PSA:

If your cookware says “non-stick” on it, that isn’t a challenge.

If you treat it as a challenge, you are being an asshole to your cookware, who never did anything to deserve being ruined, and also to the person who washes your dishes, who just might do something to you. You will have it coming if they do.

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

Confession #83:

I don’t like chess. I learned how to play as a child, and played a lot for a couple of years, but other people ruined it for me. Chess—for whatever reason—was seen as THE measuring stick for intelligence, and I was a baby genius, so the assumption was that I’d be an amazing chess player. Truth is, I was and am a decent player, but it’s not hard to be better than me. I’m a reactionary player. In my family, Fatherbot and Will are the chess whizzes, the ones with the heads for strategy, and I’ll always play a game with them if they ask, because I know I can count on them to not be dicks about it. I’ve never had an issue with losing a game to someone—my problem was when my opponent rubbed my face in my loss, mocking me, deriding my intelligence, and screaming across the playground and/or classroom to get the other kids (and sometimes the teacher) to join them in shitting on me. My other problem was in winning against anyone who wasn’t in my family or my babysitter—because if I won, I was a stuck-up bitch who thought she was better than everyone else. You can see how that would be shitty for an eight-year-old.

Chess is, first and last, a GAME. It’s supposed to be fun. But when losing came with a serving of three days’ bullying, and winning brought on mass cold-shouldering, it quickly lost its appeal.
~
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

Hello, September

This is the first August I can remember where I haven’t spent the last half of the month gearing up for a new school year.

No restocking pens, paperclips, highlighters and sticky notes. No scrambling to buy textbooks. No having to reorganize my desk, taking it from Creative Mode to Academic Mode. No recalibrating my sleep schedule. No class conflicts and grad requirements to work with and around. No bad-professor-dodging. No cancelling my birthday because of exams. No pre-emptive stress over reading lists and assignment deadlines.

It feels strange. Good, in a way. Light. But hollow, too. Because this was my life’s primary structure and mode of organization for years and years. It was never easy, but there was something reassuring in having a definite measuring stick for success, in being able to know exactly what was required of me. It didn’t make it any easier to do what was required, didn’t lessen the toll on my mind or body, but at least I didn’t have the stress/fear of the unknown to deal with, too.

I’m trying to find a new way to structure my life. I know that, for a lot of people, that’s work. I’ve gotten news that I’m being published (OMG!!!) so my writing career is taking off, but I know that won’t pay the bills right now (and might not ever). I have some other opportunities that I’m looking into, and have gotten stuck playing the waiting game on, but there are things to consider on the work front that scare me.

Things like: How will I be able to hold a job when my health, physical and mental, is still unstable? How will I find a job that I can do with my limitations, and how do I hold onto it? What if I can’t work full-time? How will I support myself? What if I can’t ever work full-time?

And, because our culture is so, so bad about tying your identity to your work, your ability to be productive, I have to battle self-doubt on top of all those other things. Even knowing logically that I have worth as a person whether I can work or not doesn’t stop the emotional part of me from whispering that no one will want to be with, love, or be friends with a useless, disabled lesbian. It doesn’t stop the nagging questions of “How dependent will I have to be on others? How dependent am I allowed to be before I’m a burden? Who would be willing to shoulder that burden? How could I possibly be okay with being a burden on my loved ones?” from creeping up on me.

That kind of thought process is toxic, and I know it. It is also, unfortunately, incredibly difficult to root out. Knowing that it’s utter bullshit, that it’s capitalism telling me I have to be a successful, economically-productive individual to have worth; that it’s the decades of abuse undercutting my sense of self; that it’s my anxiety and mental illness trying to tear me down doesn’t make it go away or hurt any less.

All I can do in those moments is remind myself that:
1) I have people who love me so, so much, and in a variety of ways;
2) I have been working towards better health and stability for about 2 years now, and my efforts have started to pay off;
3) I am trying to pursue work, but have to wait and see if things fall into place—and it’s not my fault if they don’t;
4) My limits are not my fault;
5) Human beings are inherently social creatures, and we all need to be taken care of sometimes, no matter our age or level of ability;
6) I am trying, and that counts;
7) My limits are still not my fault.
~
I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

Anatomy of a Bullshit Sandwich

Top bun: rational-seeming argument

Lettuce: claiming familial/friendship/romantic ties

Cheese: crocodile tears

Meat: HEINOUS FUCKING BULLSHIT

Bottom bun: supposed sincerity

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

The wonderfully snarky individual previously referred to as “Card-Geek” will be referred to from here on out as “Alex”, and backdated content will be changed accordingly.

Because I love my people, and if I’m going to blog about them, I need to be respectful of their wishes. For my own peace of mind, if nothing else.

*blows kisses*

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

Another Official Edit

News and Changes

So, I’ve talked before (a lot) about writing, and the possibility of being published. Recently, I mentioned that I finished writing a book. But what I didn’t mention is that my writing projects didn’t exactly stop there.

Because I decided “what the hell?” and responded to some open calls for short fiction. Short, queer fiction, to be precise. And I heard back from one of them — Torquere Press. They want to publish one of the short stories I’ve written for them.

And, on the one hand? OMG, DREAM COME TRUE, I’M OVER THE MOON. On the other? It means that some things will have to change.

For starters, it might get a lot more busy round here. And I will have to change my name on this blog to reflect the name I’m publishing under. “Dominique Hayes” is who I’ve been on here for three years, and it feels . . . strange, for want a better word, to think about changing that. To give that up.

I’m trying to remind myself that not all change is bad. That this is less a loss than it is an evolution. Everything else is going to remain the same, here. This is still my corner of the interwebz, still the place I get to post thinky thoughts and rants, weird anecdotes and OMGWHAT? moments. This is still the place I get to write, and share that. This is still the place where I developed my voice.

It’s also going to be the place I let readers find me. Which. It’s odd, that the idea scares me so much when that was why I started this blog in the first place, but there’s a degree of safety in being an anonymous nobody on the internet. In having a readership under 50 people. It’s scary, to be one step closer to achieving a dream I’ve been quietly feeding for the better part of two decades.

But carpe diem, right? So, here goes. Goodbye, Dominique Hayes.

Hello, K. Martin.

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

 

My Take On Body Mod

It’s no secret that I’ve always been fascinated by body mod. I’ve written about it before. But that was on the attitudes people often throw at the modded, and I think that there’s so much more to it than just the obvious, than the tattoo or piercing or dye itself. Body mod is often dismissed as tacky or a fetish, possibly as youthful indiscretion. On the more extreme end of the spectrum, it’s associated with criminals, with people who are “trashy” and “don’t respect themselves.” But I don’t see it that way at all.

It takes a certain kind of confidence to get your mod done, whether you display it or not. You have to be self-assured to display it, because you will face backlash and judgement and never-ending commentary from the peanut gallery. And even if you don’t, even if you only put your tattoo or piercing or other mod in a place that is just for you, a place your clothing always covers and you never show anyone else, there’s no denying the fact that you bared your body to a professional, to a needle or gun or other tool. That you trusted in another human being’s skill and artistry to change your body permanently. You made yourself vulnerable, and that isn’t an easy thing to do.

There’s a certain courage in making that decision, but what I find most powerful about body modification is the fact that making that choice—to change the body you live in—a person is deciding for themselves what they find beautiful or meaningful, and then stepping inside that construct. So much of our culture is concerned with policing bodies, and it’s so pervasive that we don’t think about the norms that exist around hair length and clothing and weight. Body mod isn’t about pleasing other people—it’s not holding off the aging process to look attractive to others or maintain social status, it’s not about creating or maintaining a perfect body shape or colour or size. It’s not about trying to seem beautiful by conventional standards. It is a very obvious form of modification that doesn’t pretend to be anything else, that doesn’t seek outside approval. It is an act whereby you commit to living your truth, to putting your money where your mouth is regarding how you view the world.

And that kind of courage, confidence, and commitment is damn attractive.

~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.