The Point

Holy fuck you guys,

I've been absent in your lives since June. FUCKING JUNE. I considered never coming back, then I considered coming back but kept stopping myself... kind of like when you pick up the phone to text someone you really want to like you and then you pause just before clicking 'send' to throw the phone down in shame/fear/embarrassment/a bundle of indiscernible nerves. Then you do that again. And again. And again. Until, finally, you find yourself staring in the mirror screaming "SEND THE TEXT AND STOP BEING STUPID!"


I mean, I hope I'm not the only one who does that every now and again.

So now I guess you know how I got back to writing. But what about why I left you for so long? Well, I was on my own personal vision/spirit/coming of age quest. Seriously; I'm not being silly. I'm pretty sure I found my spirit vegetable (turnip, if you were wondering) and my spirit song ("Strawberry" by Everclear). Unfortunately, I'm still seeking a spirit animal, a spirit color, and a spirit smell. Suggestions are welcome.

I just re-read that last paragraph and, apparently, in the last five months I've become a hippie. Please forgive me.

letznotandsaywedid.tumblr.com

Okay, so I'm not sure if I'm searching for a point in life anymore, but since the philosophy of everything happens for a reason still seems logical, I'll share a story with you and, together, we can see if there's anything to be gleaned. Kapish?


When I was in high school, I had two best friends: Oriana and Chelsey. By our senior year, they had come down with an affliction that PTA moms affectionately refer to as a case of "the Boy Crazy." It was a little bit gross. "The Boy Crazy" is this terrible disease where girls think about boys all the time--kissing them, touching them, dating them, marrying them, holding them, and so on and so forth. TBC wouldn't be so excruciatingly terrible if it wasn't a permanent state of mind. However, when a girl gets TBC, she loses her ability to live in reality--all she can focus on is the iron cage of longing her heart is stuck fluttering around in.

TOON HERTZ

And, to make matters worse, TBC is 100% contagious.

In my case, I felt left out: my two best friends were going on and on about the last time they saw Michael or Gabriel or Travis or whoever and all I had to talk about was the English teacher who told me that if I wanted to get famous for writing literature, I needed a drug or alcohol problem. We were existing in totally different worlds.

It wasn't that I didn't like boys (I mean, I don't, but I didn't know this back then), it was just I didn't know any boys that induced TBC mentality in me. Then one day, sitting in the parking lot after school,  I saw him. We'll call him... Ebert. He had great arms and cinnamon skin and these beautifully twisted dreadlocks. I was pretty sure those attributes made him attractive and I immediately began referring to him as "that hot boy with the hair".

He was friends with Oriana's biggest crush, so we were able to do a lot of boy watching together (is that enjoyable for anyone? Really... you just stare at boys and what do you think about? Sex? Babies? Your wedding dress? Honestly, I'm curious). In two seconds, I went from outcast to full on part of the conspiracy. Suddenly, I had something to report when lunch time came ("He passed me in the hall after gym!") and something to contribute after school ("God, look at the way his arm muscles move!"). I even had the ability to participate in stalking ("Since he passed me in East Hall after gym, his class must be on the back end of campus... I'm going to try to figure out his schedule!"). It was like TBC wasn't a disease but a competition and I was going to prove to the world that I did it better than anyone else, ever.

OLIVER THOMAS

However, after a few weeks, it became clear that I could never win TBC game. See, while Oriana and Chelsey and all of my other friends were going all Bella Swan on their crushes, they were doing it with the intention of actually snagging the boy for their own. It turns out that I didn't have that intention. In fact, I'd never spoken to Ebert. To this day, I don't know what his voice sounds like. I never had a class with him, attended a party he might be at, ate lunch near his clique on the bleachers, nada. I had picked the least attainable and most easily avoidable boy on campus to be my crush while I grappled with TBC dilemma.

It occurred to me at one point that if I were to somehow convince Ebert to like me back, I don't know what I'd do with him. Date him? How exactly? What do girlfriends and boyfriends do when they aren't making out? I certainly didn't want to make out with him, so then I wondered: what did I want from him?


Once I realized my lack of sexual interest in Ebert, my participation in TBC epidemic was doomed. I had panic attacks any time one of my friends suggested I approach him--why? how? would he talk back? what would I do if he did? would I have to actually show interest? I found a way out of every situation, set up, and 'coincidence' my friends rigged to get me within touching distance of Ebert.

By graduation, it was clear to me and to everyone else that my obsession was Ebert was a facade for social situations, a counterfeit ticket to a show I didn't even want to see.


Living the fabulous life of a debt-riddled young professional in recession-era America, I'm at a party out of town and I meet a girl named Harley. She's covered in tattoos and piercings. Poking out of her hair scarf are a crop of freshly twisted dreadlocks.



Harley is far from my type, but she likes me and the host of the party swears we're totally going to hit it off if I give it a chance. So I agree to suspend my snap judgement and give the girl a chance. In a complete reversal of my experience with Ebert, I spend the whole party talking to Harley. It's fun and easy and strengthened by the liquor spilling down our throats. Thankfully, I no longer have to question what I want--I want the touching and kissing and whatever else follows.
However, two months later--after a awesomely awkward date and a number of flirty exchanges--I find myself fielding text messages about our non-existant relationship. In seconds, I am seventeen again and in that faulty TBC mindset: if I were to date Harley, what would I do with her? What do girls do with their girlfriends when they aren't all over each other? I like making out, but I don't actually want feelings or anything. Do I need to show interest in this conversation?

You guys, this was literally a month ago. Harley and I are no longer talking because, once again, I choose the most easily avoidable person in my social sphere to get involved with. Once again, I can't figure out this relationship thing. Once again, I have no intention of snagging anyone for myself.

When I was writing this story, I thought it was kind of hilarious that both Harley and Ebert had dreadlocks and that our non-relationships had the same ridiculous demise, which is the only reason I linked the two. I was going to tell you all these crazy things about why I have non-relationships with kids who have dreadlocks. However, in writing this, I realized that I have quite a number of non-relationship exes (the majority of whom do not have dreadlocks) and all of their appearances in my life lead me to this point:

SOBREEUEVOCE

I don't understand them at all. I guess I thought that once I figured out my sexuality and got comfortable there I would have the relationship goal bestowed upon me in a shower of rainbow sparkles by God or whoever, but I'm here and I'm queer and I still really don't get relationships.

I've officially gone Brian Kinney up in this place.. and while that may be fine for now, I'm wondering if this is going to be problematic in a few years when my friends are settled down and scouting out ridiculously expensive and diverse prep schools for the buns in their ovens.

Aye. What's a girl to do?

Ahoy mateys!

I have a confession to make.

It's difficult for me to admit this to anyone, but...

I've fallen in love with *instagram*.


It's a app that allows you to take pictures with your iPhone and then enhance the photos by changing the color gradation or adding borders.

downloadsquad

It's totally hipster.

this image brought to you by the magical instagram tumbler

I hate hipsters. But even though I try, I can't hate *instagram*. It's the same way I feel about tumblr. It's silly. It doesn't require any talent. I don't even own an iPhone!


But it's so addictive!

I've been traveling for the last two weeks straight and writing cool new entries for you by hand as I ride trains and sit in hotel rooms and listen to acquaintances wax on and on about aspects of their lives I care nothing about.

During one of these trips one of my friends handed me an iPhone to try out their new *instagram* app.

It was like the skies parted. Glitter exploded. Puppies were born. Rainbows appeared. The world shifted.

So you're probably thinking, "So what Abernathy--what does this have to do with The Point?"

Let me tell you.

Today's point is this: I need to find someone who will pay me to travel the world (or at the least the US) and take *instagram* pics. Obviously, this currently unknown someone will also buy me an iPhone.

I know I sound just a teensy bit crazy, but my idea is not that far out of this world. NPR, Starbucks, Levis Brasil and Pepsi Max all use *instagram* to reach their consumers these days. Who's next?


Friends, I've found my calling. Now how the fuck do I make it a reality?

Ahoy friends!

It was eighty-two degrees last weekend here in the southeast! SUMMER IS COMING! I'm so excited, I could cry. Heat means tank tops and cold beers and sparklers and short skirts and--the holiday that inspired this blog--Pride weekend!!!!!!!!!!

Let's just take a minute to bask in the excitement of what I am sure will be the epic summer of 2011.

martianwho

Whew.

Now on to this week's story...

Ahoy!

You guys, every time I watch the Runaways I feel all crazy inside because K. Stew looks *so hot* as Joan Jett. Seriously, she spends ninety minutes running around in leather and doing all sorts of bad-ass things--starting a rock band, getting high on an airplane, peeing on some douche's guitar, smashing her recording studio, lying around in underwear and playing with her guitar...it's swaggerific.

The only part of the film that pulls me out of K.Stew Land is the scene where she gets it on with Dakota Fanning. I know that D. Fan is totally grown up now, but she still seems little to me and I get all sorts of wigged out watching her in a sex scene.

Maybe I was just jealous.

OH SHE GLOWS

Either way, this brings up a good topic of discussion: when are kids "old enough" to be involved in sexual situations? 15? 16? 18?

Obviously, kids will do what they want when they want, but at what age do those of us over 20 look at teenagers and not think, "Gosh, you're too young to do all of that?"

I sure as hell don't know. I figure the best way for us to learn is to investigate a scene from my high school days.

1. The birthday party would be at our friend's parents' house. We assumed her parents wouldn't look too kindly upon a stripper showing up at the front door.
2. None of us were 18 yet, so we couldn't technically hire a stripper.
3. We didn't have enough money to pay for a decent stripper. We'd heard tales of female strippers with Cesarean scars and though we didn't know what the equivalent of that would be for a male stripper, we didn't want to find out.

WE HEART IT (APPARENTLY VIA FACEBOOK)

Fortunately for this story and all of you reading it, my friends and I were a creative bunch and we came up with a backup plan. One of the girls in the group had a younger brother... and there was a dollar store that sold Halloween costumes right down the street from our school. Rather than hire a stripper, we were going to make our own.
The night of the party, we were pumped. While the sister of our stripper-to-be went home to pick up her brother, I corralled a group of five party guests to join me on the trip to the dollar store. We got there and realized that we had to make a serious decision: would our stripper be a fire fighter or policeman? Which would be the better stripper?

The amount of time we spent debating this decision is longer than I care to admit. Everyone had serious opinions on the matter, but eventually the fireman enthusiasts won out.

The costume department met up with the stripper-to-be outside of the birthday girl's house just as the party was beginning. The kid. was. awesome! We showed him the fireman's hat, the yellow fireman's jacket and the giant badge we'd purchased for the occasion and before we had finished talking, he was coming up with ideas to make the outfit even better.

DELLBBY

Half an hour later, the fireman's jacket had become a vest with ripped sleeves, a neon orange scarf functioned as a fire hose and our stripper had been sprayed with enough axe body spray to drown a frat house. We were ready!

First, the six or so party goers went into the house. We scoped out the party and layout, said hi to the birthday girl and found a cd with decent music for the main event. Two of us then went outside "for a cigarette" and primed our stripper. The party was in the attic. All we had to do was get the kid through the door, cut across the living room and then he'd be up the stairs and on the birthday girl. All we needed was to wait for a sign that the adults in the house were momentarily distracted.

CUTE OBSESSION

We only had to wait a few minutes before the lights in the living room began to blink on and off. Taking it as our sign, we ran into the house and shoved our stripper through the living room and kitchen. Someone upstairs cut the music and I heard the birthday girl yell, "Hey what's going on?" Within seconds a loud, raunchy pop song began to fill the attic. I pushed our stripper up the stairs, "it's time!"

It. Was. Amazing. The kid sauntered up the stairs and into the attic, rolling and rocking his hips to the music. The birthday girl was sitting on the floor and he stood over her, straddling her legs. He dropped down to the ground so that he was very nearly face-to-face with her and then popped his back and hopped back up. I'm not sure someone we paid could have done any better.

At this point, the birthday girl's face was flushed and she was giggling nervously and looking around like, "What the fuck?" The kid kept dancing around: he pulled off his fireman's vest/jacket, he wrapped the "hose" around the birthday girl's neck and pulled her close, he sat in the air just above her lap and ground his pelvis. It was raunchy.

TTTTRUCK

When it ended, everyone high-fived our stripper and sent him downstairs to wash up and put his shirt back on.

The six of us who orchestrated the striptease surrounded the birthday girl; "So, what did you think?"

She shook her head, "Isn't that Kim's little brother?"

"Yeah!" We shouted, "Wasn't he wonderful?"

The birthday girl cocked her head to the side, "Isn't he thirteen? You guys, I'm pretty sure that was totally illegal. Also, I think you are all kind of sick."

Ahoy y'all,

I don't know about you, but I have a huge issue with jealousy. I get jealous of all sorts of ridiculous things, but the aspect of my jealousy which really gets me into trouble is when I get jealous of my friends' time. I don't like people often, but when I do, I want them around often. And when my time is cut into by a sport, job, new friend, or significant other I get angry. Typically, if the entity stealing my time is a sport or job, I suck it up because it would be silly to act out. If it's a new friend, I either play nice and let the thief get jealous or I wage a war of wills. The latter option doesn't always end well.

Now that my friends and I are (almost) all twenty-somethings, the time stealing sluts tend to be significant others. Luckily, I've found a stellar way of dealing with this:

FuckYeahKissing

I bag the significant other as my new bestie.

It's like a twisted and wonderful yet subtle form of revenge when your friends complain that you're too close to their significant other. That's my opportunity to scream "now you know how I feel" and play the victim and complain about the loss of me + friends quality time just because they've found someone to sleep with on a regular basis.

Sometimes I wonder why people put up with my antics.

Unfortunately, my friends usually get the last word: when they choose to end relationships I have to deal with their depression and the loss of a new bestie.

One of my best examples of this hails from college. I had this wonderful stoner friend--let's call her Ella. Ella was dating Jack, a guy from a neighboring school. Jack was probably the easiest significant other bestie  I'd ever made. That boy taught me how to work a peace correctly and from that moment on, we were Mary Jane soul mates. Jack used to show up to campus, drop his stuff in Ella's room, and find me so we could get our munchies on. To give Ella credit, she wasn't so much jealous of my relationship with Jack as she was mystified by our dedication to our shared hobby. I hate smoking and Jack hates sharing, but somehow, between the two of us, it all worked out.

Fast forward to spring. Summer's approaching and as we're getting ready to go take exams and pack up our school year lives, Ella snags me for a heart to heart. That's when she drops the bomb: she's dumping Jack. She's maturing and he's not, she's focused on school and he's not, she's got goals and he doesn't. Basically, she's over it. Jack won't be on campus anymore and she'd appreciate it if I don't invite him 'round because she doesn't want to know where he goes from here.

My 'lil heart was broken.

TheSecretIsOut

And I never saw the kid again.

Is there a lesson to be learned from my loss of Jack and countless other significant other besties over the years?

Of course there is: if my friends would just keep pockets of time booked for me whether they are in relationships or not, they wouldn't have to get jealous when I befriend their significant others and I wouldn't have to childishly complain about missing said significant other while my friend is trying to survive a serious breakup.

Ahoy bitches,


Don't get offended. I use bitches as a term of endearment.

Do you know what I love? I love when I come upon the chance to do something sketchy with other people. You know, it doesn't seem quite as sketchy to pull the hinges from a door to get into a forbidden room if there are six people involved. Lighting a cement post on fire? Almost normal if fifteen girls are doing it. And talking your friend's little brother into stripping at a classmate's birthday bash is totally not weird if four other people help you decide between the firefighter and policeman costumes.

www.manopedia.com  (Firefighters always win with male strippers. Girls make great policewomen though!)

The only negative aspect of group sketchiness is that, sometimes, I become a participant unwillingly. And that's when sketchy becomes risky...