Here is a searing, hot take from an unstudied amateur:
On the surface, the symbol of Christ's cross and the invention of the word 'nigga' had similar intentions: to re-purpose a negative (word, symbol) into a positive and free a people.
Yet the massive difference between Christ and all other identity movements throughout history is His divinity and God's love. These two crucial components cannot be duplicated. Without them, identity movements inevitably sharpen the divide among common people, regardless of their good intentions.
In the first centuries of the United States, both black slaves and free blacks were labeled 'niggers' by whites, with the purpose of objectifying and oppressing them.
Fast forward to modern times: Segregation is unlawful and blacks are free citizens with the right to vote.
Some blacks believe there are still controllable economic and political disparities that need addressing. Various social movements and leaders emerge with strategies ranging from peace to civil unrest to achieve these goals.
By the '90s, these movements culminated in the cultural 'gangsta' rap sub-genre, the success of which was due to the appropriation of the indisputably offensive slur for pop use (aka profit). Gangsta rap became a phenomenon. To this day some of these dated albums and songs are considered 'classic' by white, suburban music nerds.
The new diluted slur, without the infamous "Hard 'R'", was meant to liberate those from the ugliness of the real word by allowing them a form acceptable for use among themselves, as a term of endearment. It didn't uplift marginalized people from poverty; it was popularized by entertainers posturing as gang members and criminals, and made real people proud to live in conditions of impoverished crime. It was a middle finger to "oppression," while itself stereotyping the ethnicity of people it was attempting to uplift!
Educated blacks from good neighborhoods didn't use or condone use of this new slang, but their skin color unfairly grouped them in with these gang affiliated entertainers.
In my opinion, the word nigga was invented to sell another manufactured crisis of inner city black identity as it became "our word." The word is now so commonly used in rap that it is a watered down slur of a watered down slur. Light skinned hispanic rappers use it in their own songs! (Though it is not "their word" historically, hispanics are allowed to use the word with each other because they are also minorities in inner cities! (Whites can never use that word. Not even Eminem.))
Before Christ, the cross was a symbol of the painful death guaranteed to dissidents of the Roman Empire. After Christ sacrificed himself on the cross and suffered an excruciating death, re-purposing the sign of the cross as a blessing was itself a guarantee of the same death by the Roman oppressors.
Only the divinity of Christ's love could convince the faithful to exchange the meaning of the cross from a symbol of excruciating death to a symbol of hope and resurrection. Only the prayers and devotion of the faithful living in Christ could do that.
The cross is a symbolized miracle; a miracle that was intended for all of those living and dead, not just those of a certain ethnicity. Only God has the power to turn the most horrible form of torture into the universal symbol for love. Selling crosses was not their purpose.
The word 'nigga' was created in spite for history itself. True, blacks were lynched and beaten, but today the people living in government sanctioned poverty and throwing "their word" around are liberated only in their disrespect for themselves and their ancestors. Furthermore, there is no universal acceptance of the word 'nigga' or else everyone, regardless of color, would be "allowed" to say it.
Just make the sign of the cross! And don't use ethnic slurs, even in karaoke!
Everything leads back to Christ.
Saturday, April 27, 2019
Thursday, April 25, 2019
Unsolicited Advice #2
Like most everyone, I am in no place to offer advice of any kind, lest I take my own. However, by titling a previous post 'Unsolicited Advice #1,' I have prudently anticipated a follow up in this series.
Despite the context, the word 'sex' appearing in the question has made this one especially irresistible:
Dear Amy,
After 25 years, my marriage reached a dead end, and I took the leap into singledom at age 63.
I am now a vibrant, attractive divorced woman with a lot to offer. I look forward to spending the next chapter of my life with a special man.
In the last year I’ve dated two men — both loving, age-appropriate companions — who claimed to want a long-term relationship. In both cases, their interest level was high at first but fell apart later.
In processing these failures, one issue stands out: I am blessed (or cursed) with a high libido.
I’ve bought into the idea that men are eager to get naked. Imagine my shock at finding the tables turned! Many times, I’ve been in a state of anticipation, only to have my lover say, “Sorry, I’m not in the mood,” triggering rejection, crushing self-doubt and frustration.
Expressing these feelings can backfire horribly; likewise, suggestions to help him “get in the mood.”
Older guys apparently are extremely sensitive around the issue of sexual performance. I’ve been told devastating things like, “I feel oppressed by your neediness,” and, “Maybe you should find yourself a young stud.”
Amy, I want an equal partner. In any case, younger guys want women even younger than they are.
Now I fear that the next time I get close to someone, I’ll need to tamp myself down, but I absolutely hate the idea. I believe that sexuality is one of life’s greatest gifts, meant to be shared.
Am I unusual, or have I just not yet found the right partner?
On Fire in California
Dear On Fire,
There are a few misconceptions and differences about and between men and women regarding horniness.
A man is usually horny before he has even had sex with a woman one time. It is the opportunity for sex that turns him on. Once he does settle in the relationship, and he can get "it" without working for "it," he becomes complacent, and then, bored. He might lose interest because he was reminded that sex can be laborious. The labor is pleasurable, and the fruits of the labor is more pleasure, but even pleasure requires some effort. That prospect might make a tired old man less inclined to do the work.
On the other hand, women are cautious. First they need to trust the man, for they know that he is horny for them. If they are not careful the man could have his fun, lose all interest, then leave. For safety's sake a woman must lead a man on until he earns their trust. Once the trust is earned, the woman becomes insatiable, and her horniness vastly overpowers his.
There is no need to tamp yourself down when you get to know your man, and how to turn him on. When a woman's sensuality is exercised correctly, it can overpower a man's boredom. Pay attention to him. Walk around the house scantily clad, or bend over suggestively, covertly letting him know that he can touch you whenever he wants, wherever he wants. Men are simple creatures that respond to suggestion. They don't like to be told what to do, so let your body be the persuasive inspiration.
If you are half as attractive as you claim, then your only problem will be keeping your man away.
Also you'll need to find a man that is hornier than the dopes you have been dating. "Oppressed by your neediness?" lol Some men just never become men, no matter how old they get. Ask a few harmless sexual questions on the first couple dates to give you an idea if you are wasting your time or not.
Despite the context, the word 'sex' appearing in the question has made this one especially irresistible:
Dear Amy,
After 25 years, my marriage reached a dead end, and I took the leap into singledom at age 63.
I am now a vibrant, attractive divorced woman with a lot to offer. I look forward to spending the next chapter of my life with a special man.
In the last year I’ve dated two men — both loving, age-appropriate companions — who claimed to want a long-term relationship. In both cases, their interest level was high at first but fell apart later.
In processing these failures, one issue stands out: I am blessed (or cursed) with a high libido.
I’ve bought into the idea that men are eager to get naked. Imagine my shock at finding the tables turned! Many times, I’ve been in a state of anticipation, only to have my lover say, “Sorry, I’m not in the mood,” triggering rejection, crushing self-doubt and frustration.
Expressing these feelings can backfire horribly; likewise, suggestions to help him “get in the mood.”
Older guys apparently are extremely sensitive around the issue of sexual performance. I’ve been told devastating things like, “I feel oppressed by your neediness,” and, “Maybe you should find yourself a young stud.”
Amy, I want an equal partner. In any case, younger guys want women even younger than they are.
Now I fear that the next time I get close to someone, I’ll need to tamp myself down, but I absolutely hate the idea. I believe that sexuality is one of life’s greatest gifts, meant to be shared.
Am I unusual, or have I just not yet found the right partner?
On Fire in California
Dear On Fire,
There are a few misconceptions and differences about and between men and women regarding horniness.
A man is usually horny before he has even had sex with a woman one time. It is the opportunity for sex that turns him on. Once he does settle in the relationship, and he can get "it" without working for "it," he becomes complacent, and then, bored. He might lose interest because he was reminded that sex can be laborious. The labor is pleasurable, and the fruits of the labor is more pleasure, but even pleasure requires some effort. That prospect might make a tired old man less inclined to do the work.
On the other hand, women are cautious. First they need to trust the man, for they know that he is horny for them. If they are not careful the man could have his fun, lose all interest, then leave. For safety's sake a woman must lead a man on until he earns their trust. Once the trust is earned, the woman becomes insatiable, and her horniness vastly overpowers his.
There is no need to tamp yourself down when you get to know your man, and how to turn him on. When a woman's sensuality is exercised correctly, it can overpower a man's boredom. Pay attention to him. Walk around the house scantily clad, or bend over suggestively, covertly letting him know that he can touch you whenever he wants, wherever he wants. Men are simple creatures that respond to suggestion. They don't like to be told what to do, so let your body be the persuasive inspiration.
If you are half as attractive as you claim, then your only problem will be keeping your man away.
Also you'll need to find a man that is hornier than the dopes you have been dating. "Oppressed by your neediness?" lol Some men just never become men, no matter how old they get. Ask a few harmless sexual questions on the first couple dates to give you an idea if you are wasting your time or not.
Good luck!
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
facebook can be useful sometimes
Today, I regret to inform this blog's two invisible readers that my Facebook friend, a different Ryan that the one mentioned in my first post, has been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Eerily, a post I began writing yesterday was titled 'tumor.'
For as short of a time that Ryan was actually part of my day-to-day life at a job that I quit four years ago, I am extremely saddened by this news. We made a few movies together, back in those days...
Ryan is the rare type of person that doesn't drink coffee. His heart is a beacon, and from it emanates a natural light that powers his radiant smile. The rare times he would get frustrated at work he would laugh it all away. He has many types of laughs: a satisfying laugh, an approving laugh, a burst of laughter. And they were all genuine. (As an studied observer of cringe I just know when laughter is of the fake, affirmative kind.) If Ryan didn't get a joke, his eyes and chuckle would betray his suspicions. (Sometimes also the reaction I was hoping to get with my off-color, "intentionally" unfunny joke.) Ryan was the perfect audience for my conversational skill set, and he could entertain me just the same.
His girlfriend Stephanie is a princess spoiled useless. She is a theatrical novice/amateur with more tit than talent, and no work ethic beyond an insatiable urge to be the center of everyone's attention. We get along too well, and have too much in common besides all the politics--she thinks I am agnostic. Our conversations run so smoothly, and I know so much of why she thinks the way she does that I moonlight as her washed-up uncle. Or washed-up older brother.
Somehow, they compliment each other. They both make movies together, cosplay together and aspire to rise from the dregs of the suburbs to the halls of convention centers. Ryan with the laughs and Stephanie with the looks. Stephanie wishes her parents were dead, while Ryan wishes his parents were still alive. (Both of them died from cancer within 6 years of each other, and before Ryan turned 23 years old.)
My judgements aside--for now--the love and support she has shown him, though normally too ostentatious for my taste, is completely appropriate here. Ryan needs all of the love and prayers that he can get right now. The tumor is resting over the left half of his brain. Ryan is still walking, talking, acting like his normal self, though he has completely stopped smiling. The doctors are perplexed, and have him staying in hospice indefinitely for observation.
Stephanie hasn't left his side, and overshared the hospital he is staying, his room number, and visiting hours: 24/7. Because of the medium of Facebook and the message of Stephanie I can go see my friends at a time when they need my love and prayers more than ever. Only in sharing tragically personal news is Facebook useful.
There is hope for Ryan, like there was hope for Dean before him, and for Chris S before him. He will have to lose all thirty inches of his hair to make space on his skull for the surgeons.
Thinking back on another Chris that Ryan and I worked with four years ago....a Chris that never used FaceBook.....had he been diagnosed with an illness, a brain tumor, I wouldn't know about it. And he wouldn't know about me if I'd suffered a similar fate. One would never know about a once close friend's passing had it not been for Facebook....
For as short of a time that Ryan was actually part of my day-to-day life at a job that I quit four years ago, I am extremely saddened by this news. We made a few movies together, back in those days...
Ryan is the rare type of person that doesn't drink coffee. His heart is a beacon, and from it emanates a natural light that powers his radiant smile. The rare times he would get frustrated at work he would laugh it all away. He has many types of laughs: a satisfying laugh, an approving laugh, a burst of laughter. And they were all genuine. (As an studied observer of cringe I just know when laughter is of the fake, affirmative kind.) If Ryan didn't get a joke, his eyes and chuckle would betray his suspicions. (Sometimes also the reaction I was hoping to get with my off-color, "intentionally" unfunny joke.) Ryan was the perfect audience for my conversational skill set, and he could entertain me just the same.
His girlfriend Stephanie is a princess spoiled useless. She is a theatrical novice/amateur with more tit than talent, and no work ethic beyond an insatiable urge to be the center of everyone's attention. We get along too well, and have too much in common besides all the politics--she thinks I am agnostic. Our conversations run so smoothly, and I know so much of why she thinks the way she does that I moonlight as her washed-up uncle. Or washed-up older brother.
Somehow, they compliment each other. They both make movies together, cosplay together and aspire to rise from the dregs of the suburbs to the halls of convention centers. Ryan with the laughs and Stephanie with the looks. Stephanie wishes her parents were dead, while Ryan wishes his parents were still alive. (Both of them died from cancer within 6 years of each other, and before Ryan turned 23 years old.)
My judgements aside--for now--the love and support she has shown him, though normally too ostentatious for my taste, is completely appropriate here. Ryan needs all of the love and prayers that he can get right now. The tumor is resting over the left half of his brain. Ryan is still walking, talking, acting like his normal self, though he has completely stopped smiling. The doctors are perplexed, and have him staying in hospice indefinitely for observation.
There is hope for Ryan, like there was hope for Dean before him, and for Chris S before him. He will have to lose all thirty inches of his hair to make space on his skull for the surgeons.
All social media needs a niche, and Facebook is at its best when it bears the worst.
Monday, April 22, 2019
about that...
A couple weeks ago I read a blog post by Bruce Charlton about the value of daily blogging. He pointed towards the blog of Francis Berger, and applauded him for a successful four month run of blogging daily.
Sometimes all it takes to start a good habit is for one person to point out another person's success of maintaining that habit then saying 'so can you.'
Berger's blog is a tree that produces daily fruit. I pick from that tree and I enjoy the taste of the fruit. I too would like to have my own tree.
In many ways blogging is a distraction from the ongoing process of writing that elusive novel/la. Blogging is the mind exercise before the hard toil of creation. Blogging is picking the grapes. Writing is crushing them. And drinking the wine is like reading the book guys! I want to drink the wine, but I need to plant the trees first.
This blog is like me leasing the land to plant the trees guys! Get it?!
Like a good little inconsequential millennial I am focused on shaping my inconsequential opinion like a clay pot on a wheel. I can place the finished pot on my shelf, and begin to collect them. Someday I will fill them with wine. And then someday long after that I will share the wine. Until then I can share pictures of the pots.
More weird metaphors: To taste this delicious fruit, toil is demanded. To toil requires time. Writing takes up all the time in the world. Editing takes up more time than that. Therefore, for my own ideas to grow into tasty fruit I'd have to use my time wisely. No more frivolously wasting it on YouTube cringe compilations.
After only a week of avoiding the hysterical fake/social media complex did I notice myself thinking on my own. Before I'd regurgitate the "facts" to better remember them in a shallow impromptu debate-quiz with coworkers; now I'm finding there is no need to remember"facts" that may not even be true. The weight of these events are shaped by those selling them to me as such. There is so much more to learn.
And so I embarked on my own quest to taste the mystical fruit of fulfillment, and after only one week, as predicted, I fell off. My other blogs--the ones full of my day-to-day life's lessons--had required more intense reflection than usual. When there was no one left to listen, my mind, still dizzy from spinning around in circles, needed a place to vent.
I may not have been able to blog daily here, but I did manage to blog daily in my secret elsewhere.
That being said, for better or for worse this week will offer me more opportunity for writing than last week. There is no shortage of topics to write and time to write it. But the serpent of the post-Lenten season has reared its head, and I am unfortunately aware that my vices and my temptations are "available" again.
Christ sacrificed himself on a cross so that my sins would be forgiven.
I need to honor this great sacrifice.
Sometimes all it takes to start a good habit is for one person to point out another person's success of maintaining that habit then saying 'so can you.'
In many ways blogging is a distraction from the ongoing process of writing that elusive novel/la. Blogging is the mind exercise before the hard toil of creation. Blogging is picking the grapes. Writing is crushing them. And drinking the wine is like reading the book guys! I want to drink the wine, but I need to plant the trees first.
This blog is like me leasing the land to plant the trees guys! Get it?!
Like a good little inconsequential millennial I am focused on shaping my inconsequential opinion like a clay pot on a wheel. I can place the finished pot on my shelf, and begin to collect them. Someday I will fill them with wine. And then someday long after that I will share the wine. Until then I can share pictures of the pots.
More weird metaphors: To taste this delicious fruit, toil is demanded. To toil requires time. Writing takes up all the time in the world. Editing takes up more time than that. Therefore, for my own ideas to grow into tasty fruit I'd have to use my time wisely. No more frivolously wasting it on YouTube cringe compilations.
After only a week of avoiding the hysterical fake/social media complex did I notice myself thinking on my own. Before I'd regurgitate the "facts" to better remember them in a shallow impromptu debate-quiz with coworkers; now I'm finding there is no need to remember"facts" that may not even be true. The weight of these events are shaped by those selling them to me as such. There is so much more to learn.
And so I embarked on my own quest to taste the mystical fruit of fulfillment, and after only one week, as predicted, I fell off. My other blogs--the ones full of my day-to-day life's lessons--had required more intense reflection than usual. When there was no one left to listen, my mind, still dizzy from spinning around in circles, needed a place to vent.
I may not have been able to blog daily here, but I did manage to blog daily in my secret elsewhere.
That being said, for better or for worse this week will offer me more opportunity for writing than last week. There is no shortage of topics to write and time to write it. But the serpent of the post-Lenten season has reared its head, and I am unfortunately aware that my vices and my temptations are "available" again.
Christ sacrificed himself on a cross so that my sins would be forgiven.
I need to honor this great sacrifice.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
gay nation
In the 80s, the gay enclaves of New York and California were overcome with a rampant plague that took the lives of many healthy and useful young men. The excessive nature of gay “culture” almost destroyed itself.
(It was not dissimilar to today’s heroin epidemic, itself a cause of the untimely deaths of many young men, the lives of which are the cost of society at large’s disregard for the condemnation of dangerous behavior.)
The only dependable method for ending the spread of the plague, and ensure the survival of the nation, was curbing promiscuity. Authoritarian enforced abstinence is more effective but more inhumane.
What curbs a heterosexual man’s natural appetite for sex is a woman’s natural reluctance to engage in sex with a man that does not prove himself as a worthy provider. As men are not hardwired to judge for potential providers unprotected gay promiscuity becomes effortless. Those that participated in this lifestyle believed their actions had no consequences, but the plague proved otherwise. Thus, urging gay sex addicts to be less promiscuous would eliminate the only proponent of gay “identity" and destroy its "culture."
This was the method of plague prevention before medications were introduced. Medications, combined with other proper precautions, meant the plague would be contained. Useful young men wouldn’t die sooner than necessary. Gays could keep their culture of promiscuous sex.
This history of sex related deaths and ensuing fallout of “systematic” discrimination has lead to a cynical political campaign for “Gay Rights."
Thus, sodomy itself has become a political movement and has invented a flag to stake out the mental territory of its nation state.
A flag once represented a nation, and a people within that nation. A people with similar values, similar tradition and a common ancestry.
Whereas this gay flag represents a sexual-political ideology, not a nation. (Gays have no common ancestry since they do no procreate.) And straight or gay, those that represent the gay flag are hook, line and sinker voting according to the political party that supports these “rights.” (Not all gays fly a gay flag.)
The gays of San Francisco and New York are not their own nation. They are not an ethnicity or a religion. They are American nationals that are guaranteed the same rights as heterosexual nationals under the constitution. These modern “rights” were invented by cunning politicians as a method for securing a voting block of fashionably marginalized individuals.
In their hearts, these politicians know that they cannot grant any more natural rights than the founding fathers have already defended in the constitution. They must turn to subvert an older, more powerful institution—the church—and alter it according to the new "demand" for modern "rights."
Not all gays are “culturally” homosexual, whatever that means. Some of them can be republican. Some of them can be Catholic.
Sodomy is only rectum deep.
(It was not dissimilar to today’s heroin epidemic, itself a cause of the untimely deaths of many young men, the lives of which are the cost of society at large’s disregard for the condemnation of dangerous behavior.)
The only dependable method for ending the spread of the plague, and ensure the survival of the nation, was curbing promiscuity. Authoritarian enforced abstinence is more effective but more inhumane.
What curbs a heterosexual man’s natural appetite for sex is a woman’s natural reluctance to engage in sex with a man that does not prove himself as a worthy provider. As men are not hardwired to judge for potential providers unprotected gay promiscuity becomes effortless. Those that participated in this lifestyle believed their actions had no consequences, but the plague proved otherwise. Thus, urging gay sex addicts to be less promiscuous would eliminate the only proponent of gay “identity" and destroy its "culture."
This was the method of plague prevention before medications were introduced. Medications, combined with other proper precautions, meant the plague would be contained. Useful young men wouldn’t die sooner than necessary. Gays could keep their culture of promiscuous sex.
This history of sex related deaths and ensuing fallout of “systematic” discrimination has lead to a cynical political campaign for “Gay Rights."
Thus, sodomy itself has become a political movement and has invented a flag to stake out the mental territory of its nation state.
A flag once represented a nation, and a people within that nation. A people with similar values, similar tradition and a common ancestry.
Whereas this gay flag represents a sexual-political ideology, not a nation. (Gays have no common ancestry since they do no procreate.) And straight or gay, those that represent the gay flag are hook, line and sinker voting according to the political party that supports these “rights.” (Not all gays fly a gay flag.)
The gays of San Francisco and New York are not their own nation. They are not an ethnicity or a religion. They are American nationals that are guaranteed the same rights as heterosexual nationals under the constitution. These modern “rights” were invented by cunning politicians as a method for securing a voting block of fashionably marginalized individuals.
In their hearts, these politicians know that they cannot grant any more natural rights than the founding fathers have already defended in the constitution. They must turn to subvert an older, more powerful institution—the church—and alter it according to the new "demand" for modern "rights."
Not all gays are “culturally” homosexual, whatever that means. Some of them can be republican. Some of them can be Catholic.
Sodomy is only rectum deep.
Saturday, April 13, 2019
Unsolicited Advice #1
Today I am feeling vindictive, and commented on Karlie Slutever's advice column with my own unsolicited advice.
In fact, the only original writing left on Karlie's own blog are her egotistical advice columns. A roster of unstable, unapologetic ideologues now contribute the bulk of the content. Meanwhile, Karlie's influence has grown bigger than the blogosphere, bigger than the counterculture rag Vice; her think pieces are now credentialed in Vogue.
I know it is fruitless to argue with a feminist blogger, but this is personal.
Anna--
The reality of nature is that your actions have consequences, and you cannot always get everything you want.
You did that for a while, and now it has consequences on the mind of the man you actually love! Your fiancee is having trouble with your past because he does not want to imagine you with other men. It makes him feel emasculated.
You can tell it is bothering him, but has he said anything to you about how he feels?
The shame you mention is your own. You feel guilt for how your past actions have made him feel. These are consequences you did not anticipate. You couldn't know this because you were so blinded by your pleasure seeking state that you were not thinking about the future. Especially with a man that was only a theory.
He obviously loves you for who you are, despite your intimidating past, but he ultimately fears that you might leave him/cheat on him because he isn't always capable of pleasing you 100% of the time.
A sustainable, healthy and long life was not possible with your previous lifestyle. The only cure was finding--and then acknowledging--true love. True love is not always guaranteed.
However, relationships require compromise and sacrifice in more ways than just sex.
You've had your fun, but now it is time for you to move towards your new, fulfilling future. The promising part is that you are ready for this commitment.
Karlie--
In your context 'committed slut' is an oxymoron. In fact everything you say is in contradiction to nature. Even your own nature!
After years of creating sluts out of your readers, you are the one finally in a committed relationship. How does your man feel about your past?
You give sociopathic advice, assuming that jealousy is a choice, and not an emotion. Did you ever think that some people might need advice for properly dealing with their jealousy? Because normal people can experience jealousy? Of course not. You are either a fool or a sociopath!
(This response has invigorated me to write a larger takedown of the Slutever blog.)
In fact, the only original writing left on Karlie's own blog are her egotistical advice columns. A roster of unstable, unapologetic ideologues now contribute the bulk of the content. Meanwhile, Karlie's influence has grown bigger than the blogosphere, bigger than the counterculture rag Vice; her think pieces are now credentialed in Vogue.
I know it is fruitless to argue with a feminist blogger, but this is personal.
I used to be pretty wild and free with my sexuality. I went to sex parties, had fun with whomever I liked, and was open to experiences with men, toys, women—all sorts. Now I’ve met the man of my life. We’re gonna get married. It’s amazing. However, he isn’t quite as experienced as I am, and I can tell that it’s bothering him. I suppose it’s the classical slut-shaming, but in a loving way. He’s very insecure about my past and he told me that he has a fear of not pleasing me enough. But he does—at least, most of the time. But I must admit I’m missing something else beside plain vanilla, and I think his insecurity blocks him. How can I introduce some toys or some wild, crazy sex once in awhile, without intimidating him? I don’t like to be the dominating one, so for me to take the control every time would kill it for me.
A committed slut, Anna
Anna--
The reality of nature is that your actions have consequences, and you cannot always get everything you want.
You did that for a while, and now it has consequences on the mind of the man you actually love! Your fiancee is having trouble with your past because he does not want to imagine you with other men. It makes him feel emasculated.
You can tell it is bothering him, but has he said anything to you about how he feels?
The shame you mention is your own. You feel guilt for how your past actions have made him feel. These are consequences you did not anticipate. You couldn't know this because you were so blinded by your pleasure seeking state that you were not thinking about the future. Especially with a man that was only a theory.
He obviously loves you for who you are, despite your intimidating past, but he ultimately fears that you might leave him/cheat on him because he isn't always capable of pleasing you 100% of the time.
A sustainable, healthy and long life was not possible with your previous lifestyle. The only cure was finding--and then acknowledging--true love. True love is not always guaranteed.
However, relationships require compromise and sacrifice in more ways than just sex.
You've had your fun, but now it is time for you to move towards your new, fulfilling future. The promising part is that you are ready for this commitment.
Karlie--
In your context 'committed slut' is an oxymoron. In fact everything you say is in contradiction to nature. Even your own nature!
After years of creating sluts out of your readers, you are the one finally in a committed relationship. How does your man feel about your past?
You give sociopathic advice, assuming that jealousy is a choice, and not an emotion. Did you ever think that some people might need advice for properly dealing with their jealousy? Because normal people can experience jealousy? Of course not. You are either a fool or a sociopath!
(This response has invigorated me to write a larger takedown of the Slutever blog.)
Friday, April 12, 2019
comment commentary
Go to any music video on YouTube and you will see a recurring comment.
This band sucks/This music sucks/The fans have sucky taste!
‘Don’t feed the trolls’ is an adage seen around the internet, and yet you will see the recurring replies from the fans:
If you don’t like the music, you don’t have to listen. And you don’t have to leave a comment. We don’t need your opinion.
But these commenters weren’t vicious trolls, or even subtle trolls. They didn’t leave a sadistic comment with the purpose of receiving pleasure from the various pained responses of the fans.
They were simply opinionated viewers using the comments section for precisely what it was designed for. Under the anonymity of the internet there is no repercussions for hurting an invisible fan’s feelings.
YouTube was first designed to host videos, the definition of which some users have interpreted to mean songs with a still image attached.
The comments section is similarly designed for leaving comments. And if YouTube doesn’t have the resources to censor “hateful speech” against “bad music” then a fan can leave a comment telling the hater not to leave comment. The back-and-forth makes the comments section fun, if brain damaging, to read.
Now, comments are supposed to be “nice” and “respectful,” but those platform inflicted guidelines are as subjective as the worth of the video itself, and typically only apply to videos of politically controversial subject matter. YouTube can remove user flagged comments, but once it begins policing comments on its own it cannot be unbiased; human bias is the soul of media.
The comments section puts the social in media. It shouldn’t go away, and it shouldn’t be policed for “hater speech” by YouTube. Flagging should be reserved for bots and spam.
The haters are stating their honest opinions for no reason other than they have a place to put it. And the fans are responding because a conversation is two sided.
Haters and fans are not critics, and their analysis is usually based on their personal lives anyway, because music makes listeners feeel
This indisputable truth from the fans to the haters was the best way to extinguish the stupidest kind of debate on subjectivity. And its actually very useful advice.
Don’t like it? Fine. That’s your right. But don’t dwell on what you hate so much that you waste your own time by entering enemy territory to tell fans that you hate what they like.
No minds will ever be changed.
Additionally, don’t waste more than a moment thinking about it unless you are willing to think why
And even then, do the fans really want to know what internetuser112 thinks?
Personally, I don’t think music needs a comment section. Music is subjective noise. Everyone is going to have a different opinion. But a video is a video, and unless the uploader disables comments, the comment section will contain the unsolicited opinions of haters and the defense from the fans.
I never thought about the haters. I knew the music I liked sucked. I liked it anyway.
This band sucks/This music sucks/The fans have sucky taste!
‘Don’t feed the trolls’ is an adage seen around the internet, and yet you will see the recurring replies from the fans:
If you don’t like the music, you don’t have to listen. And you don’t have to leave a comment. We don’t need your opinion.
But these commenters weren’t vicious trolls, or even subtle trolls. They didn’t leave a sadistic comment with the purpose of receiving pleasure from the various pained responses of the fans.
They were simply opinionated viewers using the comments section for precisely what it was designed for. Under the anonymity of the internet there is no repercussions for hurting an invisible fan’s feelings.
YouTube was first designed to host videos, the definition of which some users have interpreted to mean songs with a still image attached.
The comments section is similarly designed for leaving comments. And if YouTube doesn’t have the resources to censor “hateful speech” against “bad music” then a fan can leave a comment telling the hater not to leave comment. The back-and-forth makes the comments section fun, if brain damaging, to read.
Now, comments are supposed to be “nice” and “respectful,” but those platform inflicted guidelines are as subjective as the worth of the video itself, and typically only apply to videos of politically controversial subject matter. YouTube can remove user flagged comments, but once it begins policing comments on its own it cannot be unbiased; human bias is the soul of media.
The comments section puts the social in media. It shouldn’t go away, and it shouldn’t be policed for “hater speech” by YouTube. Flagging should be reserved for bots and spam.
The haters are stating their honest opinions for no reason other than they have a place to put it. And the fans are responding because a conversation is two sided.
Haters and fans are not critics, and their analysis is usually based on their personal lives anyway, because music makes listeners feeel
This indisputable truth from the fans to the haters was the best way to extinguish the stupidest kind of debate on subjectivity. And its actually very useful advice.
Don’t like it? Fine. That’s your right. But don’t dwell on what you hate so much that you waste your own time by entering enemy territory to tell fans that you hate what they like.
No minds will ever be changed.
Additionally, don’t waste more than a moment thinking about it unless you are willing to think why
And even then, do the fans really want to know what internetuser112 thinks?
Personally, I don’t think music needs a comment section. Music is subjective noise. Everyone is going to have a different opinion. But a video is a video, and unless the uploader disables comments, the comment section will contain the unsolicited opinions of haters and the defense from the fans.
I never thought about the haters. I knew the music I liked sucked. I liked it anyway.
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
the sadism of schadenfreude
My friend and co-worker Terrell grew up in the city. He is 6’1” and has broad shoulders, yet he openly admits his dislike for bugs, the woods, darkness etc. I have seen his fears manifest in judicious caution. One summer, while working on a campground he refused to step off the road and into the brush for any reason. There could be snakes, ants, or poison oak. He wouldn’t walk a short trail through the woods in anything other than pants and ankle high boots.
He speaks with a plain authority about his cautionary measures, as if they are a common practice. I laugh because he can deadlift his own weight.
Terrell was recently half promoted, though we both still report to the same middle manager. Today our job took us to the a marina on the sound. The crew boat was ready to embark.
“I’m asking her if one of us should go on the boat,” he said. Terrell had on three layers and a hat, but worried that putting on his gloves might be much. Nobody else on the crew was wearing gloves. He didn’t want them to make fun of him in their minds.
“Is she asking one of us to go on the boat?” I tried to clarify. “Because I have no reason to go on that boat.”
And truthfully, neither did Terrell. There was no reason for our department to have any presence on the boat whatsoever.
But on this breezy and misty spring morning Terrell decided to step up into his newly invented position of specious responsibility and board the boat. And like an amateur, he believed that the scheduling of the day’s work would go as planned, and he would be back on shore in 2 hours for lunch. However, to use the light and beat the impending afternoon rainfall, the boat didn’t dock until all of the work was completed, stranding Terrell on the boat—without lunch—for 6 hours.
From the safety of the shore I took a picture of Terrell’s boat, a speck on the horizon, and texted it to a mutual friend with the caption, ‘Terrell has been stranded on this boat for the past 4 hours.’
“Ahhhhaaahahaha,” my friend replied. “That picture just made my day!”
I was nestled in the warmth of my car later that afternoon when the downpour began. I smiled and thought of Terrell still on the boat and felt a little sorry that he felt necessary to board it. But then the comic tragedy of Terrell’s choices deepened like the sound as the tide rose: was I enjoying his suffering?
Taking enjoyment from the pain and suffering of others is usually considered sadistic. But I don’t think that is what this was. I didn’t send Terrell out onto that boat with the self satisfaction in the knowledge that he would be suffering.
No, volunteer torturers are sadistic.
There was another college word to better describe my feelings in this moment: Schadenfreude.
Comedic elements don’t always line up in life quite as fluently as they do on TV. And when they do line up, they aren’t always comedic. Also kind of like TV.
Therefore when the miraculous misfortune of others is hilarious, it should be enjoyed with laughter. It is not evil to laugh at the truth, especially when it is funny. It is natural for laughter to be uncontrollable when the truth is that funny. Good cheer spreads with laughter. The more it spreads the more it can infect the unfortunate person.
I didn’t need to laugh that hard at Terrell. Just a chuckle and a say of thanks for not being stranded on the boat myself.
Laughing is an innocent pleasure. An innocent reaction. There is evil laughter at horrific tragedy, and that can border on sadism. Even uncontrollable laughter is not diabolic.
Unintentional comedy can inspire laughter, which is joyous.
Schadenfreude sounds wrong, but if the truth is funny, why not laugh?
And if laughter is satisfying, why not enjoy it?
The misfortune of others can be enjoyed innocently, within reason.
When I laughed, it was at Terrell’s circumstance, not his life. I didn’t feel envious or have low self esteem because Terrell foolishly stepped up and got on the boat. It would be ‘wrong’ Schadenfreude to be relieved that Terrell didn’t get that full promotion, and only a half promotion, so he would remain at my level despite working it for much longer. And it would be sadistic if I spread lies about his nonexistent drug problems to our middle and upper managers to keep him from being promoted.
I’m fine just laughing at the thought of him getting wet and grumpy and eating two desserts to make up for his decision.
He speaks with a plain authority about his cautionary measures, as if they are a common practice. I laugh because he can deadlift his own weight.
Terrell was recently half promoted, though we both still report to the same middle manager. Today our job took us to the a marina on the sound. The crew boat was ready to embark.
“I’m asking her if one of us should go on the boat,” he said. Terrell had on three layers and a hat, but worried that putting on his gloves might be much. Nobody else on the crew was wearing gloves. He didn’t want them to make fun of him in their minds.
“Is she asking one of us to go on the boat?” I tried to clarify. “Because I have no reason to go on that boat.”
And truthfully, neither did Terrell. There was no reason for our department to have any presence on the boat whatsoever.
But on this breezy and misty spring morning Terrell decided to step up into his newly invented position of specious responsibility and board the boat. And like an amateur, he believed that the scheduling of the day’s work would go as planned, and he would be back on shore in 2 hours for lunch. However, to use the light and beat the impending afternoon rainfall, the boat didn’t dock until all of the work was completed, stranding Terrell on the boat—without lunch—for 6 hours.
From the safety of the shore I took a picture of Terrell’s boat, a speck on the horizon, and texted it to a mutual friend with the caption, ‘Terrell has been stranded on this boat for the past 4 hours.’
“Ahhhhaaahahaha,” my friend replied. “That picture just made my day!”
I was nestled in the warmth of my car later that afternoon when the downpour began. I smiled and thought of Terrell still on the boat and felt a little sorry that he felt necessary to board it. But then the comic tragedy of Terrell’s choices deepened like the sound as the tide rose: was I enjoying his suffering?
Taking enjoyment from the pain and suffering of others is usually considered sadistic. But I don’t think that is what this was. I didn’t send Terrell out onto that boat with the self satisfaction in the knowledge that he would be suffering.
No, volunteer torturers are sadistic.
There was another college word to better describe my feelings in this moment: Schadenfreude.
Comedic elements don’t always line up in life quite as fluently as they do on TV. And when they do line up, they aren’t always comedic. Also kind of like TV.
Therefore when the miraculous misfortune of others is hilarious, it should be enjoyed with laughter. It is not evil to laugh at the truth, especially when it is funny. It is natural for laughter to be uncontrollable when the truth is that funny. Good cheer spreads with laughter. The more it spreads the more it can infect the unfortunate person.
I didn’t need to laugh that hard at Terrell. Just a chuckle and a say of thanks for not being stranded on the boat myself.
Laughing is an innocent pleasure. An innocent reaction. There is evil laughter at horrific tragedy, and that can border on sadism. Even uncontrollable laughter is not diabolic.
Unintentional comedy can inspire laughter, which is joyous.
Schadenfreude sounds wrong, but if the truth is funny, why not laugh?
And if laughter is satisfying, why not enjoy it?
The misfortune of others can be enjoyed innocently, within reason.
When I laughed, it was at Terrell’s circumstance, not his life. I didn’t feel envious or have low self esteem because Terrell foolishly stepped up and got on the boat. It would be ‘wrong’ Schadenfreude to be relieved that Terrell didn’t get that full promotion, and only a half promotion, so he would remain at my level despite working it for much longer. And it would be sadistic if I spread lies about his nonexistent drug problems to our middle and upper managers to keep him from being promoted.
I’m fine just laughing at the thought of him getting wet and grumpy and eating two desserts to make up for his decision.
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
missing out is good for you
We like to share life’s special moments with our families and close friends. That is why we hold exclusive ceremonies to commemorate these special moments. And for good reason! We don’t want strangers at our Weddings, Christenings, Baby Showers etc. We prefer to be surrounded by the people that love and care for us the most. That love is the essence of these celebrations.
These days, that essence is no longer enough. To complete the victory lap of a gorgeous wedding to a perfect spouse, the event photos must be shared on Facebook. It is only on Facebook where the success of the event be quantified in the form of social validation points, or likes.
To receive these validation points, and earn the highest social value possible, we must summon the collective support of our stranger friends. (Stranger friends are like online friends, except that we met them once or twice in real life before deciding to be made forever aware of their life’s special moments.) There was an obvious reason we did not invite our stranger friends to the ceremony itself: they are not our actual friends! But we need for them to pretend to be our actual friends. And we really aren’t asking that much, just a measly validation point. We know we haven’t heard from you in years and won’t ever hear from you again! And we don’t care if you are lying either. Just please give us the point! Help give us more than that unquantifiable love of our families! That is not enough!!
Wanting to share good news is normal. Wanting to share good news in person with people that aren’t close friends or family (co-workers, for instance) is normal. That’s perfect! Facebook exists for ‘sharing!’
But wanting to broadcast good news to your old coworkers, suite-mates from Freshman year, and your ex-girlfriend’s friends is oversharing. And the income from all of this oversharing is in a currency that can only buy superficial self-satisfaction, from the stranger friends that provided it. It is a Ponzi scheme.
And yet, the more monumental the event, the greater the motivation to share it on Facebook. First, for curiosity sake—how many likes will my engagement get?—and second, for bragging rights—look everyone from the past ten years, I AM ENGAGED NOW.
Facebook is my reverse motivation board. It is cringespiration. I can only scroll for a few minutes before requiring Dramamine.
There are two categories of this type of post by my millennial Facebook friends:
a) successful millennials bragging about their lives with fake pictures
These days, that essence is no longer enough. To complete the victory lap of a gorgeous wedding to a perfect spouse, the event photos must be shared on Facebook. It is only on Facebook where the success of the event be quantified in the form of social validation points, or likes.
To receive these validation points, and earn the highest social value possible, we must summon the collective support of our stranger friends. (Stranger friends are like online friends, except that we met them once or twice in real life before deciding to be made forever aware of their life’s special moments.) There was an obvious reason we did not invite our stranger friends to the ceremony itself: they are not our actual friends! But we need for them to pretend to be our actual friends. And we really aren’t asking that much, just a measly validation point. We know we haven’t heard from you in years and won’t ever hear from you again! And we don’t care if you are lying either. Just please give us the point! Help give us more than that unquantifiable love of our families! That is not enough!!
Wanting to share good news is normal. Wanting to share good news in person with people that aren’t close friends or family (co-workers, for instance) is normal. That’s perfect! Facebook exists for ‘sharing!’
But wanting to broadcast good news to your old coworkers, suite-mates from Freshman year, and your ex-girlfriend’s friends is oversharing. And the income from all of this oversharing is in a currency that can only buy superficial self-satisfaction, from the stranger friends that provided it. It is a Ponzi scheme.
And yet, the more monumental the event, the greater the motivation to share it on Facebook. First, for curiosity sake—how many likes will my engagement get?—and second, for bragging rights—look everyone from the past ten years, I AM ENGAGED NOW.
Facebook is my reverse motivation board. It is cringespiration. I can only scroll for a few minutes before requiring Dramamine.
There are two categories of this type of post by my millennial Facebook friends:
a) successful millennials bragging about their lives with fake pictures
b) unsuccessful millennials seeking validation akin to the participation trophy victories given to them as children.
(Anyone posting a question to Facebook is internet illiterate/a boomer.)
These are examples from my feed:
a)
Tom was never not a winner. He was objectively handsome; the only feature that could have been a source of ridicule was his dark red hair, always mistaken for brown. He had deep cut dimples in his cheeks, suggesting a maturity that counterbalanced his boyish freckles. His eyes were kind, more gray than blue, but still beautiful, accentuated by a legitimate smile that never faded. He was quiet in class, neither arrogant nor conceited in person, and his teacher's remembered him years after he'd left them. A natural athlete, he was ran varsity track as an eighth grader and played Varsity soccer as a Freshman. He was an honors student, and sat in the top 15% of the class. He was neither arrogant nor conceited. He worked hard, and success came easily. Grades, friends, sports, the occasional girl, and now, money.
He became a successful real estate broker in the affluent neighborhoods out east, and had the bank account to prove it. He was charitable with connections, and offered his friend Joe, and Joe's new wife Christine, a house to share with him when they were newlyweds. They were tired of living with Joe's parents, these days an unplanned necessity for newlywed millennials in pricey suburbs. Joe worked in the city, and the commute was killer, but the money he was saving was worth the time he spent on the train. Except that Tom was given ample alone time with Christine. Whether it was an elaborate game of 4D Chess, or True Love That Found A Way will never be known. What is known is the friends in the Facebook picture of the Wedding Party for Tom and Christine are uncomfortable apostates, in spite of their smiles. And who wouldn't be smiling at an all expenses paid trip to Puerto Rico by the generous groom to be?
If given the chance, would anyone have done differently than Tom?
b)
Ryan was an overweight, balding upperclassman living in a single dorm on a floor of Freshman students. (He was placed there because he filed for housing late last semester.) He was a literature major, but it was not his passion. He never read in his spare time, and instead preferred to watch anime, play video games and read comic books. He also loved to drink beer, smoke weed and party. He had lots of friends in the upperclassmen apartments, and often invited us to parties, where he was known as “Puma.” His biggest secret was his virginity. He admitted this shameful secret to our friend Chris one weekday night, when the two of them were drinking alone in Ryan’s disgusting room. Ryan never washed his feet. He had acid reflux, and when he felt it coming up inconveniently, he’d vomit it into empty water bottles. Sometimes they would fall behind his bed and he would find them months later. There were no plans for continuing his education after graduation, the only way to turn his literature degree into a viable profession. After college he moved back in with his parents and got a job at Target. He hasn’t made a life update post since.
In his most recent Facebook post he proudly posted a picture of a meal he made: a pale piece of chicken breast wrapped in soggy, microwavable bacon. Accompanying it was a pile of peas, corn and carrots, still runny with can water. It received a single ‘like’ from his brother. If this Facebook post is evident of anything, it is that Ryan’s life has not changed since college. His lonesome bachelor posts betray his true sadness and longing for any kind of dinner interaction. That, or he is too comfortable for his own good, and doesn’t mind missing out on a life of traditional fulfillment.
In either case, Facebook is a graveyard of hope and an orgy of gloating. Unless your goal upon visiting is popping millennial bubbles with your sledgehammer of truth, read a book.
(Anyone posting a question to Facebook is internet illiterate/a boomer.)
These are examples from my feed:
a)
Tom was never not a winner. He was objectively handsome; the only feature that could have been a source of ridicule was his dark red hair, always mistaken for brown. He had deep cut dimples in his cheeks, suggesting a maturity that counterbalanced his boyish freckles. His eyes were kind, more gray than blue, but still beautiful, accentuated by a legitimate smile that never faded. He was quiet in class, neither arrogant nor conceited in person, and his teacher's remembered him years after he'd left them. A natural athlete, he was ran varsity track as an eighth grader and played Varsity soccer as a Freshman. He was an honors student, and sat in the top 15% of the class. He was neither arrogant nor conceited. He worked hard, and success came easily. Grades, friends, sports, the occasional girl, and now, money.
He became a successful real estate broker in the affluent neighborhoods out east, and had the bank account to prove it. He was charitable with connections, and offered his friend Joe, and Joe's new wife Christine, a house to share with him when they were newlyweds. They were tired of living with Joe's parents, these days an unplanned necessity for newlywed millennials in pricey suburbs. Joe worked in the city, and the commute was killer, but the money he was saving was worth the time he spent on the train. Except that Tom was given ample alone time with Christine. Whether it was an elaborate game of 4D Chess, or True Love That Found A Way will never be known. What is known is the friends in the Facebook picture of the Wedding Party for Tom and Christine are uncomfortable apostates, in spite of their smiles. And who wouldn't be smiling at an all expenses paid trip to Puerto Rico by the generous groom to be?
If given the chance, would anyone have done differently than Tom?
b)
Ryan was an overweight, balding upperclassman living in a single dorm on a floor of Freshman students. (He was placed there because he filed for housing late last semester.) He was a literature major, but it was not his passion. He never read in his spare time, and instead preferred to watch anime, play video games and read comic books. He also loved to drink beer, smoke weed and party. He had lots of friends in the upperclassmen apartments, and often invited us to parties, where he was known as “Puma.” His biggest secret was his virginity. He admitted this shameful secret to our friend Chris one weekday night, when the two of them were drinking alone in Ryan’s disgusting room. Ryan never washed his feet. He had acid reflux, and when he felt it coming up inconveniently, he’d vomit it into empty water bottles. Sometimes they would fall behind his bed and he would find them months later. There were no plans for continuing his education after graduation, the only way to turn his literature degree into a viable profession. After college he moved back in with his parents and got a job at Target. He hasn’t made a life update post since.
In his most recent Facebook post he proudly posted a picture of a meal he made: a pale piece of chicken breast wrapped in soggy, microwavable bacon. Accompanying it was a pile of peas, corn and carrots, still runny with can water. It received a single ‘like’ from his brother. If this Facebook post is evident of anything, it is that Ryan’s life has not changed since college. His lonesome bachelor posts betray his true sadness and longing for any kind of dinner interaction. That, or he is too comfortable for his own good, and doesn’t mind missing out on a life of traditional fulfillment.
In either case, Facebook is a graveyard of hope and an orgy of gloating. Unless your goal upon visiting is popping millennial bubbles with your sledgehammer of truth, read a book.
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