It’s birthday eve!
I am sipping red wine while sitting on my bed and relishing the fact that I actually can now without feeling very anxious or having a truly unforgiving hangover the next day. I like being demanding about my birthday (re: telling people about it) because no one questions my right to be bratty!
So I found out that since last weekend news of my hook-ups is kind of, well, news. Interesting. I wonder if I’ll get my wish on my birthday for a kiss.
It’s been a lovely week full of people complimenting my new hairstyle, teasing people and being teased back, drinking lots of tea, snuggling a bit, eating delicious food- a certain amount of it bought for me by other people!- trying and failing to keep up with communicating with everyone, meaning to get to reading my novel and staring into space instead, and listening to the same formulaic pop songs over and over again so I can dance awkwardly, hopefully in company (they don’t have to dance though. Just be there). Here’s to more of that.
You can tell how drunk I am from the amount of exclamation points. Enjoy this frivolity.
[TRIGGER WARNING: non-consent]
So here are some things I’ve been thinking about since some recent conversations about consent (in relation to many things, among them sex and intimate conversations):
You gotta pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
and bury them beneath the sea
I don’t care what the people may say
what the people may say about me
Pack up your troubles, get your old grin back,
don’t worry about the cavalry
I don’t care what the whisperers say
‘cause they whisper too loud for me.