Call me a snowflake one more time, motherfucker.
noise dept.
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

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hello vonnie

oozey mess
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izzy's playlists!
Misplaced Lens Cap
NASA
One Nice Bug Per Day

blake kathryn
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Discoholic 🪩
AnasAbdin

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
$LAYYYTER
taylor price

pixel skylines
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@fizzygrrl
Call me a snowflake one more time, motherfucker.
Handcrafted Geometric Owl Ring With Sapphire Eyes By ElinaGleizer On Etsy
*More Things & Stuff
!!!!!
WANT
@tejoxys
omgomgomgomg I have the mightiest need
Win an ARC of THE UPSIDE OF UNREQUITED!
UPSIDE ARCs have officially landed, and I am blown away by the number of requests! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your interest in this book, and I really hope you love it. I wish I had enough ARCs to share with all of you beautiful, brilliant, Oreo-eating Simon readers, but I’m afraid supplies are limited.
HOWEVER.
YOU can win a signed/personalized copy of THE UPSIDE OF UNREQUITED! This contest is open internationally, and it’s specifically geared toward SIMON fans.
PRESENTING: The world’s second hardest SIMON VS THE HOMO SAPIENS AGENDA trivia quiz!
Here’s how it works!
*There are 25 super obscure SIMON VS questions. Each correct answer is worth 4 points. There are no penalties for incorrect answers. You can leave questions blank. If you include multiple answers, I’ll count the first one listed.
*You can use the book as a reference. You can ask (anyone but me) for help. You can work as a team. Anything goes!
*Email your responses to me at becky.albertalli at gmail NO LATER THAN Friday, August 12, noon, EST
(Deadline shifted back, because it is now impossible to win unless you earn the Friday submission bonus!)
*The first person to email me their responses to the quiz (regardless of percentage correct) will receive 10 bonus points.
*Highest total score wins the ARC! If two or more participants tie, they will participate in a SUPER hard final bonus tiebreaker round. If you are participating as a team, please select ONE team member to initially receive the ARC (though I’m happy to personalize it to multiple people).
*Answers will be based on the English language versions of the book (if details are different in my international editions, I’m afraid I’m unlikely to know)!
*Good luck!
SCROLL DOWN FOR QUESTIONS!
1. What color are Garrett’s eyes?
2. What neighborhood in the DC area is Abby from?
3. What is Simon’s birthday?
4. What is Simon’s mom’s job?
5. What is Martin’s brother’s first name?
6. What is the name of Simon’s English teacher?
7. What part does Taylor play in the school musical?
8. Where do Blue’s dad and stepmother live?
9. What is Alice’s boyfriend’s name?
10. Which character is really good at claw machines?
11. Where do Nick’s ancestors come from?
12. What do the Spiers eat for Christmas Eve dinner?
13. What Elliott Smith song does Simon’s email address reference?
14. What flavor of frosting does Simon dislike?
15. What is the name of the college boy Simon meets at the gay bar?
16. Who is Leah’s OTP in Harry Potter?
17. What was Blue’s go-to Halloween costume as a child?
18. What type of music did the Creekwood freshman class choose as a homecoming theme?
19. What is Blue’s email address?
20. What is Cal’s last name?
21. What band was Simon obsessed with in middle school?
22. What sport is responsible for Simon’s favorite type of calves?
23. What was Simon’s costume for Garrett’s Halloween party?
24. What are the two ingredients of a Nick Eisner cookie?
25. Name at least two out of three of Simon’s ex-girlfriends?
I posted this on someone's status, but I'm going to post it here because holy good goddamn am I sick of seeing privilege thrown around like your fucking principles of not voting for Clinton are genuinely more important than all the horrible things that will happen for generations under a Trump presidency: I'm voting on the two party ticket because this isn't a regular election where we might have four years of the party we don't care for, but rather four years of a raging garbage fire that will appoint Supreme Court justices that will rule long after my children are adults. I notice every single person saying they will vote third party, republican or democrat, are straight, white folk. Mainly, people who can sit on their principles pedestals and say WE SURE SHOWED YOU with their votes as the non-straight, white folk are pushed through all manner of hell with a moldy yam as president. Be sure to nod in assurance when all same sex marriages are overturned when they amend the constitution. (On the party agenda.) I'm sure that will make all those broken homes feel better knowing you stood by principles. And as all the brown-skinned children sob because their parents are being deported (also on the agenda) a knowing wink that tells them you voted for YOUR conscience will dry those tears. And since my children didn't have anything to do with this complete cock-up of an election cycle, and it's not fair to force them to suffer so I can tell them, "Well, sure, there was a sentient yeast infection running against a woman people hate for reasons that aren't actually based in reality despite 30 years of legal battles with unlimited resources and still never being able to prove she did the things, but hey, we all sure stuck to our principles and voted third party! Now, good luck at the Reaping, kids, I hope our District wins the Hunger Games this year."
If I stop reblogging this, you'll know I've died.
tbh, knowing I definitely would have been formally accused of witchcraft a few hundred years ago is what tells me I'm living my best life.
Couldn’t have said it better myself. Thanks @fizzygrrl 🙌🏼
The first time (to my knowledge...) I've been Twitter-grabbed for Tumblr. *hears the Hallelujah Chorus*
This is driving me nuts. Gilmore Girls, 6.13 "Friday Night's Alright For Fighting" has a scene where Lorelai and Sookie are at a flower market and they are both wearing a small strip of green tape. WHY THE GREEN TAPE? This haunts me.
It never stops bothering me that Michael Gambon couldn't be bothered to read the Harry Potter books. Like, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO PEEVES IS, SIR, HOW DARE YOU.
Happiness Isn’t Just An Outside Thing
HAPPINESS ISN’T JUST AN OUTSIDE THING
Disclaimer: Below is a post detailing my existing struggle with suicidal thoughts and doesn’t hold back. If you worry this may trigger any buried suicidal feelings of your own instead of providing comfort or insight to my personal experience, then please play it safe and skip this. If you’re currently struggling with the idea of suicide and need to reach out to someone please go see someone you trust and/or hit up the Suicide Prevention Lifeline and stay on the line until you can trust yourself to not act on these feelings. If one operator isn’t making you feel better, hang up and call again until you speak to someone who helps you find the value in yourself. The number is 1-800-273-8255.
If you’ve met me before or follow me online your takeaway is probably along the lines of how happy I am and not how suicidal I am. I’ve struggled with suicidal feelings for many years now and this is the first year I’ve been speaking more openly about this. When I was twenty-one I stood on the roof of my first apartment building and a call with MIRACULOUS timing from my best friend got me to step down, a fact I’m pretty sure he wasn’t aware of until this year. In January 2014, one month after getting my first book deal, I was ready to kill myself again, and just like the first time, a call from my other best friend in a different time zone saved my life. About two weeks ago I was ready to commit suicide and this time around it took a gang of best friends scattered across the map, my incredible publishing team, and two calls to the Suicide Prevention Lifeline to save my life.
I have a tattoo on my collarbone: HGO, which stands for Happiness Goes On. I was on an afternoon date a few years ago and immediately lost interest in the guy so I lied about having a tattoo appointment so I wouldn’t have to stay out too long. But then I felt bad about lying and had time to spare before a birthday party so I got a tattoo. I wanted this tattoo to serve as a reminder that twice in my life I was ready to quit, and even though it took many months and even years to get over the pain and worthlessness, I endured, survived, and happiness came again. And I’m not bullshitting you here, but that tattoo was pretty invisible during the scariest week of my life. I don’t remember seeing it once and I don’t remember believing in what it represented at that time.
This post may surprise people because, on paper, I’ve had a good year. Next year is looking good, too. 2017 is shaping up to be even better. And things are falling into place for 2018. But these good things are only the measurements in the book arena of my life. Trust me that it is 100,000% unhealthy for anyone to measure their worth by sales and starred reviews and author tours and national marketing campaigns. I’m reducing my time on all social media because these things have all added to my recent anxiety and panic attacks, which exist independently from all dark thoughts. There’s a history of mental illness on my father’s side of the family—schizophrenia, dissociative disorder, and yes, uncles who’ve committed suicide.—so I want to note that I also suffer from pretty bad OCD. The combination of anxiety and OCD have resulted in my fingerprints all over every rung of my career—possibly more so than other authors—until things are RIGHT in my eyes and CLICK in my head, and I’ll spare you all the details on what I mean by this. The point is that it’s taken this really bad week for me to finally relinquish control on things that were only stressing me out further to create a healthier headspace for myself and so I can focus on my personal life, both appreciating and extending it.
My best friend Luis said many life-saving things to me that week, and onwards, and one of my favorites is when he recognized my need to become “Adam Silvera, human who writes, and not writer who humans.” Publishing a book has always been my dream, but once that dream came true it didn’t arrive with the infinite happiness I swore it would; I wasn’t untouchable to unhappiness. I don’t blame publishing, by the way. I just hate my warped perspective on publishing and hope that I can correct this moving forward so I can truly appreciate all the victories, big and small.
When it comes to talking to others about my problems it might be hard for them to take me seriously because I will VERY RARELY speak to anyone when I’m knee-deep in my latest funk. Instead I wait until I’m in somewhat better spirits, have had enough time to review why I’m feeling a certain way, and will then express it in a joking ha-ha manner that no one could possibly be at fault for dismissing entirely. I’m guessing I’ve done this subconsciously because I don’t value my own issues enough to believe anyone could possibly care about this. In the very recent past I made an unforgivable joke where I said “Ugh, life is too long.” It’s pretty disgusting because I’m fully aware how many people wish they were privileged with another day or better health and here I am wishing my time away. (If I ever made this joke around you and you were too kind to tell me to shut the fuck up please know I’m really sorry and wish I wasn’t such an inconsiderate idiot.) Even though it’s my worst insensitive joke ever I do have to confess the sentiment is genuine. Two days after hitting the New York Times bestseller list, one of the book’s biggest wins ON PAPER, I was chilling with authors in Chicago and we were talking about upcoming projects in 2017 and I sank. David Arnold, one of my best buddies who’s very familiar with my suicidal history, noticed my drop in energy, but I played it off because I didn’t want to talk about how the thought of being around in 2017 exhausted and depressed me. I called my best friend when I got to my hotel room that night and expressed this to him because talking about these feelings has proven to be a way better outlet than absorbing all the pain by myself. It sucks though that talking about our problems isn’t like a surefire magical spell that cleanses us of all our depression and pain, but instead actually only relieves us temporarily and leaves behind smudges everywhere.
It’s not uncommon for me to sink when good things are happening in my life, and I’m sure others experience this as well. It’s a high and you’re only left wanting more and then “More” doesn’t show up for work and you’re left super disappointed. Maybe that’s just me, but dozens of these moments eventually avalanched and left me feeling worthless and hopeless and crushed and alone despite having some of the greatest friends ever.
This is where it gets maybe a little too dark, but for a couple of weeks before this crash I’d been planning a solo trip where I was basically going to figure out how I would kill myself because I was tired of the worthlessness and hopelessness and loneliness I’d been feeling tenfold. I knew—or, if we’re being brutally honest, half-believed—deep down I didn’t want this for myself but because the thought kept returning I immediately messaged some of my best friends (my #1 homie Luis, Corey Whaley, David Arnold, Becky Albertalli, Jasmine Warga) so they would understand why I was taking a break from social media and to basically keep an eye on me as I felt things worsening.
That same night I was coming apart. I had no appetite, I couldn’t sleep, my chest was very tight, and my heart was pounding so hard around 2:00AM that I thought I was having a heart attack, and the force of it didn’t go away until 6PM the next day. The next morning I hit up my agent Brooks and caught him up on everything and asked him to pass along all of this info to my publisher Soho, and I was dropped from all our email interactions to reduce my anxiety and focus on myself. I emailed mentor/friend Lauren Oliver about all this too and she came back with the toughest love that finally got me to reach out to a Suicide Prevention Lifeline for the first time in my life.
I can remember my first suicidal thought when I was sixteen so it really struck me that at age twenty-five I was finally adding the Suicide Prevention Lifeline into my phone’s contacts list. It took me hours to finally work up the nerve to call and I didn’t feel very justified because I wasn’t in immediate danger to myself. But as Lauren told me, I was still indeed at risk during these very charged days and it was important that I start building relationships and having conversations with professionals instead of carrying this around by myself. I also didn’t want to call because I felt as if my reasons—which I’ll keep to myself—were stupid and would earn me several eye-rolls, but I really hope anyone reading this understands that if your “stupid” reason is eating you alive then it’s far from stupid and I hope we can all be smarter about this in the future.
I went for a walk when I made the call. I played a cheery song (playing depressing songs while depressed wasn’t making me less depressed) and when the song ended, I forced myself to call the lifeline. My chest is tightening thinking about how fucking bizarre that all was. When the operator picked up (she was the loveliest, seriously) I didn’t even know what to say initially, but within forty minutes I told her so much: how I’ve cried in the shower with my face planted on the cold tiles of the wall; how I appreciated my trusted friends checking in on me, and how I hated that I was this broken thing they needed to check in on; how uncomfortable it made me that everyone was learning how to recalibrate their conversations with me, like I needed to be handled with kiddie gloves; how interrupting everyone’s (seemingly) happy lives with my own unhappiness only made me regret sharing all this with them in the first place; how becoming an author has changed my life, but how it hasn’t magically healed all wounds or spread its happiness into the other arenas of my life; how I’m apartment hunting in a city I’m not sure I want to stay in; how everything felt lose-lose, and so much more. She never rushed me off the phone once and when I was ready to hang up, she gave me multiple resources that could better assist me locally and reminded me that I could still call this number anytime.
That evening led to more talks with friends and I was so drained by the entire thing that I didn’t call any of the resource centers the next day. After a night with four long back-to-back talks I needed some distance from all this. But two days after the first call to the Suicide Prevention Lifeline, my best friend took me up to Bear Mountain where we climbed to the very top and drank fresh water from this spring and just had an overall dope day, and when we got back to city that night I crashed even harder than the first time that week. I was really convinced this was going to be the night where I committed suicide and I felt ready, and I felt terrified. I cried in the shower, I cried in the streets, I cried on the steps of a church, and I cried in the streets some more. When I considered throwing myself into a street as a car approached and was about to research painless ways to commit suicide, I got my shit together and called the Suicide Prevention Lifeline again.
This operator wasn’t as great as the first and I even considered hanging up on her to find someone else to talk to, and that’s something I absolutely suggest if you speak to someone you’re not connecting with. But she said something that made me call the resource centers I’d been avoiding. I can’t tell you what she said because I don’t remember and it also doesn’t necessarily matter anymore because it got me to finally make that call to the place with the weird waiting music that had me on hold for a while because “all counselors were currently assisting other callers.” But I was okay and I was trying to live so I waited. I spoke with a lovely woman and she gave me numbers for local psychiatrists and therapists, and then I went back to my friend’s house.
I told him how everything flipped and how exhausted I was and I broke down so hard I learned the sound of my cry—not the little sobs from the shower that I thought was crying, but instead an agonized cry with stuttered breaths and howling as if I lost all my favorite people in the universe. I have a tattoo that’s a secret code for words of wisdom I’ve tried to live my life by, and only my mom knew the meaning just in case something ever happened to me, but that night I wrote them down for my best friend too just in case things continued diving south. That move alone made me feel like I still have one foot hovering over the edge, no matter how much I calmed down hours later.
By comparison, things have been easier since this nightmare. I now better understand the power of my depression—its strength will make me feel lonely even when I’m being hugged, and it’s a sneaky motherfucker that will drag me down when I’m sure it’s gone. I’m working on making therapy a major part of my life, and am looking into medication. I’ve made so many calls already to try and lock down sessions and it’s been really frustrating, but I’m not going to pretend I don’t need it, even if I’m able to trust myself again currently. It sucks, but I know the time will come again where I’ll feel like this, or God forbid worse, and I’ll want psychiatric help available to me.
I’m taking more time for myself to live beyond my art that’s now become my career, and I’m getting better at removing myself from situations that make me uncomfortable to avoid more panic attacks and ugly thoughts. My outlook on the future is already improving and I can talk about next week without freaking out. I’m getting better at appreciating what I DO have, including the book community, because even though my shitty perspective on publishing added to my distress I wouldn’t have been exposed to the incredible human beings who were there for me during a surprising, dark week.
Writing has been my outlet since I was eleven or twelve. Whether I was exploring an idea or seeking therapy it’s what I’ve always done—and will likely continue to do—whenever I needed to relieve myself of whatever is weighing me down. But this time it’s also a lengthy status update of how I’m still very much a work-in-progress when it comes to dealing with all this. I don’t have all the answers because I haven’t fully emerged from the other side just yet. But the process of rebirth is just as important as the finish line where you’re reborn. No matter how young or old we are we’re all constantly reinventing ourselves. New trials appear we have to learn how to overcome, and we also wise up to old ways no longer benefitting us and have to discover what does.
I’ve maybe only mentioned this to one or two people before, but for years I’ve thought that if I were to ever commit suicide it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. But as I’ve confessed a lot of these thoughts very recently to my mom and childhood friends to learn they were surprised I was ever hurting in the first place, I’ve realized everyone would be surprised because on the outside I’m happy. I only show you all a very happy Adam Silvera. Online and in-person I share the parts of my life where I’m winning and where I’m laughing, but I’m not nearly open enough about how hard happiness has always been, and continues to be, in my life; I know it’s the same for countless others, too. I’m often happy for others and deeply unhappy for myself. But I’m hoping to turn this around and to surprise MYSELF now by living, and by finding the strength to do whatever it takes to be happy with the happiness I’m pretty damn sure exists deep within me.
SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE: 1-800-273-8255.
When I was in high school I heard about this male masturbatory technique called "The Stranger" where guys would sit on their own hand until it went numb and then wank off and this is definitely the first thing I would do if I magically became a dude for a day.
Hey, hey, guess what? I love you.
True story: I love yer guts.
I don’t know how to reply to the-feels-assassin because I am too stupid to Tumbl...
Hey, hey, guess what? I love you.
True story: I love yer guts.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?
My heart.
“I’m me.”
Hello my loves!
Last year, I was invited to do an interview for DiversifYA by the lovely Marieke Nijkamp to discuss life with OCD. The first question of that interview was "How do you identify yourself?"
At the time, I approached the question solely from the perspective of discussing my disorder, but I found it difficult to answer. I'd asked the interview to be put on hold for awhile, but when it came time to post it a few months back, that question popped out to me again. "How do you identify yourself?"
I'm a very open person. I'll gladly discuss anything with anyone for whatever reason. I'm an open book. I like that about myself. Living an openly honest life is very important to me.
And in private, when someone asks me how I identify, I have no apprehension about specifying who I am. In all my years, not a single person has been even slightly shocked by my explanations. If you know me at all, even just online, I doubt you'll be clutching pearls by the end of this post.
I've said to multiple people over the years that I've deliberately never made a post about my sexuality or gender identity because I hadn't had a reason to. That doing so would feel like I was announcing for the sake of announcing. Not to say that is a bad thing to do in any way. Cheers to absolutely anyone who has the stones to shout from the rooftops who they are.
But I couldn't find a justification for myself. I mean, I'm a married, stay-at-home mother of two. What does my identity matter to anyone, really?
Aside from that motivation, I've had a tremendous amount of trouble in my 34 years trying to find the words to explain who I am, even to myself. I grew up in a ridiculously tiny, hyper-conservative town in which there was straight, which was acceptable, gay, which was shameful, or bisexual, which was a myth. There was no discussion ever about gender fluidity. That wasn't even a concept. Occasionally the term "hermaphrodite" would be thrown around as a hideous insult, but that's as close as anyone ever got to talking about life outside the iron-clad formalities of girls and boys.
I've been asked many, many times in my life if I'm a lesbian. My high school experience was riddled with jokes about my obvious Les status, and I definitely found myself on the business end of some violent behavior based on the assumption more than a few times. Dykes weren't welcome in our town.
There was a boy I'd gone to school with since grade school who was so convinced of my gayness he openly bragged about his intention to rape me one day. Classmates would casually say, "Did you know he's going to rape you?" like they were asking if I'd heard it was pizza day in the cafeteria. I was supposed to be flattered that he'd be willing to stoop so low, but also thankful that a man would show me how awesome sex with a man would be. Apparently.
That dude is a convicted sex offender now. I ran into him at a gas station about twelve years ago, and as my stomach clenched and I held my car keys in my hand as a potential weapon, he laughingly reminisced about the plans he'd made, as if we'd been recalling a time when he'd considered asking me to prom but he just never got around to it.
The most shocking part of that conversation in his eyes was that I was engaged to a man.
My mother-in-law has more than once made comments about how, despite my never declaring as such, she knows I want to look like a man, and then she guides me towards silk blouses and gifts me frilly things. She once straight-up pulled a fedora out of my hands at a store for this reason.
And, okay, say what you want about fedoras, I looked awesome in that bastard.
I often get comments about the shortness of my hair, or the cut of my t-shirts, or whatever it is I'm wearing that strikes someone as "manly."
Even my own parents have questioned "what" I am. A few years ago, when pregnant with my second child, we were discussing something about sexuality when my parents admitted they'd worried for years that I was...one of them.
My parents are wonderful, but they were definitely raised in the same small town bubble I was. They are open-minded, but it took some work to get them there. I appreciate their efforts.
I've always known exactly who and what I am, but I haven't always had the words to explain it. In my teen years, I struggled with that. I settled on, "Well, I'm me." and I was okay with that.
Once I married and had children, I thought the details stopped mattering. What would anyone care about my identification? Why should I care? I'm securely invested in a heterosexual marriage and have spawned two glorious tots in a traditional way. Did I really need to broadcast a label?
I never went through phases in my youth in which I was terribly bothered to try and fit in. The status quo was never really my scene.
But once I had children, I felt the burden of conformity. What would happen to my children if people saw their mother as something other than what was designed? Would they be punished for having a mom who didn't mold?
I gave it a go. I really did. I tried out some sweater sets. I let my mom buy me pastel cardigans for Christmas. My MIL continued to gift things that were too conservative for even her clothing tastes.
For a hot minute, I even had a blond bob, y'all. Full on soccer mom style.
And oooooooh, how I hated it. I've never felt more uncomfortable in my own skin. I felt like I was being strangled by poly-cotton blends and nude nail polishes.
When my son was a year old, I gave it up. On a whim, actually. I was sitting in a chair at the salon, getting a trim on the blond bob, and I'd had enough of looking in a mirror and seeing someone who didn't look at all like me.
And I finally embraced looking on the outside the way I feel on the inside.
Off came the bob, and my spiky pixie was born, and I demanded any sort of Crayola color they could whip up. Still being in a conservative zone, all we could swing was blood red, which actually made me look like a demonic Puck from Mid-Summer Nights Dream, but it was a start.
In my head, I would still think, "I'm me." and went with it. There weren't words to describe how I felt as a person, or how I looked at sexuality. "I'm me," got me by.
I'm not one of those people who thinks I've got it all figured out, or thinks I can't learn from other people. If I ever stop learning, it means I've stopped paying attention, and that would be sad. The end would be nigh, I assume.
So imagine my shock and awe to have heard a 22-year-old pop star calmly expressing her sexual and gender identity in an interview and for the first time in my life, have put into words what I'd never been able to outside the scope of, "I'm me."
“I kind of wanted to be nothing. I don’t relate to what people would say defines a girl or a boy, and I think that’s what I had to understand: Being a girl isn’t what I hate, it’s the box that I get put into.”
That's right. I got schooled on my own identity by Miley Cyrus.
I yanked my husband aside as soon as he got home from work and giddily pointed to the article squealing, "That's me! That's what I've been trying to say for 34 years!"
And then! She did it one more time:
“I don’t relate to being boy or girl, and I don’t have to have my partner relate to boy or girl."
Once again, bouncing in place, I trilled to my husband, "That's what I've been saying forever! THAT IS ME."
This wasn't a surprise to him, obviously. I've never hidden who I am or who I feel from anyone, especially my life partner.
Having it put into such concise wording was MAGICAL. And I can't sell that enough. I floated for weeks with those sentences dancing through my brain. I had words to describe me. Actual words that made sense and felt right and yay me.
I'm not gonna lie; I was momentarily stunned that I'd been learned on my own identification by someone I could damn near be biologically capable of being her mother, but hey. Life happens how it happens.
But it got me thinking...if I had a moment of gleeful zen appear from an interview with Miley Cyrus, who else out there might be needing to hear a variation of those words? I hadn't realized how damned important that clarification was until it was prancing about in my person, throwing glitter in the air and twirling with unicorns and shit.
A lot of people won't give Miley credit for that kind of power because they judge who she is or how she acts, which, you know, people will see and gather what they will.
But after I gained so much from a single paragraph, I was genuinely shocked to find myself feeling guilty. I felt selfish. Like, what if I was holding onto a paragraph that would illicit brain glitter and twirling unicorns onto someone else?
I'm likely giving myself waaaaaay too damn much credit here, but the thought seriously has been haunting me. What if someone was sitting around for 34 years waiting to feel like they finally had the words to describe themselves and maybe I could help but I was being all uncharacteristically tight-lipped?
"How do you identify yourself?"
Hi. My name is Summer. I am physically a woman, but I've always considered myself to be an amalgamation of genders. I present myself and my dress according to the way I feel, both masculine and feminine. I prefer to be called female pronouns.
I am attracted to people. No gender specifics. Just people. I've had romantic feelings and experiences and relationships with persons across gender lines. I'm 100% faithful to my husband because fidelity is my jam, but I am attracted to a wide spectrum of identifications.
My husband also identifies as such, sexually speaking. I think that's why we work as well as we do in a lot of ways. We understand and respect the logistics of having emotional and sexual pasts and feelings that span party-lines.
I like the term queer. I'm not particularly straight. I'm not a lesbian. I don't consider myself bisexual. I don't feel necessarily cisgender. I strayed away from the word queer for ages because where I grew up, it was an unholy insult, a slur, and even though it felt comfortable for me, I wasn't sure I was allowed to claim it.
When I fight for equality, everyone assumes I'm fighting for my friends, or just doing the right damn thing, and I absolutely am. But I've quietly fighting for myself as well. I have no plans of finding myself unmarried some day, but life is kooky, and you never know what's down the road. So while I am fighting for everyone around me, I am also fighting for myself, knowing damn well those laws may well apply to relationships I could have in the future. I never felt comfortable saying as such because it felt like I was stealing thunder from people who don't have the options I had, if that makes sense.
None of this has ever been a secret from anyone, but now I feel more confident than I ever have in being able to explain myself in the way that feels most accurate to me.
I am exactly as I've always been, feel as I've always felt, and behave as I've always behaved.
To prove that, here's a CumberGIF.
This post is comforting to me in that I'm enjoying writing out the specifics of what makes me, me. It's reaffirming. Gives me the warm and fuzzy feels.
If this post serves to comfort any of you reading? Oh, oh how the warm and fuzzy feels will abound.
And if you needed to read a paragraph that helps you put into words what took me 34 years to get right? Then I please know I'm clicking "Publish" for you. And I genuinely, truly mean that. If I could thank Miley Cyrus for giving me her paragraph, I'd send her a fruit basket and a snergle.
I hope you all are having the most wondrous of weeks.
Until next time,
Peace, Love, and I'm Still Me.
#prettyheroes Peggy Carter wants to remind you that girls can be heroes, too, and they don’t even need powers!
I am loving the #PrettyHeroes pics today! So many smiles.
I Read a Few Hundred Queries Last Week & Made Another Poem Out of the Most Frequently Recurring Phrases
what would you do if haunted by her past one man’s journey destined to become Dear Agent disguised as a boy to create the perfect supersoldier fate of her unborn child a new take on vampires have you ever wondered exactly like The Hunger Games except doesn’t fit neatly into a single genre always knew she was different first in a trilogy Rise of the previously self-published
(You can read the first query poem here.)
This is the actual best thing.