I found this on cyrenity’s site, and just had to share it with all of you – gay penguins. I keep thinking how desperate those two were to try to hatch a rock.
Too cool. Zoom in on everyday things.
Apparently, Joy Adamson, of Born Free fame, was not the sweet lady portrayed in the film. I remember watching Born Free when I was a kid, and I even learned the theme song. I wanted to grow up and be as strong and noble and courageous and change-effecting as Ms. Adamson, but now I will have to find someone else who is strong and noble and courageous and change-effecting.
I shaved my armpits this morning. To many of you, this doesn’t seem to mean much. If you are a male, you probably assume that I shave my armpits, and if you are a female, armpit shaving has probably become such an ingrained part of your rituals of physical upkeep that you don’t think of it so much as assume it. Actually, none of you, male or female, probably gives any thought at all to whether or not I shave my armpits and how often I do it. Since you have been thinking so little about it, I will tell you all about this hair issue of mine.
When I was in highschool, I shaved regularly, both my underarms and legs. I usually did it every second or third day when the stubble would get really uncomfortable. Looking back, I realize that the only reason I did shave so often was that I went to a boarding school where the girls had to wear navy jumpers, and so my legs were exposed a good portion of the time. After graduation, this routine fell by the wayside. At first I found myself shaving my armpits regularly and leaving my legs go until I wanted to wear shorts or a skirt or the leg hair became too easily visible to the unwary eye. This carried on until I was twenty, a time when the things that dictated my hair removal changed markedly. I began dating a granola hippy type whose circle of hippy friends welcomed me with open arms. Why shave when those around you are woolly and unashamed of it? I felt brave and wild and a little dirty. It was very alluring this conscious decision to fuck those who would have me be ashamed of my natural state. Any razors left in the house were for the shaving of pilly sweaters only, furry armpits and legs aside.
Despite my pride in what felt like a gutsy approach to my femininity, when that relationship ended and I drifted away from the hippy crowd, my body hair became more of an issue. My next boyfriend was relatively okay with the hair, but most other men were less than enthused and often showed stifled disgust when they caught an accidental look at my hirsute ankle. Most of the women I knew had similar responses. My mother caught sight of my exposed ankle once and had to cover her mouth to quell her gag reflex. That reaction was so ridiculously out of proportion to the situation that I openly laughed at her, but ever after I held that image of her in my mind and took more care to cover up what had by then become my dirty little secret.
From about the age of twenty-two on, I developed a semi-regular routine of shaving my armpits whenever the hair growth threatened to make shaving difficult if left unchecked for too much longer, and leg-shaving took place approximately once or twice a month and was based on whether or not my leg hair was determined enough to weave its way through the fabric of my stockings. This habit grew simply out of laziness. From the ages of about twenty-three to twenty-seven, I was mostly single, if you don’t count some one-off lustful encounters and a four-month stint with someone I did not even feel like I was dating; since I didn’t really care one way or the other about my hairiness, and no one else was looking, and I did not tend to wear revealing clothing anyway, I just let the damn stuff grow as it would, for the most part, and stayed covered. Aesthetically speaking, I have to admit, my leg and armpit hair does nothing for me, as my hair is quite thick and dark and my skin is very pale, but laziness won out. It won out so regularly and for such lengths of time that my razors grew deep orange rust stains on their blades and developed layers of soap scum.
In recent months, this issue of my body hair has become a much bigger deal to me, and I am not sure why. I notice it constantly. Maybe it is because I have been allowing it its full growth for a whole year now, maybe it is that my body hair has become somewhat thicker in recent years, maybe it is my slow realization that a good number of the women shilling facial creams and other beauty products on television and in magazines are younger than me now, but I want to be rid of it. No, regular shaving won’t do it. If I shave in the morning, my legs are bristly by evening, and I am just not fastidious enough to keep up with it on a daily basis. My armpits have a small enough surface area and are easy enough to get at that I have started shaving them on a once-weekly basis. Silly as it is, I feel a small sense of accomplishment over this and wear smaller t-shirts proudly, confident in the knowledge that no tendrils of my underarm growth will be peeking out if I raise my arms. From the waist up, I look acceptably feminine in terms of our culture: my moustache is burnt away by depilatory creams, my eyebrows are plucked, and my armpits are as smooth and hairless as a ten-year-old’s (today, that is). From the waist down, it is a different story: there is too much work involved in shaving, too much pain in certain other methods of hair removal, and summer is not yet here with shorts and skirts to coerce me into pruning my unruly growth. But still, there it sits, and I want rid of it. I am woman, hear me wince at the thought of waxing.
The world is running out of oil. You know it, I know it, we all know it, so how come this is the first article I’ve come across recently that speaks directly about it?
I don’t know how much I like the idea of setting out to destroy and entire species of fish by sending out a genetically modified terminator. It’s creepy.
I haven’t read Please Don’t Kill the Freshman by Zoe Trope. It’s one of those books that I glance at whenever I see it, but for some reason have never opened. After reading this review, though, I might.
My dreams are still coming along well. My lack of decent dreaming over the last few months is definitely being made up for. As an example, here is a dream from a couple of nights ago:
I was wealthy and had no need of a regular job, so I worked with different charities to bring good into the world. For this one particular charity (it’s purpose was unclear to me, even in the dream) I had come up with a unique way to raise funds and awareness. I had decided to put together a temporary zoo of small exotic animals from around the world. People would pay to visit the zoo, and then there would be an expensive dinner where the elite could sit and dine in a room whose walls were lined with the cages of these exotic animals. I was unpacking a crate that contained three Burmese tree rabbits, which I had never seen before (in fact, nobody ever has, because my dream self made them up). The Fiery One was enchanted by them. They were smaller than your average rabbit and had the softest, medium-length, greyish-brown fur I have ever felt. They were also floppier than your average rabbit, like they had all this loose skin or something. I fell in love with them, because they were so people-friendly and affectionate. (It only occurred to me later upon waking that importing exotic animals is just not acceptable, even if it is in the name of charity. Those poor Burmese tree rabbits).
There is something really funny about the fact that sites like Friendster, who are there to connect people together, can't even keep their own popularity up.
This is a great entry from anyone’s any. She wrote so well about something I struggle with every day.
When I started writing this entry yesterday morning, it was about 7am, which means that it was still dark out. This means that when I was sitting here in front of the window at the computer with the lights on, I was easily visible from the office building across the street. I noticed that a couple of the people who work in that building were there early, so if they happened to glance out the window, there I would be. Just then, the Fiery One came into the room, and I referred to my breasts as hooters, which suddenly seemed like the funniest breast reference ever. Partially, I think the hilarity rose from the fact that I had been sitting there topless for over an hour and knew full well that anyone across the street could see me. I wanted to write “hooters” across my chest at that point, because as funny as it was to think of people going home after work and telling their friends and spouses about this naked girl in the apartment building across the street, it was even funnier to think of people going home after work and telling their friends and spouses about this naked girl in the apartment building across the street who had “hooters” written across her chest. I am not normally an exhibitionist, but yesterday apparently called for it.
So, since it’s here now, what do you think of my new layout? I still don’t know much about html, so I worked very hard to construct this new look for myself. I rather like it, if I do say so myself.