HFSGirl

Self-naming queerthusiast. Hairy cis-female. Personal motto: "Sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying."

[joannathangiah]

First and only Zine I made, will be making more. Sexuality is confusing!!!

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

Most relatable. 🎀

[topcat77]

Mary Cassatt

The Bath, 1890

 drypoint combined with aquatint

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

I'm gonna start reblogging things because #marycassatt

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|1/9/16|

I'm folding I'm holding my self accountable. I'm keeping my options open. I'm simplifying I'm scaling down all the shit that I own. The things and stuff presumed to change Four walls to a home. Or rather, You could say that shit owns me. I'm going. I'm getting my cat checked up And his paper work. In a couple of months he'll forgive And stop being a jerk. A new carry-on carrier to hold him. And some rescue pastilles to calm us both. Mostly excited. Nervously excited to start a new life. Less homophobia and far less social strife. And people I just might like.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|1/9/16| I ain't 'cha mutha.

I don’t want you to report to me. 
I don’t want you to ask my permission for things. 
I don’t wanna have to tell you 
Not to use a dozen paper towels 
For your regular Cobra spill; 
That those things don’t grow on trees 
Like they do at your parents house. 
I’m not trying to contribute to your father’s 
Middle-upper level income bracket 
Maintained in the paper-waste industry. 
I don’t want to watch you subsist on junk food; 
Little Cesar’s and gas station hot dogs. 
A steady diet of two forty ounce beers a night. 
I’m sick of your solemn “hmmms” at my cooking; 
A little kale in your 25th year 
Isn’t going to kill you. 
Your change littered on the floor 
From lazily sloughing off the same pair 
Every single goddamn day; 
Coins that might sooner dissolve 
Into the Berber fibers of the carpet 
Before you even come to notice them. 
I love you in every goddamn day 
In every second 
Of every minute 
Of every way. 
Unconditionally, 
You might say.
But retain 
one thing: 
I ain’t your 
Mother.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|1/9/16| I ain't 'cha mutha.

I don't want you to report to me. I don't want you to ask my permission for things. I don't wanna have to tell you Not to use a dozen paper towels For your regular Cobra spill; That those things don't grow on trees Like they do at your parents house. I'm not trying to contribute to your father's Middle-upper level income bracket Maintained in the paper-waste industry. I don't want to watch you subsist on junk food; Little Cesar's and gas station hot dogs. A steady diet of two forty ounce beers a night. I'm sick of your solemn "hmmms" at my cooking; A little kale in your 25th year Isn't going to kill you. Your change littered on the floor From lazily sloughing off the same pair Every single goddamn day; Coins that might sooner dissolve Into the Berber fibers of the carpet Before you even come to notice them. I love you in every goddamn day In every second Of every minute Of every way. Unconditionally, You might say. But retain one thing: I ain't your Mother.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|1/5/16| I miss sex.

I often say “I’m off the D,”

Half sincere, 

A quarter joking,

A little sad,

The rest, bitter.

Pathetic, eh? 

Even more pathetic, though:

I spent two years

Carefully rationalizing

“What we have,

It’s not about that.”

I couldn’t have been

More correct.

It felt pathetic,

It still does.

We’re moving past each other. 

Different harbors,

Different habits.

But the curvaceous bounce,

It’s returning to my hips.

I’m finding my footing again

In believing I can be loved,

Satisfied as well as satisfying,

Back into an old, comfortable vice

Liberated and anew; 

Dropping boundaries.

I definitely don’t have the time

For that shit,

Especially now.

💥✨🔥💫💋

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

Give yourself plenty of space. No one else will do that for you.

Me, on social anxiety

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

All the girls are gathering

In front of your camera. 

Strangers calling your name

With drunken familiarity.

I sink further back, and away.

I know how I seem when I say these things; 

I mean it, the jealousy.

You, almost oblivious.

Catching small smoky wisps of 

Intimate conversations.

The type of conversation you could

Never muster with me.

Together for two years here.

Were you true, were you honest?

But still, here I stand next to you.

Searching for some point of commonality.

I sink further, into my bubble,

Down and down and away.

But you don’t see it that way.

Perhaps for lack of caring,

But mostly for not understanding.

It turns out you only hear your own needs; 

Discovery of encounters.

Hundreds of requests for 

Hundreds of dick pics;

Hundreds of chances

And not a single solitary sorry,

Just excuses. Without true acceptance.

Good luck with anyone else

Who you might use as your cover,

Because the best thing you neglected

Is moving out next week.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|12/30| no one hurts me - I.

No one hurts me like you do. Even after a past life Of abuse At the hands of the one person Genetically Presumed to be Tasked with teaching Me how to care for Me. Why does your offense dwarf hers? To her, I am numb. To her wiles, I am dumb. I've seen her truest form, Tensed, grimacing; Her tongue tucked peculiarly under her lip, As if preemptive guarding her teeth Against a youthful and long-suppressed Counter-blow That would not land for many years. Long after her talon scratched my cornea By grabbing my face from behind; Long after the tackling and hair-pulling; The two-handed choke-holds; The double-row, metal-riveted belt whippings And the broken hickory saplings; The Dread Waking up; The Fear Going to sleep. The thick red rings of welts on my upper thighs And the swollen lines across my ass. An able-bodied man now enlisted to to her bidding Scoffs. You won't be able to sit down again. I rebuilt my idea of safety. Years later, I am still stitching together The Shards. The ones I picked up And dug deep But not too deep Sharp And just sharp enough. A small jar I smashed In a pillowcase Against a tree. Just enough red To know how I FEEL. Standing, barely. Trembling, violently. My precarious mood swings Faltering my meekly established Credibility. Flooded with insecurity, Inferiority, Smallness, Inadequacy, Fear, Doubt, Rage. All these things instilled in me, Enforced in a daily rhetoric; As a mother bear would instill in her cub The importance of always seeking sustenance. I re-learned love Safety, Security, Care, Comfort In your hands. You, unaware; No notice of the greater thing Happening Here. I luxuriated in the calming comfort Of You And all you shared Without Noticing. (To be continued...)

[layla-nightshade]

Arati Warrier - "Alive" (CUPSI 2015)

Subscribe to Button! New video daily: http://bit.ly/buttonpoetry If you loved this poem, check out Sasha Banks: http://bit.ly/1bd3lpa Performing for UT Austi...

If you like this poet, help her and her team go to CUPSI here!

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

Arati Warrier.

So much beautiful rage to be had. Why stuff it away and pretend that everyone's okay?

People would rather you repress your own emotions. I say "FUCK THEM" because they're only concerned with saving themselves.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|12/29| Extra-ternalize / fighting self-abasement / the unfortunate sometimes truth

-----------------I.

My laugh.

A shrill and throaty cackle.

Echoes past the the buildings,

Booming off the sparse trees.

Hearing it travel back to my ears

From afar

And surely those around me as well.

This, like many bursts; self-annoyances

Prompts a soft-sided apology. 

Another unnecessary burst

Drives another chiding

From that peaceless piece of me.

------------------II.

The words.

Escape me with ease

As steam from an open kettle.

Every body on this small patio

Perceives my Smallness

Or self-perceived smallness.

A chill of discomfort

Makes its way through 

The third story railings

Holding us together in the cupped

Hand of the house.

-----------------------III.

Today of all days 

I was reminded again 

Two years ago returning to that place

A similar box among the boxes

This one one bedroom less

And among what was there

A tapestry that now hangs among my things

Some bumble & bumble dry shampoo

A splotchy gray shirt of a fragile material. 

These things once contained 

In one solitary box 

Would soon be lived in,

Used

Tattered.

------------------------IV.

Brought to a point of unrecognizable being.

Commodities that now, by virtue of use,

Belong to me. 

I spent so long 

Twisting my shoulders

A knot from holding posture

Of someone more informed.

An admired friend

So much the wiser 

In so many ways / For so many reasons

A confidant I let in

With very few barriers

Who shamed me for growing old

For picking some battles

For not fighting others

For being broke

For working to live

For “externalizing a lot more”

(A moment I would come to never forget)

Again the echoes bounce 

Off the edges of my mind

Along with all those times 

You spoke of fair-weather friends

Of all those fair-weather friends

And how all those fair-weather friends

Would make you wanna never be that to me.

---------------------------

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|12/22| Four posts in a month

​ You can hardly call it a dedicated blog. But then again, I’m not quite married to anything, Even in the mildest sense of the union.

…..especially nothing mediated through technology. Through paneless windows Directing crumbless mice Gazing placidly through gridless screens. The words that my few weary fingers tap out Even change on the page; Some unknown source, All-knowing “WANTS” To change this word I’m making up “DESIRES” To format this odd concrete space I’ve put there. Capitalize this letter. PERIOD. PERIOD. PERIOD.

The urge to communicate pulls through me, To lash out to the clouds “Eyyyy, I’m thinkin heyah!” So many distractions, Such little solitude. Not none, For it was once there, now slowly chipped away From the inside.

The inside The part of you once scooped out And pushed aside to make way for the other things “MORE IMPORTANT” “SKILLS” “REQUIRED” To “BE SUCCESSFUL” By “TODAYS” artificially-derived, Everlasting and enduring Vision of what it even means To be a “SUCCESS,” Even as our everyday actions Drift further from intention.

So like that bicycle wheel, Mounted; free from its full mechanism. The action of spinning Inconsequential to its location. It’s only function Deemed dysfunction. The scoop from inside, That glob of Earth, Of You, Of You with the Earth, That mass you always intended to return To have something of yourself to hold One day Will, in a way, remain until you get around to it In the twilight of your life Baked onto the earthen surface. Baked and rained upon, Baked and rained.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

|12/22| Four posts in a month.

You can hardly call it a dedicated blog. But then again, I’m not quite married to anything, Even in the mildest sense of the union.

…..especially nothing mediated through technology. Through paneless windows Directing crumbless mice Gazing placidly through gridless screens. The words that my few weary fingers tap out Even change on the page; Some unknown source, All-knowing “WANTS” To change this word I’m making up “DESIRES” To format this odd concrete space I’ve put there. Capitalize this letter. PERIOD. PERIOD. PERIOD.

The urge to communicate pulls through me, To lash out to the clouds “Eyyyy, I’m thinkin heyah!” So many distractions, Such little solitude. Not none, For it was once there, now slowly chipped away From the inside.

The inside The part of you once scooped out And pushed aside to make way for the other things “MORE IMPORTANT” “SKILLS” “REQUIRED” To “BE SUCCESSFUL” By “TODAYS” artificially-derived, Everlasting and enduring Vision of what it even means To be a “SUCCESS,” Even as our everyday actions Drift further from intention.

So like that bicycle wheel, Mounted; free from its full mechanism. The action of spinning Inconsequential to its location. It’s only function Deemed dysfunction. The scoop from inside, That glob of Earth, Of You, Of You with the Earth, That mass you always intended to return To have something of yourself to hold One day Will, in a way, remain until you get around to it In the twilight of your life Baked onto the earthen surface. Baked and rained upon, Baked and rained.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

I applied for readmission to my university. 

So things are kinda movin. 

Also, my co-worker’s sibling wants to be my roommate.

A nice touch of normalcy. Maybe. 

Moving out from cohabitation with a long term partner 

Seems a strange predicament. 

But really, I love this person more than words can express.

I feel kindred with this one.

But honestly --

Sometimes it is healthier for each 

To have their own 

Space.

I need my own room,

A while to clean up after one,

 Practice some better habits,

Eat healthier, cooking for one. 

Get up on that sleep schedule, 

Really start to engage with my hobbies.

Graduate.

Mother

Fucking

Graduate.

Seek counseling for the those things 

No one wants to hear

Me talk about.

Sometimes we savor moments with those we love

When the quality time

Is favored over 

Quantity of time. 

Sometimes you have to give yourselves permission

To set each other free.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

this

Will not be another abandoned thing.

A thing I left behind

A song I never did sing

Due to sheer laziness.

Sometimes it seems that all I do is start things

[mystiquepictorial]

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

Goddamnit. Thus is my existence.

[highfunctioningstonergirl-blog]

Journal - "Body / Working" (with endnote)

Were you just watching To make sure I used the scale? Or were you waiting for more A hungry hyena Asking something would fall To give a big chuckle A notable laugh To make me acknowledge That you noticed; To assure me I’m special enough To be watched.

I was pouring the coffee For grinding; another approximate six ounces of The beans Bounced off the counter, Unharnessed, free. Useless commodities Slipping into cracks Away to unseen corners beneath the counter

All the while Your eyes scanned my seams; seemed to reach To nearly grasp my figure, close as my skin. When I look back, My face poised to appear the least Welcoming Uncomforting Aware Unflinching. Unaccommodating, Displeased to confirm That you’ve again taken it upon yourself To supervise my grind, from behind the rim Of your mass-disposed paper cup.

Sipping your Senior Coffee You might think to find me pleased Flattered, even. Why, my wise, bald prince come to save me? From this fuckery, this modest wage?

Really, all that I hope you’ll afford me: Spare me the raking of my flesh With your beady, wincing, failing eyes. Refrain from daydreaming into My Asscrack While you might boast flattery, I wonder why you suppose I would require Your unsolicited validation Was not part of the job description. Not the Least Bit Comforting. I know I have a body. Ass Tits Hips Legs I am familiar with your view. The hills of some raging landscape Tangibly, intuitively They feel Your pupils dilate against my light.

More than a whisper, A sigh or a whimper; You might as well reach out With your hand Instead.

This is the story of a creepy old man. Not all the old men, not even all the creepy old men, but one in particular who likes to watch my body while I execute tasks behind the counter at my work. I mean this in no way compassionately; this dude gives me the deep-down absolute fucking creeps, and maybe as this blog progresses you might come to understand why. It may be early in the blog to come to such an unpleasant topic, but this is the type of mundane self-consciousness that I cope with on a daily basis.