To be continued, eventually

Hello all,

 

I have recently remembered after the coma that was my first year of graduate school that I have a blog. So, I will be back. In full force.

Ye Have Been Warned

 

C

T-T-T-T-Touch Me

Hello, Hello. I have missed you all. Graduate school is a bitch to the personal life and unfortunately, that includes you my little blog. But I am here to give love today.

So what is today’s topic, you ask? Touch. Yup, touch.

I was recently talking to my daddy on the phone. And I told him that I get a lot of weird looks. *Duh* But not for the way I dress or look or talk. But because I’m a toucher. That’s right, I’m a toucher.

I link arms. I pet hair. I smush faces. Sometimes, I just touch people for no good reason other than I can. Now, I don’t go around touching random people. At least, not anymore.

But I touch my friends and family. If I touch you, that means I care for you in some regard. If I don’t touch you, it’s probably because you freak me out or I think you’re contagious. Or I don’t like you or know you well enough.

But why is it that touch is automatically assumed to be sexual or sensual? Why can’t it be comforting or caring? Just because I touch someone doesn’t mean I want to bone them. It might, but not always.

It concerns me that our society is so bent out shape about sex, touch, contact, whatever that we are so overwhelmed with finding problems in trivial matters. I feel that we should grow up a bit, stop being prudes, and realize that everyone is different.

Trust me, if you have a problem with casual touch, I don’t want to touch you anyways. You’re probably a douche.

So, friendlings, tell me, what are your thoughts on touch?

A rose by any other name…

So anybody who knows me knows that I have a mini drag queen inside of me. Now, I know logically this shouldn’t be because I’m a woman. So if anything, I should have a mini drag king. Not so. I have this little diva screaming for independence and glam.

Also, those who know about my mini queen also know that I love queens in general. I’m obsessed with RuPaul’s drag race and RuPaul in general. She’s fabulous.

So besides my love and adoration, why this post? Well, this week is Drag week on my campus. So naturally I’m all up in a tizzy. Which makes me not only excited but also contemplative.

What am I contemplating, you ask? My drag name of course. It has to be representative of who you are and who you want to be. A quick snapshot into you.

So who am I?

I am Trixie Dust.

Tell me amazing friends of mine, what is your drag queen/king name?

P.S. If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else? – Can I get a hallaloo? (You must watch Rupaul’s Drag Race)

Tags: Drag, LGBT, name

I’d rather be pissed off, than pissed on

So today I decided to write about something that just plain ole pisses me off. Arrogance. Now, I’m not talking about confidence. There is a difference between confidence and arrogance.  I hate arrogance.

I’m tired of hearing people speak about other people like they are beneath them. I don’t give a damn what you do for a living, what school you went to, who your parents are, or anything else. You know why? Because you a fucking human being! And so am I. And so is the next person and the next person and the next person. *GASP*

I know it’s a hard concept to follow. I do. I get that somewhere in the brain of yours there is some weird delusion where you believe that you are the best in the whole damn world. I’m sorry honey, but you’re not. You’re not even close.

And for anybody that feels that this blog is personal, it probably is. So if you feel that this is targeted at you, you’re probably right. Just remember, I don’t only express myself in written form and hiding behind  computer.

So tell me fellow fellows, what just plain ole pisses you off?

Tags: crazy, rant, rave

I’m a servER, not a servANT

For many years, I worked in a number of restaurants. Most of them national chains. I have served food and alcohol, bussed tables, hosted, expedited food, run food, washed dishes, cooked food (kind of), and managed. I think I got it all. To say the least, I have restaurant experience.

Because of this, I feel compelled to insist that everyone in the world should have to work in the food business for a minimum of six months.

Working in restaurants teaches you team work, responsibility, work ethic, and patience. Now, I know not everybody has a charming personality and winning smile, but that’s why God made dishwashers. Working in restaurants has prepared me for dealing with people in the most insane situations.

I have been accused of ruining anniversaries, witnessed Cougar fights over affairs, been told that I am fucking stupid and a communist (not at the same time), cleaned up after kids while their parents just laugh at how cute they were (you try cleaning syrup up out of carpets), been solicited for sex, been groped, been hit on by men 70+ years older than me, among many other things. The stories are endless. I could blog about just that.

But most importantly, I am tired of explaining the difference between being a server and a servant. Servers and other restaurant staff are not incompetent morons that can’t find work elsewhere. In fact, they are usually the funnest, wittiest, and most decent people I have ever met.

I want everyone in the world to be able to experience the joys of serving other people. Maybe then, more people would learn to respect one another and respect the job. Because after all, it’s just that, a job. Not a personality trait.

I think I saw a bigfoot!

So a long time ago, as in 3 years ago give or take, I was working in the wonderful establishment of Denny’s Restaurant. I know, I know, my life is very fulfilling. Anyways, I served this gentleman (I use the term loosely) and his two children. Everything was going great until he started asking about my schooling.

For all those that do not know or do not remember, I am a graduate psychology student *gasp*. As soon as he found out my education, he very elegantly asks, “Do you believe in ho-mo-sex-you-ulls?” And I very innocently ask, “As in, do they exist?” And he replies, “No. Do you believe that it’s natural?”

The conversation went on for quite a while eventually getting very heated, and I probably should have been fired. Fortunately, my manager and bestie has a thing for searching for the elusive ho-mo-sex-you-ull bigfoot and found the whole thing amusing.

Anyways, back to the topic at hand. I do believe that being gay or a lesbian or whatever orientation you deign to label yourself is natural and normal and completely right. I’m not sure why some people are gay and some people are bisexual and some people are straight. (I think we should lobby for a new term other than straight, but that’s a post for the future). And I am currently doing research in the field of human sexuality so I do know a thing or two about it.

But why would it not be natural? And before you go explaining the human reproductive system to me, I am educated on the matter and find it ridiculous to assume that any species including humans are only designed to procreate.

I don’t understand how love and sexual attraction and lust and all the wonderful extras are not natural. We are designed to feel these things. To assume that it’s not natural for gay people assumes a hardwiring problem. And I don’t believe God made a mistake. To assume so would be arrogant in saying I know better than God. And as for the choice of being gay, tell me straighters (straight haters), when did you decide to be straight?

I don’t remember ever waking up one morning and being like, “Okay, C. Today is the day you choose your orientation. It’s a big decision so make the right one.”

Do you remember making a choice? And if so, how come I didn’t get one?

It’s hard not to be jealous

In a week, I will be celebrating 5 years with my sig other. Five years is a long time, especially in dog  cat years, which is how I prefer to live my life.  

So naturally, I started thinking: “holy shit! five years!” and then regrouped and realized how five years seems so small in comparison to how long I want to spend with him, which is another 40.5 years. Yes, 40.5 years. Once I tell people that we have been together about five years and that we’re still going strong, I get the infamous, “What makes a good relationship?” question.

I can only speak about our relationship since it’s the only one I’m an expert on. But what works for us is, humor. That’s it. We laugh a lot. It’s hard not to like somebody when you’re always laughing with them. Think about it for a second.

See, I’m right. He makes me laugh. I make him laugh. We laugh a lot. And even when we don’t laugh with each other, we laugh together at others.

Unless you’re void of a personality, you have to find someone that makes the bad seem less bad and makes the good seem fuckin’ fantastic.

So friends of mine, what do you think is the most important part of a relationship?