Honoring a Request

"How come you stopped writing?" She asked. The question cut deep. I nearly cried... nearly. The tiny inquiry forced me to face a pattern of mistakes I seem to not be able to stop making. I'm a Taurus, and well, most people know how bulls tend to run right toward red flags. It hurt. I tried to muster an explanation. I tried to figure out how to play it off. What's my go to? Ahhh, yes. Sarcasm. Self deprecation. Make a joke. 

No.

An answer is required, here. 

Why did I stop writing? What was the truth? 

"Someone broke me." Is all I could pitifully squeak out, but it is the truth... was the truth. And I had let it happen again. 

There was a beat that lasted for ages, then a simple question, "Can I ask of you something?" A failed attempt at distraction later (but yes, please, anything to let me stop mourning this lost shard of my core)... the plaintive request. The command. The necessary push. 

"Please write." Two words I didn't hear. Two words I didn't see. Two words I felt. They rumbled through my chest like a distant, yet quickly approaching thunderstorm. 

In all honesty, I'm panicking. I'm so out of practice. So, I'm dipping my toes back into this familiar water. I have to. 

"Please write."

I want to. 

I think I shall. 

Thank you. 

One Simple Trick Slut Shamers Don't Want You to Know!

I can already hear you gasping.

There is, indeed, one simple solution to end "slut-shaming" once, and for all.

I know what you're thinking:

"There's no way slut shamers are going to tolerate all these slutty sluts slutting around being slutty! You can't possibly think sluts can be slutty without fear of being called a slut! Shame! Horror! Besides, what would you know, Kris? You're a MAN! You've never been slut shamed!"

Well, you're partly right. I've never been slut shamed. That's because the accepted term for a man with a healthy sexual appetite is "man-whore."

Let me paraphrase that, and repeat it for those of you not paying attention:

The ACCEPTED nomenclature for a man who enjoys sex is "man-whore."

Did you catch the key term there?

Perhaps I'm off my rocker, but I think a great first step would be to STOP REFERRING TO WOMEN WITH HEALTHY SEXUAL APPETITES AS "SLUTS."

I know this is a pipe dream. I know it isn't likely to happen.

Why?

How the hell else would you be able to stand in solidarity with your sisters, and back them up, while simultaneously denigrating them?

Here's a neat experiment:

Replace "slut" with any other derogatory term. Out loud. Add "shaming," and ask yourself if any of your friends to whom that term applies would appreciate you using it to back them up.

I don't know everything, but I'm reasonably sure my gay friends would wince if I backed them up by chastising someone for "fag-shaming."

Just a thought.

Don't like slut-shaming? Great. I'm on your side.

Now, stop calling women who enjoy sex "sluts."

Hail of Bullets

If your reaction to the utter massacre in Orlando was to go home and hug your guns a little tighter, fuck you. You're part of the problem.

It's taken me days to be able to wrap my head around this tragedy, and I'm still not certain I can. The idea that people are more concerned about their second amendment right to arm themselves to the teeth, than the unnecessary loss of human life is unfathomable, and unconscionable. So seriously, if your first instinct is to come to the defense of your assault rifle, fuck you. You're part of the problem.

What happened in Orlando, carried out by a single shooter, who was an American citizen, and obtained his weapon legally, could have happened to any of us.

In fact, it happened to all of us.

Fifty sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers are dead.

If your thoughts and prayers are with them, fuck you. You're part of the problem.

As cold as it may sound, nothing can be done for the victims. The survivors need us. They need our support. They need our empathy. They need our blood, sweat, and tears.

They need us to DO something.

There is no reason anyone should be able to lay waste to fifty people, and destroy the lives of fifty more in moments. There's no excuse for it. There's no way in hell you will EVER convince me that you, as a private citizen, need this level of firepower. No one should ever die in a hail of bullets.

And people are dying by the hundreds, because Americans hail their bullets.

If your argument is that we don't ban cars because there are drunk drivers, fuck you. Because we do limit a drunk driver's access to cars, don't we?

If your argument is that you need to protect yourself from the government, fuck you.

Because if the government wanted your guns, or any other thing from you, it would take it, and there would be nothing you could do about it, even with an assault rifle. Ask the victims of the MOVE bombing in Philadelphia what the government is willing to do for something it wants.

If your argument is that an armed citizen could have stopped this horrific event, fuck you.

The average time to draw, aim, and fire a weapon is 1.65 seconds. An AR-15 has a fire rate of 13.3 rounds per second. Do you know what that means?
It means average Joe Strapped would be dead.

Average Joe would have caught 22 bullets to the head, neck, and chest. Because it takes no skill to spray death like you're watering the grass.

If your reaction to this heinous atrocity is anything less than horror... If you're clutching your guns, and worrying... if you're blaming Obama, and shrugging this off...

And I mean this sincerely...

From the very bottom of my heart...

Fuck you.

You're part of the problem.

In Which I Pass the Buck

I passed the buck today. I mean that very literally. Let me explain:

Yesterday, as I was walking to the bar (because let's face it, that's what I do), I saw a dude staggering towards me. He was bronzed, wearing jeans and flip flops, and very obviously drunk. I thought, "oh, goody. A shirtless douche."  I was about to eat my thoughts.

As I passed him, limping and cringing (because I just fucked up my heel), he held his leathery paw out for a fist bump. I was relieved that he hadn't asked me for spare change, because that's what I was expecting, and obliged. Because, fuck it, a fist bump is free, and kindness matters. This dude, who was indeed drunk, but also not a shirtless douche so much as just a happy, Mexican surfer, lit up. He beamed. And it was contagious.

I beamed. For no reason.

He unleashed a stream of Spanglish that I didn't understand a solitary lick of, but his smile spoke volumes, in just that moment.

As we parted, he whistled and called to me. I didn't even revisit my concern about him asking me for change, because he uplifted my mood so much that I'd have thrown him a buck for a forty if he wanted it.

Do you know what he did?

He dug into his pocket, and handed me a dollar.

For no reason.

Now, I've gotten to the point that I very rarely need this kind of help, and yesterday, I certainly didn't, but something in this man's heart made him want to give me a buck. He told me it was "from the heavens." He said, "I got it. I share it. Now you got it." And kissed his fingers, then held them to the sky.

Then we bumped fists again, as I burst into laughter.

As most of you know, I'm an atheist. Die-hard. I do not believe this buck came from the heavens. I don't believe I was magically entitled to it, or that I'd mysteriously need it soon.

I do, however, believe in that Mexican surfer dude's kindness. I believe in the inherent kindness of people. I believe kindness matters.

And I do believe I've lost too much of mine lately.

I decided that that buck wasn't mine. I was just carrying it. I decided I wouldn't spend it, but keep it with me for the next time someone asked if I had any spare change.

Today, that happened.

Moments ago, I passed the buck.

And I hope that kindness, and that joy, and that positivity follows it.

A Bone to Pick...

I have a bone to pick with all you assholes who insist that transgender folks have to use the bathroom that fits the gender they were born with, and it's not what you think.

In fact, I strongly suspect it's something you haven't thought about at all.

You are going to further confuse your kids. All this fussing and fighting about your kids' well-being... all this bullshit concern, because you seem to associate transgender with pedophile... is going to blow up in your face like a bukkake party.

Curious why?

Because what you haven't thought about is that you're going to have to explain to your little whelps that the man in the girls' bathroom is really a woman, and the woman in the boys' bathroom is really a man.

And we all know how subtle and compliant toddlers can be.

Especially when you tell them the opposite of what they can see.

I would love to be a fly on the wall when you have to sit through an hour long temper tantrum, arguing with your little ankle-biter - loudly, and in public - about why that man is wearing a dress, why he has boobies, or why he's in the ladies' room.

It may actually force you, for once in your myopic, shitty life, to stop and think.

Of, course, the alternative is to just let people piss in whichever toilet they feel comfortable with, and stop trying to legislate morality.

In Which I Give You Five Reasons to Worry About It.

So here's the thing:

Recently, there's been a terrible fuss about gender. Specifically, gender identity. More specifically - if you can believe it - which genders are allowed to use which bathrooms.

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick...

Seriously?

Let people piss wherever they want. Get with the times, and make public restrooms unisex. Ally McBeal solved this problem a long damn time ago.

Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the more important issue of why all those cutesy Buzzfeed videos showing you how to tell if someone's male or female, and subsequently offering "don't worry about it" as the ubiquitous answer are complete and utter bullshit.

It does matter. It matters a lot, actually.

Why?

1) Biological Imperative.

If you happen to be single and looking, and you're one of those weirdos that goes around interacting with others of your ilk in public, it matters. In this situation, everyone you meet has to pass what I'll call (for my own amusement) the "can I fuck that" test. If you're on the prowl for a new mate (in the biological sense, not the U.K. English chummy sense, but we'll get to that), you have to know whether or not it's a viable match, and since most of you are mortal beings, time is a factor. Ergo, you have to worry about it. It matters.

2) Sympathy

Not in the sarcastic, patronizing way. Not pity. Actual sympathy. Being able to understand where someone might be coming from, or what struggles they may have endured often requires some measure of parallelism. I can't fully understand the perspective a straight woman has on a given situation because I'm not one. If she and I are faced with the same problem, we're instinctively going to attack it from different angles because of our different experiences, and part of that is directly related to the fact that we were born with different naughty bits. If, in this situation, we were to attempt working together to tackle said problem, my sympathy for her perspective (and hers for mine) would be limited. Because it matters. This leads right to the next one.

3) Empathy

You should have seen that coming. When sympathy is limited, or not an option, we've got to rely on empathy. In order to know whether or not to sympathize or empathize, we need to know how much parallelism is present. Since gender is one of the most drastic differences or similarities between any two people, it fucking matters.

4) Camaraderie

I don't necessarily need to know what's in your pants to determine whether or not we can be friends, but it is a factor. I'll give you an example:
I see someone wearing a Trump 2016 shirt. After an initial recoil, I look again, because I'm a glutton for punishment, and these people fascinate me. If I see that the wearer is an old fat dude chewing tobacco, and spitting it wherever he chooses, I know he's an entitled asshole who doesn't give a shit about the people around him. I steer clear. If, however, the person wearing this thing is a seemingly well put together grown woman... that boggles the mind. I have to know more. Is she wearing it ironically? What's going on here? Why? Given the differences between the sexes, and the extraordinarily different ways in which they're treated EVERY. SINGLE. DAY... It matters.

5) Situational Awareness

I know this is news (or possibly a major conspiracy) to some of you, but we humans... are animals. Animals look the way they look for one of two reasons: to attract mates, and ward off predators. A monarch butterfly doesn't look the way it looks because it's bored, and felt like dressing up. Its advertising. A chameleon doesn't change colors because green "was so last year." It needs to gain or divert attention. A poison dart frog doesn't look that way because it feels FABULOUS, it was born that way to tell possible mates "I'm sexy as fuck," and potential predators "if you eat me, I'll fucking kill you."

So, while "don't worry about it" is a nice sentiment, it's also complete bullshit (although, personally, I think "worry" isn't the right word here).

We have to think about these things.
Its hardwired into our DNA.
It does matter.

Because we are, after all, only human.

In Which I Update, and Change the Words a Bit.

Hello readers, my old friends.
I've come to write for you again.
Because a fury softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Still remains
With an air of
Defiance

In restless dreams I walked alone.
Wand'ring streets of the unknown.
From the edges of complacence,
I've come back with a vengeance.

'Cause my mind was stabbed
By the flash of a neon light.
I thought I might,
But can't abide
The silence.

And on the internet, I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking.
People seeing without thinking.

People writing posts
That others shouldn't share.
'Cause no one dare
Question their own
Compliance.

"Fools! " said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
See my words that I might teach you
Read my thoughts that I might reach you."
May my words like thunderous knowledge fall
And destroy
All these walls
Of silence.

I've seen people bent and razed
By these phony gods they've praised.
May this blog flash out its warning,
See the thoughts that it is forming.

And the words say,
"The lies of your prophets
Are written on their Facebook walls
Like bathroom stalls."
And echo
in the mouths
o'th' mindless.