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Month: January, 2013

The Yin, the Yang, real men drink Tang

I was reading about masculinity and femininity and how we choose to harness either or both when we deal with our everyday problems. Being a woman I’ve tried to be more feminine in my actions, but there are times when I get angry about certain topics and ┬áthink, “Being soft and kind isn’t going to solve this,” and I dip into that hard-edged testosterone method of blocking out the weak to get the job done. I’ve come to realize that blocking anything out is a weakness in itself, so whatever you call it, masculine, feminine, it’s wrong. There’s strength in accepting that which we hate and which we fear; that which causes us to think, to feel, to cry, because it opens us to acceptance, which is the hardest thing of all to do. Perhaps being feminine is stronger than being masculine. Does it even matter?



I pledge allegiance to the crazies of the United States of Assault Weapons, and to the hundreds they continuously kill, every day, under God with undue Paranoia and Fear of Obama from whites.

Yeah. Not really funny. I’m just so sick of hearing about people, especially children, being hurt by guns. Do I think we should get rid of all guns? Ideally, yes, that would be a good idea. But I’m not that stupid, and anyway I like Annie Oakley, and also little Ralph from A Christmas Story with his Red Ryder BB carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time. My brother had one of them things. Used to go around the neighborhood shooting only air, but so close it’d break the skin. A few moms started calling to complain, and the gun was put away. My brother eventually forget he even owned that thing. My sister and I didn’t, as he’d spilled a million little BB’s all over our bedroom carpet. For years we stepped on tiny rolling metal, and tried in vain to vacuum the mess up. But the point is, his little violent toy, his object of masculinity, his fear-inducing stick with exploding air and sometimes pellets, was forgotten. He survived. His head didn’t explode, his penis didn’t shrink up and fall off. The world went on and on and on.

Get the picture?

We need to stop crying about the guns in our hands and start crying for the children who have, and might still be, killed.

We need to grow up. Give a shit. Stand up to those who threaten the country with their murder sticks. Just like my mother stood up to my brother.