My first installment “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to live here anymore” - - -

House and Senate aren’t as smart as they would have you believe!

I was flipping through the Wall Street Journal someone left in the T when I haphazardly come across this article. The lead reads “congress and federal agencies are expected to spend as much as $60 million in fiscal 2009 on a little known taxpayer-funded perk: repaying government employees’ college loans.”

So, I would just like to say, ummmm, I would like my college loans paid off as well? Ummm, excuse me Uncle Sam, but I believe an obscenity is called for here…

According to the article, 690 government employees in the executive branch received $3 million for their loans this year. You can do the math.

House/Senate members + “x” million dollars = me mad as hell. (thank God there’s no math requirement for journalism majors).

But this story gets a lot better, if you’re like me and find getting enraged to be fun,… In addition to paid student loans, these guys also get free courses, and by free I mean, we the people are paying for it.

Take a look at the listed classes available, by the “House Learning Center” – (some name, huh?):
*Yoga
*Pilates
*How to use your Blackberry
*Home Buying for Beginners

I kid you not. AND! my personal favorite class:

*The Senate’s Vice Presidential Bust Collection
Just what exactly are these guys learning about here?
WHAT EXACTLY IS GOING ON HERE!??!?!?!?!11!

Someone’s smart enough to speak up about this finally (although I’m not sure how long this has been going on for, but it has been years)…And let me just say this guy rocks:

“We teach an ‘effective writing’ course,’” said Dan Beard, House Chief Administrator who oversees the Center. “My thought was, if somebody can’t write effectively, why are they here?”

He estimates an additional $1 million has been spent on this type of “training.”

This reminds me of one of my favorite segments from the Daily Show recently, British members of parliament abusing taxation for their own pleasure called SCAMALOT. Check out the segment here (hilarious, 6 minutes long but totally worth it, I love correspondent John Oliver):
http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=228030&title=Scamalot

***I’d just like to say, if you have all the money to make stupid classes for leisurely education, why not make better classes? I mean, if any of these were on the IC syllabus, I wouldn’t register. God.

So after groaning about the situation, and the lost sleep and the cup of coffee that still had not hit my system I figured, this is the time for opportunity. I took to the streets of Providence.

I walked in and out of Providence Place, across the Skybridge and stared at the city. I watched this mother duck and her babies in the river, diving for algae on the rocks. I see ducks everyday (mother owns 19, a necessary addition to our family after I went to college), you think I would really be sick of them by now. But there is something very…majestic? I just like that the animals have maternal feelings like some humans do, sometimes even better parenting skills than the parents do.

I sat by the water and ate my papaya, I contemplated the beauty of the fruit and why people don’t eat the black pits…so I tried that. And now I know why they don’t.

THIS IS STARTING TO SOUND LIKE A WICKED UNEVENTFUL MORNING, SO I’LL SKIP AHEAD - - -

Blah blah blah. Walk to the park. Blah blah blah, watch the pigeons, wonder why there are seriously five loaves of bread scattered throughout the park. Blah blah blah. Big bastard pigeon, very high up on the pecking order, gobbling everything in it’s path. Blah blah blah.

I WILL POST MY SKETCH OF WHAT HAPPENED DURING THESE BLAHs later, based loosely on this monster bird and this girl sitting in a tree across the way.

Okay! Then I started walking through downtown Providence, and was stunned by this city project called the PAW (Providence Art Windows http://providenceartwindows.blogspot.com/) –they have these really beautiful art exhibits all over the city as a calling-card for newly opened galleries. With the talented students of RISD (Rhode Island School of Design) just down the way, it’s hard not to imagine that the city would be totally tuned to such style and talent. And then as I walk, admiring the windows, this: BIG NAZO.

This puppetry company is called BIG NAZO (http://www.bignazo.com) and they create huge puppets for their actors to wear onstage (interesting that the actors are also the creators of the instrument, so they can understand the way the piece works, one told me). They dance to music, or put on plays and I was so enthralled! I just walked in and BAM! I am in the midst of these creations being build, spraypainted, molded etc. And they encourage walk-ins. We got to talking and I gave them my information and told them I was dying for a gig, would love to play piano (http://www.myspace.com/blamethesidewalk) for their troupe sometime, I hope they get back to me.

After leaving the Nazo lab I realized it was getting close to my time to meet up with Chris Lydon and continue our editing for the show (Open Source radio w/ Chris, http://www.radioopensource.org/, we’re working on an interview with Juan Enriquez today). But I suddenly found myself turned around in the city and very confused. I started asking around…

Me: “Excuse me, do you know where the Watson Institute is?”
Hispanic gentleman in parked car: “Me, hmmm, not really, but I’ll take you there.”
Me: “Umm, hmm well, I mean, I’m not sure where it is. But that would be nice.”
Man: “Yeah, it’s up that way!”
Me: “I don’t think so, I thought it was over there.”
Man: “No no, come on we’ll find it.”
Me: “Thank you!!!”

And I continued walking. I’m an idiot in cities. After numerous encounters with the sketch men, you think I’d learn.

But I didn’t, so I asked another man for help finding homebase; and I don’t even remember how this conversation started but I’ll improvise some of it, totally fascinating!

Me: “Do you know where the Watson Institute is?”
Other man (stunningly attractive man with robust white hair in muddied English): “No no, where is it?”
Me: “Uh, near the train station, do you know where that is?”
Man: “Oh yes! I’m going there right now, walk with me.”
Me (tentatively): “Oh okay, thanks.”

“So are you from Providence?”
“ No, I am living here though. It’s called I-R-A-Iran.”
“Oh my god! You’re from Iran?!”
“Yes.”
“Oh wow, so what are you doing here?”
“I am visiting my sons.”
Me (not wasting anytime): “Are you worried with what’s going on with the election?”
Iranian: “A lot of it’s just terrible.”
Me: “Did you cast your vote before you left?”
Iranian: “Why would I? I don’t care.”
Me: “You don’t care?”
Iranian: “All the politics in Iran are the same, and the political game is terrorism.”
Me: “So no faith in Moussavi?”
Iranian: “They’re all the same! They’re all led by religion and I’m not religious (laugh). If only things could be separated, that would a be a democracy.”
Me: “Are you going back anytime soon?”
Iranian: “It’s very difficult to get back there now, and I wouldn’t care too. My sons are very helpful, I’m staying in a hotel here…I have to go, that’s my train!”
(as we arrive to the station)
“Take care of yourself,” he said, and praised the sky with his hands. I assumed that was for me.

And I thought that was all so cool!

On top of that, this kid on the street was laying out all of his belongings, for sale, and said he was moving. I went straight for his CD box and for $12 I got Tom Waits, The Moldy Peraches, Xiu Xiu, Motion City Soundtrack, Deftones and the White Stripes album I don’t have as well as Clerks on DVD.

So it was a good morning. And I got to go to work and tell Chris Lydon all about it ☺ .

Sat in on the editor’s news meeting this morning, and all the guys were joking back an forth. A husband threw his wife out the window in Worcester. They were in an argument as he watched the game, she wanted to go for a hike.

“I guess she got she wanted,” they laughed.
She’s dead, and I guess they noticed my not-so-smiley face. One of the editors noticed.
“Hey, I forgot how you interns don’t get this. If you don’t joke about it, this job will eat away at you.”
 
And I guess I totally understood that. I wasn’t too upset at the story, or at their insensitive jokes, it just fascinated me that yes, humor is needed in a city news room.

** Especially in a city where a father beats his 7-year old boy to death on Father’s Day.

Nathaniel Turner. I listened to the rest of the meeting, as all the guys, and the editor-in-chief Leah, my new hero, devised an attack plan for this story.
“The arraignment’s at 2:30, we need a photog, we need a bio, I want the details about this kids birth and in hospital he was born…”
It was entirely exciting, I sat there thinking, “Jesus, I want to be in on this.” I liked the serious manner of the room too.
And I suppose I sat there, listening and evaluating myself and my ethics. Is it too shitty to exploit a tragic murder like this? And actually, I think maybe in this case, we may just be doing right by this kid.

 This way, he’ll live beautifully in this beautiful little portrait of a little seven year long life.

The jokes left the newsroom. As we were breaking from the meeting, the managing editor picked up our front-page and squinted: she asked “does it say RESPECT on this kid’s t-shirt?”

And everyone nodded, eyeballing the paper with this sweet school photo, and a sweet smile.
The city editor chimed “His father supposedly beat him for being disrespectful, leaving around his toys.”
The managing editor said, under her breath, “Jeesh, how ironic.”

And the meeting broke up in silence.
 

looking up new music on youtube because it’s slow at work and I’m waiting for Chris to give me the go-ahead on my pitch for why Twitter is a good idea for RadioOpenSource

(I mean, I think TWITTER is narcissistic junk for the most part, and it doesn’t work for me, but it really can benefit an independent organization to generate site traffic, all good things!)

AND THEN, I stumble onto this, running across the top of YOUTUBE while I look up music videos:
“” BREAKING NEWS: For the latest videos form Iran visit http://www.youtube.com/citizentube?feature=ticker “”

And I follow accordingly, having just finished an article about the Iran elections on the NYT site myself.
…
This video comes up:
http://www.youtube.com/citizentube?feature=ticker
(and, I watch)

I feel very confused, no audio, no explanation? Just good-old-fashioned CITIZEN J (which ironically, isn’t old-fashioned at all). Just BAM! There it is! Judge away! CHECK OUT THE BREAKING COVERAGE ON YOUTUBE, by a citizen journalist.

AND PEOPLE COMMENT ON IT:
“fucking cops!”
“paki bastards”
“fuck islam”

and other assorted, unintelligent things.

BUT THIS ONE STRIKES ME (from bweazel):
“I can’t believe you guys are taking this seriously. Youtube sure is choosey about what protests and riots they cover. Can’t help but think this is propaganda so we can have a reason to “Send the UN in” as I’ve seen so many of you idiots put on here. Please people. Don’t play into their brainwashing. Oh ya. Screw you also Youtube for selling out to the mainstream press. I thought you guys were better than that.”

*******

I REPLY from me, to bweazel, in email, IN FASCINATION:
I appreciated your comment just now about the way youtube is so choosey with what is posted. I am a journalism major and I absolutely don’t believe in objectivity…it’s a lethal band-aid that covers up clearly subjective material with the label “oh, but we’re unbiased!”

What else do you know about youtube’s “sellout?” You mean, their move-in with Google? It does all seem very strange doesn’t it. And this video you commented on was very strange too, no audio and the top of the site says “BREAKING NEWS, LATEST FROM IRAN.” Is this really breaking? We can’t opt for objectivity but at least be transparent in your attempts to only showcase one side here. Don’t call it BREAKING! to get the attention of collegiate rabble-rousers(sp?), or whoever else comes on youtube to just pontificate “yeah, f*ck you authority.”

Anyway, thanks for the comment. I liked it, so don’t let others get you down, it’s a good point, even if your point was a little one-sided itself ;).

Best,
Samantha
*********

INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH!!!!! 3 people gave the thumbs down on this guys’ comment, I gave a thumbs up, I’ve returned to the site for the sake of updating you on this find and, my thumbs up is gone. I’ve tried clicking the thumbs up, not working. I’m no conspiracy theorist, I’m just saying…

You presented to me tonight, the realization that so much of art is pure angst. Like those photo catalogs, you said. And I know what you mean. It’s like, a photo of a can of soup next to a plate of meat. This is not depressing at all. Until you put that artistic-bullshit-spin on it. Then the picture becomes an existential masterpiece that transposes metaphysical dimensions through personification. Now it’s like the meat wishes it could be canned, or the can feels the pain of not being free, and desires to become that nice slab of meat on the counter.

Or, there’s the fall back depressing artistic statement that become quasi-intellectual, semi-political: food shouldn’t be processed. And canned. It should be fresh, and pure and oh, so mighty.

I mean, really, think about it: so much of art is inherently designed to be depressing. Example? MAD = SAD = BAD. These words, they all rhyme together.

And what rhymes with happiness? Sappiness (which is plain useless), snappiness (which would be awful on paper), and crappiness. But there, look we’ve taken a turn, the inevitable ccle of slippery word that brings us back to the same loathsome expression.

Why is it so easy? But more importantly, we should wonder, is sadness easy at all?

Because, let me tell you, I pour my pain out. Hard, ON paper, IN written word. Through my personal essays. And if you think it’s easy, you just don’t what’s going on in this brain…

OR, am I taking the easy way out?

Example?

I write a nice love letter to my boyfriend, and feel retarded. Simple. Plain. Fact.

How pathetic.

And we’ve taken a turn for the worse again. Easy.

So here’s the issue, I have writer’s block these days, and maybe that’s because I cannot find anything sad to write about. I mean, are you kidding? Is like that ridiculously ironic?

“The worst thing being an artist could do to you is that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.”-Salinger

Okay J.D., so now I’m not cool because I’m not angsty.

Why do we seek help when we need it? Why write the therapeutic-anger poem-when you’re angry? What about the therapeutic-happy poem? And why the hell am I bothering with these rhetorical questions?

Ah, and so the writer’s block continues.

but you have to trust me that it’s really nice.

I like wearing your sweat pants, almost as much as I like the way you fix my eyes with a tissue after I’ve been crying into it for the last half an hour.

It’s taken me a long time to feel like I could put out something intimate, and even longer to feel like I could write something absolutely exultant in the way I feel towards you.

Even if you don’t read this, it’s important for me to just say, I am trying my hardest to be happy with you. It seems really silly I think that a person would have to work so hard to keep you close, and even harder to keep you out.

I’m failing. And I’m glad.

Just driving from place to place and talking like we’ve been friends for much longer than we’ve been in love, I am happy to say that this morning I woke up in your apartment, first with your arms around me, and then watching you get ready for work, drifting in and out of sleepiness from the exhausting day before.

Perhaps my favorite time in the mornings with you are when you sit on the bed with me lying in it, and kind of linger over me, not in a too-close-claustrophobic-episode way at all. Rather, in a way that I totally have my space to wake from my dizzy consciousness, until my half-open eyes find yours. And you look absolutely amazing, and I feel amazing, just because I know you feel this way towards me.

“I think I’m in love but it makes me kind of nervous to say so.”
I know I’m in love.
And that feels alright.

You can call me “Boston” all you want, it won’t change the way I feel about you. And now your hand is on my ass in all the wrong context.

I wandered into the city tonight with the mission to meet fascinating people. My quest 40 blocks later left me with vivid memories and sore feet.

How could you ever live in a city? I would pick myself apart with all the beautiful woman prancing in the newest vintage trends. I would compare myself constantly and leave nothing out.

But seeing as today I am just a tourist, I admire. And shop hopelessly. All of it, in this city, feels really good.

The fascinating part about the city is all of the sounds, with traffic and streetlights controlling, the noise ebbs and flows.
Crescendo,
decrescendo,
“Hey pretty lady! Suck my cock!,”
“Please help a veteran miss, I’m dying.”

It all comes and goes. And it’s all really beautiful. Well, err, interesting. A fascinating social experiment at least.

WE TOOK MILLIONS OF DEMENTED PEOPLE AND PUT THEM IN A REGION WITH TALL BUILDINGS>>>A NEW REALITY TV SHOW CONCEPT!

Whoops.

Everyone here smokes too much too., she said admittedly confessing that in the city, it just feels right that she smoke cigarettes.

“You smoke?”
“I mean yeah, sometimes, but I don’t inhale.”
“Naw girl, I mean weed.”
“Aw nah, I’m trying to quit……………………………..”

THIS is a LIE.

I always say “I’m trying to quit” because it makes me seem cool, and like I’m a bad-ass. Take note, kids.

“I smoke soooooo much dope, that I need to quit. I am THAT cool.”
Even though I really, between you and me?
I really don’t.

“Up on a State street yo, they throw you in prison for that shit.”

Jimmy, or SLIM as he like to be called,
NOT like SLIM SHADY, oh no! He was Slim first.

He got mixed up in heroine and they put him in prison for eight days for the possession.
When you’re address is HOMELESS St. he says,
(that is exactly what his file says in the computer),

they let you out quickly, because “the system needs to clear out” and “they’re ain’t no way a homeless man gonna pay $380 to get out.” You know what I’m saying?

So I met Slim and his right-hand man Anthony, who liked to be called Wolf, in front of the Philadelphia Convention Center. Members of this very angry organization were screaming into microphones how all the evils in the world could be found in the Bible and African-Americans don’t like to be called such because you don’t anything about them, and the White Man whores out their white women.

I tried to ask them questions and one of them just glared at me and said “No bitch, I don’t have no literature for the likes of you.”

Oh, how the journalistic integrity fails me!

Slim and Wolf wanted to get drinks so I walked with them, learning about their criminal records and Anthony’s goldfish. They said they were 25 years old but they forgot their Ids.

So, “like 15 year old boys” they paid a homeless man $20 for a bottle of SoCo.
I just watched for the most part, and took a sip here and there to be sociable.
To be cultural, I really wanted to get to the Historical District and see the crack in the Liberty Bell. And these guys didn’t budge when they said “we WILL walk you there.”

12 blocks later and we discover the Invisible Children group (http:///www.invisiblechildren.com) protesting on the Common in the center city district, waiting for some member of Fall Out Boy to come and rescue them. My buddies broke out the bottle and listened to me berate these high school girls with questions about the organization.

100 different protests world-wide (9 different countries!) and two drunken boys’ anecdotes later, I am walking around, buzzed with sore feet, lost and smiling with a worried mother on the phone.

“What are you doing hanging out with city guys? - Samantha, I’m worried. – Just call a cab. – We’ll google it, where are you? – This is so senseless Sam, walking around on your own. – Does your boyfriend know you’re hanging out with two OTHER GUYS?”

Oh. My. Goodness.

I am going to consider the soundtrack to my Philadelphia trip the ‘It’s Blitz’ album (new album, the YYYs, http:///www.yeahyeahyeahs.com) which I popped into my iPod for this trip. I listened to it emphatically after hanging-up (possibly ON?) my mother.

Anyway, specifically the RUNAWAY track. Absolutely beautiful tune.

It just seems really fitting.

Sitting cozy in my hotel room now with the other Society of Professional Journalists (http:///www.spj.org) officers, this conference has been fascinatingly eye-opening. I mean, woah. What a time.

While garter belts post-20s era are pretty impractical, I don’t wear them very often and I like having them for me. It’s good for me, healthy for me. Something that gives me sexual confidence, like I need it. I do, actually.

I remember the last time we spent a weekend together, you talked about how sexy it would be to go shopping for something together. And it didn’t sound trashy or inappropriate, it sounded nice. Like we could indulge in my body together. The offer made me feel beautiful.

But then, and this was towards of the summer, towards the end of our romance which you told me was not a romance, you got busy. So busy, plans this, friends that, work here and there. I understood. Life = hectic. I know.

But I wanted you to look at me, like I love. The way you look at me that makes me come back to you constantly. I went to the store by myself, and I tried on a few different things, in clearance of course, but I wanted something great for you.

It was a fairly deprecating process. Trying on things that were too tight here, and not becoming there. Things that were strappy and slutty, thing that were elegant and lacey. I picked myself apart for you, I scrutinized over every square inch, for the perfect ensemble that would make you look at me and want me, maybe even love me.

I have never felt so alone, standing in the cold dressing room, watching my body react with goose bumps and all, wondering if you would still think I was pretty in the end, even with the lumps on my body.

I went to the register, and made my purchase. The woman behind the desk was very nice, telling me how popular the negligee I had decided on was, how she had it in two different colors. And this week it was half of! So yes, I tried to be excited. Told her I didn’t do this often, it was for someone so special.

I walked out of the store with my red slinky bag, and tried to feel proud of my purchases. I did, you would love it. But I made the mistake of calling you. Whipped out my cell phone, called you.

Me: Hey you. Guess what I just did?

And when I told you about the extravagance, you did not care. You broke my heart, surprise-surprise!, and I let you kill my confidence.

You (apathetically): Oh, that’s nice.

I was indignant though.

Me (indignantly, ending with a tremor of hope):I’d really like to see you soon, share this with you, you know?

You (coldly): Sam, I don’t know, okay? I’m really busy right now.

Oh god, and everything in the mall felt so tilted and bright. How had I played the game wrong, making you think I wasn’t so in love with you that you could never hurt me again? Keeping it casual and then throwing you off, so much that now you were running away?

Me (coolly, but not really): Oh yeah, well, whatever, you know, just give me a call. I’m around, just getting ready to maybe take a trip to New York soon.

I was trying so hard to let you know I wasn’t dying inside. And your goodbye was so curt.

But wait, this was your idea!

You wanted this. It was for you, and for me.

Now I am one of those sad people with a sad box under her bed, the tissue still wrapped around it. I never saw you after that, and spoke to you on the phone a few times since then. Not recently, it’s been three months of silence, since you confessed to being abusive. How could I not have figured that out sooner?

I couldn’t breathe that day. And since then, I haven’t really taken a deep breath when I think about you. You take my breath away, but why do people say that like it’s romantic? I feel like I’m gasping.

I just wanted to look good for you. And feel like I was good for you. Why couldn’t you have given me that goodness?

Good grief.

I mean, goodness.

And tell you how spectacular you look.

And how I’ve missed you.

And how I think I may have figured out so much about myself tonight. So I have to tell you everything in such grand detail.

Like we usually do.

The Izzys, this journalism thing. It was tonight:

“You’ve heard of the Oscars and the Emmys? Well, get ready for the Izzys, a night of journalistic celebration.”

Here goes it.

Well first, JOURNALISM SPEAKS TRUTH TO POWER. Isn’t that great? I mean, yeah, pen/mightier/sword, yes. Yes.

Glenn Greenwald made such a great point, addressing the state of journalism. Why do we call it independent journalism? How redundant! When journalism should always be indy. Instead, these assholes on the White House press corps feed the machine, become spokesmen instead of watchdogs.

There’s a reason it’s addressed in the Constitution. Freedom of speech, it’s so important.

Izzy Stone, according to his son, was very lonely. Do you see this? Perhaps, I could be lonely now and still be great someday (here’s hoping). He was so happy in his work, he said he thought he should be arrested. Maybe I could get there too.

Mmm.

The difference between bloggers and journalists are the mentality. Journalism seems so spoiled these days. A journalist should never be glad to say “yes, I PROP UP THE EXISTING ORDER.” No! It should be slashed, cut scrutinized, questioned. Always. I could do that, right? Someday, maybe?

I know you have faith in me, thanks for that.

More Greenwald. Sometimes reporters are just SYCOPHANTIC to the government. How nauseating. I mean, really. He called them “the media roaches,” really.

What is the role of journalists if not to expose?!
CONLUSION of GG (yes, we’re on a first initial/last initial basis):
IF IT’s NOT INDEPENDENT, THEN IT CAN’T BE JOURNALISM.

Yeah.

And then Amy Goodman. Who said media is so much more powerful than any missile, but when the Pentagon deploys, we have to take it back. Otherwise, we in the industry, are just propagandists.

Mainstream media becomes extreme media, banging on war drums, when it chants for war and outputs the stories of the Press Secretary (when Scott McClellan even said, he thought the press corps acted unprofessionally, not questioning any of his lies– he wrote that in his book! My god! How horribly depressing! And satirical).

And ripe with devastating example.

Why do they do that? The corporate conglomerate media. They make business from something that should be idealistically pure. It’s all just sickening. And realistic. You know me though, always the romantic.

The State, “the global warring, warming, and the economic meltdown…”

But I felt such a tremor of hope, they pronounced faith in the “kids,” studying journalism, trying really hard, optimistically.

“We need to break through the sounds barrier.”

I cried then. I really do want to do this. But you knew that about me. You know at least, I’m really going to try.

Democracy is a messy thing, she said. And she autographed her book for me, saying “Dear Samantha, Keep Democracy Now!”

I’m at least, going to try.

It’s a feeling I feel in my stomach and in my toes, even in all years that have passed. It’s just this tight, quick feeling, like how could I have let that happen? I recite the typical mantras: “know who I am,” “I’m secure,” “that was a while ago,” blah blah blah.

But sometimes memories are brutal.

Like I loved this cape, long dark and very Tolkien-style I saw in a magazine in middle school. For Christmas, my mother worked really hard on making it for me. When I was 12, I loved wearing it. It was a statement, it was glamorous, it was my Mom’s love, for me.

But after a day or two of wearing it to school after break, I was bunching it up in the bottom of my locker, embarrassed at how everyone else snickered. When my Mom and I went out for some post-Xmas season shopping, and we bumped into the two girls that made my life hell during those years, I tried to hide, because I was wearing that black cape. They saw me, and I was humiliated in having them see me run away. My Mom was embarrassed too.

Just horrible things you do when you’re a kid.

And I can remember in junior year of high school, bringing up this stupid point in class that is now very funny, but I know people still remember “that stupid thing Samantha said,” and I guess, if you think about these things a lot, they bring you down.(“Why don’t we just deport the ice caps into space?” as my ponderous solution for preventing global warming. OH. My. God!)

But blah blah blah, right? I’m bigger and better than that, I always tried to act like those judgements didn’t bother me, but sometimes they still can.

Talked to the ex, as all great contemplative moments of mine typically start. We talked about affairs recently, different relationships we’ve been having, and I mentioned my older-man fling. He was just 31, but it was still, I suppose, pretty faux-pas for someone my age.

And his response? “You’ve always been into older guys.”

For days I let that sit. How could he say that? I haven’t always been into older men, I was always just into him, horrible love of my life. In high school, I remember this North Andover cop grabbing me and kissing me before my meeting up with a date with my boyfriend. And it really sucked. I felt horrible. At the things we couldn’t do to prevent that…

And then my ex and I kissing outside the library on a park bench, and this pedophile-creep staring at us, this neighbor that once asked my parents if he could take me to the movies. Who had made his move when I was just 8. Or tried.

I mean, bad experiences. Teachers grabbing my ass, horrible men that don’t deserve to breathe if they think they can take advantage of a little girl.

Now that I’m older though, I’ve grown into the older crowd certainly, and who can resist that “open the door for your date” manner of the thirty-somethings?,
BUT
I just had to tell my ex how badly his judgement bothered me.

He clearly didn’t get it, and I suppose few would. I’ve been thinking about it more now, and it’s not ABOUT making him, or anyone, understand, it’s sadly a thing for me. I used to brush off the older guys doing their creep things, even romanticized it a little bit, and maybe Freud would have something to say about the older people I date casually now…I just didn’t want people to think I was weird because of those weirdos.

I mean, it had to be me, right? Or my body? My mannerisms? My Mom even yelled at me once, for being too funny and happy with that neighbor, who’s playfulness I didn’t and couldn’t understand at 7 and 8 and 9.

It was then just all so humiliating. In contemplation, I realized, it doesn’t have to be though. I don’t have to let that embarrassment plague me anymore. So hip hip hooray. Sorry this just turned so serious and “hurrah” ish. But it did feel good realizing these things.

It doesn’t have to be my fault.