;-)

Awesome "The Guild" quotes

Okay, I could pretty much just copy the entire script. This show is brilliantly written. And Codex, Clara and Bladezz are totally hot, but, come one, Vork's vocabulary is seriously knee-weakening.

Season 1

Bladezz: Oh my god, you're nursing right now? That's totally hot!
Clara: I know, right?!
Bladezz: Anyone else getting their nipples sucked right now?

Our keyboard chemistry is undeniable. - Zaboo

I know every floor plan of every place you've ever lived. Floor plann'd. - Zaboo

I guess I don't really cope well... with... anything. ... You can't log off of your own life. - Codex

Ugh. I hate poo. - Clara

Codex: Hey, that is not cool. My dad ... turned gay.
Clara: And her ex-boyfriend too.

Codex: Clara, when is the last time you hung out with someone over the age of four?
Clara: Like before I started breeding?

We need a course of action to deal with Bladezz and his behavioral problems. It'll be more distracting in person. Also... I don't wanna. - Vork

I didn't budget for social activities this month. - Vork

Your breasts are very pillowy. - Zaboo

Zaboo: I don't know. I didn't have to research him, okay? Back off... lady. ... 's our first fight. ... Maybe we'll have make-up sex later or -
Codex: No.
Zaboo: ...not.

I'm a Hinjew. It's like, part Hindu, part Jew. - Zaboo

Clara: I'm Clara; real name: Clara. I tried an alias on another name but my kid picked it up and he started calling me "mominatrix"... my husband got pissed.

I'm sorry. .. Lied to my own webcam. - Codex

I'm a violinist. You know, former child prodigy. ... Now I'm old. - Codex

Oops. Woody'd. - Zaboo

Ooh. I was in a sorority. I'm super into vagina loyalty. - Clara

I finally convinced him your homely charm is not worth throwing his life away for. - Mrs. Zaboo

And why make me defile everyone? It's against my alliance! - Vork

I don't mean to be self-centered, but this is a real break-through moment for me. - Codex

You mean I'm watching your sperm blossoms because you're training to be a stripper?! - Tink

I don't have gas money for that! - Vork

I want to get back on a regular gaming schedule. All this walking around... making my back hurt! - Vork

Bladezz, nipple negotiations aside... - Vork

Well, I gotta check the hygiene before I hit it. I said I was sorry. - Zaboo

What'll it be? Repent, or rape?! - Vork

She breast-fed me til I was eleven, so, there's no escape. - Zaboo

How many unemployed people have you arranged to gang up on me? - Mrs. Zaboo

He tried a suicide because of you. No screenshot, but, trust me, it happened. - Bladezz

I'm sorry I was douchey to you guys. It's just hard being exploited 'cause I'm all hot n stuff. - Bladezz

Season 2

Who knew? Somehow 'you break it; you bought it' applies to humans too. - Codex

It reeks of brisket! so it's hard to focus. - Zaboo

He was totally smothering me. He called me like two times last week. - Tink

Warning: Women in general only yield short-term returns. They are not a suitable vehicle for long-term investments. Also, in my experience, very low drop rate. All I can say is, having fun grinding. - Vork

Clara: The point is: Lie. And good things will happen.

I'm not used to getting hit on very much. - Codex

Being a girl is so much work! - Codex

When Codex sees my curves, she's gonna be enamored. - Zaboo

Hey, let's you and me go wrestle. Or shoot things. Or javelin. Archery. Golf! Anything phallic, some sort of phallic sport. Let's do chest-bumping! MEN! - Zaboo

You just have to pick the right tool for the right job. And, believe me, they're all tools. - Tink

Sometimes getting laid is more important than killing an orc. - Tink

This harassment is neutering my business hours! - Vork

I don't participate in shoddy craftsmanship! Use the stencil! Do it! - Dina

Why are you dressed like a harlot? - Vork

I've been working on myself 24/2. - Zaboo

Clara: That anus face! I'll show him to reject my best friend in the whole entire world.

How'd you beat me?! You have the street smarts of a cartoon princess! - Bladezz

Season 3... coming soon!

Season 4

"Oh my god... I really am a ho bag? . . . I'm not a slut, I'm not, I really am a good girl" - Codex

"I'm a priest, I have a virtual reputation to uphold" - Codex

"No one in the world will find that interesting." - Vork

"So by the end of the week, I'll have a new computer, and be innocuously broken-up in a face-saving manner" - Codex

"The important question is 'can I get a discount on foodstuffs? Namely, discounted to free.'" - Vork

"That's urine... from my penis." - Vork

Zaboo: How many languages do you know, dude?
Vork: All of them.

"Gah! I'm such a slow thinker." - Codex

"My mother's dead. Employing her as Miss September would simply be inappropriate." - Vork

"Why would you not want your meat cut into bite-sized amenable pieces?" - Vork

"Wait a minute, you might be of use to me! I'm shocked!" - Vork

Fawkes: This is indeed a meta- meta-moment.
Codex: I guess. It was barely fun while it didn't last.

"Hold on a minute, woman. I don't know where your fingers have been." - Vork

"I was visualizing custom gargoyles with my face super-imposed, but that dream is slipping from my grasp." -Vork

"Codex, you're so wily. Like that coyote what-his-thingie." -Clara

This mask is tightening up over my face! Man, I'd never put this on another part of my body. Well, maybe. - Zaboo

I got it from this guy that does fan art. The likenesses are pret-ty special. - Zaboo

Sweat shops don't DO refunds. - Tink

Zaboo, your mom is obsessed with me. This morning, she wanted to go on a walk with no discernible destination. Completely baffling! - Vork

Oh my god, my thinking cap just gave me a great idea! - Clara

 I wish I had a working computer, I could look up what that word really means. - Codex

If that happens, I'm going to replace all my organs with clockwork and sell myself to a steam punk museum. - Zaboo

The very thought of marrying this woman makes my prostate throb. - Vork

Mentally i'm in hospice, waiting to die. Numb. So Numb. - Vork

A verbal offer of marriage is a contractual obligation! - Vork

I'm too delicate for jail time. - Codex

Business words aren't fun when you say them. - Clara

Codex: It kinda looks like a prison.
Vork: You're welcome.

This is a nightmare level. Just CTL+ALT+DEL me. - Zaboo

Chapter 5

I'm the cheesy pirate guy. I'm a meme! - Bladezz

First person to flatulate sleeps in the hall. - Vork
[I love that he doesn't use the abhorrent 4-letter F-word. Heart you, Vork]

What? Why didn't you say anything? Do it now! Worst idea EVER! - Clara

A guy's not gonna pass on anything with a lady hole. - Bladezz

I'm gonna have as much fun as federal warning labels allow! - Clara

I don't want any losers from my past spotting me and wanting to *shudder* catch up. - Tink

You guys don't want to expand your geek mind? Fine! I'll go solo. Hans soloed. - Zaboo

How more obvious could I be? My vagina was practically in my hand! - Codex

Pray you become an orphan. - Vork

Bruce Wayne would never be so fiscally irresponsible. - Vork

You're a woman reaching the end of her fertile cycle. This desperate biological imperative is driving you to seek a genomic legacy. Nothing more. - Vork

Love is nothing more than bastardized biology. Haven't you seen 'March of the Penguins'? - Vork

Someone drank my sweet juice glass of justice?! - Vork

I just had a dozen dollars idea. - Vork

You're like my sister from another brother-in-law. - Clara

Socks and sandals, DTP, buddy. ... defeats the purpose, like wearing a t-shirt under a bikini. - awesome guy at convention

Fornicate at a later date. - Vork

Yeah. Obviest. - Zaboo

Codex: Do people analyze why magnets work?
Zaboo: Yes... in physics class... like... all the time.

You just need to do it already. I'll watch. - Bladezz

Meme-on-demand at your service. - Bladezz

It might squeeze my baby's head into a weird shape but it'll pop back so, sure! Sew me up. - Clara

I mean, Angelina Jolie is one of my five, you know, people you can have sex with, even if you are in a relationship, but I consider her to be the exception. - Codex

I'm equally unfond of everyone. - Vork

Difference Does Not Equate To Inferiority

"This Message is for Anyone Who Dares to Hear a Fool"*

Isn't it amazing when you turn on the radio, or, more timely, your Ipod, and it plays the exact song you needed to hear for that moment's emotion?

It feels like some kind of cosmic connection, some electrical influence that is below the surface of conscious control but hints at how powerful the emotional/hormonal/pheromonal/subconscious mind may be, drawing out a fellow artist's deep reaction to a similar set of experiences. The shared emotion makes of the songwriter or singer a kindred.

I went outside to take a walk. Don't want to work today. Had a phone fight with S last night that just didn't need to happen, then couldn't sleep. Laid there staring at the ceiling, my body tired, my mind racing desperately, trying to solve the conflict even in the absence of the combatant, coming up with responses to what he said, defenses, retaliations. How clear my mind is in the silence to just fight itself, how assertive I am with no one to hear.

I can't focus at all today. Exhausted. Coffee, now on second soda. Thought I'd read my Kindle as I walked around the building but I got a few words in and realized my mind was not up for reading about how to be a better parent. There are days when the cup runneth over with my shortcomings and cannot take another.

I heard Alanis Morissette through the ear buds, sound transforming from background noise to the message I needed to hear:

All I really want is some peace man
a place to find a common ground
And all I really want is a wavelength
All I really want is some comfort
A way to get my hands untied
And all I really want is some justice

 So I held the Kindle, closed, and walked, listening to the song a few times. It quickly transformed into a dialogue between S and I, a poem in two voices. I began to see the lyrics in columns, our faces sketched in comic strip simplicity. When I returned to my cubicle, I began to draw, and to write, separating sheets of discarded printer paper into three columns: my voice, our voices, his voice. He is a kindred spirit, but we are not identical. There is value in that. I appreciate our individuality. But with individuality comes the unavoidable disagreement. We will not always see eye-to-eye. I couldn't always handle this well. There was a time in my life when disagreement was akin to dislike, I received it as discrimination and ignorance and the inability to see from my perspective. I was hurt by this difference and saw it as disrespectful.

I am proud of myself for not faltering in this way. I never doubted his love for me. I didn't like the way he was speaking, but I was able to separate that from the man. I'm also pretty damn sure that the words he was saying were not an exact blueprint of the fears he was experiencing. He lashed out, as so many who have been hurt do, in order to protect his heart. We may not do it in the same way at the same time, but that is a behavior I am familiar with.

 Difference does not equate to inferiority.

A kindred spirit is not someone you will effortlessly and peacefully coexist with for eternity. That's a fallacy. We are inherently selfish and egocentric beings, even the most empathetic of us. I cannot see the world through his eyes, I will always see it through my collective experiences and values. The more I pondered on this, the more I began to realize that what he was saying and what he was feeling were probably very different things. His emotions better match the unspoken needs/concerns than the spoken ones. My motivations will not always be clear to him and I will not always be able to make them so. Love involves a certain measure of faith and trust in the other despite this.

 

*Lyrics "This Message is for Anyone Who Dares to Hear a Fool" from Smashing Pumpkins Fuck You (An Ode to No One), from the album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, 1995.
All I Really Want from Alanis Morissette's album Jagged Little Pill, 1995.

the list

"It [writing] literally forces us to reprocess the feelings or memories using different neural pathways; forces us to rethink by just trying to structure the feelings into words." --S

This isn't going to be pretty. 

My father didn't discuss conflict. All of my childhood, I witnessed one method of handling adversity: That never happened. We addressed nothing. The rapidly diminishing point here is, at least initially, that I was taught to pretend that adversity did not exist, to sweep it under the rug. No, it wasn't taught, per se, because those who employ this method seldom actively teach anything. It was observed and it was enforced indirectly, over and over again. It's actually considered a trait of my family, it's that ingrained as a behavior. Do you know what happens to rotten things that are hidden away instead of being properly handled and disposed? They fucking rot, dude. They rot and fester and become pungent to the point of putridity that can no longer be ignored. Even if the foolish host who hid the decomposing mass continues her self-delusion, someone at some point is going to look at her and say, "What the fuck is that smell?!"

So... it's me. I fucking stink. I'm trying to throw some shit out.

Call me a fucking hoarder of pain.

[disclaimer/warning: prepare for run-on sentences galore. and no apologies.]

I "ran away" from home at fifteen, which was actually just me lying about going on a camping trip with a family I used to babysit for and instead spending the weekend in a motel with my forbidden lesbian lover, forgetting the crucial necessity of bringing my oblivious co-conspirator in on the trick, who, naturally, called and asked me to babysit that Friday night when I was supposed to be miles away staking a tent with her family at that very moment... and dad called the police. The police told dad that he had to file me as a run away for their assistance. He had to press charges on  his own daughter. So he did. The lady I used to babysit for was a cool and progressive lady and she knew about my girlfriend and she'd been pretty cool about me racking up the long distance phone bill calling my forbidden lesbian lover, probably because I was the only sitter in town who'd watch her four kids, two of whom were twin baby boys, for $20 a night. I found out later that she shared as much info as she knew about me and my girlfriend and the motel tryst I must have mentioned planning at some point... because the phone in the motel room began to ring, and my little getaway rapidly melted into a fucking guilt and angst-ridden nightmare. My gf and I, having laid on the bed in paralyzed horror for twelve hours, tried to plan how to ditch and where the hell we were going to go. She'd taken the bus for eight hours to see me and we were teenagers. It was Saturday and her bus didn't leave to return home until the following afternoon. We didn't have any money. There was no where for her to go and I didn't want to eat crow and go home and miss out on this time with her that was so fucking rare, despite the fact that the anxiety of being on the run was so excruciating that I was miserable to the point of violent nausea. To this day, I do not know how it was so effectively imprinted in my brain to avoid disappointing my father. He never said it. He rarely directly addressed anything. Nevertheless, just the theoretical concept of how disappointed he was with me in that time was unadulterated agony. I couldn't enjoy the time we had together at all. I couldn't relax. I was a live bundle of nerves.

My gf and I were making our escape when I saw my father and the officer in the motel office. We could have kept going, their backs were to us, but it was the moment at which you drop the gun and raise your hands in the air. The anxiety and imminent failure were too much to deny and I was just exhausted. I turned myself in. I sheepishly walked into the office, Dad's face quickly molded into recognition, then relief, but he didn't say anything to me, only rather quietly pointed out, "That's her," to the officer.

Being no longer on the lam was immediately a sort of relief, but I felt furious at the failure of my lie, and mortified at the effort (and, still, that effort was absurd) that my father went to to find me. That was not like him. Not at all. He never paid attention to me and I'd never been in trouble in my life. I was a straight A student. I'd never been in a fight. I'd never missed class. I'd never missed work. I don't know what motivated him to go to these extremes that weekend. My first inclination is homophobia, but I don't think that's it. There is plenty of evidence that my father was very tolerant and accepting of homosexuality, which I won't get into details with here, but suffice it to say he took me to the wedding of my gay cousin and his husband when I was ten years old. In Montana. That was 20 years ago and that shit STILL isn't legal in Montana. That's some forward-thinking and familial acceptance demonstrated from my father, who probably attended five social events in my entire childhood, one of which being the gay marriage. But he did have one hell of a homophobic and meddling live-in girlfriend who I'm quite positive set the fire under his ass. He may have had some feeling of obligation to act when he learned I'd lied to him, and that sad puritanical drive parents seem to have in this country to prevent their children from having sexual relations for as long as possible. I don't know. We have never discussed it.

So the cop put me in the backseat of the police cruiser, driver's side. My dad sat in front. I was livid. I vividly recall my immediate and powerful urge to kick the back of the policeman's seat. It rolled through my head like a wave of fire, igniting the adrenaline that had been boiling without direction for the past 24 hours, aching to explode in a fit of teen anguish directed at the portly and rather bored-looking public servant. Am I allowed to feel pride for restraint for something I did not do fifteen years ago? I didn't know what the consequences would be. I'd never been in a police cruiser before. The only cops I'd interacted with were teaching the DARE program in school, or regulars at my dad's diner, as I'm certain this one was, though I didn't recognize his face. They all were. If you didn't want Denny's or 4Bs, my dad's diner was the only option in town. This is probably another reason my father enlisted the police. I don't think he'd ever had the occasion to before, and it was a very small town. They were all pleasant acquaintances he'd surely been supplying free coffee to for over a decade. Surely they could return the small favor by locating his lusty dyke of a daughter. And they did. And I didn't assault the guy. I didn't know what assault was at the time, I just thought it was probably better not to piss off a cop. Looking back, knowing what I know now, that was probably a distinct crossroads in my existence. Writing this, I'm very curious suddenly about that other path. What became of the me who kicked the back of the cop's seat? Would someone have yelled at me to 'knock it off!' and that'd be the end of it, like a  disobedient child in the back seat would typically be handled? Or, because of the charges I was being detained for, would the cop have been obligated to add this to his report and charge me with assaulting an officer? Would his countenance with my father have saved my stupid ass from this seemingly dark alternative path of my life? If there is some parallel universe, I cannot help but wonder where that version of my self would be today. Seems like some kind of life-changing potential. 

They took me to the police station. I think it was a formality. Just inside the doors, I saw someone being finger-printed and the whole thing suddenly became too real. It was all to absurd, I hadn't broken any laws! I hadn't even left the damn town, I was a few blocks away from my father's diner in a tiny motel downtown. I didn't run away. I just lied about where I was going. What teenager didn't do that?? I remember feeling scared that they were going to fingerprint me, that I was going on record as a real criminal and that it would follow me for the rest of my life. I was terrified. But the scene was so ... wrong. I thought I should be handcuffed. People should be yelling. I should not be allowed to stay with my father, they should lead me down some dreary anonymous hallway in cuffs as I begged them to go easy on me. There should be aggression here, or at least some authority...? It was bizarrely passive. The cops working there were quiet and studious, all looking down. I don't think anyone looked at me once. Even the perp getting printed was silent, resigned to whatever his fate might have been. For all I know, he was being printed for his Property and Casualty Insurance License. Not a perp at all. It was a very small town, after all. Maybe only the police station (which I'm pretty sure was also the court house...) had the necessary equipment for making fingerprints. Them, and the kindergarten teachers. 

I have no idea what we did in the police station. Maybe some kind of paperwork. All I remember is feeling invisible. No one said a word to me. It was disappointingly anticlimactic, as strange as that sounds. Maybe they knew my father that well and knew he didn't want any scene of any kind. Part of him probably knew damn well that it was his fault the shit was going down at all. I mean, you can't even file a missing person report until someone has been gone for 24 hours, but you can report them as a run away? I should have protested somehow. It never even occurred to me. I never questioned the authority of law.  I'm sure he was embarrassed. Hell, he was probably mortified. My father was a quiet and private person all my life. Good thing I hadn't shaved my head yet... though I think I did have the nose piercing at that time, which would have pigeon-holed me before I ever opened my mouth. Which is probably why no one invited me to. I was just looking around, waiting for something, anything to happen. 

It didn't. Dad and I got in his truck and drove away. I mentioned that I needed to return the VCR I'd rented for our motel stay. I had the foresight to keep that in my possession... I worked for a video store, after all, I knew about those fees! [yeah... see what I mean? I'd never done a wrong thing in my short, pathetic life]. Dad grumbled some incoherent annoyance at that errand and we swung by the rental store on the way home. He never spoke to me about any of this. Never. Not a word. I guess he didn't need to. I knew it was wrong. I did have to go to court. So I was charged with committing the crime of running away. That's bizarre to me. Dad went with me to that hearing. Still, never a word. In court, before the judge, we were told I could do community service or go to a psychiatrist for x number of hours. Dad looked at me for just a second and selected the counseling. That's what I'd been voting for... I didn't want to pick up trash on the damn road. The judge told me that if I completed my hours of counseling and kept my nose clean for the next three years, my record would be sealed at 18 and it'd be like this never happened. The court gave us paperwork about my sentencing, Dad handed it all to me, told me to arrange it.

I found my own counselor and I went for my hours. That's another story, God, what a joke that guy was. His name was Dudley. I want to put his full name because it was sing-song and completely ridiculous, as much a joke as it turned out the guy himself was, but I don't want to risk the numb skull googling himself and finding this blog and coming after me for slander or something. He probably remembers my name as well as I remember his. I was, shall we say, uncooperative. This was the first in a stream of grudgingly-forged relationships with intellectual inferiors in my life. So.... to all the small town Dudley child psychologists out there... it probably isn't you. 

I chose the guy because of his address. My favorite number was his office address. 

This is a weird fucking exercise. These memories are stored in my brain, the same brain I use today, the same brain that identifies as 30-year-old mother, adult, insurance agent, etc etc etc today. Yet these memories were filed by my 15-year old self. I feel her anger and am acutely aware of her ignorance. How odd is that... to be a stranger to yourself, past versus present. 

So, that was an absurdly long illustration of how my father never talked to me about anything. There's one key exception to this, though. My father is an alcoholic, but usually a sad and lone alcoholic. When he was drunk and happy, and I happened to be around, he'd come and sit in the doorway of my bedroom, on the floor, his legs outstretched in front of him, his eyes half-closed, that small but constant smile on his lips, and he'd want to "talk" to me. Suddenly his self-perception included fucking Father of the Year. God, I hated that. I don't even remember a single detail of anything we ever talked about in those times. I just see his face, which I found repulsive, annoying, and pitiful. I always knew when he was drunk. He spoke differently (and... he actually spoke), and he had that stupid fucking expression. Sometimes he'd still be holding the drink in his hand, a bottle of beer, but usually, because all drunks think they have the world fooled, he'd be holding a blue can of RC Cola. He also liked Surge... does that still exist? It was like a Mountain Dew competitor for a while but it was dirt cheap, like 99 cents for a six-pack, and my dad loved that shit. Dad was a coffee/caffeine/sugar junkie. Oh, and alcohol, let's not forget that, but that was usually bottles of clear vodka clanking against each other in his briefcase that "nobody knew about." That just added to how pathetic he was, sitting like a child, sounding like a child, on my bedroom floor, actually seeming to believe he was my friend or something.

We fought a couple times. Once, when he was drunk like that, I became angry and tried to get away from him, away from the stink of that breath and the guttural slurring voice that was like fingernails on a chalkboard to me, I despised that so much. He grabbed me by my upper arms and held fast and we kinda wrestled on the floor for a while, me grunting and screaming in frustration at his overpowering strength despite his ivresse. The next day, I had bruises the shape of fingers on my arms. I remember noncommittally telling him I was going to turn him in for child abuse. He was sober. He pretended to laugh, but cut it off immediately like someone had quite suddenly closed an icy vice around his throat, and went on working without another word, though sporting a frown he thought passed for concentration but was clearly worry. After all, that had never happened. Bruises are ethereal and dissipate like dust.

sweep, sweep

At twelve I wanted a phone in my room (this was before cell phones) and he wouldn't allow it. There was a phone jack in his bedroom, adjacent to my own, that wasn't being used and no jack in my room, so I drilled a hole through my bedroom wall into his room. I purchased a phone at a  friend's garage sale and fed the cord through the hole into my dad's room while he was at work. This was brilliant because the hole and phone jack were obscured by my father's large computer desk on the  opposite side of the wall. I crept into his room, a strange and foreign space that was dark and smelled heavily of him, and reached behind the desk, fumbling for the cord. I'd tied it around the stem of a screw driver and fed this through the hole in my wall, across the gap between the sheets of sheet rock, and through the other side. I felt the metal head jutting through the jagged hole and pulled it through, bringing the cord with it. This I disentangled, working without breathing, listening for the slightest hint of approaching footsteps on the carpeted hallway. It was difficult to reach the phone jack from the side as the desk was nearly flush with the shared wall, so I stood and dropped the cord behind the desk, wanting the slack to remain concealed by the particle board furniture. The jack was in the corner which was just hidden by the rear leg of the desk. I had to pull out the desk chair and crawl under the desk to locate the dropped phone cord and plug it into the jack, but soon my ears were pleasured with the satisfying tell-tale click! of the plug finding purchase and I scurried butt-first from beneath the desk and shot out of the room like a bullet from a gun.

I had a phone. Oh it was deliciously devious. The problem? I forgot to turn off the ringer, and my father has ears. Whoops. The first time it rang, I heard his furious response and though I'd turned it off before he threw open the door, I'd been found out. He grabbed the phone from my hands. I seized the cord in-turn and we had a brief tug-of-war. My father despised being defied, as there were really so few things he ever told me at all, much less the clear things I was forbidden to do, and having a phone in my room was one of those things. It was illogical and unfair, of course, in my mind. My father continued to tug, rather silly, but intent on not being further defeated. I held fast, ever defiant, and reached a pair of scissors from the cup on my desk and cut the phone cord, leaving my father with an inoperable phone in his hands as he stumbled backward from the stored kinetic energy, and myself with the culprit cord running through the hole I'd drilled. I remember his look then. He was not drunk. He was at first confused and then shook his head in this baffled amazement at my audacity. "You realize you destroyed your phone." He told me. It was not a question. I stared back at him with the red-rimmed eyes of teenage defiance. "I don't care," I responded. He let out a sort of quiet chuckle and head-shake of disbelief and left the room. 

This is not the only time this sort of exchange has taken place in which I destroyed my own property to prevent someone else the satisfaction of successfully taking it from me. Strangely, the next occurrence also involved a phone, but it was a decade and a half later. Remember how I was just talking about that rifling through my mental file cabinets and marveling at my fifteen-year-old perspective? Imagine what it feels like when you realize that some of that shit is not limited to your youth. Some of that shit is ingrained and is representative of a deep-seated personality trait.

I was twelve years old when Dad and I had the phone show-down. I'd been through two divorces, abandoned by two mothers, my biological at six years old and my first stepmother at ten years old. I'd been working full time for two years as well as babysitting and maintaining a paper route. And the straight A's, of course. I was overwhelmed and burdened with responsibility and seething with the typical hormones and motivations of puberty, heightened by the confusion and guilt of recognizing my homosexual desires and living in a community, which was the whole world at the time (this was pre-internet), that would never accept a homosexual teen. I was finished being a child, and I was finished being a victim (the latter turned out, of course, to not be entirely true).

The same sort of righteous rage consumed me during a fight with R who was much stronger and faster than I. I was trying to get out of his house. He was interrogating me about S again and I was trying to leave, but he heaved his weight and strength against the door and chased me when I attempted to race to the back door, overtaking me, then again to the front. This was infuriating. He decided to try to take my cell phone from me and it flipped open in the scuffle, me holding the top half with the screen and he the bottom with the key pad. Just like Dad, a tug-of-war. Fuck them. I may be a weak fucking woman, but I have a hell of a grip. My father once dragged me across the kitchen floor, jerking so hard he nearly took my arms from its socket, trying to wrench a rolled newspaper from my grip. I wasn't letting that fucking phone go, and I wasn't playing R's fucking games. I held fast and twisted hard, separating the phone's halves in a creaking release of snapping, yielding plastic and electronic wire. It was mine. The texts were mine. That language shared with S was something R could not take from me, regardless of how much he'd already taken, regardless of what a victim I'd been, he was not going to win this fight. S was mine. He was not going to destroy the one piece of personal, sacred treasure I had left. When I ripped that phone in half, I didn't even feel it cut me. I didn't even look at the phone. I stood there, starting into R's eyes, breathing like some kind of massive animal who'd just charged, my chest heaving. My hand was in the air, blood running down my wrist, the top half of a Bubblegum pink flip phone [yes, Constant Reader, I still own and use it's out-dated replacement] in it like a beacon of triumph. I remember R's face as clearly as I recall my father's in the nearly identical scenario. It was the same. First puzzled by the extreme reaction and unexpected destruction of my own property just to keep it out of their hands, then that sort of soft and disbelieving, head-shaking laugh that I swear fucking men reserve just for the pathetic women in their lives. R said, "Wow, you really didn't want me to see those texts." The initial tone was of bewilderment, but in R's mind, that quickly morphed into the implications of what the texts must have contained, such lust and sin his mind could hardly fathom it! [the irony of this situation is that I was dating R at this time, not S. S and I both knew that. R had given me permission to maintain a friendship with S, which I rekindled after two years of forced separation with gusto. The text conversation was a few brief lines about a cat. Innocuous. But R didn't trust me, despite my obedience, and he never once respected any personal space or boundaries. S was precious to me. He was the dearest friend and confidante I'd ever known. R was not going to soil that with his sociopath control issues].

Something snapped in me that day with R that never repaired between us. Perhaps the phone was the metaphor. They say you marry your father. That was the first time I saw it so clearly that it was like vomit rising in my throat. I am small, I am meek, I am naive and absurdly patient and kind and I get walked all over all of the time. But, I have a breaking point. I have a point at which your dull tool that you've used to dig and dig through my flesh over spans of time, attempting all the while to distract me from your work with fanciful language and empty promises; reaches my soul. Not everyone gets there. Only a few have. But, when you arrive, you awaken something that no one sees until they do. That, and my darling S will recall this story as he seemed to relish the thought, was the day I broke the phone between mine and R's hands and it is the same day I told him that I hoped I was pregnant so I could abort his demon spawn. 

I have never said something so ugly before or since.

I still hear those words in a shrieking voice I don't recognize. 

I feel that shaking, teetering on the brink of falling into some unknown chasm of lost control, that last thread of the rope of sanity and consciousness the only thing preventing my fall. 

That's the only time I've thought of hurting someone. That day. All the hours of his spit hitting my face as he screamed into it like I wasn't even human, the hours curled in the fetal position hoarse from begging him to stop, and years I'd lost as a caged animal, the crack of my daughter's skull hitting the pavement...

fuck I can't write that right now. that's a bad one. that's a bad bad bad one

add it to the list

That's a side of me that has emerged so few times in my life that it still shocks me that it occurred at all and, if I didn't have the memories, I would never believe that the self I know was capable of that kind of behavior or words. 

When I first thought of writing the list, I felt guilt and shame. 

I'm seriously fucked-up, right?

They'll take my daughter away. 

S will run screaming for the hills. 

I heard a phenomenal story on This American Life on NPR not too long ago about a boy who reached this brink, and then fell into it, and killed his foster parents [citation below]. What seemed to surprise the NPR reporter more than anything was the compassion and empathy people felt for that boy. People who'd been abused as children immediately related to  him and reached out to him. A family adopted him, though he was an adult when he got out of prison, in order to provide him with love and a supportive family that he would need when he returned to the 'real world.' Is this really so shocking? The shocking part, in my opinion, is how fucking hard we try to pretend how normal and great and wonderful and peaceful everything is. The moment I cut that phone cord... the moment I wrenched that phone apart with my bare hand, was not unlike the moment in the backseat of the cop car, when the furious thought raced across my conscious brain to kick the cop's seat. These instances, and there are more, I felt honestly that I was being violated at some level, that the injustice of the current events exceeded my capacity to accept them. Now, with the cop car example, I quickly accepted both the circumstances, though they didn't match the crime, they logically progressed from it, and that I was going to seriously limit my freedoms if I acted on that immediately impulsive reaction to retaliate. Also, that would have been an act against someone else's body and property. In the instances in which I did react, I only hurt myself, and only destroyed my own property. 

There is some horrible metaphor for my life here, I'm sure. 

The list is going to take a long while to write. I guess this was the beginning of item one, my father, which is probably a tome of itself. Or, let's say, it's one of the books in the series umbrella-titled "The Men in My Life."

Then there's W, N, M, J, R and S. 

S you know fairly well by now. 

R... he needs his own book too. 

Let's hope there are no more than 26 people in my life or i am going to have to resort to using colors. 

No, that's too Reservoir Dogs. 

My life isn't quite that bad. 

Though I wouldn't mind spending some time with Steve Bucemi. 

Citations

This American Life Podcast #485: Surrogates. January 25, 2013. http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/485/surrogates
Photograph: still from the film "Ghost World" starring Thora Birch and Steve Bucemi [pictured]. Directed by Terry Zwigoff. 2001.

On Writing

I don't know how to write my memoirs. There are stories, ever stories, pieces of dialogue, the briefest glimpses of brilliant imagery, that peter out before even a chapter may be formed of them. Perhaps if I begin to record the pieces, keep them in the same collection, eventually they will combine like so many mismatched LEGOs discovered in couch cushions and beneath car floor mats and at the bottom of backpacks over the years. Perhaps my memories and thoughts are nothing more than these generic building blocks that were all designed with the coveted clickability of those delightful, colorful plastic blocks.
I fear I lack the creativity to assemble them without the handy, LEGO instructions, walking me through each mediocre click step by step; organizing and pre-packaging the pieces for me; assuring me of the end result with the picture advertised on the colorful (albeit, overpriced) box.

That would make a fun short story, wouldn't it? Sounds right up Stephen King's alley, a story about   a particular character who buys these boxes with all the intent of enjoying the assembly, only to learn that the instructions are quite a bit darker and lead to more disturbing ends... Wanting innocently to pass an afternoon constructing a peaceful LEGO log cabin, the dutiful character instead finds himself constructing the dark, the obscene, the dangerous... and, against better judgement, plagued by agonizing curiosity, he continues to turn the pages, continues the slow completion of the unknown... brick by brick...

I am not an Artist. I cannot seem to wrap my head around that title, to ever feel comfortable gracing  my business card with it... and why? Well, for starters, I'm not even comfortable owning business cards. Artists are other people. Artists have genuine skill and they know it. Artists can present the gifts of their works, into which they've pored time, energy, thought, and only the cash necessary to acquire the materials to create, and rest assured that the recipient is thrilled. They are certain in their skill. They are the others who post their works on ebay and Etsy. How does one get to this stage in life? The skill must be recognized, praised, understood, and even desired by others. What makes an artist is the desire of their patrons to possess or look upon that creative soul's work. Otherwise, Artist, you are not. You may be one who dabbles in paint, or hobbies with the manipulation of the language... as am I... though that hardly sounds as nice on a business card... real Artists have business cards. People are interested in who they are. If a true Artist meets new people, those people are intrigued and desire a method by which to contact said Artist again in the future. I've only been asked once for my card, and it was for a play-date for my daughter. I do not possess the skills nor marketable product to self-define as an Artist. Hell, isn't that the point? It cannot be self-defined. I suppose, in the privacy of my home, I could call myself whatever I want... but it does not make it so, for longer than my parched ego holds the beading vapor of this dream.

What more is there to do than to attempt to harness these small but furiously spinning bits of literary storm swirling and gaining momentum and material in my brain? I feel them daily, they speak to me, they spin out their few phrases of decent diction and I am impressed, I am lifted, I feel that I just may be the creative Artist, the [oh, be still my heart...] author, the writer, I've always dreamed I was... somewhere beneath that cloud of obligation and lack of time.

Is S really so deep as to have ascertained all of this from watching me? Did he know I must begin to collect these small storms, to wrangle them into the uncertain boundaries of an anonymous blog, where they may steadily grow with each passing day and each new companion, into something I was always meant to have written? Truth be told... it's beautifully organized. How many bits and pieces of these orphaned storms, wrangled in ones and twos, exist in varied hard drives, floppy disks, flash drives, writeable CDs, notebooks and journals spanning the past 20+ years of my existence? At least within the blog, they are contained, collected at some address in the sky I may access, presumably, all my life, no matter how many times I upgrade computers, jobs, or storage media.

S is a genius. But we already know this....
Many of my writings were a conglomeration at one time. In an effort at preemptive defense,  I destroyed somewhere between ten and fifteen journals I'd kept and saved over the years. I remember exactly how they looked, lined along the back wall of my bedroom, atop a rickety desk I'd uncovered from some apartment complex dumpster or another. Journals are a great gift in this world... pages of potential... lined... meaningful and beautiful covers. Every journal I own, without even opening the covers, speaks volumes of the possessor. Journals are like great pieces of art to me. I adore them. They are beautiful and alive and reminders of excellent times past, excellent feelings and passions that have otherwise fled my current consciousness. I love choosing journals based on their covers, thickness, quality of pages, whether or not they are lined, whether or not they have that lovely black strap one may stretch across the closed book to keep it secure, whether or not they have magnetic lid-like clasps. It is such a pleasure to open them, to admire the thousands of words' potential, like a fertile womb.That day... years ago... those ten to fifteen journals were a perfect photograph of this writer's life, closed or open. Read or unread. My journals, much like my greeting cards [of which there exists a well-organized and overfilled chest], are sacred relics of this would-be Artist's life.

I did not destroy the covers. I couldn't. I loved them too much and in ways I had neither described nor written nor expressed to anyone, so they, void of their confessional pages, were safe. I tore every page, every piece of paper, covered in the whorls and scrawls of a penmanship honed over the years into my characteristic hand. J would know it, as I see and know her handwriting at a moment's glance, all these years later. And her mother's. And my mother's. How I miss the written word, the hand-written word. The fact that I do not know the signature handwriting of the love of my life, presently, is a sadness to me. For what is written anymore that can so much more easily be typed? As I'm presently demonstrating... the ease of saving these thoughts to blogspot... does that circumvent the need for there to be some sort of physical specimen of my existence? Does it matter at all whether any of this is known or saved or that I am remembered for any of it? Perhaps those are egocentric dreams I must allow to dissipate. Is placing my name beside my art after my death any consolation to a fled soul? What consolation could it possibly be to those I leave behind, other than a desire to categorize all of my work into chapters and headings and analyses that sum up my life's ambitions, dreams and achievements as cleanly and coldly as I may attempt of artists before me? What does any of it matter, except insomuch as it affects me today, as I write it, and the fraction of peace I may find today in doing so?

I must stop caring so much about this "carrying on" concept. I used to print and paste my typed ramblings into my current journal. It's the same reason I pain over deleting S's text messages. I want to hold and cherish the words of the past. This is why humans write, don't you see? To retain. The words that fall across our lips are dead nearly as soon as they are heard, as they are filed, perhaps, into faulty and ever-deteriorating memory, combined with taste, and sight and touch and sound of the moment into some hodge-podge of experience which will probably be better recalled as an emotion than as any deep or meaningful prose. We write to retain the prose, and perhaps to encourage or even recreate the experience anew, through the lens of memory. How fleeting our experiences are otherwise. Our fights, our mistakes, our pains, our hatred and rage... even our passion, how quickly forgotten. Of course this is a biological benefit. Wallowing in the agonies of life is surely to stifle one's creativity and production... growth... happiness. Argh, we're too quickly entering a philosophical question of the purpose of life and life's experiences which I am entirely unqualified to examine.

I ordered a pair of gold earrings for myself the other day on a complete whim, jumping to typing in my credit card number (from memory, I'm an online shopping junkie) before I had time to consider the necessity (there is none) of the purchase or to talk myself out of it. They are lovely little golden pelicans. I doubt I will ever wear them. Someone designed them, these small little golden birds. I bought them because they are beautiful, and because in that moment I wanted them, I had the money, I indulged myself in a piece of creativity from a fellow would-be artist. Actually, an actual Artist, for their art is coveted and purchased by others, thus defining the creator within their art. I bought them off FAB, a delightful website which brings together the works of creative souls across the country who idly hope to be the next praised thing... the next droplet of brilliance in this sea of creative souls' blood, sweat and tears from the onset of human existence.

FAB's trademarked catchphrase is "Smile, you're designed to."

The comma bothers me... that should be two sentences, or, at the very least, a semi-colon. 
Trademarking language also bothers me. 

I would argue that artists seek not fame, but following. At the completion of something beautiful by my own hand, I seek not financial compensation, but emotional confirmation. I long for the eyes and mind of another to take it in, to digest it, to fill my ears with the words I'd formed myself but feared I felt alone. Even God, in the Genesis book of the Bible, creates and, looking back upon  his work at the end of each day, remarks, "It is good."

But that wasn't enough.
He also created witnesses to concur.
Which they did.
Until they disgraced his art.
And were cast away to wander in absence of his art...
sort of...
for a while.
He can't resist coming back to show them what He's come up with every now and again...

It's probably a sin to liken God to an artist disappointed in His ungrateful audience and throwing them from the gallery in a tantrum.

But He made us in His own image, did He not?

Sexpectations

I will preface this post with a moment of pride.
My daughter is seven years old. We'll call her C. She loves acting and singing and recently auditioned for a local production of Grease, which will be her third full-length production of her young acting career.
Last night we found out that she was cast as Danny Zuko, one of the two leads of the play (the other being Danny's partner, Sandy).
My daughter was so thrilled she couldn't take her hands from her face. Her cheeks were bright red and she wanted to delay telling me, to savor the joy and draw out the suspense, but her fellow actors betrayed their own excitement and burst upon me, all screeching, "She's Danny! C's going to be our Danny!" My eyes filled with tears and excitement and I found myself embracing all those little actors and actresses and hearing their excited declarations of their own parts. My daughter has acted with several of these budding stars in the past so we have grown to know each other and to share in their excitement over this rather thrilling day, the day the parts are announced!

Our joy was shortly quelled with something that at first confused and puzzled me, then caused me, I must be honest, a bit of frustration lending itself toward rage. How disappointing to have society reveal itself in this manner. And how utterly deflating to realize I, once again, ever naive, was operating under the notion within the little bubble of my life and my own home, that we as a society have progressed further than we actually have.

Helen Merino [female] playing the male, heterosexual Prince of Denmark in Shakespeare's Hamlet.

I have been SHOCKED how many people have responded with "Are you okay with her playing a boy??" and "Is she okay playing a boy?" I feel I must comment on this, as I received this comment far more frequently than I would have expected. Even C's acting director who was responsible for casting, emailed me ahead of announcing the roles to ensure I was "okay with her playing a boy." I have to say I'm a bit disappointed in hearing this. In defense of the director, I know she's a progressive thinker or she wouldn't have considered Caddie for the role in the first place, and I'm sure she was testing the waters as to whether her decision would result in some small-minded gender-ignorant parental meltdown akin to, "no son of mine is a sissy!"

Grrrr....

My daughter wanted this part so badly she literally dreamed about it, though her premonition as to who would play Sandy was inaccurate. ;-) We downloaded the Grease soundtrack from itunes and she was practicing the song "Grease Lightning" every day to and from school. She's an incredible actor and a male role is certainly within her range. She's played a sea witch octopus, a genie, and a lion [the latter two being male....]! Surely a challenge within her own species is something she can handle. I am just a bit saddened that we, as a society, continue to segregate on gender lines, especially our children. I thought the days of pink and blue were over. But, in all honesty, I know better. It's the #1 reason why ultrasounds are done, to determine the sex of the baby. "How could we possibly prepare for the birth of our child if we didn't know the sex?" (dripping sarcasm here, obviously).

My daughter has never been limited, at home, because of her sex. I realize that she's a member of society, and she's touched by the ignorant expectations of those around her. She is not naive to that. As I think about this... the first announcement I heard from one of her fellow child actors was, "She's a boy!" The categorization of children begins prenatally by gender. Of course children are aware of this. C has been encouraged to be, very literally, WHATEVER she wants to be. I am very proud of her. If her playing Danny Zuko is another stand necessary in society to drop these rigid gender norms, then I applaud her even more, because that is LONG overdue. We are a progressive culture, full of diversity, but also full of similarities. Gender is a fluid notion, it is not black and white, and it is not tied directly to sexuality. I was assured that the "romance" of the play had been removed when I was asked whether my daughter could play the male lead. I am saddened that the director felt the need to assure me of this. Why should that matter? Some fear that my female child would play a love interest to another female child? Bravo if she does! Homophobia is not allowed in my house either. I am disappointed in our Puritanical culture. Please recall the 1500s and 1600s in England when the birth of modern theater as we know it was in full bloom, and some of the greatest love stories and tragedies of all time, that forever formed the precedent of all to follow, were written by the great William Shakespeare and his colleagues and were performed ENTIRELY by male casts as it was ILLEGAL for females to grace the stage with their lovely presence. The most passionate and heart-wrenching love story of all time, Romeo and Juliet, was enacted by two males, and convincingly so! Think how this play has set the precedent for all romance since, particularly the beloved concepts of star-cross'd lovers. I am proud that my daughter has turned the tables on the restrictions of women across time, turned it on its head! Not only is she gracing the stage with her incredible talent, but she is playing a MALE. The males who auditioned, despite their sex, did not bring the talent and ability to this audition that C did. I am damn proud of that, that she played this male better than the biological males!? Oh, Heaven wept, what a scandal! I am proud that she has gained a sense of equality from her mother and those we surround ourselves with, and that she is not limited by her sex due to the "sexpectations" of a society still locked in archaic Puritanical philosophy.

We need to stop saying that we want our children to be happy; that we want them to be anything they can be. Stop SAYING it, and actually DO it.

In the immortal words of Noel Coward from his play Design for Living:

"You're making a mistake in daring to disapprove of something that has nothing to do with you whatsoever."

Eddie Izzard, self-proclaimed "action transvestite"

Tim Curry [male], playing a transvestite character in the film "Rocky Horror Picture Show."

Genesis

so.
Everyone needs a "why did I start this blog" post.
right?
Or... every blogger owes a bit of homage to the brain behind the operation.
Or, the brain behind the motivation.
Both, likely.
Approximately six years ago, I met the man who would very shortly become, in the cheesy romantic comedy way, the man of my dreams. It's one of those stories in which you'd be totally rooting for me. Him too, I think... in a While You Were Sleeping kind of way.... Anyway... six years later, and that man, that brilliant soul who has more insight into this ol' gal than anyone ever has; this dream of a man who has twice described me using a Good Will Hunting quote: "...feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you," ...
he's actually my partner. Seems the simplest, most sensible thing in the world, but it has taken us six years to reach this point. Six years to find our proper time. Six years before we were both ready to be the partner each other respectfully deserved. Perhaps, one day, I will feel so-inclined as to blog the details of that story. ... or to make it into the next teen romance series! ... Today, suffice it to say, it was my darling S who has encouraged me for ... easily over a year now... to begin a blog.

The romantic in me would like to believe that he's merely supporting my life-long dream of becoming a writer and somehow finding a way to make a living through this artistic medium. Insightful bloke that he is, he's surely recognized that his partner, talented though she may be, has failed to produce a single piece of fiction in the time he has known her ... [pause to argue the value of her poetry and non-fiction literary analysis here, won't you?]

So, we could surely stop here and give a nod to the great and brilliant S and presume that he always knows me better than I know myself and is simply encouraging the dream I probably won't begin to fulfill until the jewel of my eye is off to college.

I'd initially voted for this romantic notion, but, upon further reflection, my darling S is more likely to have noticed a far less romantic (and far more annoying) aspect of my personality that was in serious need of an outlet... before his insightful, brilliant mind simply exploded from the onslaught of texts and emails containing each and every possible point of discussion hurtling in his direction from the Bubblegum pink flip phone [yeah, you heard me] and post-9:30 bedtime gmail messages. Oh, my love. I don't know who said it first, but you certainly know me better than I know myself. 

His brilliance is a bit catty, actually. 
Note how the blog idea is [surely] an effort to find a creative outlet for me, thus improving my life, sense of self-worth, expanding upon my creative writing, etc, etc. But... it's also saving him  the onslaught, right? tsk tsk tsk. He always does this so well, it's incredible. A modern-day Sherlock. Or... Moriarty, perhaps. 

Another example of his catty brilliance: 
I consider myself a bit of a nerd. Always have been. No friends in high school, save the teachers, whom I regularly entertained after class with witty exchanges and requests for extra credit assignments as I was bored out of my skull and needed any motivation at all to drag me out of bed in the morning to return to those halls of taunts and jeers. I digress. I have always been a nerd. Played [and beat, naturally] every game Mario has graced with his presence, and many others we won't go into here. No physical coordination to speak of, chubby, no skills; only high grades and a general assumption that everyone disliked me for my plain appearance and aforementioned characteristics. Despite this pedigree, I never delved much into comics. Despite the draw of the comic books stores, made even more alluring by the nerdy male clientele [further romanticized in drool-worthy television shows starring said nerds such as The Big Bang Theory], I just never geeked-out on comics or comic characters. I had a passing knowledge of the X-Men characters due to a radiant red-haired best friend in fifth grade who had a bit of a fetish, but that was the extent of my knowledge. Strangely, even a sexy Ryan Reynolds didn't turn my head toward a Green Lantern lesson. 
Yet, one day, a couple years back (true nerds will know when X-Men: First Class was in theaters, I can't be distracted to look this up at the moment), I was wandering the small town of Taylor, Texas with a former partner when we came upon a delightful old cinema. It was a beautiful building. I've always held a soft spot for gorgeous old theatres, beginning with The Wilma in my hometown of Missoula, Montana, which, like the one in Taylor, Texas, still also shows films, though only on a few screens, as they were never meant to compete the the megaplexes of today. See the Paramount Theatre in Austin, Texas for another breath-taking example. Anyway... I wanted desperately to see more of the Taylor theater than the exterior but we couldn't tour as they were selling tickets to a film that was about to begin, the prequel to the X-Men. My former partner was a fan of the comics and rather easily persuaded me to give the film a shot. I had already decided it was worth the $4 admission to view the interior of the theater, and decided I really ought to support the poor guy's interests now and again, so in we went. 
Needless to say, I don't even remember the interior of the theater, though the snack bar, I recall, was intimately small and ridiculously inexpensive, if you're ever in the area. I really enjoyed the film, 100% more than I had expected to. 
Fast forward to today, well, a few weeks ago,... with my partner properly replaced with an eligible one, my darling S, who somehow had not seen X-Men: First Class, despite an admirable comic nerdom (or, at least, loyal following of all of the comic-based celluloid productions as of late). He, the poor dear, really tried to get me to watch The Avengers and Thor, making sure they were playing in the background every time I came over for weeks (let's just say he was trying to get me to watch them, and did not, in fact, watch them himself for weeks on-end... <3sigh<3.... my lovely nerd). Anyway, his efforts were greatly without fruit. Despite my desire to share his interests, I just didn't find the pieces of the films (and I'd also seen bits of Captain America... distorted giant head on a child's body, anyone??) enticing enough to warrant 2.5 hours of my time, multiplied by x number of superhero and comic-based films. 
Naturally, S was probably secretly thrilled to see my excitement at watching X-Men: First Class together. It was actually my suggestion!
He did not share any of this excitement with me. 

Here is what the catty little devil did, however. 
S has a habit of reading... and reading... and reading... everything he can get his hands on. 'Research,' to S, does not stop, typically, at Wikipedia. He is one of those [delicious] nerds who also follows the links at the bottom of the page to their logical conclusions... [yes, ladies, and he's all mine!] To refer to S as 'learned' and 'well-read' is a bit of an understatement. But, despite how horribly sexy that is, it has a downside. He often spoils works, particularly films, but occasionally books and restaurants as well, by reading far too many reviews, summaries and critiques. He gains a certain smug superiority from lifting his nose whenever possible, and, God knows, one may find a degrading critique (or hundreds...) on the internet in moments on just about any subject imaginable. 

Knowing this about himself, my darling was in a bit of a dilemma. He's an absolute director nerd and was interested in the genesis story of the X-Men, but did not want to go in completely unprepared. After all, how could he properly critique what he was watching if he knew not whose creation it was or whether it was based on actual comics or some freelance sideshow? This is serious business... how do you research a work without stumbling upon the spoilers?
You will remember the Moriarty comment, won't you now?
It just so happens that my beloved has, at eager beck-and-call, a rather talented researcher who had already seen the film. 
So S asked me to research a bit, find out whether the film was based on an actual comic, as in, did Stan Lee or any subsequent X-Men writers actually create the genesis stories for the X-Men characters in the strip, or was the film the work of a clever screenwriter alone? 
This seems like a completely legitimate request, doesn't it?
Sweet S just doesn't want to spoil the show, he's trying to give it an honest and impartial viewing, while still fulfilling his desire to comprehend the film's parentage. 

...

right?

Ah, but we aren't thinking like Moriarty. 
Recall the hidden (and somewhat self-serving) ulterior motive of getting this 1000-thoughts-per-day nerd-lover to write a blog instead of plaguing S's bewildered and exhausted phone....
What could S stand to gain in asking his angelic nerd to research the X-Men?
....He's a genius!

I happily jumped at the opportunity to "convince" him that the film was worth watching by doing the bit of research he requested. But I didn't stop there. I have a Masters Degree in English for a reason! S knows this. He played to my passions. I researched for hours, poring over the genesis stories of the X-Men, then expanding upon my own theories and ideas about the original relationship between Professor X [so fucking hot casting James McAvoy, btw] and Magneto. My undergrad is in Psych, so I get further into the character discussions regarding Magneto's traumatizing childhood and Xavier's endless empathy. Needless to say... my bf quite successfully opened my mind to the joys and pleasures of the comic world. A gateway film.
Catty little devil. I told you.
If only he had poor taste, I may have the heart to blame the guy. 
So far, his insight has been true, and he's introduced me to that which I've since thoroughly adored and had never known. 
Cliché as it may be, I cannot help but conclude that that is exactly what love is meant to be: An opportunity to see the world through the eyes of one's lover and to share in that vision. To learn via a collection of experiences and explanations built over the years of one's partner's life, and to add one's own. 


that was almost touching
had I not, for some horrible reason, thought: 
"With our powers combined! .... I... am Captain Planet!"

hey.. nerds can be romantic too... 
if you don't mind the sketches, quotes and citations.