Remember back when the Olsen twins were still minors? And creepy guys were actually counting down to their 18th birthday? It happens a lot with underage girls in show business if they’re pretty enough, whatever standard of pretty there is at the moment. I’m going to maintain that it’s amazingly awkward and rather gross; what if a woman were doing the same over a little boy?
I’m curious, though; am I the only one that finds it equally disturbing? I can understand people finding younger celebrities adorable, but the implications of that shirt suggest she’s not going for adorable so much as…sexy? How does that even work? I’m supremely creeped out by this picture and I wish Kat hadn’t shared, but it did bring up a lot of thoughts about double-standards in regards to things like this.
Back when I had cable (oh God I miss cable), I would watch this certain show that would depict the lives of women in different facets of society – for instance, there was an episode about swingers, an episode about sex workers, yadda yadda. I can’t for the life of me recall the name of the show, and Google doesn’t respond well to my attempts at searching using the phrase “that show that had the women.” In any case, one episode dealt with female sex offenders. [EDIT: Thanks to my good friend Krystal for telling me the name of the show - The Secret Life of Women. I don't know if it still airs or not, but it was on Lifetime. Thank you, Kiwi!]
The show pointed out that in many cases, female sex offenders get a lighter sentence than males committing a similar crime; a large chunk of the time, the incident might not even be reported. Why not? Because the whole “hot for teacher” dynamic in the US makes it somehow more palatable for grown women to sleep with little boys. Boys are lauded for bagging an older woman, whereas men who sleep with underage girls are creepy and reviled.
I don’t really subscribe to that; it’s creepy any way you slice it. And that t-shirt is just wrong.
By the way, if you don’t know her just from looking at her, her name is Karissa Shannon, and she’s apparently one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends. I had to Google it.
It’s happened. I’ve fulfilled a longing of mine. I bought the werewolf shoes. They came a few minutes ago. I did pretty well not flipping out and telling everyone that I was getting them. Kat found the zombie counterpart to the werewolf shoes, and I thought, well, maybe I can get them as a “Hey, you’re doing stuff, good job!” treat. Imagine my surprise to see them on sale on Torrid’s site. Imagine further surprise when they still had my size in stock. Now that I’m done worrying about affording things (landlady’s buying the tv, yay!), I thought, you know, I deserve something nice. And bam. My feet are happy.
Oh yes I did put my feet on the wall to have a proper backdrop for this shot. Also, dig my sexy pajama bottoms. I pretty much live in them right now. God bless Old Navy. Almost immediately, I had to take a zillion pictures of these bad boys. So, of course, I’m sharing, because I’m super excited. My feet keep sliding forward in them, though, so I’ll need to put something in them to stop that.
Mini edit: Kat got her shoes today too! Check ‘em out! Hers are zombies.
When I mention to people that I’m not the most stable of persons, I get one of two reactions. The first is more common: they don’t believe me. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard, “Really? But you seem so normal!” I could…at least buy a value meal from McDonald’s. When I told one of my former best friends (that sounds so harsh, doesn’t it? but I can’t think of another phrase) that I suspected I have assburgers, she insisted that it was impossible because she’d worked with a child with it and I didn’t act like him. Another friend told me it was impossible because I’m not weird.
And then there are the people who know better. These people, when I say there are (numerous) things wrong with me, generally just look at me, nod, and ask what the plans for the day are. I’m not sure which reaction is more of an insult, really. In any case. I realize that people think I’m normal because they don’t really get to see me at my strangest; the moments when I’m completely unguarded and at the peak of my insanity, I’m usually alone. And pantsless. So, because I enjoy giving some insight into my brain, I’ve decided to compile a list of things that I do that normal people probably don’t. Why? Because I’m not normal.
- I count stirs when making Kool-Aid/tea/lemonade/etc. The first round of stirring requires 50 stirring. If more sugar is needed, I add it, then stir 40 times. If that’s still not enough, I add more sugar and stir 30 times. I’ve never needed to add sugar beyond this point but I’ll assume that I would stir the next round 20 times and so on.
- I tap my fingertips together. I used to tap my middle and ring fingers on my right hand against my palm repeatedly, but apparently I’ve switched to tapping my middle fingertip against my thumb tip. Maybe I think it’s more sophisticated. Or maybe it’s slightly less noticeable.
- If I accidentally touch a texture that I dislike, I’ll wipe it off on my shirt. Because clearly, sensations can be erased thusly. The feeling of carpet, for example, is one that I really, really cannot stand, as well as denim.
- If there’s a character count, yo I’ll solve it I’m monitoring it. Text messages, this post, instant messages…The character/word count has to be an even number. If it isn’t, I’ll add a word or a space to get to an even number.
- I check things far too much. I check locks, I check for my keys, I check my article queue at work as though it will miraculously change, I check my phone charge…
- This one has been sort of conquered – Previously, I couldn’t sleep with a closet door open. Once when I was younger, I had a nightmare about monsters coming out of the closet to carry me off and bury me alive. However, since clearing out the closet, I’ve been sleeping with the door open with relatively low monster-related anxiety. (I wish I hadn’t said that, though, because now I keep giving the closet the side-eye.)
Alright, it’s mid-July and I am 15 (FIFTEEN!) days away from a really big move. You see, I lived with a guy. Let’s call him Ted. Ted’s not his name, by the way, but it’s a good filler name, don’t you think? Anyway. Not-Ted lived here with me because, after my mom died and insurance money started to dwindle, I realized I needed to get a roommate. Let me repeat that – I decided I needed a roommate. Me. Someone who could possibly win Miss Assburgers USA, if I were prettier and about sixteen tons lighter. I thought it would work out. And for a while, it was.
The thing about me is, I get tired of people being around me all the time. I started retreating to my room a lot more often because, well. Too much people time. And I didn’t think this was a problem; he was hardly here, anyway, so it felt like I lived alone usually. And I was keeping odd hours for a while because I’m a random person, so we only saw each other in passing. I was fine with this. Clearly, he was not.
One fateful evening mid-June, I received a Facebook message from Not-Ted. In this message, he informed me that he would be moving out.
The next day.
I was floored. Really, Not-Ted? A Facebook message? I responded to see if he would at least talk to me in person, but he refused. And so I decided that Not-Ted was, in fact, a complete toolbag and not a very good friend to boot. I despaired for quite some time. I’m still in despair, honestly. But slightly less so. I’ve managed to calm myself enough to book a plane ticket to North Carolina thanks to my uncle. I’ve sold the vast majority of my belongings. I’ve tried to work a bit harder, despite the fact that I have the attention span of a newt.
Right now, I’m concerned with being able to afford to pay August’s rent here (the landlady’s making me, boo!), in addition to getting everything sold, cleaned, and shipped. My helper is, unfortunately, overwhelmingly pregnant right now, and pretty much everyone else I like is out of state. I’m worried. Very very worried. But it all has to get done, and so I’ll do it. I have to believe that it can get done, or else I’ll just go back to crying on my mattress – which was once a bed, but I sold the frame and box spring – and wanting to die. Life can’t always be terrible, right? Eventually things get better?
Yeah, he sent me a Facebook message. I can’t believe it either.