Pride 2015: Love Wins

This is not an LGBT blog, in the same way that this is not an atheist blog, but you can’t always separate all parts of your life.  If you’re offended by LGBT material, I urge you to read on anyways: in fact, leave whatever feedback you like.  I welcome it as long as you think about it: please, no knee-jerk reactions. I love discourse but cannot stand arguments.

With that in mind, here’s something I haven’t written about on this blog yet: I’m bisexual.

More accurately, I consider myself pansexual and genderqueer, smack-dab in the middle of the Kinsey scale, but for people who aren’t familiar with the whole LGBT alphabet the word “bisexual” is a little less threatening. Even for the old-fashioned LG half of the initialism, “bisexual” brings up a whole wealth of opinions.  So friends, readers: it is all right if this blog makes you uncomfortable.  Please, ask me honest questions: I’m happy to answer them.

I acknowledge that this entire part of my life is often way outside of most people’s social spheres, and that is just fine. Really.  I’m not a very judgmental person.

On to the actual post.

Oh my god did you HEAR about SCOTUS????

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Adulting All Over The Place, Part Two.

Today’s blog post is on a Thursday because, as the title suggests, I have been stuck in Adult World.  This means I’ve been dealing with the stress of moving (over multiple days– who the heck ends a lease on the 29th of a month?), I’ve been working a taxing job pretty much non-stop (no matter how much I love it), and for the first time in my life I’m actually supporting myself.

I feel like a grown-up.  When I moved out here a couple months ago, I was pretty nervous:  perfectly capable and aware of that, but nervous.  I felt like I had to be missing something, because there was no way I was ready for this.

I was fine, of course. Everyone goes through this at some point in their lives.

But that– as well as working a job that requires me to be a professional grown-up– got me thinking about what it means to be an adult in the first place.

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Snapshots of Being Human

As many of you know, I work in education. During the school year, I’m a substitute teacher; over the summer, I’ve been working at a school-sponsored summer camp.

I love my job.  I love coming home from a long day smelling like nail polish and pond water, I love tying shoelaces, I love ironing perler-bead art.  As a kid I was pretty self-aware of the differences between being an adult and being a kid: it’s amazing to see those experiences from the other side of the looking glass.  My day job is a constant roller coaster between exasperation and observation, and no one can say I’m not using my anthropology degree.

My favorite part of the job, though, is talking with the kids.

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A Letter To Myself

While packing up my life a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon something interesting: my old journal from the end of eighth grade.  I was thirteen at the start of it and fourteen at the end.  This isn’t the first time I’ve stumbled on old works (I actually use my old novels as a reference tool for writing young characters), but I hadn’t read one of my old diaries in years.

It was surprising.  Not because of the contents, which were about 50% boredom, 25% frustration, and 25% preparing for some post-apocalyptic world where the reader didn’t know who the president was in 2005.  That was expected and probably the result of reading too many Royal Diaries books.  It was surprising because it was my voice.  Just as sarcastic, just as observant (albeit from a different point of view), just as well-read.  Younger, less experienced with feelings and relationships. A bit “rAndOm”, which was the cool counterculture in the world of middle-schoolers at the time.

But very much me.

So here we go. The following letter applies to all smart, bored kids. I’m just writing it to the smart, bored kid I know best.

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