What it means to be fabulously woman

Disclaimer: Writing this makes me only mildly aggravated (for those of you who know me, you know that statement is completely sarcastic).

A few nights ago, after a dinner date which comprised of tater-tots and fancy organic Oregon ketchup, my good friend and I headed over to one of our lady friend’s house. There we were, in her dimly-lit sanctuary of feminist novels and a more-than-outrageous cat (whose favorite activity is the attacking of human toes), talking about the ways in which we have been abused by men.

Abuse is a term we use when we are beaten to a pulp, I think, and often times this is a very specific and unruly way to describe abuse as a whole. We determined that abuse was the following:

1. VERBAL ABUSE

Girl 1: “This man looked over at me and assumed I spoke Spanish because he said ‘Hola. Hola.’ I was just reading a novel and sitting on the train. The same day, another man cat-called me over to him, right when he was stepping off the train.”

Let’s look at cat calling.

The act of a man screaming out at me, calling me “mami” and “baby girl” is enough to drive me mad with the burning passion I have for this said man. My favorite instance is when I am walking to class on the street and the rain is pouring and I am mildly late because my bagel took a while to toast–and to be consumed. The man calling out to me has a foul case of bed hair and is either in a group of another four carbon-copied men, or just alone.

It defeats me to know that things could escalate if I did not cross the street to the other side. I am defeated by someone using their words to look like and be a predator. I have to cross the street because I am scared–no, terrified. I cannot and must not walk on the other side of the street, because if I do, will I be raped? Kidnapped? Hit? I wouldn’t know. I have never walked past.

Now, let’s look at racial profiling.

This. Is. Wrong. This is gross, and incorrect, and should not be done. Just because a woman, a man, or any human has a certain pigment of skin or a certain bone structure, or ANYTHING THAT EVEN REMOTELY MAKES THEM “UN-WHITE” is not someone else’s place to judge. Girl 1 experienced both in one day.

1. PHYSICAL ABUSE

Girl 2: “Did you hear about that girl who recently called the police? She had her hips grabbed by some man in front of the gym, at the train stop. That is terrifying!”

This is the kind of action we would never assume is abuse, but it is. Abuse, I believe, is any kind of violence–mental, verbal, subliminal, cyber, etcetera. Not that any abuse is comparable, this one actually terrified me. Imagine waiting for the train, in crisp, frosty air, and having your hips actually GRABBED. What makes it worse is that the train station in front of the school gym is almost always buzzing with people. It is almost always populated with other individuals waiting to get the potentially the same place as others.

Yes, as it was stated, the police later came and arrested the guy who wanted some hip action by literally violating a stranger, but that stranger has to live with that. That human has to go home to themselves, thinking about it over and over again. Highlighting the event in their mind, over and over. That is abuse, isn’t it? Or rather, shouldn’t it be?

1. ROMANTIC ABUSE

• First let me just say that there is nothing romantic about romantic abuse.

Girl 3: “I finally cut ties with the person I was in love with for a little while. He cheated three times, and when I finally did it, he cried and asked for me back. I was appalled, but I was happy about the way I DID NOT give him another chance. I am finally the winner in this situation.”

Let me just begin by saying that I am far too familiar with this instance. Giving someone a chance because you think they will give you the world, even after they seek another type of love in another lover is abuse, in all aspects of the word. Thinking that someone loves another just because they say they do is such bitter abuse, I can hardly wrap my mind around it.

This is toxic and unnatural.

The room went a little quiet after we were all done sharing stories that were difficult to share. But what I found more powerful is the fact that all of us looked at each other with so much bittersweet agreement, it made my heart break and mend simultaneously. We were more powerful together than alone because we all sympathized with each other.

We were bonding over our abuse.

There truly is nothing wrong with abuse bonding, and I am not saying women are perfectly innocent when it comes to this (there is so much abuse that comes from women, too). But it is statistically proven that women are more affected by nonsensical acts like cat-calling and violation and (debatably) romantic turmoil than men. And the act of discussing this opened up so many doors to a new tone of women-bonding than I have ever seen before. We were not talking about how shitty someone’s makeup was, or how someone stole someone’s boyfriend, or how someone slept with more guys than another. We were talking about something we were all bitterly passionate about.

We were ladies in a university setting, calling out for help in a group who would truly understand. There was something so radiant about this group and how we decided to support each other–I went home that night and reminisced on my own experiences of abuse. It suddenly dawned on me that even though there was something beautiful about the way we bonded, but even more prominently, it reminded me that we shouldn’t be bonding about this.

We should not be girl-hating in the first place, and this is a truth that should be universally agreed with, as we are women, and we should be sticking together, and quite frankly, I do not care about this cliche. But further than that, we should be striving to not be abuse-bonding, either, as beautiful as it is.

The truth about abuse bonding is that it is a form of support, but all of me just wishes it was not something that would happen in the first place. Imagine the conversation if no one was abused. Would we speak more of lovely occurrences that made us feel “beautifully woman?”

Are we really at such a shortage of nice and decent humans that we no longer speak of them? Why is it that we are reflecting society’s indecent events so highly and so constantly?

This all leaves me with so many questions, but I try to remind myself and my fellow lady friends that they are all wonderful, and powerful, and queen-like. The truth is that women are beautiful in many aspects–we are delicate, but we are powerful. In short terms, we kick ass (especially in big groups).

More importantly, we are so much more than victims (SURVIVORS) of cat-calling, or gross body violations, or toxic relationships. I wish we would all see this more than we do, but I do not think there is enough exposure in society that would suggest we are more powerful than we think.

Personally, I have looked at myself as a human with power the second I stepped away from toxicity. I do not let a human overstep my boundaries. My face breaks out, and I have prominent hips, and thin hair. I am beautifully woman, and I love everything I that makes me feel this way. There is nothing I dislike more than something or someone that makes me believe otherwise.

My last goal in this post was to leave it with a cliffhanger, but the more I addressed this, the more I want to emphasize the power we all flourish from.

If you are a man, please remind ladies that they are powerful, in ways that are not abusive.

If you are a woman, please remind yourself and your lady friends of your power.

Most importantly, if you are a human, please (please, please, please) do not make anyone feel like less than they are. We all deserve to shine. Please do not forget that.

Between Then and Now

My last post happened at a time of my life that was fragile, to use the least amount of expressive terms. I was battling a case of “where the hell do I want to go in life?” when I looked at myself as either a writer or a respiratory therapist. I didn’t have the slightest clue about self-love, and I thought I loved a boy I was highly mistaken about.

Now, over a year later, I chose the writer’s path, gave up the “love” I thought I felt for a boy so scarred I wouldn’t even know where to begin, and I learned that self-love is the anthem. I packed up “my life” (which is really the life my mother works hard for every day to provide for me), and I moved to Portland, Oregon.

I applied to Portland State University “for fun,” as I often tell people. The application was inexplicably easy, and I thought nothing of it. It was among 12 other schools. I received my acceptance letter via email a day before Christmas Eve. It was, by no means, my first acceptance, but it was the first acceptance I received that made it feel correct.

The months that followed, I lived on Google. I Googled images of the school. I Google-Earth’d my way across campus. I knew where Lincoln Hall was before I even saw Lincoln Hall in front of my very eyes. Something about Portland’s allure drew me in and kept me there. In the current moment, I have been living in Portland for 16 weeks (give or take). My walks to class in the morning are filled with chilled mist, which is a common occurrence here. In the evening, I can smell the frost starting to form in the air–this is no two-cent exaggeration.

Besides learning when to expect rain, Portland has taught me more about myself than I ever could have guessed. When I first moved here, I did not allow myself to be enclosed in a 325 square-foot apartment. I learned where the relics of the city were. I found myself in each of the relics. I was a tough teenager in my previous city. Not in the classic drug-taking, alcohol-drinking, running-away teenager, but I was a tough critic. Las Vegas did not suit any part of what I wanted from my life. This caused an extensive amount of backlash and my desire to stick out like a sore thumb grew more and more prominent.

Kids used to make fun of me for wearing bell bottoms and Birkenstocks; often expressing their concern toward my sexuality (in simple terms, I was often called a lesbian because of my choice of wardrobe. Because lesbians only wear Birks and bell bottoms, right?) I often got dress-coded because of my choice of clothing. I hated the objectification and the ignorance. I read literature that other kids would skip on and just guess about. I had (and still have) this horrible habit of putting my hair up in a bun, because I had this looming suspicion that shampoo is not that great for you. I knew Las Vegas was not the place to be, but I never even dared guess how much Portland would suit me.

The first time I arrived in Portland, I was mesmerized about the prominence of green. I can’t quite compose it. Portland was more of a savior for me. Portland is the ultimate motivation.

Adulthood is not a walk through the looking glass. And moving away from home is not like developing out of a cocoon and forgetting your loved ones far away. Moving away is not necessarily an escape from parents or siblings or family. Moving away is bitter enlightenment.

I had always been independent prior to moving away, but I would have never guesses what it truly is like. I was going from “mom bought groceries” to “$60 dollars and two bags of groceries later…” Growing up is a lot like skinning your knees, letting them heal, and then falling one more time, just to find even more intense skinned knees.

But growing up is like blooming. I spend my Sundays in my quaint apartment having “mental health” and “self-discovery” days which are so necessary for the hectic weeks that follow. I am a typical gal, still, and I still find myself crying at random times for random reasons.

But the only difference now is that I’m crying big-girl tears.

(Never as often)

(I never imagined I’d ever be this happy)

Don’t call me Bukowski, but I’m pretty poetic…

I can’t recall the name or the face of the person that once told me that everything is symbolism. I can only recall my reaction–no, that’s not correct. Everything can’t just be a sign and people aren’t meant to be treated as literary devices. Not everything has an answer, but that’s something all of my math teachers argued against. In any case, if everything was a symbol, weren’t there supposed to be extra brilliant analysts to figure out what it all means?

I cry a lot and often and I often wonder if it’s just a cocktail of imbalanced teenager hormones or if I have a reason. I often wish the answer was the latter. I can never figure out the reason because once my legs hit the tile floor of my bathroom, all of my emotions spew out of my body like a superhuman force crashing onto my very being. I often wonder where I’ll sit when I want to cry after I move out of this house.

In the dawn of my junior year in high school, I began to explore (if you will) self-destruction. Not on a grand scale per say, because there were no knives or lighters involved, but in this, I found my nails to be a grand symbol of release on my thighs until I would stop crying. I felt good after I clawed out of my emotions; relieved, almost. But the relief wouldn’t last long, and I developed a habit that would occur once every two weeks. My thighs were clawed and pinched pretty badly, but no one saw because it was winter and I wore long pants. I stopped self-harming and I started to gain weight which made me want to self-harm even more. I think my mother noticed that cobwebs started to build around my smile when she sat me down and told me she’s concerned. It meant the world to me.

I wish I could give everything to my mother–a woman who wasn’t afraid of rebellion as profoundly as I am when she was in my shoes. Perhaps she scared it out of me. Twenty-two is a number on a grand-scale for my mother. So is nineteen. The two aforementioned numbers symbolize years: the years she spent trying to rebuild something that was never built anyway. My father left home when we weren’t even there. He took everything–clothes, hearts, respect. And even with those, he still had nothing left but was too prideful to even admit it. And maybe, yes, he was in love with another woman and I wish my mother never excused that. And I wish so selfishly that The crumbles that were left of her didn’t lie in my hands, and this is why I’d give it all to her.

Also in the dawn of my junior year in high school, what was left of my heart screamed that I wasn’t born to hold a syringe or watch people crumble. The medical field is a stone-cold trap; more-so than high school is, and I was too grey to look at people who wanted to spend their lives in a false society. But in retrospect, I always wrote–since I can remember; even if it was about stupid crushes in the sixth grade or dark early-prose about how much I think my father really hates me, writing was always something I held dearly. I told my mother I wasn’t going to be a shiny doctor and that I’m sorry and I think she held me tighter than my tile floor that night when I cried about my future and this is why I’d give my mother everything.

My mother met a new man who promised her the world.
I met a boy who promised me coffee dates.
They got engaged.
I met the boy’s family.
We met the man and we loved him–my brother especially, because I’ll bet he’d always see the dads on TV that help their kids pitch a baseball and my brother loved the idea.
The boy broke up with me on New Year’s. Something about depression and unfairness–a battle I was willing to fight. He wasn’t. I cried on a chair that crumbles often in my back yard. My mother and that chair have a lot in common. She held me. Said, “don’t let boys hurt you, baby, you have such a big heart” and I hear this line often replaying in my head when I think that boys will hurt me as much as my mother’s twenty-two-year-long relationship hurt her.
My mom and that man orbited each other; he’d go wherever she did, and vice-versa. I can always tell my mother cares for someone when she feeds them. She fed him so much passion and love and she fed him her whole soul and that’s why I would give everything to my mother. I often glamorize the way she takes a puff from a cigarette and blows it out like she’s blowing out her worries and maybe cigarettes are dangerous, but so are men’s words.

My father and I didn’t exist after everything he had done seemed purposeful. No “happy birthday” was my favorite act of hatred from him. I found journal entries from four years before that expressed the feelings I was living: “I think my dad fucking hates me” is what I said. I was in the seventh grade and I was writing metaphors with language more vulgar than R-rated movies. I prayed that my journal would never be found. My father lived under a similar roof as I did. The only conversations he craved from me were the ones that involved less than twenty words or the ones where he’d yell because I was a bother. I knew I was, which is why his leaving was the most profound symbol of drowning. My brother asked me one night when our mother was going to leave. I told his tear-stained cheeks that she’ll never, never leave and that when he grows up, he has to give her everything.

Because she is everything.

And yes, I still think about that boy. I don’t know why I do and I don’t call it love because every time I want to, the voices of all of the older women that have advised me “you’re too young to be in love” echo in my brain. That’s why it wasn’t love. I was, I am too young. Too immature for love, I suppose. And for what it’s worth, seven months passing made me grow more than I ever did and my mother’s wide eyes always either look at me with anger or pride or both because I cry a lot and often about college and life. She holds me, still, even when I am an idiot. That’s why I want to give her everything.

I often feel like everything I was meant to feel, I have felt, and now all the feelings that strike me are recycled from the first time I felt them. This makes me weary, but I don’t want to destroy myself anymore and sometimes I wonder why I ever did. I cry a lot and often, still. Sometimes after I eat and I think of the years to come, I want to vomit. I’d rather be hungry. And even though my mother thinks that people are so easy to walk out of one’s life, my immature soul disagrees. Moons will never stop orbiting planets, until the sun explodes. I wish she’d understand that symbol.

The words that rolled off of the nameless, faceless person’s tongue about symbols were true, indeed. I look down at my hands a lot when I cry and it looks like I have ten fingers on one hand, because hands are not a symbol of relief; they are a symbol of capability–good or bad or ugly or powerful are in the beholder’s soul. Eyes are a symbol of utter drainage, I have discovered because it doesn’t matter if you’re extremely sad or extremely happy. Eyes always cry either way. Bodies are a symbol of systematic, complicated jumbles of organs, and blood, and chemicals and they’re symbols of defeat because at the end of the night, if you’re using your eyes to cry, you’re defeating your body so strongly. Dreams are a symbol of “go start your life, kid” whether you’re seven or seventy.
Maybe I should learn to walk away when my feelings are tangled in the straps of my bra, and boys use pretty words to acquire symbols of lust.
Maybe I should learn to walk away when smiles mean cheap orange lipstick.
Maybe I should learn to walk away in general, and not break hearts.
And hearts aren’t a symbol of lust or love, but a symbol of power because hearts can give a person everything while still taking away absolutely anything.

I want to give my mother everything.

Careful! Don’t step on that woman (and her dignity)

The “Girls Direct to You” car. The advertisement cruises all around the Las Vegas Strip during a typical day.

Stepping on the forbidden photo cards.

 

April 26 was a day of nothing but rainy humidity and the weather mood swings that ask you to take off your jacket and put it on. Better yet, April 25 was the perfect prediction of this upcoming groggy day. My excitement for the weekend built up, and this weekend was more special than most: I had the school camera in posession (I know you were probably anticipating me to say that I was on my way to a great party with great people, but let’s be real: I’m Alex and what is a party?). Anway, trusty Canon in hand and an empty memory card intact, I decided to capture the less sunny side of the Las Vegas Strip.

The next day, as my rugged boots stepped on tourist ground and I dressed especially conservatively for my solo strip trip, I started capturing. The photos were coming along well; I even interviewed several street performers just in case I would later decide to create this photography trip a journalistic piece for my school newspaper. And for a while, the trip was an innocent solo outing (not much out of the ordinary considering I enjoy going to places alone and people-watching like it’s going out of style).

I must’ve gone through high-end shops and cheap tourist souvenir boutiques alike various times. Consequently, the journalist in me came out and I noticed aspects of my city like I had never seen them before. For instance, the ease and acceptance of marijuana apparel that existed all around me was enough to make me dizzy. I considered writing a piece about it, but what would my interview questions sound like?

“Hi, excuse me sir, do you smoke weed and if so, how many times a week?” Obviously, that would make me look more pathetic than I already was (I was alone on the strip for crying out loud). I had to make my day-long experience worthwhile but educational. How many times have we seen the demographic features of marijuana consumption and how many times have we read about street performers in every publication ever? I can probably recite an article off the top of my head regarding both topics.

Now, if you’ve been to the Las Vegas Strip, the sober to intoxicated ratio is pretty visible, which is why I mentioned earlier that I chose to dress conservatively. Not to play the gender role card, but women must be careful of what they wear to places in any city, but I believe there is always an emphasis wherever there is alcohol and quite possibly drugs. No one wants to have their day ruined by sexist, derogatory slurs, and consequently I chose a conservative outfit to match that fact. I knew what I was getting myself into, but I never imagined I would be taken so aback by what I discovered.

On streets, inside puddles, in the bushes, on walkways, and basically everywhere humans can step on were small explicit cards with nearly-nude women. It seemed as if my righteous discovery was becoming quite vulgar. Fun fact: Las Vegas is one of the only cities in Nevada where prostitution is illegal, yet these cards not only consisted of an exposed woman, but also a phone number and “GIRLS DIRECT TO YOU” splotched on the front. Very cute, Vegas. What an impression!

It is not like I didn’t know about these obnoxious attractions for nine years now that I have lived and breathed Vegas like most Las Vegas residents, but I never had an outside opinion about them. I thought “oh, it’s Las Vegas. This is normal” and I was not the only one. My third attempt at interviewing individuals was nothing short of successful.*

“I think this is normal because it is Las Vegas and that is what Vegas is known for” said a 35 year-old male. His wife agreed, and most quotes I acquired on the street were similar. I then began considering what the majority of readers would wonder about. Well, what about gays? The owner of the company? Las Vegas locals? Parents? Trust me, I went above and beyond to obtain answers, and boy did I.

An openly homosexual man working at Dior: “Women’s objectification is one thing because in the straight world, they objectify women, but in the gay world, who objectifies who? It’s tough to see people treated as objects, especially in a democracy.”

His answer was the silver lining to my research. My passion for this project became so in-depth that I knew I could not release a story until I felt as if I covered every grey area there was, and the research came to me more that I approached it. I even tried to interview the employees handing out the explicit photocards, but no luck. Most of them did not speak English, and the only answer I received was “I do this to pay the bills” which I agreed with because having a job, any job at all is more admirable than not having one. Regardless, I ended my day stepping on nude women and photographing the action as it happened.

The nude (indecent or obscene exposure) law in Las Vegas is as follows:

NRS 201.220  Indecent or obscene exposure; penalty.

1.  A person who makes any open and indecent or obscene exposure of his or her person, or of the person of another, is guilty:

(a) For the first offense, of a gross misdemeanor.

(b) For any subsequent offense, of a category D felony and shall be punished as provided in NRS 193.130.

2.  For the purposes of this section, the breast feeding of a child by the mother of the child does not constitute an act of open and indecent or obscene exposure of her body.

Summarized, the law is that the only time an individual can be nude is when breast-feeding a child. That sure as keck was not happening on the photo cards. With the click of a few touch-screen buttons, I discovered that the company is an escort company. By definition, an escort is one who dances or entertains, by paying a sum of money, of course.

The website’s frequently asked questions are worth a laugh, quite frankly. “What if I don’t like the escort you send to me” is the first question that appears, because gosh forbid you pay a sum of money to have a striptease from a cute brunette and a naughty blonde comes instead. Never does a question regarding prostitution arise. However, there is an answer:

“Your escort will come to your hotel room, collect her appearance fee, then strip naked and dance for your entertainment. She may put some music on while she dances. She may even indulge in some dirty talk to get you excited – just like a stripper in a gentlemen’s club. But remember, prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas, so sex isn’t on the menu.”

While I am convinced a man capable enough of dialing a phone number for a striptease will “act like a gentleman,” I have a hard time believing this company knows that prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas, so I ask myself: is prostitution strictly business?

The sex roles card should not be played, but do men really uphold this company’s business enough that it has been successful for the last thirty years (per the website’s information), and shouldn’t women’s objectification be taken as seriously as prostitution is? After all, if it is all just business, then why is it not considered prostitution?

As I walked in my rugged boots after a long day of being speculated and looked at for trying to talk to these not-so-taboo, but taboo individuals with the cursed photo cards, I knew that aspects of large, promising cities such as Las Vegas will always be objectified by a large audience.

However, I do not agree with the mundanity that has developed around objectifiable ideas such as this one. Perhaps chivalry is dead, and maybe this is what killed it. Unspoken laws regarding escorts, dress codes, and nudity laws and the loopholes that have dug their way into industries that uphold nude entertainment are quite frankly deprecatory to current generations and generations to come.

Next time you step, be careful what you step on.

 

* Names and locations will not be mentioned due to citing purposes, but all quotes were collected in a public interview.

 

Let’s talk about sex (roles)

“Man, being a woman is a pain,” I thought as I washed my hands before helping to cook one of the many variations of Easter foods a few days ago. I mentally slapped myself across the face and my mind recited a mantra of “idiot, idiot, idiot” on a loop. I try to appeal to as many nontraditional stereotypes as possible when it comes to gender roles and topics of that nature. But why did I say that?

I’m sure you’re thinking “it’s okay, Alex, it’s just society-” blah, blah, blah. Save it for the essays. Society. Conformity. Gender roles. We’ve heard it all in AP English, thank you. But maybe the stereotype is right; maybe being a woman and slaving away in kitchens is challenging. We think this because we do not see men with their arms elbow-deep into a mixture of chicken livers and gizzards like my poor mother pre-Easter day (I know what you’re thinking–gross).

We see men as breadwinners–the multi-talented moneymakers of households all over the world. Fair.

So as I sit here, bath towel on my head, procrastinating on three chapters-worth of history notes, blogging my life away, I will tell you my take on gender roles. I have a voice and it deserves to be heard, darn it!

First off, I am sure we have all heard of or read “Sex Roles.” Before you categorize me in the “boring teenagers” side of your list, the Springer journal contains informative gender-related research as well as contemporary social-change issues. It’s not the juiciest peach in the basket, but it isn’t that bad. I promise.

According to “Aggressive advertising may make for aggressive men,” the writers of the journal mention that hyper-masculinity derives of four aspects: toughness, violence, dangerousness, and calloused attitudes towards women and sex. Four aspects which are all taught to males on video games. I know this from my very limited experience with video games at my cousin’s house. The respective game was detrimental to women (well, all of humanity, really) as the player of the game could “have” any woman he wanted (emphasis on the quotations around “have.” I am trying to keep this PG-13). Additionally, in order to steal a car, the player, a man, was required to shoot, stab, kick, punch, etc. another player in order to survive in the social norm of the fictional world. Tough. Violent. Obviously dangerous. Callous, by all means.

So, women are kitchen slaves, while men are the tough day-to-day go-getters, right? Wrong.

However, women are treated as the complete opposite. Women are roses, while men are aggressive venus fly traps. Flower reference. You can now add me to your “boring teenagers” list. It was my doing.

Looks are all important for girls on tween TV mentions that sure, girls can do what boys want to do, but only if they look super cute doing it. What man is going to look at a sweating woman at the gym? I don’t mean sexy-sweating (GENTLEMEN, THERE IS NO SUCH THING), I mean makeup-dripping-off-the-face-and-armpits-soaking-wet sweat. But, most girls will look at a guy working out, sweaty or not. Men = gym. Women = shopping. I’m not complaining. Television is the same: Superman was a dude. Lois Lane was a chick. Superman is a dude that has superpowers and saves Lois Lane, blah, blah, blah. Lois Lane obviously could not have lived without Superman because he is a man and he is super.

My personal view is that sex roles should slightly bend. Women are able to do what men do and be successful. This is proven in single-parent families (based on my own research). My mother, a single mother of two, is able to make a sustainable enough living to uphold herself and two children. This is not the only case in the world. The male gender is not the only one that can make a substantial living for more than one person. Times have changed, and so should opinions.

Gay marriage is also tied into sex roles, by every and all means. I do not have extensive research on the why and how of gay marriage, but I do know that gay love should not be something that is so deeply speculated, especially not during this or upcoming generations. Gay love is becoming a standard occurrence. Deal with it.

Women are linked to eating disorders and depression much more than men are, however, scientifically women are happier. In contrary, men are linked to assaults and felonies on a grander scale than women. Both roles should be attributed to all of the latter mentioned occurrences. Sex roles and stereotypes are one and the same.

I thought being a woman is tough because kitchen-work is a woman’s duty; she is expected to cook. I’m sure if I was lifting 500 pounds of weight at the gym, I would think being a man is tough. I would also have broken my back and perhaps a variety of bones, but that’s a different story. The last three sentences were stereotypes.

The bottom line is that one should love whomever they want to love, whether following conformist beliefs or not. Women can be just as tough as men, and men just as delicate as women. No judging coming from this blogger. And on that note, this blogger has history notes to cry onto.

Thanks for the read.