I’m not surprised. I’m hurt, frustrated, embarrassed, angry, and sad, but not surprised. After all, the reason I stopped watching House in the first place was that it was so predictable, it made me feel clairvoyant. Sure enough, the ‘asexual couple’ episode was exactly what I expected it to be.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be an actress.
Because I am who I am, I was always realistic-bordering-on-fatalistic about the whole process, assuming that I’d have to find some other job to pay the bills, but at least I could do theatre. Life took me in another direction, though whenever I have the chance to act, I always remember how much I love doing it. Aside from a lack of ambition, however, there’s another big reason I’d never have made it as an actress:
I don’t photograph well.
Every year at the start of December, as predictably as finding pieces of chocolate behind the cardboard windows of an Advent calendar, I dream that my family forgets to celebrate Christmas.
Yesterday I was minding my own business, turning twenty-six, when I received a strange email. My parents and I were waiting for a table at Hugo’s, and my phone buzzed for the 97th time that morning. Instead of another notification that someone had posted on my Facebook wall, I got this:
your grandmother beverly was a husband hunting woman. she did not care with whom she carried on. she broke up many homes.
In order to achieve internet domination, I’ve been reliably informed that I should post something every day on this blog, which is a tall order when daily life is dull and I don’t particularly want to blog without something interesting to share.
Once upon a time, Sarah Kuhn belonged to a “nerd collective” that put out a .pdf zine with a geek focus: Grok. For each issue, the collective came up with a theme, and everyone wrote a piece around that topic. And from the theme of Pon Farr Kuhn’s geeky romance novella, One Con Glory, sprang into existence.
The end of this momentous week really deserves a thoughtful, well-crafted reflection post, but I spent most of the weekend trying to sew a TARDIS dress that I ended up half-crafting with blue and white duct tape, so I’m not really in the mood. My room is seeking funds from FEMA, I haven’t worked on my book in weeks, and I’m still unemployed – but I’d happily work on Asexual Awareness Week again next year.
For Asexual Awareness Week 2011, I joined the planning committee (more on that in an article to be published this week on the blog LGBTPOV.) All the members had their own projects, and I decided that I wanted to give people in the community the chance to answer questions that no one was really asking. Given that we are often overlooked, ignored, or invisible, I wanted to offer the wider world an opportunity to hear from real, live asexuals, in their own voices.
So I’m writing a memoir about asexuality, and I’ve spent a lot of time revisiting years that I’ve repressed very well – too well, it turns out. A lot of my high school years are gone. Just gone, which, as a writer of creative non-fiction, is really frustrating.
Probably because my brain never shuts down, my dreams are usually very detailed and insanely complicated, like any given episode of Moffat-era Doctor Who. A few nights ago, for example, I found myself in some gypsy woman’s RV taking part in a ritual to say goodbye to an old (but still very much alive) friend.
A Valentine from Croach the Tracker of Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars fame.