Flaws

I'm still editing this, so please don't think I typically write this shoddily.

Sugary poems and dreams right out of Spiritus Mundi are clogged with descriptions of “The Perfect Man”. You know the basics: wants to take care of you, straight teeth, saintliness, beautiful eyes, a calming voice, rippling muscles, just can’t hear enough of your bitching, etc. Well Mr. Perfect and/or his legions of “tween” minded pursuers, I’ll be looking elsewhere.

Don’t act like I can’t take care of myself and you. If you want to help that’s fine but I’m fairly capable of making sure I live to see tomorrow. If I see a guy with straight teeth, I probably didn’t notice them for a good long while. I don’t care too much about your teeth. What am I going to do with them? You’re saintly? Please, I have enough Catholic guilt to spare. Move along. Also, all eyes are beautiful. Show me a pair that aren’t and I’ll…worry about compensating your efforts then. Muscles are nice but brains are better. If I’m bitching the dead back to life someone best put me in my place (Which may or may not be the kitchen.).

Keep your shining armor. Give me flaws. Impatience won’t scare me. Let there be rebellion in the marrow of his bones. Marinate the man in dark secrets and passion. A smidgen of fear won’t hurt either. And everyone knows all the great men have quirks.

Impatience is nothing new. Get angry. Vent. Yell at the stars while I hold your hand in silence (or maybe I’ll be yelling too.). Don’t hold back your feelings—and remember: I have them too.

Live outside the box. Don’t get killed; but don’t anchor yourself in normalcies. Be active in the community. Defend your beliefs. If your sense of fashion rivals Alexander McQueen: Awesome. If you’re trendy and have no flair, I might work on you. We’ll see. ;)

Make manifest a bond so you feel safe enough to release all those mothy secrets into my ears. Be an interesting story drenched with twists and surprises. We can help each other in this hideously beautiful world we live in.

Confidence is a quality that I find attractive. However, we all have those moments where we look at ourselves and see vulnerable veins just waiting for a slip up. My ideal man should recognize his mortality every now and then—but never fashion it into a chain.

Keep your Mr. Darcys and Ken Dolls. Paper and plastic have limited appeal. Give me a soul.

Clothes make the (Wo)Man.

My mom told me all day that she needs more ideas for Christmas gifts for me. I told her a few oddities (Super glue, a glue gun, craft board, fabric, and books on art history) but she said she wanted more ideas. However, she is not going to buy what I want.

You: “Why?”
Me: “Because…I want a sweater dress, leggings, piercings for these cool earrings I found, some high heels, a wig that matches my natural color, and some more ‘girl’ outfits.”

I’ve done drag before. Not stereotypical drag with overdone lips, redrawn eyebrows, and flashy eighties’ left-overs. (This is known as “Camp Drag” if you wondered.)

Usually it was for a party; but on October 11, 2009 I gussied up in rhinestones, a tiara, and an old wedding dress complete with train to march on the surprisingly clean streets of Washington, D.C. amidst other activists to demand equal rights. This was the first time I had done it as a political statement. People have said, “If I have to wear the dress, I will.” I just wore it because I’m a queen. ;)

I never really thought about wanting “girl” clothes before. I mean, there was a time where I would say I’d only do drag if it was among my last job options. Lately though, the more I think about it the more I wouldn’t mind it.

I mean, clothes are just fabric cut and sewn. Is there any type of fabric that is specifically reserved for either sex? How did society come to fear something so harmless?

What are your thoughts on this?

Hesitance

Silence.
I don’t know what I want to write.
My fingers clumsily dance across these all too familiar squares without much premonition.
Secrets: Can I write them here? /Should I write them here?
How will I identify whose eyes will glide along my ideas, dreams…insanities?
I’m not asking for understanding, pity, or praise. I want answers; but I’m not sure where I want them to come from.
Do I want to risk revealing my raw thoughts to those they may affect?
We’ll see how this goes.