As you can see, this bullshit clusterfuck nightmare of a final project is really pissing me off.
This would have been so much easier if my professor hadn’t decided to put the entire fucking set at some ridiculously senseless angle, but NO. He had to have us design the set in a way that requires me to not only redraw my blocking diagram, but now I have to rewrite my camera shots list and my fucking script, too!
I basically have to start over from scratch now, even after I altered the set to be somewhat more like what I had originally intended. I had this shit done WEEKS ago, because I wanted to finally get shit done in advance so that this exact same scenario wouldn’t fucking happen. And look, it fucking happened anyway!
This entire set design that we have now is built specifically to accommodate the other student directing the same production before me, without any actual consideration given to what I wanted to do with MY VERSION of this production. I was completely fucking ignored today during setup and didn’t even get any kind of consideration for what I was going to do until I bitched about it to my instructor’s face, which didn’t happen until the end of the fucking session, which ran half an hour past its original slated ending time, causing me to be late for class.
WHAT THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF DOING MORE THAN ONE MULTI-CAMERA DRAMA SHOOT OF THE SAME SCRIPT WITH DIFFERENT DIRECTORS, CASTS, AND CREWS IF THEY BOTH ARE EXACTLY THE SAME?!
It’s like this incredibly basic thought didn’t even occur to anyone! What the fuck?!
Don’t even get me fucking started on the travesty that was my crew. All these “directors” (read: kids in the directing class) trying to take over and do their own thing with MY production, not listening to me or realizing that I DON’T GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT WHAT YOU WOULD DO BECAUSE THIS ISN’T YOUR FUCKING PROJECT SO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DO WHAT I TOLD YOU TO DO FIVE TIMES OVER THE HEADSET JUST NOW. Even the fucking instructor was calling the shots! I don’t understand if it was because everyone in Hollywood is a fucking control freak or if they were trying to test me into bitching the living shit out of them until they submitted completely to my will or something.
If it wasn’t at that STUPID FUCKING ANGLE, this wouldn’t be a fucking problem. I can’t even deal with this fucking bullshit right now.
FUCK YOU, UNIVERSITY FILM AND VIDEO STUDIES DEPARTMENT. YOU’VE SCREWED ME OVER FOR THE LAST. FUCKING. TIME.
David Reale, a Canadian actor born 1984, was the man who played the lovable role of Glen Coco in the 2004 film: Mean Girls. Sadly, this crucial role was not credited in the movie. If you ask me, 4 candycanes is simply not credit enough for the portrayal of such an inspiring character. You go David Reale!
Before I forget, I want to write down some goals for the next school year. These are going to be academic goals, mind you.
The first is a general one— to get more material for my demo reel.
(In the film production major department, your Practicum/Senior Colloquium/Final FINAL Ultimate Project is to create a demo reel, which is, from what I understand, a short montage of various projects you created during your college career. So far, I have one thing to put on said reel. The second is my multicamera drama clusterfuck of a nightmare final project that I’m taping on Thursday.)
The second is like a sort of sub-goal to the first— I want to write a full screenplay for a film (either feature length or short; most likely the latter). My intention is to write about something lgbtq-related, as it is (obviously) a major point of interest and influence for me. Preferably it would be some kind of drama, but I’d prefer for it to not be like traditional lgbtq films, where they tend to be really campy to the point of utter shittiness or have tragic endings (some of the better ones tend to be sad as fuck, while the more lighthearted ones are just awful). The one thing I like about some of the more recent queer films that have been made (A Single Man and Pariah come to mind) is that they have been much more professional-looking. Like, they look like legit films that you would see in a theater and not on the Logo Channel or some obscure corner of Netflix.
I would also like to (someday) create a sort of lgbtq-themed series like this one that I found on Towleroad yesterday (it’s called The Outs), only instead of having it be like EVERY OTHER FUCKING GAY-THEMED SHOW IN EXISTENCE, where the focus is gay white men in some major US city, I would like to focus on maybe something more close to home and more realistic, such as lgbtq life at my university. I wouldn’t care if it was a reality show or a scripted drama; I feel like either could be great if done right.
*I think there is a very big problem with queer media’s lack of emphasis on things like this. I mean, not every queer person lives in the big city. Some of them live in a rural town in Washington state where being queer is a social death sentence; where the head of the College Republicans club is elected to be part of the student body Board of Directors; where they are the only queer person they know of, or where the queer community is so small that everyone knows everyone else and very few of them find so much as a hint of the romance that society says you’re supposed to be able to find within multitudes of people that go to college. Not everyone can afford to go to school in a major city like Portland, Seattle, L.A., NYC, Austin, or Miami. Some of us are stuck HERE, and we have no voice.
**(The problem with this idea, of course, is making it just as good-looking as something like The Outs. Film equipment is never cheap, and it requires a lot of people and even more money. This would have to be something I’d do down the line in my career, I suppose.)
Another goal of mine is to participate in one of my department’s many film slams. *These are events where students are given prompts that they have to include in their films (like a prop, phrase, or character with a certain name or occupation), which they are required to create on their own (in groups) from start to finish in time periods of 48 to 96 hours (that’s two to four days, depending on the film slam).
HOWEVER. I would want to do it RIGHT. Too often these films end up coming out looking like shit because of the lack of adequate time to make them and because the people behind the cameras end up being detrimental to the entire production process. I could go on for days about how I dislike film students (save for a select few of them), but in an effort to avoid digression, I’ll just say I plan to counteract this potential problem by planning absolutely everything in advance. I will write my script in advance and make any necessary changes later. I will recruit people to be on my team in advance (if possible) so I can be assured of my film’s success. I will cast people ahead of time, figuring out how exactly to do that as I go.
I think if I participate in a film slam, I would want to make it a queer romantic comedy. Because NOBODY makes films like those here (film students are all “too good” for that shit).
I can’t remember where I was going with this. Maybe I’ll continue this rambling later. I have paperwork to do.
so i'm doing my homework right now and this is what i got:
(it’s a marketing prospectus for my final project in my Westerns class. our assignment is to create a marketing campaign for the 1996 John Sayles film Lone Star)
Do you guys think it’s a bad idea to include the following passage at the end of my paper?
· Of course, in order to do all of this, we would need trailers of the film. However, due to its content, advertising for the film through the use of trailers could prove to be difficult. Therefore, we would have to employ tactics used by P.R. departments for films all over the country— we would have to make a trailer (or set of trailers) that intentionally deceive our viewers. In order to do this, we would have to make the trailer look as if the film is all about the murder mystery being investigated by character Sam Deeds, even though the film is really more of a commentary on late-1990’s US politics and race relations. By making our trailers (and thusly, our entire marketing campaign) all about the shallow murder mystery that was thrown in to attract white viewers, we ensure the success of our film by making it truly marketable to the only audience Hollywood truly knows or cares about.
I’m pretty sure I’m not wrong on that claim at the end (George Lucas said in an interview that one of the reasons why Red Tails took over 20 years to make was due to the fact that Hollywood claimed they had absolutely no idea how to market the film, which featured an almost all-black cast, outside the US), but I don’t want my grade to suffer as a result. So I’ll probably remove some of the more tongue-in-cheek parts and leave the original paragraph here.
Even in the most feminist of desire industries, such as the Lusty Lady strip club in San Francisco whose workers successfully unionized in the late ’90s, the erotic value of black bodies remains decidedly unequal to those of…
An awesome and informative article. I only wish my reblogging it didn’t cut it off.
I wish I’d learned about the song “Call Me, Maybe” before I’d gone to Blow Pony. I could’ve made some hilarious pickup text messages. Oh well. I’m thinking that ship has sailed, and I’m not entirely sure why it’s proving so difficult to get over that. I suppose it’s to be expected, and things can only get better from here, but it’s still a bit disappointing.
I’m back in town for school now. I left at noon to go visit R before I left. He is leaving Vancouver on Wednesday and moving back to the Puyallup area. I’m gonna miss him. I feel bad for him, too. He’s been in a rut for the past couple years or so since he graduated and hasn’t been able to find any career work related to his degree (Biology w/ an ecology spec., I think), so he’s been stuck at Starbucks this whole time and hasn’t been living with his long-term boyfriend (who I’ve only ever seen with him once). I’m still confused about that relationship, but that’s not really anyone’s business but theirs.
Anyways, I stayed for about an hour and a half and helped him pack his television as we talked about what he did at the Blow Pony party. I guess he’d had two drinks (vodka-cran’s or something) before going to the party, and then had some other drink there but he got so drunk off whatever it was that he spent the entire next day puking. Sucks to be him. :/ I asked if he’d been like me and hadn’t gone drinking in over a month (that’s why I got drunk off 4-5 shots), but I guess that wasn’t the case. We aren’t entirely sure what the cause was, but it wasn’t due to a low tolerance, I guess. Eh.
After that, I said my goodbyes and drove back to school, getting back just in time to have dinner with a couple friends. And now I’m back here. Not really sure what to do with myself at this point…
I suppose I could do homework. I should just draw up that fucking marketing prospectus I have to do for my group final project already. Too bad I don’t know how to market the film Lone Star to a 2012 audience. Ugh. -_-
I still want him to call me, maybe. I’ll even settle for a text message (lol).
I have what my mom once dubbed the “sunday blues.”
Basically what it is is this sort of lethargic state of almost-depression that I fall into, usually on sundays.
I’m kinda not looking forward to going back to school tomorrow. But I know that’s really only because yesterday was so awesome and today was just so disappointingly boring (even if watching Troll 2 did provide some laughs).
I know once I get back to school, things will be interesting and fun again. I only have a week of classes and then finals week and then I’ll have another week of break before summer session starts.
So it’s not all bad. I’m trying to look on the bright side. I guess I just am being moody because I want yesterday to come back. Childish, I know. Ah well.
I suppose I should clean my room though. But it feels like these sunday blues are keeping me from doing that…
8:15-ish pm: Left house (Camas) after texting T, asking where her address was because I couldn’t remember. (We made plans to hang out on this date earlier in the week)
8:30pm: Finally get a response from T, who had been busy with some family stuff. Realize I’m heading the wrong way to her house. Re-route and drive to her place.
8:45-ish pm: Arrive at T’s house (Vancouver), change into what I plan to wear that night (photo later perhaps), and we leave to get to J’s house. (I had made plans earlier that day to pre-funk with him, as I hadn’t seen him in over a year and thought it’d be fun to catch up. And I didn’t really want T and I to be the only ones going out that night.)
9:45/10:00-ish pm: Finally arrive at J’s apartment (Beaverton) after getting lost and having to call him to ask where the place was (it was hiding from us). Meet his roommates M and N, and his friend C. We pre-funk for about an hour or so and I get to check out their awesome apartment. T plays “Drunken Snow White” and spends time on the floor playing with the antisocial cat. I consume 3-4 shots and am pretty tipsy at this point (Until last night, I’d gone about a month without drinking alcohol).
11:00-ish pm: we leave from J’s house and drive to the industrial district of Portland, where Blow Pony (the party we were going to) takes place on the last Saturday of every month in a giant warehouse-turned-nightclub named Rotture (pretentiously pronounced row-tour-ay).
Time unknown: I take a 5th shot, a Jaegerbomb (I guess they make shots of that) with J, M, and N (don’t remember if he had one, but he doesn’t really like drinking), while C was off doing I have no idea what and T was eating food because she was hungry and may or may not have had the drunchies (drunk munchies). I now consider myself drunk and am having more trouble balancing than usual. The world enters that state where I can see everything clearly, yet somehow things feel blurry. It is difficult for me to describe. My friend R appears after I take my shot and tells me he and his friends are in the next room.
Time unknown (probably around midnight, I think): I enter the next room to find R, but end up being distracted by the sight of an incredibly beautiful man who introduces himself to me as P and we begin to dance. He is very sweet and seems to express a mutual pleasure in dancing and conversation. I lose track of time and space because I am busy trying to spend all my time staring at him. I want to burn the memory of his very being into my brain so that I never forget it. The lack of proper lighting does not help with accomplishing this task. But I think I do a good enough job. We continue to dance and wander around, holding hands as we go. He has such soft, warm hands. I never do find R.
Time unknown: P finds his friend W, who is also very attractive (and appears to be the only black man in the entire building, but hey, that’s Portland for you, I suppose…).The two of them go off to find another friend and I am left with T by my side on the second story dance floor.
Time still unknown (probably around 12:30am): In my still-intoxicated state, I begin to become depressed at P’s departure. I regret not getting his phone number. As T and I attempt to sober up by drinking glasses of ice water, we discuss the finer nuances of my personality and my inability to love myself or something to that effect. I agree with her when she says that I am pining and clinging because she is in all honesty probably 100% correct. I try to get over it all by getting up and continuing to dance with her. Fun is had. We have no idea where the rest of our friends are.
Time unknown (did you really think I’d remember at this point?), although I’d say it was likely after 1am, so maybe 1:15: After a bathroom break (they removed the stall door since I was there last…), we attempt to relocate C, J, M, and N, and find them in the smoker’s balcony. We stay there for a while near the edge where we can breath clean air and look at some of the other people here, where the lighting is significantly better. This place seems to be full of mostly male or male-appearing/identifying white people (with the occasional woman and person of color thrown in), but I find it fascinating how much the place seems to be a gathering spot for all parts of the gay spectrum. There aren’t just “twinky” gay men here. There are people of all ages, body types, and gender expressions here. I recall seeing one person dressed in nothing but jeans, boots, and some kind of backpack with pixie wings, a large man wearing nothing but shoes, a pair of tight-fitting white briefs, and one of those leather S&M harness outfits, and another who looked like a very masculine man from the waist up, but was wearing rolled up jeans showing off his black high heels. There were many fairly built men in striped tank tops, but there was also at least one man who was wearing a wrestling singlet and jeans. I saw one or two drag queens during the course of the evening, too. Most of the less-conventionally dressed people tended to be up on the stages with the DJs, where the loudest music and the most dancing occurred.
Time irrelevant: Soon after we decide to go back into the club, I re-encounter P, who looks just as pleased to see me as I am to see him. We both greet each other and mention how we were looking for each other. He asks for my full name and number and I give them to him, not wanting to miss this chance a second time. I once again ignore everything else in the universe as he and I continue to dance and hold hands. Then we start making out and things get really heavy from there. It’s the first time I remember ever *really* freak-dancing/grinding with another man. I briefly recall how strange it is that I once looked down upon this practice and the people who did it, and now here I am doing it myself and not giving a single fuck. I’m too busy being completely turned on by dancing with this beautiful (and equally aroused) man whose face I can’t quite see as well as I can feel with my hands and mouth. Life is beautiful and no artistic medium can fully represent or begin to comprehend the concepts and feels I am feeling. I am drunk on life and LGBTQ pride and it is amazing.
Close to 1:50 am: “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey begins to play. P and I continue to make out, dance, and touch each other (I can’t stop touching him hahaha) while I sing along (unable to hear how bad I sound but doing my very best to sing it well). For a brief second, I wonder why I don’t already have that song and I make a mental note to actually get it on iTunes so I can listen to it forever.
After the song ends: Party is over, but the audience begs for one more song, so the DJ obliges. I check my phone and realize T has called me three times and sent about as many text messages saying it’s time for them to go. I think I may have said some kind of goodbye to P (with a mutual promise to text message each other soon) as I made my way out, but that part is a blur I don’t remember. I collect my flannel shirt that I put into coat check (it got too hot to wear after a while) and leave the building, where T, J, and N are all waiting. C and M soon appear but take forever to leave, so T, J, and I eventually leave them there and return to J’s apartment in his car, which T drives because she’s the only one sober enough to do so. Before that, however, I see P one last time, in full lighting, and he is still amazingly beautiful, even if he and W are both smoking (he says he’s only an occasional drunk smoker, and doesn’t reek of cigarettes, so I overlook it with a smile). I *think* we may have kissed one more time but that could easily be my imagination playing tricks on me. I watch as he and W walk away into the darkness.
Around 3:00 am: We make it to J’s house (during the trip I update my facebook status about all the fun I had without concern for any potential consequences) and after I get one more glass of water to sober up, T drives my car back to her place. She wants to get home quickly (which is why we left everyone to begin with) because her boyfriend said he would stay up and wait for her (cute, no?). Along the way to her house (3:21am), I get a text from P, saying he wanted to make sure I made it home safely and that he really did want to continue hanging out, but had to take his friends home. We say a final text message good night and I then drive myself home after T arrives at her house (where she drives her own car to her boyfriend’s place in Battle Ground), with a quick stop at the gas station nearby. Driving from university to home then around the Portland Metropolitan area and back home used up a full tank of gas, so now I am $51.51 poorer from refilling. Oh well.
About 4:00 am: I return home and go fall asleep thinking of P. I dream that T and I are on some kind of forest expedition, in which we have to photograph something. There is a boat and a large body of water involved somehow, but I can’t remember.
The next day, I wake up around noon to an empty house and go to make breakfast for myself, still wearing last night’s shirt and underwear. P and I chat via text message for a bit and we learn more about each other. I add him as a friend on Facebook and he accepts. I spend some time stalking his profile and looking at his photos, only to realize he is even more attractive than I realized. I am amazed at my ability to have done as much as I did last night with someone who looks like him and in my confusion, I feel as though I am gaining a truckload of spoons.
I hope he will be free enough later today to hang out some more, but I have a feeling that this experience was probably a “one-night-stand.”
It’s a little saddening, but I think I’ll be okay. :)
Long story short, she essentially said if I were to ever work in porn production (not even being *in* it, but for filming it or being involved with it in any way), then she would be embarrassed or ashamed of me as a result.
Never mind the fact that she totally used slut-shaming as justification for her dislike of a legitimate profession that would cause the Internet to go extinct were it not around.
Never mind the fact that she totally implied that she has zero faith in her own child of doing some sort of good by it (yes, the porn industry is just as bad as the mainstream film industry in many of the same ways, but that doesn’t mean I am incapable of working to start some kind of change that society could definitely benefit from).
Never mind the fact that, you know, maybe that will end up being the only kind of legitimate work I can get with my degree in film production (or god forbid, maybe it’ll be something I might *enjoy* doing with my life).
No, what upsets me the most is that her main reason for disliking the idea is because *she* would be embarrassed to tell other people and that they might judge *her* for it. Because what *I* choose to do with *my* life is everybody’s business.
I guess I’m being a bit immature for getting upset over the fact that she still places her own public image above her own child’s happiness and well-being. I dunno.
I mean, of course I wouldn’t want people to judge my mother for my life choices. And I’m not necessarily saying that’s exactly what I want to do in life. I’m just trying to explain to her that I will need to keep all my options open and that, like I’ve said already, sex work is a legitimate industry and doesn’t make me or anyone else less human for doing so. But noooooo.
Make sure they want your help by, you know, asking
Remember that they probably need your help because of systems of oppression that you still currently benefit from and you giving back is more like you paying your due, instead of you doing something novel and awesome
Remember that it’s possible…
Reblogging for importance/relevance/personal significance.
The sad moment when you realize how alone you actually are. No one ever messages you on Facebook first or texts you first or anything. So it gets to the point where you don't want to put in the effort with people who don't put in any effort for you, so you end up spending your life at home, never going anywhere.
(^this, of course, being that moment where the world becomes vibrant and colorful again)
But instead I’m feeling more like a combination of these:
I went to a counseling session today. The first I’ve been to all quarter, and it was an “emergency session.” None of the counselors at my university had any time in their schedules to see me this quarter (I guess there are more unhappy people here than I thought), so I’d stopped going. But then I found out that they all hold open slots for “emergencies” and stuff (meaning, if an RA has a resident that desperately needs mental health counseling). And since I’d told my RA friends about what happened to me last week and how I’d begun cutting again, they helped me get in to an appointment this morning.
My therapist this time was someone I’d never seen before, which was interesting (as always). It’s always weird for me to talk about my problems. Usually what happens is I try to flat out tell them stuff like how I’m feeling or why or whatever, and I think they always find it a bit strange how I’m just (mostly) open about it at first. Like, yes, I know exactly what’s wrong with me and why I’m here. I dunno. Maybe there’s something wrong with being like that. I guess I’ve made more progress than I thought. Anyway, he seemed impressed or surprised or something by my behavior. I get the feeling there was some kind of level of annoyance or disappointment in there somewhere, too, but that could easily just be me imagining it. At some point, I started to feel like maybe I shouldn’t have been there. I wasn’t exactly at risk to kill myself. I wasn’t going to. I just wanted to. There’s always a part of me somewhere inside my mind that wants to.
Either way, I figured since I was cutting again, I should probably get help, and now I’ve gotten it I guess, but I always end sessions feeling like nothing was accomplished, so I start to wonder if there was even any point in going to begin with.
Going in for therapy always makes me feel like I’m losing spoons (I mentioned spoons and my therapist got confused, so I had to explain the spoon theory to him. It was both amusing and slightly frustrating at the same time. I only said it because I was sure a mental health professional would know about that one. Guess not). I always get a bit depressed just by walking in and filling out their forms where you check the boxes and tell them how often you felt such and such within the past week. It’s like I’m telling myself, “yes, you really ARE crazy.” I suppose that’s part of the stigma that my therapist was talking about during our session. People think of mental health and therapy as bad things that you should be ashamed of going to, when in reality they are positive things and a means of growth on a personal level. So instead of buying into all that societal bullshit, I shouldn’t be ashamed of being born mentally ill (or as society would tell me, and as I realize I tell myself: being born a broken freak), but I can’t help but subconsciously buy into it. Not when telling people that kind of truth has so many consequences in the real world. Not when facing the truth means also facing the stigmas that come with it and are oftentimes worse than the truth itself.
And like I said, I feel as though I don’t get anything accomplished by going in, since there’s only 30 to 60 minutes to work through everything. A friend of mine said to me today that it makes sense I’d feel that way, since it took longer than an hour for me to develop those problems, so why would it take less than an hour to solve them? I understood, but it didn’t really serve to make me feel better (although to be honest, I don’t think anything will right now).
I’m in this state right now, at the point right now, where I don’t know why I bother with things like counseling or telling people about my problems. Life is constantly throwing shit at me that implies my life, problems, existence, etc. are meaningless and don’t matter, so to say it’s difficult not to buy into that kind of thinking is an understatement. I’m constantly cracking under pressure from things like schoolwork, thoughts of the future, and my social/love life (or, in the case of the latter, lack thereof). I’m beginning to have multiple instances of experiences where I finally feel like I’m starting to become content with myself and who I am and where I’m at in life and then something will happen to just rip all of those feelings away from me, like someone pulling a rug out from under my feet so that I fall backwards and hit my head on the floor below me. As I was telling the therapist this morning, I’ll be in this state of contentment with life, and then all of a sudden, I’ll become triggered out of the blue by something and I’ll become insanely depressed, and it’ll just hit me like a truck (or maybe I just immediately start to feel like I want to be hit by a truck) and I won’t be able to function properly anymore. It happened last week, and then again last night. I’m almost always able to figure out exactly what happened and why, but putting it into spoken words is so hard to do. I think I may have said this before, but I get the impression therapists and psychs find it weird when their patients are able to say things like, “Oh, I’m depressed because I’m lonely because I hate myself so much that I feel like I need another person to validate my existence in order to live and I can’t find anyone capable of doing that.”
I imagine if I went and straight up said that, they’d think I was lying. That, and for me, speaking words like that is what makes them, the situations I’m in and the things I feel, real; and by making them real, you ensure that they never go away. It’s essentially like having a child; by forming the words and sounds with your body and making them heard, you give birth to an idea that grows like a child. It’s always there and never dies until after you yourself physically die. For me, truly giving birth to these ideas is to not only acknowledge that I have a serious set of problems, but also to ensure that I never get better and that those problems never go away.
The result of that birthing process, for me, is always something that look like this:
A complete emotional breakdown.
And I don’t like that. It’s embarrassing and physically uncomfortable for me. When I cry, even if it’s just a few tears at a time, my nose plugs up and I can’t breathe through it or smell anything. And when I’m done, my eyes will be completely dried out and I will have trouble keeping them open, which not only makes me look exhausted, but serves to make me feel exhausted as well. So for me to be essentially crying like people do in the movies when they have those “I can’t go on” moments, I’m essentially causing my skull to purge itself of all bodily fluids present (save for blood). There’s snot and saliva and saline everywhere and it takes a long time and a lot of tissues to clean up. It’s an altogether messy and regrettable process. I try really hard to be very calm and collected as a person, so to have these moments all the time, where I’m all of a sudden this emotional train wreck, is nothing short of irritating.
Therefore, I avoid the problem entirely by not talking about it. Of course, in therapy, you aren’t really considered “making progress” until you start crying uncontrollably in the middle of your session or have some kind of epiphany and immediately become slightly more happy by the end (depending on how you started out).
And even if I tell them about my problems, what are they going to do about them? How will they help me? I honestly don’t feel like I can be “cured” or that things will ever change. This war going on inside my head won’t stop, and the battlefield that is my mind won’t change back into a grassy meadow. Perhaps that’s just thinking as a result of the state I’m in. I don’t know.
What I do know is that sooner or later, I think I’ll have to do something about it.
I don’t really know what exactly it is that I should do, though.
Friends, and friends of iPhone. Hi, my name is Billy. I wrote an iPhone app called TranSquat. In a nutshell, it is a gender neutral bathroom finder that locates bathrooms that are gender free relative to your current location. You can search, add and share safe, discreet…
One of my best friends recently did a Gender-Neutral Bathroom Challenge at my university for our school’s lgbtq club. Reblogging for relevance.
So, I just realized something pretty obvious but I never really paid any attention to.
I am unattracted to men who:
a) Can’t spell. Granted, I’m not saying I know how to spell every word out there, and I certainly have my moments where my brain stops working, and I fogive guys of that. They…
I used to think the exact same way.
And then I learned that such thinking is technically an act of ableism (we don’t know if these people have some kind of cognitive disability! What if they’re dyslexic or something? That isn’t their fault.), that using the word “retarded” is not only another act of ableism but also really offensive (mainly to other people who are actually mentally retarded), and that embracing the word LOL and other “text speak” served to make texting more efficient. And I do love efficiency.