F*** A Nerd: A Solution to the "Sexodus" Crisis

Ladies, there is a crisis in the land: Cowed and oppressed by the forces of radical feminism, heterosexual men everywhere are checking out of the dating scene and checking into video games and online porn. You might have heard about this crisis, this "Sexodus." It is a terrible, terrible scourge of biblical proportions (the 11th plague) afflicting women everywhere.

But luckily I have come up with a solution:

F*** a nerd.

Find the most pathetic specimen of masculinity possible. The more he loathes himself, the better. The longer he hasn't showered, the more he needs the redemption that only your body can provide. He lives in his mom's basement and watches online porn for 12 hours a day? Perfect.

Throw away those unrealistic and cruel expectations for men manufactured by feminism and romantic comedies. You say you want a man who will treat you with respect, and yet you read "50 Shades of Grey." Twice. Clearly, you don't know what you want.

Plus, you think you're so hot. Well, let me tell you, your expectations are way, way too high. Are you Jennifer Lawrence, Taylor Swift, or Beyonce? No? Then you are fugly at best. However, your female privilege has convinced you that you are all that, two Coach purses, and 54 pairs of shoes. You think you can get a "hot guy" with a job to commit to you. Good luck with that. 

Remember: You can always be replaced with porn and video games. Porn doesn't file false harassment charges. Porn doesn't nag at you to empty the dishwasher or get a job. Porn doesn't say "No" when it means "Yes." Porn doesn't only have sex with assholes. Porn doesn't smile at you one day and put you in the "friend zone" the next. Porn doesn't fight back. Chew on that.

Ladies, if you have sex with a nerd, he might just start to overcome the years of rejection and oppression he has experienced at the hands of our female-dominated society. Sure, he knows he really deserves a supermodel and the six figure job you got just because you are female, but the consolation prize of your subpar body will have to do for now.

Really, it's for the good of humanity, the continuation of the species, and a peaceful resolution to the war on men that's being raged in America.

If we are to end this crisis, drastic measures must be taken. So here's my advice:

Stop trying to get ahead at work. Turn down that promotion. You don't need that promotion. A man needs that promotion.

Stop being good at school [a female-created institution designed to make men feel incompetent and insecure].

Stop volunteering to lead at church. You don't need that leadership position. A man needs that leadership position. If a man stops coming to church, it's your fault for taking the leadership role that was rightfully his.

Stop having expectations for the men you sleep with. It's enough that he condescended to sleep with you in the first place, when he could have been playing Minecraft.

Stop complaining about sexual assault, sexual harassment, and sexism. Men are tired of hearing about it. You are only perpetuating the feminist myth that all men are rapists and pigs. Men will assume that asking you on a date will get them charged with assault.

Stop sending mixed messages. Either you want a real man who forcibly takes what he wants or you want a passive nice guy who treats you as an equal but never makes a move. You can't have both.

Women: the choice is simple. If you don't "lean back" and spread your legs, unemployed men drowning in self-pity who have given up on any semblance of personal hygiene are going to refuse to have sex with you.

Do you want to die single and alone? I didn't think so. Get out there, and start f***** as many undesirable and unattractive men as you possibly can. If you're lucky, one of them might even agree to marry you.

But don't count on it.


Inspirations:
Lysistrata by Eurpides
Matt Walsh
Article about the "Sexodus"

Pain, Part 2

I wasn't quite telling the whole story in my last post about pain, entitled fittingly "Pain" (with a title like that, shockingly not one of my most popular posts). 

I wrote that the wound was infected and that was why I was still in capital "P" PAIN, pain that wouldn't go away, that didn't fade with time, that lingered in excruciating fashion.

I think there's some truth to that, but the larger truth is that I am still in a context and a situation that is not safe--that does not feel safe--in which I am constantly on alert.

I am still in the mix. And so I am still in the source of the pain.

I am afraid that what happened before will happen again--an instinctual, animal fear. I do not claim that my fear is logical, or rational, or necessary, that there is any way for me to know that it could happen again.

The fear just is. Much like the pain. 

So there it is. I'm not in a safe place--haven't been for months.

And speaking of safety, in particular emotional safety, it's something you only realize you had once you've lost it. I was safe; now I am not. The very definition of safety is that you are not thinking, "I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe..." You are not thinking about it at all.

What I didn't expect after that initial "NO!" to what was not safe but rather violating, soul-battering, wounding--and this "No" felt good and right and true--was having to say "No" over and over again.

"I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe..."

"No" to having my boundaries violated and trampled. "No" to attempts at emotional manipulation. "No" to the endless cycle of brokenness and hurt. And "No" most of all to shame.

There is the thought at the back of mind that because I didn't leave immediately (for rational, adult reasons) I only brought upon myself everything that followed--that I brought all this pain on myself, basically. If only I had just left. 

Shame is such a huge temptation for me. And maybe that's why the fear has been so persistent. You would think that after all this time, I wouldn't be afraid that he would hurt me, again. But I am. 

You would think that after all this time, I would feel secure and safe. But I don't. 

Some part of me is extremely sorry that I am just that weak. That I can't overcome this fear of being emotionally brutalized by someone that I once trusted. That I'm walking around wounded and for the life of me don't have the means to protect myself or feel safe again.

But then maybe that's just the sane thing to do--move to safety as soon as possible. You're hurt, you're bleeding--get off the battlefield, remove yourself from the line of fire.

It's possible that it is impossible to heal while you are still flinching at every sudden noise and movement, when you are too much in fight or flight to even think about recovery. It's possible that fleeing to safety will mean that the wound can finally heal. 

And I'm extremely lucky to be able to do that. I have the means to leave. To get out. And I know that that is a privilege. 

No one deserves this, I remind myself. Not even me. 

A Story Worth Fighting For

I never imagined it would be this much of a struggle to be the hero of my own story, the lead in my high school play, the center of my own narrative.

No one and nothing prepared me for this. Not college. Not courses in feminist, post-modern, post-colonial, or Marxist theory. Not reading Doestoyevsky, the Bronte sisters, Donne, Shakespeare, or George Eliot. Not all the papers I wrote about hybridity, syntax or laughter. Not being good at school or good at my job. Not praise from teachers, employers or peers. 

Nothing. 

Part of being the hero means you get to have layers. So, for example, one of the most jarring things about inhabiting my identity is the baffling (to me) denial that I have a past. That things have happened to me. Not only that things have happened to me, but that I've been affected by these things that have happened to me.

At every fresh encounter with a new person, I'm assumed to be (supposed to be) a blank slate. 

As if you were the first stranger to tell me to, "Smile." 

The first white guy to call me "exotic." 

The first person to ask, "So, where are you from?"

The first man to speak to me in a condescending tone of voice about something technical. 

I'm told that I'm "cynical." That I have a bad attitude. That I "hate white people."

I feel like part of being human is learning from the past, taking in experiences that repeat themselves over and over again, making sense of these experiences and even molding them into a narrative. 

Like any three-dimensional character, don't I deserve a back story too? 

Like Marx said, history repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce. But sometimes it seems like even laughter is not allowed to me. Because to laugh is to have a distinct point of view that sees the cracks, the contradictions, the absurdities of the status quo. 

I think I can say that I've paid a price for not aquiecsing to the dominant narrative. And as I fight for my story, I can't help but feel like I'm fighting for my life. That if I don't have this, I have nothing. That if I don't fight for my story, no one else will. 

The Upside of Crisis

It's been a rough couple of months. You know when a situation quickly escalates from bad to The Room (except it's too immediate to even be funny yet)?

When I'm not hiding in my closet, crying, or hiding in my closet crying, I've been doing some crisis-induced thinking. Except when it feels like CRISIS and not just unfortunate-situation-I'm-trying-to-deal-with, it gets really hard to think clearly.

When I'm in fight-or-flight mode I really only want to do one of two things:

1) Run away.
2) Punch someone in the face.
3) Punch someone in the face and then run away.

Okay, that was three things, but you get the idea.

That's the downside of crisis. Calm, rational thought goes right into the proverbial whirring garbage disposal (along with, unfortunately, the ability to execute normal day-to-day functions like brainstorming my next crockpot recipe and wearing matching socks. Wait--who am I kidding. I can't even manage that on a good day).

I feel like I'm in the midst of emotional warfare, but they brought a [insert military grade weapon here] and I brought a paper clip and a stick of chewing gum (In case you were wondering, I'm losing).

Add to this the fact that my emotional reaction time is basically glacial. If you stab me repeatedly with a piece of broken glass I might say "ouch" roughly two weeks later. Imagine how long it takes me to heal. Yeah.

And just as the wound appears to be scabbing over, I get stabbed, again, by someone who keeps telling me they would rather succumb to a flesh-eating disease than hurt me. It's confusing as #$@!.

But I digress. The upside.

Recognizing that I am a human person with human limitations

Unspoken Rule #178 - Do not be weak.

Unspoken Rule #3 - Don't be a victim.

Unspoken Rule #65 - If you cry, expect to be made fun of. Oh, and if you do cry, people are secretly judging you for being overly emotional and "weak."

Unspoken Rule #82 - Never allow yourself to be dependent on someone else.

Unspoken Rule #77 - If you are dependent on someone else, they will resent you. For being weak.

Unspoken Rule #34 - Do not ask for help.

Unspoken Rule #91 - You need to figure this out on your own.

Unspoken Rule #117 - The worst thing you can do is feel sorry for yourself.

Learning the signs of "I'm not okay"

I feel like this must be easier for other people. Maybe not. It takes me days (it feels like) to even realize that I'm upset. I analyze and compartmentalize my emotions as if they are completely separate from me, kind of like other people might organize their DVD collection by genre, director or year of release.

"I'm filing all my Wes Anderson movies under M for 'melancholy.'"

Acknowledging some hard-to-accept truths about myself

Hard Truth #35 - I don't have a ton of automatic respect for authority, power, position, or the status quo.

Hard Truth #21 - I have a near-crippling fear of disapproval from authority figures.

Hard Truth #88 - I think I'm better than the rules. See also Hard Truth #35 & Hard Truth #21. See also, COMPLETELY SCREWED.

Hard Truth #103 - Subverting the system makes me gleeful and somewhat smug. [Thanks a lot, Dad.]

Hard Truth #999 - I ride my bike to work, drink fruit-oatmeal-spinach-flaxseed smoothies, and attend the occasional yoga class. Yes, I have become THAT person.

I have really awesome friends

They would be awesome even if I wasn't going through a crisis or CRISIS. Thanks you guys. It is because of you that I have yet to either run away or punch someone in the face or both.

I'm going to get through this.