How to avoid being productive

Play on the internet. Scribble in multiple blogs, then look up knitting patterns. It's working for me so far.
I don't want to do any of the things that I am supposed to be doing. See this? This is me not writing about the fall of Muscovy.
And this?
Check out how I cleverly avoid reading about Chinese factory workers.
I may have to restrict myself. Blog usage is way too much fun. And I am totally enamoured with Blogger's super adaptable design and friendly large print. Next up, user pick. I'm trying to decide on one that shows me off AND leaves me unrecognizable.
Aww...now I have a kitty. Another distraction. Hi kitty. You wanna write my midterms?
I didn't think so. You never earn your keep.
Off to do something unproductive.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAWN

My sleep schedule got thrown sometime in the last month, and I can't seem to shake the idea that 3am is the new eleven pm. It's not, which I realize again every 3pm, in class, when I get extra sleepy. But I seem to have forgotten again.
I just felt like posting something lighter or more trivial after my last post, which was extra heavy. I don't want anyone coming to my blog and getting slit their wrists depressed. I have my moments of thinking dark things, but I really DO think other stuff. Honest. Like right now, I'm thinking about washing my clothes. The pile in my closet has reached take over the world proportions again, and I must stop it before it does something rash.
....
.....
......
Dangit. Brain not working. I bet if I try to sleep it will work overtime. Stupid brain.
I guess I'll have to aim for the extra fluffy, since my brain can't formulate complex humor right now.
I'll go with the ever popular ten things you didn't know about me.
here goes:
1. I'm a big sci fi geek
2. I am my cat's bitch
3. Once upon a time I could actually spell. That time has passed.
4. I have been known to dance in my underwear. To the Pretty in Pink soundtrack.
5. Once I tried origami. It was a disaster. That paper crane was laughing at me.
6. I used to write humor for my high school newspaper, and eventually I plan on doing it for a real live grown up one.
7. I also used to edit that newspaper. I agree with Mark Twain on newspaper editing. He said "I am not the editor of a newspaper and shall always try to be good and do right so that God will not make me one." Ditto.
8. I used to collect qoutes in a small black notebook; I am slowly resurrecting that habit.
9. I think that if I lined up this semester's required reading it could circle the globe three times (grumble grumble, bitch bitch)
10. I know from firsthand experience that in politics the word "frankly" roughly translates to "ahem, I am about to be an asshole".
Off to try and sleep. Maybe if I could just trick my brain into thinking that it IS 3pm, and that I am in class....

Trigger warning

If you would rather read something light hearted I reccomend Killer Babies or How to love a Gamer. You've been warned.*************************************************

I've been stewing over a nightmare that I had the other night. It was graphic, and frightening, and based on the true story of my life.
I am a sexual assault survivor. It sticks in my throat when I say that.
I was fourteen the first time, and he was one of my friends. We had been friends for two years when we went out on a couple of dates and one night things went to hell in a hand basket. I won't say what he did exactly. He did not rape me. But he did do just about everything else. The only reason that I was not raped is that in the middle of it I froze with his hand clenched in mine and he couldn't get to the zipper of my pants.
There are a lot of things about that night that I regret. I regret not screaming, but the truth is that I had been trained not to scream by childhood physical abuse. I regret not telling anyone, but the attitude of my family towards my physical abuse gave me no hope that telling anyone would actually accomplish something, so I didn't. I regret willingly participating in sexual acts with this person afterwards because I was afraid that he would tell people what "we" had done. I finally got a backbone after about three months and told him off. That was the night that he walked another friend of ours home from my house and raped her. I had thought that he was obsessed with me; it never occured to me that she might be in danger. I am partially responsible for her rape. I never told her, but there were elements of what he did that were meant as a message to me. He raped her to get back at me. I made myself sick after that; I couldn't even look at me.
During my entire childhood I was saved in part by my faith. But my faith was of a devoutly Christian flavor, and by strict religious reckoning I was now used goods and had nothing to offer anyone. I eventually stopped talking to God. I have not spoken to he/she/it since.
When my next boyfriend came along I was just happy that somebody wanted me. Three months in he demanded sexual favors. I felt like I couldn't say no, that I had nothing left to hold back. I hated every minute of it, but a combination of force and coercian led to some of the most bizarre experiences of my life. As it turns out he was into things that I can only describe as sexual torture. I remember them all like they happened to somebody else; I spent most of that time dissasociating. He was also controlling and violent. I told no one; no one had listened to me before and I had no reason to believe that they would suddenly start. I was finally able to shake him just before my seventeenth birthday. He called me two years later, just to keep tabs. He asked if I was still a virgin, and then laughed. I had been with him for two years, maybe waiting another two was some kind of ritual for him.
I went to college. I never looked back. I can talk about all the beatings I got as a kid without batting an eyelash. This I cannot talk about except in spare prose on an anonymous blog. Maybe my dreams are telling me that its time to try.

Attack of the Killer Babies!!!!!!!

All of my friends have reached that life stage where they are spawning babies faster than I can knit booties. Maybe I could pursuade them to try footbinding; sure its crippling and horribly painful, but if it gives me a leg up on my knitting....Just joking.
The latest baby got spawned over the weekend. My friend (the new daddy) sent my Best Beloved and I pictures. Very cute. The perfect bootie model.
It brought to mind the incident a few weeks ago where my Best Beloved and I suddenly realized that I was not just "late", but "very late" and began to fear that we too might add to the baby trend. We are not baby people. We like them when we can give them back. So it was with great trepidation that we bought a test (two, actually) and I took it.
How many college students does it take to read the results of an EPT?
Sadly, at least two. Neither of us could wait to see what was in the screen, so hearts in throats we stood around the bathroom counter ignoring the old adage about watched pots. It came out. Sort of.
"What the hell?" My Best Beloved demanded, grabbing onto the handle and turning it in a circle.
"Ew. Don't touch that!" I could not believe he touched that. Then I saw what he saw. "What is that?" I wondered out loud. "Modern art or something?"
We stared at it longer. One window had a blue line, like it was supposed to. The window next to it had one blue line for negative, and then a sort of hint of a swishy blue line in the background.
"What the hell?" We said it simultaneously.
"Does the swishy blue line mean positive?" There was panic in his voice. I sympathized; the idea of getting fat and having stretch marks for the rest of my life didn't thrill me.
"It had better not". I glared at him.
"Hey! You act like I did this all on my own! I do remember you helping."
I chose to ignore that. "Lets hope you didn't do anything".
"Me? You're the one with the whole baby making apparatus thingy!"
Panic makes people stupid. Would you believe he's a science major?
The directions called for a one week wait before retesting. It was an unpleasant week, while I wondered how to do childcare and classwork and he kept volunteering (way too readily for someone claiming to love school) to drop out for the good of all. I finally retested and got cleared. Thank the gods of my chosen sterility.
After we read the results, we were sitting in the livingroom on our respective computers playing on the internet and generally being not sociable. He finally broke the silence by looking over at me, smiling goofily and saying "you know, maybe I do want kids".
I threw a sofa pillow at him.

Family reunion hell

Just when I think I've reached the limits of stupid things I could do in this lifetime I one up myself. What was it this time? Have I decided to experiment with drugs? Eaten laxatives like candy? Tried to bungie jump with fabric trim?
Worse, much worse. I've agreed to go to my family reunion.
If this blog had a soundtrack, this would be where the dunh dunh DUNH! sound came in. My family reunions ar the stuff of nightmares. I would actually rather bungie jump with fabric trim, but there seem to be an abundance of people who have their hearts set on seeing me that weekend and if I take the trim plunge they won't see me ever. The things I do for others.
To say that I am a pariah in an already Balkanized family is like saying that Antartica is a spot of ice on a speck of dust. Technically accurate, sure, but one hell of an understatement. Just my luck to be the only kid born into an uptight family that can't lie worth beans or blend to save her life.
Basically the break down is this: my Mother's side of the family hates my Father because his family was what they considered poor white trash. They were thrilled when my folks split up about fifteen years ago. And might I add, assholes to my siblings and I. So that would be strike one. Strike two is that my Mother is a former model, and though I am a dead ringer for her I lack the eating disorder to be that skinny and the patience for that much upkeep. They never tire of pointing out that I am too short/too fat/not polished looking enough. When they find a flaw, like my shortness, they attribute it to "that other side" (ironically Dad's family is tall and rail thin). Strike three is me myself. These people will never like me unless I go through total personality rewrite. In a family where a slight uplift of one eyebrow at a given time is a deadly insult and everything is about controlling the perceptions of others, I am cursed with a certain degree of directness. I've been that way since birth. And I was cursed with a degree of precociousness as well. If I had been a boy they would have found it cute. Unfortunately I was a girl, so there were apparently completely opposite standards that I was supposed to adhere to. I didn't get the memo, not that it would have mattered, because I can't unbe me, not even to fit in with my own family.
The choices I make just because they seem right to me strike these people as open rebellion. I used to major in anthropology. Half of this family is either ministers or their wives and kids; they thought that anthropology meant "heresy". I got a nose peircing because I liked them. They thought that I was "acting out". I drink very little alchohol; most of them are alchoholics who don't realize it yet and are upset that I don't join the noon happy hour.
I'm pretty sure that I'm fine and that there are things wrong with them. I am as certain of that as they are of the opposite.
Ironically my closest in age brother has the opposite problem. Where they think that I am a manish woman they think that he is a girly man. He is, in fact, the reason I am going to the annual family hellcapades. We'll be each other's wing man. I love my brother. If anyone screws with him they will be eternally sorry.
Since I know that regardless of what I do or how I dress I'm in for the weekend from hell as well as total familiar rejection, I'm going to have some fun with these people. I'm cleaning my tiny silver handcuff earrings and reglueing the soles to my dom boots from high school. Let them think I dress like this all the time; I will have the last laugh. Muwhahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sets fire to laptop in pure frustration

I took up writing again. I was on top of the world with my latest piece, very satisfied and all of that, when I went to upload it to a web page and remembered that my laptop and my wireless service are not getting along and that I would have to move my latop to the livingroom for the upload, where I could plug it in to a cord. I had saved my doc four times, so when I went to shut it down and move it (as per my shiny new owners manual) I was unconcerned. When I went to open my file for the upload a minute later, it was gone. I immediately invented new swear words and had several minutes of contemplating throwing either myself, of the laptop through the window. Probably myself. This was the first peice I had been happy with in years, I felt like I was stepping back into myself as I wrote it and then it just...evaporated.
Why didn't I back it up, you ask.
It has no floppy drive, it won't save to cd for some unkown reason, and my portable drive was awol. I do know better than THAT for heavens sakes.
My boyfriend watched the anarchy from our couch, and then tried to help in that meddlesom male way of his wherein it is never enough to listen to the problem, they must attempt a solution (yes, I realize that this is a stereotype and many new age males are excellent listeners-I assure you that he isn't one of them). This led to a scuffle over the laptop, and then me yelling at him for rummaging through my blog documents. He has no idea that this blog exists. I like it that way. Fortunately he had his "I am 1950's male watch me tinker" game face on, so I doubt he noticed what he was reading.
He finally concluded, he thought brillantly, that I had simply saved it wrong. User error, end of story. As it happens, I saved it at least four times while I was writing it. Did I accidentally NOT save it right FOUR TIMES, I with my journalism background and depressingly long college education?
I think not. Yes, Occahm's razor demands that I accept the user error explanation, but I was there. I saved. It even asked me if I wanted to replace the previous document, and I clicked yes every time. I closed it, I brought it back up. It was there. And then it wasn't. Now I'm getting woman who saw aliens treatment, in the sense that my Best Beloved assures me that my document is not gone through technological breakdown, but because I was stupid. Though he is much too smart to phrase it that way. I've pointed out before that it's not good to piss of the person who sleeps next to you, particualry when that person is me.
For someone who knows his every secret and who he claims to trust with his very heart and soul, I get very little credibility. I don't think he fully realizes that a good percentage of the time he's quite the neanderthal. For example, soon after we hooked up I was saying something feministy (ie seperating me from a doormat-can't remember where I heard that but it's a qoute). He looked at me with genuine shock and said, "oh my God, your're a feminist?" like feminist was a dirty word. I pointedly asked him how pathetic the women in his family were to have let him grow up thinking that feminism was a bad thing. He took my point.
Another time he actually slapped my rear in public, and was truly appalled when I just as publicly whirled around and asked him if I was a hooker. He looked from side to side and said "no" before I told him not to treat me like one. He tried to explain that his Dad did it in public to his Mom as a sign of affection. I replied that that sounded like her problem, not mine.
When someone cracked a joke about the two of us getting married and he called me Mrs.hislastname I felt compelled to point out that I had no intention of changing my last name. In fact the thought that I would be expected to had never crossed my mind. I was just as shocked that he assumed I would as he was when he learned that I assumed I wouldn't. We had a hypothetical argument about our hypothetical marriage. It was silly, but I really hate losing. So does he.
Why am I still here and not on the prowl, looking for sensitive new aged guys?
I happen to like this one. He has his good points. For example, he looks like Albrecht Durher in his 1500 self portrait down to the green eyes. I always loved that painting. And he's terribly funny. And smart. And when you peel away the layers of his poor communication skills, he's actually very kind and well meaning. He's got the whole package, its just in an unexpected wrapper.
And then there is the fact that the first time we spoke I knew that I was talking to the other half of me, and he knew the same. Have you ever felt a pull to someone so strong that you couldn't ignore it? It was that pull. I have never felt anthing like it before or since. I knew within a week that he belonged in my life. I just didn't know in what capacity, and that limbo lasted three years.
And there is the added incentive that we make each other think. They say that you can't change someone, and this is true. But you can convince them to let go of an outmoded idea that is false and doesn't really suit them anyway. So far I've won on rear slapping and feminism, and he's won on me talking to his family (I hate families) and bedmaking (I would never bother). We're housebreaking each other slowly.
Now to work on the issue of my credibilty.....
Which begs the question, what issue does he have in mind to work on with me?

Kitty blues

I had to wake up by the crack of noon today; my furry alarm clock wouldn't have it any other way. Pet owners will sympathize with this: so there I am, laying in bed, minding my own business when my boyfriend gets up to use the bathroom and leaves the door open just enough for a determined feline to sneak through. The feline hops up on the bed, glares at me with all his might, and says "meooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow!"
I look up at him blankly.
Frustrated with my density he stands up straighter and says "mmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww!"
I have no idea what it wants at this unglodly hour, so I stuff my head under a pillow and try to go back to sleep. Suddenly I hear cat sized footsteps on the bed and feel something flop down against my back. And then it begins. The cleaning. Loud slurping, toe sucking sounds right by my ear. I peek my head out of the pillow and glare at him.
"You know that's very loud", I tell him pointedly.
He looks at me with the most hatefilled eyes I've ever seen on a cat and makes a strangled sighing sound.
"I imagine you want to eat", I say conversationally.
He reaches over and bites me. I decide that I am on the right track.
I roll out of bed and head for the door. "Fine, I'll feed you. But next time I get a pet its going to be a parakeet".
He looks unconcerned. He knows I'll never get a parakeet. He rises from the bed moving with arrogant grace, confident of his own superiority, and sahsays to the kitchen.
Darned cat.

Why I write this

Finally I get to write in my blogs. School has been hell this week. It makes the loans I took out to go seem massochistic. They probably are, with my track record.
It was pointed out to me that so far a grand total of two people have commented on this thing, and suggested to me that I close it down. I'm not going to close it down. I like the anonymity too much. I have another blog that I cannot write in without alerting two of my three brothers, a sister in law, a potential sister in law, two friends of the family and this one girl I used to know who gossips too much. And their friends. My life is full of wonderful people and they love me. And they talk. A lot.
I hate secrets, but truth has consequences. People are fragile and unpleasant truths can drive them off, or push them into denial to protect their vision of the world. I know that rejected feeling too well to be completely honest in my other blog. But I also hate secrets. I hate them passionately. This is my compromise. I put things out in the open without risking the up close relationships that I've built slowly over years. And while there may have only been a couple of people commenting, it made my day every time. And I've been exposed to some neat new people, which is always nice.
So no, I'm not shutting this down.
I try to keep my blog light, but there are parts of my life that are dark, and this is the honest blog. I won' t apologize.
Last night I had a nightmare. It was shapeless, mostly because I can't remember what was in it. It wasn't bad because it had bad images or events in it. It wasn't the kind of dream I had when I was a teenager and a walking monument to PTSD. It was a feeling.
Most people go their whole lives without ever really knowing if their nearest and dearest would sell them out, would kick back and let bad things happen to them just because it would cost to much to aknowledge the truth. Most people (so I hear) grow up with some form of reliable adult around. Imagine being eleven and realizing that not only would your own parents sell you out just to keep up appearances, but that there are no reliable adults to take their place. Imagine your whole family; cousins, Aunts, Uncles, siblings, even Grandparents, collectively looking away while you get hurt over and over again. Imagine how you would feel if your life was like this for years at a time, and you were just waiting to be killed out pure negligence.
It was that feeling.
I have never been hung over, but I imagine that that is what my waking up felt like. I don't usually rise gracefully, but I couldn't pull myself out of bed until three pm. That's a record, even for me. I felt sick, dizzy, and somehow low. I thought the feeling would go away after I got up and moved around. It didn't. I caught myself snapping at my boyfriend. I like to think of myself as a person with good self control. I think that no matter what else may be wrong with you, you should be able to restrain yourself from hurting other people for emotional reasons. I try not to let the insubstantial realm of emotions control the concrete reality. That was blown straight to hell by 5pm.
By 6pm I was curled in the fetal position on my bed feeling worse than I've felt in about a decade. Sometime since I'd waken up I had argued with my boyfriend. I had a meltdown, I hit mysef, right in the middle of it, accutely aware that I must look ridiculus but so far over the edge that I really didn't care. He must have thought it was a manipulation tactic becase he tried to ignore it; he should have known better. It was actually a measure of how much self control I had lost.
It wasn't the last time of the day that I would hurt myself.
I'd like to think that it will be the last time this lifetime. It won't.
Even as I found ways to make myself feel pain I was accutely aware of the irrationality of it all.
It didn't stop me though. This was building for weeks; petty errors I made that I couldn't forgive myself for, things I remembered doing that were wrong from long ago, things that I did not so long ago. Logically I know that other people would not hold me as resonsible for them as I do, that this is my belief in personal responsibilty take to an unhealthy extreme. But there are really two kinds of knowing; knowing in your mind is easy. But its a shallow knowing. Knowing in your heart is harder. And your heart is not a logical thinker.

I live

I haven't been on either of my blogs in a few days. Too many other things to do. And then that vegetative state that comes sometimes with the weekend, when I can't actually do anything because my brain is tired. I knit myself a funky scarf instead, blissfully mindless knit stitches all the way. And we had a Pretender marathon with our brand new season four. I love the Pretender. I love that the most salient characteristic about Jarrod is compassion, and that the dysfunctional family represented by "The Center" makes my family seem like like the Leave it to Beaver clan, and I love Ms. Parker's mean spirited Xenaness.
I also love tv. Its unfortunate that we don't have cable and can only watch this stuff when we buy it.
Speaking of things that I love, I thought it might be fun to compile a list of that sort of stuff for visitors to my blog. So far I've talked about my depressing childhood, my politics with regards to Plan B, and how I cope with my online gamer, but I haven't really talked about me, such as I am.
Here goes.
Favorite books: The Bordertown series edited by Terri Windling has a soft spot in my heart, as well as the beautiful anthology that she edited about child abuse (which includes her personal experience with it) The Armless Maiden. Although, warning, the anthology I mentioned will trigger the sensitive. I read a lot of Charles de Lint; there have been recent books of his that I thought lacked the depth of his better books, but they have a lot of heart in them and there is always a sort of moral beauty. Andrew Greely's Irish fill in the second word books (Gold, Whiskey, etc.) are fun reads. I'd better abbreviate into list form: the Barnard translation of Sappho's poetry, The Scarlet letter, the Anita Blake vampire hunter novels (even the later ones that get weird), Jennifer Roberson's Tiger and Dell novels (up to the last two), Yeats collected poems, Emma Bull's Bone Dance, some Rod Mckuen poetry and Herbert Mason's translation of Gilgamesh. Pant, pant. I read a lot.
Favorite movies:Empire Records (product of my era), Ten Things I hate About You (ditto), Hidalgo, Chocolat, and the Gladiator. I also have a weakness for old barbarian movies, and the classic Eric the Viking.
Favorite Music: very eclectic. Too eclectic. There isn't enough time. I'm especially fond of the Celtic and Rock genres though. Wicked Tinkers is a badass bagpipe and drum band that I listen to a lot. It's pipe music you could dance to.
Favorite tv: Firefly, The Pretender, Xena, Roar, Roswell, CSI, Dark Angel, the Gilmore Girls and Eureka. Yes, many of my favorite shows have had sadly short lifespans.
I think that the stimuli that we choose to surround ourselves with says a lot about who we are, and what kind of world we want to live in. I hope you enjoyed the crash course.
Back next time with more thought provoking material.

How to love a gamer

The other night I was looking through old blogs from when my boyfriend and I were carrying on a long distance relationship. It was romantic stuff. I even got sugar shock a couple of times. After surfing the entries for awhile I turned to the smelly, unkempt man lounging on the couch beside me clad only in his boxer briefs.
"Honey, what happened to you?"
This was greeted with the standard grunt of recognition without intent to communicate. I lobbied long and hard for that grunt. It was a step up from the dead silence that I used to be greeted with if I disturbed him in his most sacred of rituals (playing online games).
I prodded him with a pencil. It was as close as I was willing to get considering how long it had been since his last shower. "Hooooney...."
"I'm sorry, did you say something?"
I changed tactics. "You've been sitting there for so long that the couch cushin has shaped itself around your butt and you probably have bedsores."
"I don't have bedsores yet", he answered in vauge, distracted sort of voice.
"And", I added reasonably, "the dishes that you offered to do three days ago are still sitting in the kitchen where they are getting progressively smellier".
"I'll get to them".
This mysterious I'll get to them phrase has burned me before. Every day for three days, in fact. I no longer trust it. "I want a timeframe", I told him in the same tone of voice shopkeepers use to tell college students that they won't accept their checks. "You used to be so responsible. What happened?"
Semi-audible grunt.
I always promised myself that I would not be that woman with the honey do list a mile long. Unfortunately, when "Honey" doesn't actually "do" anything, it does tend to lengthen. Now I promise myself no more than a very reasonable quarter of a mile.
It does beg the "what do I see in this man" question though.
Honestly, beneath that presently kind of stenchy facade beats the heart of a caring, well intentioned, supportive human being. This is the person who never once rolled his eyes when I decided spontaneoulsy that I wanted to learn how to knit and then spent the next three weeks having to be rescued from progressively knottier yarn messes. When the pattern for my grandmother's slippers proved to be a wash and I ended up with an object that looked like a cross between a purse and a deformed sock, did he laugh? Nope. He tried to help fix it. When I decided that I wanted to make yet another attempt at learning the guitar and spent three weeks stuck playing the song "Molly Malone" on an electric guitar (an effect not unlike nails on chalkboard) did he cringe visibly or ask me to stop? Not ever.
He always supports my endeavors, even when I'm really, really bad at them. Of course there is the occasional over helping, like when I misguidedly decide that I'm going to go on a diet and he puts all of the desserts in the top cabinet above the stove and I spend the next four weeks sneaking a chair over to pilfer from my own stash, but he means well. And truthfully, he usually showers more.
So I will take the lessons that I have learned from the past two years of his love and support. I will hold my tongue, and my nose, and occaisionally walk him so that the bedsores do not get too severe until he either comes to his senses or gets bored. Although I will still be adamant about the dishes.

Plan B is a Good Thing

Recently I've noticed a lot of buzz about plan B in the media and in the world of blogging. Some people have come out in opposition to Plan B and made a lot of arguments that I think are flawed, so I'm adressing some of the more prevalent ones that I've seen. Maybe this will alter some viewpoints.
Arguments Against Plan B in general.
A lot of people have been sqeamish about Plan B because their feeling is that it will negate personal responsibility. A drug that allows for the prevention of pregnancy after sex would allow for people to get off with consequence free unprotected sex, so runs the general argument I've been reading. If you follow this argument to its natural conclusion, all people who realized the morning after that they had had unprotected sex should roll with the dice and accept any conception that should occur, even if they are not emotionally, financially, or physically prepared for it, because that is the responsible thing to do. Does it sound unwise now? I know that people are genuinely (and rightfully) concerned about the lack of personal responsibilty shown by people in our society. However, if one is sincerely not prepared for a pregnancy and makes a mistake that may lead to it, the responsible thing is to follow the only course of action left that may prevent a pregnancy, because responsibilty later is better than responsibilty never. In short, sometimes Plan B is the responsible choice.
In addition, I should point out here that Plan B is not by any means 100% effective. The old morning after pill (essentially a double dose of birth control pills) was only 75% effective if taken immediately, less so the later it was taken. I believe the new Plan B pill decreses in effectiveness as well, and the packaging I've seen for it only lists its effectiveness at 80%. This is not a get out of jail free card. It's a last ditch effort.
Another popular argument that I've seen is the old "only for rape and incest vitims" line. There are some problems with it. For instance, rape is an underreported crime. The numbers differ depending on where you go to get them, so think on this: how many rape victims do you know? How many reported the crime? How many were willing to admit publicly, within seventy two hours, that they had been raped? And here's one more; how many were initially believed? Blame the victim is alive, even if weakened, in our culture. Suppose the victim does report rape. Suppose that they are believed. Then the official channels would still have to verify it. Where in the 72 hour margin of effectiveness does that leave the victim when they've finished? Isn't it better to leave the availability open, even if one is taking the only for rape or incest stance from a moral perspective?
And some info about the over the counter purchasing and cost.
Doctors and Planned Parenthood clinincs are notoriously bad about being open on weekends. So if you made a mistake or were sexually assualted, and it was on a Friday night, you may not be able to see a physician in a timely fashion. Thursday, Monday, fine. But don't you dare have an emergency on the weekend. Yes, some doctors will make time to see you on an emergency basis. But a low income clinic like the Planned Parenthood in my hometown couldn't. They never even had a human being there to answer the phones if it wasn't a weekday. It wasn't malice, it was a funding problem. This left you at the local ER, where the average waiting period for a person without insurance to be spoken to at all was ten hours, the hope of preventing pregnancy getting smaller with every one of them. Maybe you have insurance. Maybe you have a relationship with a private doctor who will make time for your emergencies on his or her weekend. Lucky you. Not everyone has that.
And then we talk of cost. A doctors appointment can run from $60 to $80 dollars (without insurance) just to be standing in the room to get a prescription. I'm not sure how much the pill itself costs. A trip to the ER where Plan B is administered would run about $120. Again, without insurance. Planned Parenthood will give the stuff away, but that's assuming that there is one in your area and that you can get in early enough for the pill to work. For some people, over the counter is both more affordable and more timely.
That said, the concerns.
The only concerns that I have with the pill being made available over the counter are side effects and misuse. It was probably soundly tested, but I haven't seen the data personally so I really don't know about the potential for side effects. I can't say that there are no major ones until I've seen that. The other concern that I have is that women who are panicked and not firing on all cylinders will buy these pills because they think it will stop a pregnancy that they already know about. These drugs usually cause birth defects, so misuse could be dangerous.
Hopefully this was food for thought. There is one other comment that I wanted to make though. Both within the anti abortion argument and the anti plan b argument I've enountered the "you play, you pay" ideolgy. The idea is that if you've had sex and gotten pregnant you deserve to be pregnant, like its a punishment. This is profoundly sick thinking. Childbirth should never be a punishment. Children should never be a punishment. Becoming a parent should be a joyful occaision. I can't believe anyone actually needs this pointed out to them.

So, so addicted

I love free knitting patterns, which in and itself is not so wrong. I think where I went astray was in looking at them when I should have been reading for class. Sometimes school just really gets in the way of my hobbies.
I was trolling blogs today and saw a lot of stuff about the release of Plan B, some of it negative. Tune in tomorrow if you want to hear why prescription free Plan B is great, and why this pill is great in general. I'm organizing my thoughts on it at the moment.
I am now out of things to say. Yay! Mindless filler.

Insomnia really, really sucks

I hope my sleep is back on schedule tomorrow night. School and all.
Another blog I read really reminded me of the person who inspired the balconey poem on my last post. I haven't heard from that guy in awhile. I wonder if he's okay. I got his mother last time I called, but this is the woman who used to beat him with extension cords, so she's not a really great barometer of his health and well being. That he still lives with her gives me the heebie jeebies. She actually told him that she had cancer to get he and his bro to move two states away to be closer to her, and once they got there "cancer" was never mentioned again. Some families actually make me feel better about mine. At least their controlling sadism is usually blunt.
I hate that there are so many people out there that I can't help. I hate watching people that I really care about toss their lives and free will because they don't even see what they have. I hate that I can't show them. A whole montage of people that I couldn't help over the years flashes before my eyes every time I meditate on this subject.
I think of J. All of us fourteen, knowing his cop dad beat the crap out of him, yet not being able to stop it. I remember the time he came around bruised black all along his rib cage and three times as wide as a man's fist, a solid bruise. D felt his ribs, they were actually soft.
That reminds me of D. My first boyfriend. He had a solid heart but the beatings he took from his stepfather helped turn him into a crack addict. Last I heard he tried to strangle the mother of his children while she slept. I remember the time he vanished for two days. We all thought he was dead so we went to his house pretending to sell candy, just to check on him. And then there was A, whose Dad controlled her every move and finally snapped, beating her face with a maglite. She got raped not long after and couldn't tell Daddy, so she told her church, and they told her to forgive and forget. And K tried to call CPS about his uncle beating him. CPS said that there wasn't conclusive evidence, so his Uncle tried to kill him and K never reported again. C's parents told her that she would never amount to anything. She always said that I was the one with the crazy dreams that could make them come true. I still have wall hanging with the poem "Dreams" on it that she gave me two years before dropping out, pregnant and married to an abusive spouse at sixteen. K was that spouse, passing the cycle right along into his new family. They may have killed each other by now. This list doesn't even cover half of it.
I grew up with these kids. I lived like them. I was hated like they were. But I'm here (college, good relationship, etc) and they aren't. Like I knew something I should have taught them. It bothers me. In theory I know the difference. I was "gifted". I could write at a pro level when I was fifteen. I caught the interest of my teachers and they gave me the positive feedback that I needed to survive. But I don't think that kids should have to be regarded as gifted to get positive feedback and regard. They shouldn't have to be considered "smart" for someone to think that they are worth salvaging.
I would probably become a social worker, but that would be much too much like trying to save the world with no hands, a stance that works for some bicycle tricks but not for life in general.

blog blog bloggity blog

Usually my life is pretty drama free. For instance, this week's big event was me discovering a new dessert. I like dessert. I want to go on the record as saying that. Also, I'm working on learning a new song. It sounds just as bad as the old ones, but it will be NEW, and hence, better. My knitting isn't coming along because school session started this week and I haven't had the time to get to that one project I've been meaning to do. And I haven't written anything, or gone to a poetry reading and read anything, which was the goal I had in mind this week.
However, I did find some of my angsty teen poetry this week, so even though I've been incredibly unproductive I can still subject others to my bad poetry, via the internet.
Bad poetry alert.

"Your Balconey"
Sometimes you call me and say:
"my balconey with its ten stories of viod looked especially good today"
And I want to take you in my arms and tell you
what a lonely place the world would be without you in it,
and how hearts were meant to break
just now and then
not every day when the sun comes up
and the world starts again without you.
But I don't think you care.
Your pain would be over,
it is mine that would be beginning.