In the last half of 2011, I lived inside my depression. I alternated between sadness and numbness, between hyper-productivity and three-day crying jags where all I did was eat buttered toast and listen to Elliott Smith. In 2012, poetry taught me to feel other things again. I fed off Sylvia Plath’s tragedy, took whimsical journeys with e.e. cummings, grounded myself in stories with W.S. Merwin, got high on Anis Mojgani’s hope, riled myself up with Audre Lorde. I related deeply to Eileen Myles and Adrienne Rich and wasn’t quite prepared to process why.
Poetry didn’t convince me everything was going to be ok — too many great poets died by suicide or died alone and angry for me to believe poetry could be a cure-all — but they showed me that I was not alone in my not-okayness. They showed me there was more to life than being fucked up, and they reminded me I deserved better.
A fun fact is that no one is keeping score; there is no point value designated for anything you do! Generally speaking, in most respects. Certainly there are things which are owed to others, or are morally correct: if we hit something with our car, we should stop and take care of it; if we have a deadline at work, we should probably meet it. But for things which are occurring only within your private sphere, think about how often you make decisions based upon the vague feeling that they are being judged by some sort of other. Which to watch, a documentary or Bad Girls Club? Which to eat, the nachos or the farro salad? To go to the lecture on permaculture microfarming or to take a nap? Would your decisionmaking on any of these things change if you didn’t feel like you had to justify it, or that you had to do the “correct” thing (which is different than the right thing)? Something to think about! (This thought exercise perhaps not applicable if you do believe for religious, spiritual or philosophical reasons that there is someone keeping score, in which case sorry.)
We should be thrilled to see them stepping up, because it means we get to ask for more from them. I hope, as they continue to solidify their success, we see more from them speaking out on LGBT issues less familiar to mainstream audiences than marriage. I hope we see them elevate other queer musicians and artists. I hope we, as fans, hold them accountable to using their platform that they’ve worked to build for the benefit of our communities. I hope we hear more incredible music to cry to. I hope we hear more incredible music to dance to.
I fully believed I’d die before the age of 35. I was gonna live fast, get a lot accomplished in an abbreviated amount of time, and die young. When questioned about various reckless life decisions, I thought to myself, ‘Oh these silly people who think they’re going to live forever! So worried about long-term repercussions! Who wants to go tanning with me and do six drugs at once?’
Orphan Black is back, y’all, and I am practically catatonic with fear/excitement. To get you in the mood to make crazy science, I’ve rounded up about a
billion Cosima/Delphine fics. Some of the stories are one-shots; some of them are portals to dozens more Cophine ficlets. There’s enough sweetness and smut to keep you occupied far beyond tomorrow night’s season three premiere on BBC America. YOU’RE WELCOME.
Sometimes when people talk about the universe and its interaction in their life, it sounds too similar to the way people speak about being blessed or right with God, as if hardship comes from not honoring the galaxy every night or lighting enough Virgen de Guadalupe candles. No really and truly sometimes life fucks with you. Sometimes that grant that funded most of your department falls through, sometimes the white guy you work for just doesn’t think you’re good enough to continue, sometimes the universe makes you fall.
So you fall. I fell. I am falling.
And here’s where I have to take a pause.
Gabby Rivera via What Does It Mean To Be A Queer Adult? The Autostraddle Roundtable
Carolyn wants to know what you would bring with you on an epic journey if you had to leave the rest behind. Go tell her!
I am pretty mad I don’t have my first novel published yet but I’ve been doing real good work on making the memories and material to go in it so I just gotta sit down and open a vein. I hope you’re ready. I’m not sure I am…
Alley Hector via What Does It Mean To Be A Queer Adult? The Autostraddle Roundtable
Surely every queer generation has been through this — this looking at the world around us and marveling at how different it is than the one we expected as kids and even as twentysomethings. So this is our time.
What does it mean to be a queer adult? Who the f*ck are we? Let’s find out.
I just let go a lot in my thirties, personally. I couldn’t wait to be 30 because I felt like people would finally start taking me seriously. I think that did happen, a little, but surprisingly, passing the 30 mark let me take myself less seriously. I no longer feel like I’m sitting on a ticking bomb. I have patience now. I just have less fucks to give, too. I care less what people think and I demand to be respected instead of worrying about whether or not I am (and believe it or not, that actually works). I still have idealist radical politics, but I have more focus and pragmatism. I am slowly changing out my heels for sensible flats. I’m more forgiving and less quick to judge. I have less tolerance for straight-up BS. Time is racing by and I can finally imagine a future beyond the next five years.
Since I turned 30, I have felt an urgent, unyielding, existential tug on my mind asking and asking and asking if I’m using the quick breath of life I have on this earth to do something that counts. Every day — sometimes multiple times a day — I ask myself, ‘If I get smashed by a car today, will I have given all the goodness I had to give?’ I want to die broke from spending goodness. I don’t want any goodness left in the bank. I want to have splurged on the world. On cats and dogs and panda bears and the people I love and the people I barely know and the planet itself.
Heather Hogan via What Does It Mean To Be A Queer Adult? The Autostraddle Roundtable
The Lesbian Sex Survey
— open to all female-identified folks who have sex with other
female-identified folks — garnered 8,566 complete responses (and another
7,000 incompletes), of which 89% came from people between the ages of
18 and 36. In addition to asking about the sex you have with other
humans, we had quite a few questions about the sex you have with
yourself. Let’s get into it.
You guys, this is like the perfect, POC-filled, queer lady-centered version of Grease that we’ve always dreamed of.
Honestly ladies, the more I get into this data, the more it seems to me that pretty much every stereotype about lesbian sexuality is nonsense and we’re actually very sexually active, very sexually adventurous and very sexually preoccupied. It’s a loose hypothesis for now, and of course we realize the implicit bias of a voluntary survey, but we’re gonna dig into it and see what we can find.
For now, we know simply this: y’all love yourself, it’s not a sin, you can’t control what’s happening, ’cause you just discovered, imagination’s taking over, another day with (or without) a lover, the more you come to understand the touch of your hand. You feel me?
Riese just spent a whole lot of time looking over data about your masturbation habits. Here’s what she learned.