A technologically savvy avian that has learnt to use its talons for internet pursuits, whether work or personal, and contributes regularly to online quail culture (commonly known as quailture). Most likely proficient in QuailPoint and C++.
"The more financially independent, in control of events, educated and sexually autonomous women become in the world, the more impoverished, out of control, foolish and sexually insecure we are asked to feel in our bodies."
M: I'm assuming cats need special keyboards since their dexterity is limited. B: It is? I thought they were nimble, quick and always ready to pounce. M: They are, certainly, but that lack of movable digits will be their ultimate downfall, because if they can't keep up with technology, they'll be obsolete. B: So birds will be fine but not dogs and cats? M: Unfortunately.
After not being touched or touching someone for a while, accidently brushing hands or arms or knocking knees with a stranger is foreign and uncomfortable for the first few seconds, and then like being hugged tightly and having sweet things whispered in your ear, and ultimately like being pushed out of the car and left on the side of the road.
I'm going to go back. I'm going to go to the old places I used to wander, play, hide. I'm going to get coffee and have tea with old friends, old neighbors. I'm going to spend time with the girl who's really not just my cousin, but my older sister, the only person my age who's known me since I was born, the girl I would do anything for--like eat dog food at age 7 when dared. I'm going to see the house I grew up in, the woods, the rope swing over the creek. I'm going to cry and cry and cry and cry. I'm going to start figuring out what's wrong with me; why I'm stuck; why I let people hurt me over and over; why I don't know what I want; what I want. I'm going to read and read and read and write and write and write. I'm going to get drunk with my cousin while floating on the lake. I'm going to run around barefoot in the woods and wade through creeks and climb trees and discover the spaces not so often tread on. I'm going to go to a show by myself at some tiny bar downtown. I'm going to talk to people I don't know and ask them about themselves and watch their faces and hands while they talk. I'm going to be alone. and I'm going to be okay.
I love to look at them, think about them and daydream about them. Especially when they're tall and cute and handsome and clever and witty and intelligent and maybe have a sleeve of tattoos or some piercings and mmmmmm.
Hold on, where was I going with this?
Oh yes, I love men. But in theory, not in practice.
They are full of themselves. Seriously, no one likes to talk about themselves as much as a man does: "Hello, I am so ____ and ____ and ____. Did I mention how ____ I am? Let me tell you more about how amazing I am at ____."
They don't know what they want (even though they pretend to). Then they wander around the globe or their room reading Nietzsche and Kerouac and Sartre and somehow end up back in the same place, though at first perhaps claiming to be newly Buddhist or vegetarian or atheist or some combination of the above.
They show you glimpses of their humanity; of sweetness; of tenderness; of kindness; but then quickly help you forget they are capable of being vulnerable and go back to being selfish, self-absorbed and apathetic. They ignore you, and then they write stories and poetry and blogs and lyrics about finding love. And then, after four weeks-- or three months, or two years-- of fucking around, they call you or text you or email you or show up uninvited and don't understand why you seem upset.
In conclusion: Just because you say you are something doesn't make it so. Be nice. SHUT UP. Don't ask me out 100 times if I've said no twice. Don't bother texting me after you've blown me off twice. Goals. Have some. I'm staring at you because you're my boyfriend and I think you're cute, you asshat. You're less self-aware than you think and more transparent than you think. And I will love you anyway.
