Some choose to be physically intimate with their romantic partners and others choose not to. Some asexuals also choose to be physically intimate with people they feel no romantic attraction to. A lack of sexual attraction does not necessarily equal a lack of ability or desire to experience sexual pleasure. Basically, every asexual is different, just like every person is different.

     

  3. Proof that I am really happy to be done with this first year of grad school: I have had 15 orgasms in the 27 hours since I turned in my last paper. I do not take care of myself when I am not happy. Therefore, I must be really happy right now (or experiencing a hormonal imbalance)

     

  4. Thought of the day: Whenever you make a statement like “Real women have curves” or “Real men work out,” you’re doing more than just body shaming and promoting arbitrary gender standards. You’re telling a significant number of people that they are effectively not “real.” As someone whose sexual orientation is still considered to be not “real” by some people, I can assure you it is a terrible feeling to have. Having part of your identity questioned or worse, having its existence outright denied, is a horrible experience.  

     

  5. In the midst of finals week insanity, I did something super scary. I entered the Capturing Fire Queer Poetry Slam which will take place at the end of this month. I’m not sure if there will be any other aces competing or if any of the panels during the festival will address asexuality specifically, but I will be there. Being awkward and asexual and hoping people will accept my presence and like my poems. 

     

  6. 100 followers. Nifty. 

     

  7. Confession: When men at bars or parties or whatever try to flirt with me, I don’t respond to it, but I also don’t stop talking to them. So, instead of getting what they want out of the situation, they end up getting to know me instead. I’m not really sure how they feel about it later, but I usually feel pretty awesome. I mean, I got to talk about myself for an hour and someone at least pretended to find it interesting and I didn’t have to pay them. It sure beats having a conversation with myself in the car. 

     

  8. Finally, a relevant poem

    Although I write all the time, I rarely come up with a poem that is super relevant to the purpose of my blog. I think this one right here is. It’s a creative reflection on some stuff that I let happen to me before I knew who I was.

    Girl as Decor

    The year I woke up fifteen,

    boys began to find me. The backyard

    at night seemed to fill with their hands.

    Summer breeze became hot breath

    on my neck, a sticky bouquet of cigarettes

    and mint. Even the ground prickled

    with their evening shadows. My parents

    didn’t notice the change, conveniently turned

    patio furniture at the sight of dandelion stains

    on my nightshirt. My hair grew into a basket

    of leaves. My fingernails: tiny shovels. My skin

    became clay. In the dark, the boys pressed

    themselves into me, each trying his best

    to leave handprints, something to bring home

    and show his mother. 

    At first, it was manageable. A flattened toe,

    a missing eyebrow, a turned wrist. Then,

    there was the morning I woke up with no feet.

    I had to use most of my stomach to remake

    them. Though I relished my new waist, I began

    to fear collapse, so I filled myself out again

    with beeswax. The boys next took

    to switching my eyes, my ears, my breasts.

    Unable to hold my shape, I left for college

    a cubist sculpture, wondering if they would

    follow. What if I didn’t have a yard anymore?

    Would I look better as an ironing board?

    A casserole dish? A decade passed before

    I realized I wasn’t looking for them, have never

    looked for them.

     

  9. And then grad school happened and my brain got so full I couldn’t think about stuff for my blog anymore. But, you know, I still identify as both awkward and asexual. So there’s that.

     

  10. Today, I casually complained to my therapist that the TV in the waiting room is always on some channel where Pat Robertson is pretending to be a news anchor. It’s a student counseling center at a public university. Apparently, I am the first person to complain. *face palm