Thanks. I'm Trash.

Another night in which I should be doing work for my job or on myself, yet I'm just catatonically gazing at the blank television screen and forcing myself to write.

These are thoughts that have been floating in my sad brain lately. I'll probably give them greater page attention later, but I want to document them for now:

1. Dave Chappelle's most recent special confirms my suspicion that he is a sexual assault survivor who clearly feels incredibly uncomfortable with other survivors who vocalize their own struggles. From the rhetoric to the identification with the abusers, it's all there.

2. Since my father died, I've noticed I have much less rage directed at men. I no longer feel the injustice I did before--where I felt like they all should perform at my level of strenuous relationship effort, and none of them could come close. Now I just don't care. I feel guilty for seeking out people who, I knew, couldn't provide me with what I needed emotionally--only to turn around and chastise them for what they weren't capable of. I've also kind of given up on exerting any effort. I think that all this time what I really wanted was to be single and free, but I didn't know how to articulate that to myself (let alone anyone else). So, I entered into unsatisfying relationships in which I either buried essential parts of myself, or experienced the freedom at intervals of consistent breakup periods.

3. My Aunts theory has resurfaced. Men are protected from the hyper-surveillance that socially obedient women/non-men reserve for the less gender conforming among us. So yes, patriarchy is the worst; but men have conveniently found enough women to fight other women on their behalf. These men don't really have to get their hands too dirty, so to speak, because there are droves of women seeking their approval who will do the work for them. So, really, the worst perpetrators of patriarchy--the ones who maintain its omnipresence in society (and my life, more specifically)--comprise this class of largely heterosexual women. They flex their surrogate gender dominance by (as I just mentioned) interfering in the personal lives of their female foes, by flaunting their martyr-of-the-month behavior, and by finding strength in numbers. I hope this makes sense.

4. I'm so tired of being anxious and depressed. I wonder what I would willingly do never to have a depressive episode again.

That's all for now, to be returned to at a later date.

The Joker: A Eulogy for Robert Wayne King

Imagine you’re Batman, and the Joker dies—not by your hand or anything. He just dies. Maybe he gets melanoma, and you wonder, “Why hasn’t he gone on a crime spree lately?” Or maybe he has a quick and sudden aneurysm in his sleep. Either way, Alfred mentions it at breakfast one morning: Sir, your nemesis, he’s dead.

You mull it over. So many of your works—the benevolent acts for humankind you have accomplished—have been fueled by a vengeful hatred for this very person. You’ve spent so much of your life becoming his antithesis, trying to improve where he has wantonly gone astray. In a very immediate and real sense, he has been your raison d’etre. It is your desire to eradicate the world of cruel and confounding people like him that has made you who you are.

What do you do? Sure, you could invest the one percent of your hate that’s been leftover this whole time to focus entirely on thwarting lesser villains. But really, how long would it take to end people like The Riddler, The Penguin, or Poison Ivy? An afternoon? A whole day? Then what? Batman moves to Boca? Ridiculous.

You never even got to have the full-blown, climactic crescendo of a standoff that would once and for all have slain this enemy. You don’t get to spend the rest of your life in a smug denouement of reflection on how you triumphantly defeated your most formidable foe. You don’t get to pat yourself on the back for the rest of your days, or feign humble gratitude every time a townsperson thanks you for killing the juggernaut.

You didn’t even get a fucking apology from the guy at the moment of his demise. You didn’t get to stare into his eyes and see a twinge of near-death, epiphanic clarity. He never got the chance to realize the error of his ways. He never begged your forgiveness, for giving you no choice but to pursue a life of conflicted do-gooding. You wanted to be a celebrated writer whose stories got made into movies, for Chrissakes! Not some goddamn brooding antihero trying to help people who mostly ended up just shitting all over your soul, the way he did.

As if it’s bad enough that he didn’t apologize, none of the villains do! The Penguin doesn’t send a wax-stamped correspondence expressing his condolences. Catwoman doesn’t call and say, “Dude, Batman, that’s so fucked up. I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry for all the similar shit I put you through. I’ll chill out on the crime capers for a minute. Let me know if you need anything.” They just go about their fucking business, annoying the fuck out of you with their self-absorbed disregard for literally everything. 

It’s all infuriating at first, but then you realize: he’s dead. He’s gone. You spent so much of your life plotting justice against this asshole, that you didn’t take much time to think about why you were doing it, or what you could be doing instead. That thought forces you to look inward. You realize that beneath the anger and betrayal, which have been propelling your achievements for so long, lie exhaustion, loneliness, and sadness. These are feelings you’ve yet to conquer. They’re the foes that The Joker has been a stand-in for this whole time. No amount of crimefighting or justice-seeking will take these away. So, what do you do, but devote this next life’s chapter to overcoming them? But how—and, most terrifying of all: Will you stop being Batman if you do?

Dead Dad Dad Dead

Some of the more interesting responses to my telling people that my dad died last week:

"I'm sorry. Please let me use this as an opportunity to name drop my own dead acquaintance who has been in the news all week and pivot to a discussion solely on that."

"Hm. Sucks. Can I come over, use your washer/dryer, and bone? But, like, no dead dad stuff. That's too much for me right now."

"I know I disappeared all weekend the second you mentioned your dead dad, and posted shots of me on social media hanging out with other chicks right after I said I wanted to be exclusive with you, but you didn't text me either, ya know."

"I know we were supposed to hang out and I totally flaked/freaked out on you, but you're a fucking bitch because now there is the potential for you to make me look bad in front of your cool, pro skater friend I've been trying to impress."

People are wonderful.

The Cokehead Sociopath and His Sex Worker Attaché

I've always been fascinated by charismatic con artists, silver-toothed mountebanks, and mesmerizing cult leaders. I ask, again and again, how can they do it?

Not how do they do it--that's pretty self-explanatory. They bullshit their way through enough people--who are mostly altruistic in nature--for as long of a time as they are allowed, until they have to move on.

My question is: How can they do it? How does one find the gumption to hoodwink everyday people and not feel utterly poisoned and hollow from within? Do they engage in some sort of trancelike meditation, so as to detach from their own cognizant decision-making in an attempt not to realize the abysmal depths of their own ethical perdition? Or is taking advantage of others' kindness just as perfunctory to them as driving to work?

I had a recent run-in with two such people--my titular characters. The cokehead mostly got his way through coercion and threats of violence. The attaché did so through performing the role of ever-suffering victim. I won't go into too much detail, but my brief tenure with them ended with me changing the locks on my house and getting an HIV test after the words "Fuck You" and a smiley face were written in human shit on my guest bedroom wall.

My dilemma is twofold. On the one hand, I truly would like to understand the rationale behind their raging entitlement. Why the outburst directed at someone who showed them nothing but acceptance and generosity, until their user antics got out of hand and she was forced to (heaven forbid) tell them no. On the other hand, stepping inside chaotic minds and souls like theirs is a feat of despair so repugnant to me, that I simply can't do it.

I guess I have to live with the uncertainty. I guess all I can do is hope they receive the extensive psychological care of which they are both so desperately in need, and move on. I guess, ultimately, I just hate not having the answers--even if I do have the new door locks.

Thank You, Fleabag

After recommendations from both Pam and Sean, I decided to watch Fleabag. Ten minutes in, it's already inspired me to blog my own, similar experiences from an ocean and a continent away.

I recently visited Portland for a conference on race and equity. I had a blast--not just there, but on a couple of dates I managed to squeeze in during my trip. Two different men on two different dates: A) paid for all my drinks, meals, and cover charges; and B) actually talked to me (and listened, too!) about my interests, my hobbies, and my life. I was bowled over.

Yes, you read that correctly. I was bowled over because I was taken out on two consecutive, standard dates. How horrifically depressing--my joy at being treated like a worthwhile person, and not a service provider. Maybe it's the brainwashing of Catholic female selflessness thrust upon my psyche from my earliest memories. Maybe it's having lived in Long Beach, Ground Zero for the Peter Pan Epidemic, for so long. Whatever the case, my standards and expectations for heterosexual male suitors exist, stature-wise, somewhere between subway platforms and irrigation ditches. Dating here is that grim.

That's not to say that all men who live in Southern California are like this. I've recently gone on several dates with an awesome dude who goes out of his way to treat me specially--from interesting date ideas, to researching the best local restaurants, even to offering to pay for a dog-sitting service so that I might spend the night at his place. But the context in which he and I have gotten to know one another limits us from having anything long-term, so--although he is charming, handsome, kind, and loads of fun--pursuing anything more with him is essentially out of reach at the moment. Also, it's not lost on me that he's not from this area--he's not even from this country. So that, along with his dogged effort to be a good person always, tells me that these dire cultural expectations have not been programmed into him the way in which they have with local guys.

What is it, then, about men from this area that makes them so--entitled? Lazy? Incapable? I can't quite find the right word to describe it, so here's a visual. It's like all these guys show up at my door, with a list of demands in their pockets. The date, then, becomes a game of how many of these demands they can passively foist upon me throughout the duration of the evening. Oh, you want to hang out my place that I've taken the time to clean and arrange, eat the food I've bought and prepared, watch the TV that I've worked to pay for, sleep in the bed I've cleaned and made up? Oh, you don't want to go out to a bar, restaurant, or (if we're being sleazy and honest) pay for a hotel to stay in? Oh, you want sex that you enjoy, without giving much thought to my stake in the matter (beyond being an available, wet hole)? Oh! Oh! Oh! Aaaaaand you're going to complain, or roll your eyes, or conveniently "forget" when I ask you to bring over a $15 bottle of wine for me to enjoy? Fascinating.

Since I believe in the neo-Marxist principle that all labor possesses both an intrinsic and extrinsic value, let's put a price tag on that labor that you, in your feigned naivete that male privilege affords you, think is free. Let's say we eat that dinner, at a mid-priced restaurant, for two people, including two adult beverages. That's $100. A bar that serves decent drinks we both enjoy? Another $50. A hotel that is clean and provides all the amenities--including parking and overnight stay--that you would require? $200. Sex work for a duration of several hours? $300. Therapy and counseling services in the form of me listening to you tell me all about your life, previous dating history, and anxiety over the upcoming sports season? Hmmm. At $150 per hour, let's say two hours that I'm actually listening to you. That's another $300. These are all modest price values, by the way. This is nothing extravagant--just standard, mid-level date fare that would provide the same level of quality and service that you are expecting of me.

I'll even deduct the $15 bottle of wine you may or may not have brought. That brings the total to: $935. Just consider it my date Patreon. So, the next time you bring your list of demands, tucked neatly away in the pocket of your Levis, or Balmains, or whatever you can afford because you've skirted paying for any of this on your last hundred-or-so dates, I'll have ready my bill. Deal? Great! See you sometime between never and when you actually grow the fuck up and become a real adult.

Insomnia

Luckily, no one reads these anymore, since I'm so paranoid about my colleagues and students knowing anything about me (for fear of losing job security) that I've deleted the links off of all my social media pages. I guess, then, I can write the most self-indulgent of posts.

I can't sleep, and it's half past two in the morning. So, what's the cavalcade of thoughts poisoning my sleep schedule tonight? Let's see:

Guilt over my ability as a writing instructor --> Wanting to decolonize my approach to relationships (since I pretty much only date men of color) --> The prison-industrial complex --> Thinking about how conservatives never admit that they actually don't mind handouts, as long as they're the recipients --> Being hot (literally, not sexy hot, but sweaty hot) --> My family --> My friends (a.k.a.  chosen family) --> The severely low number of people I actually trust in this world --> One of the dogs farted again --> The ways in which I am blinded by my privilege, and what I can do to counteract that/help others --> Chernobyl --> Shit I need versus shit I can afford --> Not wanting kids --> shitty jokes --> Maybe I'll watch TV --> A never-ending rabbit hole, in which I ponder the tension between the bottomless pit of my need for emotional comfort versus the ever-growing hostility and annoyance I feel toward partners as any given relationship or hookup situation progresses.

What's a girl to do?

The Chasm

Yesterday, as part of my faculty obligations, I had to attend my college’s Commencement ceremony. It wasn’t the waking up at 6:30 AM on a Saturday, nor the fact that I had to wear a scratchy, black robe in the sun for three hours, that made me irritable. It wasn’t even the bullshit rent-a-cop—the one who took out every vestigial, adolescent frustration he’d been harboring for the past twenty years on any employee trying to park near their office, with his self-satisfied officiousness and arbitrary rules-following—who told me that I wasn’t allowed to park in the same place I’ve been parking all year, at my fucking place of employment. 

It was what I will, from here on out, refer to as “the chasm.” The chasm is that well of pain that is so deep, so relentlessly impossible to fill, so a part of me, that it may as well be a sixth finger or another gall bladder. The chasm is not only the initial shocks of trauma that I experienced in my childhood; it’s also the shitty lessons and the opposite of self-care I learned as a result of those experiences. It’s the poor decisions in my adult life that I made, because I had the equivalent of a preschooler’s amount of knowledge about how to establish healthy boundaries and hold others accountable.  It’s the thing I always, in my hubris, think I’ve overcome--only to be shoved up against its loins, like Leda struggling against Zeus, because of some triggering experience. The following particular catalyst of disappointing memories came about as I chatted with colleagues as the procession of graduates glided willfully past us to pick up their diplomas:

“My graduation was so embarrassing. My parents brought a loud horn. Instead of yelling out my name, they just squeezed it when my name was called.”

“Oh yeah? Well, my whole family came, and my brothers were so loud and obnoxious when my name was called!”

“What about you, Katie? I know you have a big family. How many people in your family came to your graduation?”

“I was the first woman in my family to get a college degree. No one came to any of my college graduations. Either I wasn’t talking to them at the time, or they didn’t care.” Cue the asshole-clenching silence, in which my friends internally roll their eyes at another Katie-and-her-shitty-dysfunctional-family-stories-and-geezus-what-a-massive-crybaby-Debbie-Downer-she-is. Or at least that’s what I’m projecting. Of course, the voice in my head adds, “They didn’t come to your wedding, either. Not one family member came to your wedding. Every major, meaningful event in your adult life has been ignored by the ones who were supposed to be your tribe.”

Commencement ends. Students are smiling, crying, yawning. Families are huddled on the football field—cheap bundles of carnations and aluminum balloons trying desperately to escape the grips of sweaty palms to scatter anywhere (The ground? The sky?). I feel claustrophobic navigating my way through the crown of navy blue and black polyester robes that have been soaking up the climate-change sunlight for so long that they are almost scalding to the touch. I get to my car, and perform immediately several moving violations—anything to get me the fuck away quickly, so I can seclude myself at home with my dogs and breathe.  That’s when it hits me. All those snide, snarky comments I launched to the colleague sitting next to me; all that complaining about having to be there to people who also had to work right along with me on a Saturday; all the obnoxious, off-color jokes—they’re all a way of dealing with the chasm and its volcanic pain bubbling in my gut. But they are also akin to a cheesecloth tarp trying to cover what's about to spew from the chasm. Despite nine consecutive years of therapy, those memories aren’t dormant. They erupt. I bawl my eyes out, in front of my dogs, on my bed. The pain is real, it is ready, and letting it out is necessary.

Sometimes I don’t know why I tell my stories. Sometimes I do feel like I’m nothing more than a pretentious trauma queen. I still have to get them out, though. I don’t know. I hope they are performing some function—beyond just what they do for me. Thanks for reading, whoever.