Second Acceptance in

and they've offerred me 25,500. Total.

So, in the scheme of things, not so much. I'd really rather go there than anywhere, though. It has many lovely points, such as

1. co-op program
2. focus on public service
   
3. wouldn't have to move to Philadelphia, which, rumor has it, smells like pee and is near new jersey.
4. could move out of my apartment, quit my job, and still not be homeless.

but I also don't want to be paying off student loans until I die. Which, theoretically, I'd do at Northeastern.

Temple is also higher-ranked than Northeastern. And has a trial advocacy program that is one of the best in the country. I'm visiting two weeks from yesterday. Just to see.

Still haven't heard from: Drake, Roger Williams, BU and Nebraska.

Let's hope for that nice thin rejection letter to come from BU tomorrow while I'm at work. And a nice, thick, hopeful package from Roger Williams the next day. And let's also hope that Drake doesn't give me that scholarship they invited me to apply for, because that would make it really hard not to go there.

I have two papers due tomorrow.

One on ketamine therapy treatment for opiate addiction, and one as a systems analysis of the family structure in the movie "The Royal Tennenbaums".

So I'm drinking hot chocolate and scratching my hives.

Temple offered me a full scholarship.

Two basic principles of reciprocity.

There are two basic principles in life that can be depended on for comfort in states of extreme annoyance:

• If someone does something that drives you absolutely fucking up the wall, even the extent that if you're subjected to it for one more moment you're going to start doing harm to yourself in order to overload your psychic pain with physical pain, it is almost guaranteed that you are unknowingly doing something that bothers them just as much.

Which is good. Because fuck those annoying bastards. There is a new person at work, we'll call her "Premium Bathroom Fixtures" or P.B.F. for short (A reference to her most unfortunate name, which makes her, a solid black woman in her fifties, sound like the infant daughter of a stripper named Tiphanni). This person is so consummately annoying that the lapsed and fleeing catholic within me may be invited back so she can light candles, get down on her knees, and pray that P.B.F. just suddenly stops coming to work. And if P.B.F. is not getting annoyed back, then there is no justice in the world.

• With very few exceptions, your idea of clean is someone else's idea of squalor, just as your idea of squalor is someone else's idea of clean.

This leads to something I've decided to call "November 20th Syndrome", after the week that precedes thanksgiving. The only way to prevent offending those you know may have more rigorous constructs surrounding what is "clean", and to prevent subconscious judgements by relatives who may visit for the holidays, women (and very few men) drive everyone they live with absolutely crazy turning the household upside down, purchasing febreeze, scented candles, foaming cleansers, organic floor wax, and brand-name paper towels in such volumes as to displace furniture.

This occurs to me as I'm cleaning my apartment, to prepare for the arrival of a friend. My idea of clean is his idea of squalor, most definitely. However, there is only so much that can be done, our ideas of clean differ so greatly. I've hauled the futon into the other room, bought a new fitted sheet for it, and am using my roommate's ill-gotten Dyson to suck the inscrutable remnants of my fetid lifestyle from the carpet.

Of course, being a man, this guest would neither say anything about the state of my apartment, nor judge me for it. He knew me when my old roommate would leave open cans of fish about, and there was something perpetually oozing on the floor that we christened "the indoor mud puddle". (Later investigation revealed that it was the combination of a broken canister of instant hot chocolate, moistened by condensation from the radiator, given bulk and body by some real mud shaken from Vermont-heavy boots and some discarded and forgotten pairs of Ames brand panties)

I should let the memory of trying to sanitize my home for a guest fortify and comfort me in my experiences with a certain person's apartment.

That was a trick question, by the way.

"Baby Got Back" is about class, not gender...leaving "Push it" as the default document of female liberation.

Yo, baby papi.

Something to think about

and discuss with your family.

Is "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-a-lot a more positive message about female sexuality and self image than "Push it" by Salt N Peppa?

First Acceptance In: Temple University

By email, no less.

They want me to go to Philly next week for the accepted students' weekend. Can't go. Painting faces. Two year anniversary of the opening of my cafe. Fun times, guys. I hate children.

Working on the front lines of the coffee (culture) wars

I'm your pusher man.

Or I'm not. Depending on how you like your coffee.

Actually, not.

Let's drop the pretense, why not? Bitches? Beuller? Let's not pretend that the coffee war is more than tangentially about coffee. It's about class. It's about money. It's about identity. And let's not just pretend that there are just two players. How about about the third group of combatents, the morally unassailable independant cafe? "Mom and pop" shops aren't the innocent bystanders, the non-coms, the civilians, the casualties that they'd so to be believed.

What do people get from a cup of coffee?
A slight, almost imperceptible buzz. Eyes a little wider open. Mind a little clearer. But as a heavy user, myself, I can assure you that most of it is psychological. It takes about four shots of espresso for me to feel any effects. And caffeine is not subject to tolerance effects, so I can assure you, it's not just because I've been soaking my neurons with the stuff. So why do people buy it? Why is it such a big fucking deal? Why does my working at one of the three types (corporate upscale, corporate downscale, independent) make such a difference to who I am and what I do and who I serve?

People get identity. Reassurance. People get a luxury item. Coffee is, and always has been, a luxury item. Before it became gourmet, it was a luxury and a vice. Coffee shops began proliferating on the streets of London hundreds of years ago. They were an exotic alternative to brain-numbing pubs and quasi-legal gin shops. Nobody needed to drink it then, nobody does now. But coffee is something you can always afford somewhere, and justify, and customize. It's something you do for yourself. And because it's a manifestation of personal whim and custom, it's become a tool of self-definition. So it says who you are. And what you think about yourself.

Who drinks corporate downscale coffee? Self-identified blue collar types. No-frills. Of the people. Hates pretense. Hates extras. Regulah, black, cream and two, dark with one, lahge, small, just so it's hot. But don't take this burnt orange and magenta identity at face value. It's as much a costume as any other.

Who drinks corporate upscale coffee? The earnestly upwardly mobile, the unapologetic social climber, the middle class pretender. It's for people who don't care what other people think they think they are, as long as they don't think they're poor, classless, or ignorant. Quasi-informed, quasi-progressive, quasi-gourmet. They're perhaps the most honest of any type, because they buy the coffee they can afford, in a comfortable, predictable setting from pleasant, consistently attired employees.

Who drinks independent upscale coffee? The self-consciously upscale, the psuedo-socialist intelligentsia, the anti-corporate crusader, the whole-foods shopper and former salvation-army dresser. The navel gazing hipster, the anti-corporate funkster, the unconsummated bisexual and the macrobiotic mom. They care very much what you think about them. They are the type of people who call ahead to see whether you're brewing fair trade coffee. They want to bring their own rice milk and stevia.

And yet the myth is that people are choosing their coffee shop based on the flavor of the coffee. I hate some of the coffee I brew. Our french roast tastes like cabbage, caraway seeds, and sorrow. Some of our espresso drinks are sweeter than candy, with any espresso flavor smothered in syrup and milk. Some of the coffee is especially tasty. And some of the drinks are balanced and perfect. I'm not ignorant enough to believe that either of these selections, the nasty or the tasty bring anyone to or keep anyone out of my coffee shop.

They come or go based on who they think they are and what they think I have for them.

Rage

A good friend of mine got his first law school rejection yesterday.

This system is fucked up. The LSATs matter more than everything else combined; except that they don't. Grades, reccommendations, essay- if you don't have the LSAT's, fuck you. Of course, because the whole world wants to go to law school now, LSATS only get you into the door. And if I don't have the grades and the reccommendations, fuck me.

168. 97th percentile. What the fuck does it mean? Am I smarter than him. Fuck no. I refer you to my shoes, untied. I refer you to my apartment, neglected. I refer you to ancient greek, which I do not speak, and he does.

Work and effort. Four years, seven, five. What the fuck does it all matter, compared to three hours in december? I'm in a rage about this shit.

I don't want to be an adult for a while.

I really don't.

Spring break has been too much for me. I've slept late. I've had dinner at my parent's house. I've gone out, and stayed out late. Before I got to stop and breathe for a while, I was just pushing through everything so hard (and driving myself and other people crazy) that I didn't even notice what I'm putting myself through.

I want someone else to do the cooking and the bill paying and the grocery shopping and the cleaning and the dishes and put the trash out. I want to sleep late and I want to do irresponsible things. I want to watch television and read books and not have to think about what I should do.

I am so tired of doing things for myself, deciding every stupid little bullshit detail- what to eat for dinner, what to buy for lunch. I don't know. I don't know. It's all a guess, a theory. I don't want to open tomorrow. I'm too tired. I don't want to figure out what I'm good at or what I should do or what's going to happen with my life or what I want.

I want to crawl under the blankets and sleep until 8am. But at 8am tomorrow, I'll already be 4 hours into my workday.

"Dumb, useless, fugly skank"

How would you describe someone you didn't like?

Weeks ago, a coworker said that the way it's done in her part of the world (American Samoa) is to say "I don't know (that person) very well."

My sainted grandmother would say "She does the best she can." If someone was really blindingly stupid on top of it all, she would say "She means well".

If my grandmother wanted to indicate that the person in question was near-vomit inducing ugly, she'd say "Frightfully plain, but cheerful"

I think we need more obfuscation. Because I've got a whole lot of well-meaning, plain but cheerful, customers that I don't know very well, but I'm sure are doing the best they can.

And if I can't get a better attitude about it, I'm going to start licking and fraying, licking and fraying, anything electrical and job related, cross my fingers, and hope for short-term disability.

Strange little compulsion...

A few weeks ago, I found out that I make 40 cents an hour less than my most analogous coworker. Ever since, instead of going to the cafe where I work for a cup of coffee (more likely a triple espresso), I've been going to Dunkin' Donuts.

I've been getting a Dunkin' Donuts, medium french vanilla. It's not good coffee. It's not even consistent. But it's comfort food. And, it's turned into my way of damning the man. I get a bagel with it, as an excuse...the bagels taste like soft flabby bandaids, bleached and pillowy and utterly sanitized. The cream cheese is more of an emulsified. dairy derived, fortified, edible ointment. It's shelf-stable, you know. Terrifying thing in a soft cheese.

My excuse for going to Dunkin' Donuts is because my cafe doesn't have sesame bagels, and wouldn't toast them, even if they did. My secondary excuse is that I don't know how to make coffee "regulah", since I don't put milk and sugar into our drip coffee. These are thin, sad excuses, based on equivocation, and only vaguely credible if you buy that I enjoy how the coffee
and bagel taste. And I don't.

Nerve.com has published a peppy little dialogue on rape. It's quite bold, seven years ago. Right now, it's moderately sassy, like a forty year old woman in a mini skirt with no bra, drunk on lo-carb margaritas, and looking for action. Some may object, some may see controversy, others might just see an interesting conversation-starter. (hey, patsy h.!)

The nerve dialogue does make some interesting points, the primary one being that 'no means no' is not necessarily the best test for lawful vs. unlawful sex. The current legal hoodangy is that while no always means no, sometimes yes means no, too; an overexpansion that has perhaps lead to the soft goo that current dialogues on rape seem to be mired in. In order to protect women (and men, too, and teenagers) from coerced consent, 'yes' in circumstances of power imbalance has begun to be treated as 'no'. Which is reasonable only if the coercer is aware of their coercive power over the submitter, and is able to determine what the submitter's actual wishes are.

Which brings us to date rape, and then back to my bagel. Stick with me, it'll be fun.

Do circumstances exist that one partner has power over the other, and is able to use that to obtain sexual consent, with knowledge that it would otherwise not be granted?

The person (person A) who wants sex would have to know-

• Whether Person B wants to have sex.
  
• That they, Person A, have a way to force/coerce Person B
• And, before having sex, that Person B still does not want to have sex.

In that situation, with that knowledge, person A can be held responsible, to whatever society decides are the consequences for violating person B's free consent to sex.

However, the asumption that these points are always knowable by both or either party before any sexual act occurs, especially between people who are acquainted with each other, is unfounded. (A lovely point hinted at by the Nerve folks). Human interaction is so variable, communication so fallible, that the majority of sex acts probably occur in some optimistic fog.

I don't know why I do anything. I just spent three dollars. (my last three dollars) on a bagel and coffee that I barely consider food and bev. And I'll do it again when I have three dollars again. I don't like this coffee. I didn't like that bagel. I am openly disdainful of people who order french vanilla anything. Did I buy this coffee because I am mad at my coffee shop? Because I can't get in and out of my cafe in under twenty minutes? Because I want my coworkers to think that I have a life? Did I buy the coffee because of advertising? Did I buy it because of class discomfort, as I'm considering going to law school, a significant divergence from my working-class roots? Did I even want this coffee, that bagel?

It is reasonable to consider that my sexual decisions would be less clear, less reasonably thought out, and less easily communicated then my breakfast choices. If you think I know why I do what I do, in any aspect of my life, even law school, you're giving me far too much credit.

There is considerable ambiguity to human desire and motivation. The only solution is clear communication. So what about rape, then? If you can't know what someone wants, what are you to do when they don't tell you? Clear cut cases of rape- violent rape, incest, real coercion- the disparity between the rapist's aim and the victim's objection is known to both. So when "yes" means "no", what has really happened?

It depends. Who knows? I don't.

Weird things I eat.

I must eat certain foods only when they are symmetrical.

McDonald's Egg McMuffins- The canadian bacon slice must be shifted to the other side of the egg from the cheese. Because the ham and the cheese are both mainly sweet and salty, and the egg is mainly savory and sour. So the ham and the cheese must be separated.

Cupcakes- if no one is watching, I must split the cupcake down the middle, horizontally, then put the bottom half on top of the frosting.

Other things I must eat in ways that no one else will eat them:

I eat all cereal dry. Especially plain cheerios. And corn flakes.

I eat my hot dogs plain. But I can't eat hot dogs alone, because I only like plain hot dogs when they've sat next to hot dogs with everything on them.

I add uncooked tomatoes to pasta right before I eat it.

When I get a mocha, I get the espresso on the side, down it quickly, then drink the milk and mocha syrup like a hot chocolate.


And there are somethings that I won't eat that are paradoxically similar to things I will eat.

I won't eat american cheese, ever, except on cheeseburgers, but I will eat cheetos, doritos, and mac n cheese. I won't even eat grilled cheese made with american cheese.

I won't eat fettucine, angel hair, spaghetti, fusilli, or linguine; but I will eat penne, farfalle, rigatoni, shells, and ziti. I will not eat ziti without lines, or elbow macaroni, except in mac n cheese.

I won't eat white rice, but will eat fried rice, rice pilaf, cous cous, and basmati rice (but only at restaurants)

I won't eat ham, ever. Or salami. Or pepperoni. Or balogna, but I will eat pork loin, bacon, smoked shoulder, and pulled pork.

I won't eat baked beans, ever. I will eat refried beans, black beans, pinto beans, and chickpeas.

I buy microwave popcorn, unbuttered flavor, and add my own butter at home.

I buttered my french fries in college.

Let's make a separation, kiddies.

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$1545

That's my expected yearly contribution to my legal education.
Yes, I'm poor. Very, very poor.

And this time, it makes me win.

I encountered a quote that sums up, nearly perfectly, why I'm going to law school.

I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.
-John Adams

Of course, John Adams was talking about the progressive necessity of nation-building; I'm talking about class fluidity. He meant that in order for a generation to have the freedom and security to pursue the arts, generations before them must lay more practical foundations. And his grandchildren were free to pursue the arts. And anything they felt like. Because by then, they had the connections and the economic power.

My great grandparents were laborers, nannies, prostitutes, auto-didacts and pious catholics. My grandfathers were a postman and a prolific drunk, former navy diver, my grandmothers were a homemaker and a bar singer. My father never graduated high school; my mother has a degree in education.

In order to progress, in order to be mobile, I must enter a profession. Theoretically, if I were to reproduce, then my children might have the money, and I might acquire the connections, in order for them to do things that are creative and meaningful. Or they could put it all up their noses. I'm not having kids. So law school will simply make me a nice living. But it's the only way to achieve.

I went to an elite, decadent, private college before the public brick and cement edutentiary I attend currently. The idea was that with the right education, I would end up on equal footing with anyone. If I worked hard, I would be able to do anything. I could be an artist, an actor, a filmmaker, a painter. (tapestry, poetry, music and porcelain) Anything.

Not actually. Now, two years after graduation (my class at ole' B graduated in 2004), the illusion of elevation through education has finally dissipated. The mistaken, hopeful impression given to middle class students from working class backgrounds, that they too could one day be entirely useless- gone. The students who came in, from prestigious "Day Schools" (Any school that feels it must specify that nobody lives there is obviously elite) with rich parents of rich parentage, are all working in the fabulous low-paying jobs that lead to creative, high-paying jobs. The students who came in like me, without connections, are working in administrative jobs, or dairy queen, or public school systems. The children of teachers and secretaries become teachers and secretaries in slightly more interesting cities with slightly more forgiving dress codes.

If I went to (art,graduate, journalism, film, school), I would come out and work in a coffee shop. It would be just like my current life, but with more debt. If I go to law school, I will come out a lawyer. I will be employable. If I work hard, and make the right choices, someday I may own a home. I may go on vacation. I may be able to retire before my tits hit ankle level. Someday, I may do something that matters. I can spend my entire life pretending that drive, not class, determines what I can achieve, and what is a vocational rather than avocational interest.

Let's not pretend that the professions (law and medicine, dentistry, pharmacy, etc) aren't a traditional entree into the upper classes. Let's not pretend that everyone studies law for a love of the law.

sunt lacrimae rerum...

There seem to be times in life when the past feels closer and more vivid than in other times. I've been walking in a fog of quasi-nostalgia (know what's a fucked up concept? Ostalgie. Hey, remember the time when the secret police killed your uncle? And there was no toilet paper for 20 years?) There's no longing for times past, but the moments of years ago carry this intoxicating salience...

I can't stop thinking about times past. A thinned out mo-town themed muzak cd at work made me think of a potent time of other people's romantic intrigue. Two of the people involved will be married by the end of the year. The third, I am convinced, will beat me out for the romantic ambivalance award. Yes, it was a love triangle. And yes, I was only an observer.

My own exes aren't far from my mind, though. I just don't like to write about them as much. I had this extraordinarily vivid memory of a moment, in my old roommate's bed, when a certain person pulled up my shirt- it was the first time I had ever been alone, in private, with a person who wanted to take my clothes off. I cannot convey how absolutely terrifying and wonderful it was to realize that. Anything could have happened. For the first time, ending that moment was up to me, not a park ranger or police officer or girl scout or rattlesnake.

I'm thinking that there's something special about that moment, something not culturally recognised. We're so obsessed with virginity and teen oral sex and herpes and pregnancy, physical milestones obscure all others. Dick breaches pussy, dick breaches lips, anus, armpit. These are our markers of innocence lost, experience gained. Carnal knowledge, penetration, the consumption of one body by another.

But what about the moments, few or hundreds, where anything could happen? The sudden, absurd plenipotentiality of body heat, contained by walls and soft surfaces and a locking door and no supervision- does it matter? I don't think it's possible to forget that moment, the first time with the lights on, the first time with someone who would have done anything you let them do; no matter what the outcome, there is a line crossed.

It's for this reason I've become, for the first time in my life, sympathetic to the arguments of abstinence before marriage. I continue, however, thinking that waiting for marriage is for most people ill-advised, prohibitively difficult, and out-dated. I was eighteen, that day in the hideous dorm room with the indoor mud puddle, on my roommate's sheetless bed. I was with the man in the bed because I wanted to see what would happen; not because I liked or loved him. It was exciting. It was wrong (I had another boyfriend at the time). He would like me, love me, in the end. I would hide from him. I was cruel to him. I wish I could apologise, actually, for the way I treated him.

I wonder what it would be like to be alone for the first time with someone significant, at the precise moment of beginning something new together. To suddenly be able to take vulgar liberties, completely sanctioned, with someone else's body, for the first time- when love is a factor- would be pretty nice. I can imagine a wedding night, a hotel room, a honeymoon- a wonderful first time to be alone with a beloved willing body.

But that moment, that first closed door, doesn't belong at 28. You're too old. Men are already losing testosterone. Women's breasts are already making that long knee-ward journey. Unless anyone is willing to propose propagating a formal system of time-limited starter marriages, the wedding night and honeymoon are things of the past. I won't spend time telling teenagers that they'll regret at my old age what they are dying to do right now. They'd never listen and it's not my business to say. And that's the problem of adulthood. You're presented with an outline of post-post-post-hoc regrets, and the sudden impulse to prevent those regrets (delicious as they were at the time) in other people.

I don't know if I'd give up the years I've spent in bedrooms and livingrooms and snug in arms to recapture an unplanned moment in a dank room, in a reeking dorm, in a muddy spring, in vermont.

And my bit...Emergency Contraception.

A while ago, I began an investigation into the target boycott.

Here's a recap and analysis. Don't mind me if I repeat myself- this is a combination of notes and crushed up freelance pieces and parts of my law school personal statement. It has a lot of research I didn't fully get into here.



This past fall, Planned Parenthood of America urged people to boycott Target scores. This boycott was inspired by the refusal of a Target pharmacist Fenton, MO to fill a prescription for emergency contraception. Supporters of Planned Parenthood participated in a protest at Target offices in Missouri. A press release blasted Target for a policy that Planned Parenthood said differed from those of all other major pharmacy chains. Dan Savage, a popular syndicated sex and relationship columnist and editor of “The Stranger” a Seattle-based independent weekly, broke the story to his readers on November 1st. He, too, quoted the Planned Parenthood Press release. I wanted more information but there seemed to be none. Major newspapers didn’t mention either the boycott or the incident in Fenton. All internet information could be traced back, blog by blog, to the press release from Planned Parenthood. The press release itself was short on actual information about the incident. I talked to a pharmacy technician, and she raised further questions that could not be answered with the information Planned Parenthood Provided. When I was finally able to find limited coverage by a Missouri paper, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the additional information confused rather than clarified the situation.

First, in the article, the patient, Rachel Pourchot is identified as a St. Louis resident. Fenton, Missouri, is more than fifteen miles from St. Louis. Women, in general, do not fill prescriptions for birth control pills, a prescription that needs to be refilled frequently, that far from home. Second, Pourchot says that she uses two forms of birth control with her long-term boyfriend. Birth control pills are the first, so it may be assumed that the second method is a barrier or chemical method of contraception. Plan B would be a third line of defense, far from urgent. Third, she lists fear of assault as a reason to keep the pills on hand. It is true that hospitals generally give rape victims Plan B. Plan B is very effective at preventing a pregnancy after unprotected sex, and most rapes are unprotected. However, Rachel Pourchot was also filling a prescription for birth control pills that day. In case of assault, she would already be protected. There is no additional protection afforded by emergency contraception, as compared to the birth control pill. Plan B is levonorgestrel, the same estrogen as in Seasonale, Allese, Tri-Phasil, and other popular pill formulations. Finally, it is very odd, given that Rachel Pourchot was so casually filling her prescriptions that day, so far from home, that she did not just decide to fill the Plan B prescription another time or at another pharmacy, when told Plan B was out of stock. T
arget agrees that store had no Planned B in stock that day; they dispute whether the pharmacist confronted Ms. Pourchot. If the facts of the situation are as Ms. Pourchot reported them, the situation is still imperfect. A refusal of a prescription that was not urgent, and was out of stock, is thin premise for a national boycott.

Target is a strange choice of target, as well. Despite Planned Parenthood’s claims, their pharmacist refusal policy is not much different than that of other major pharmacy chains. I wrote to Walgreens, Brooks/Eckerd, Kmart, Target, and CVS, and asked what their policy was. Kmart declined to comment. Walgreens has a nearly identical policy to Target’s. CVS’s only differs in that they require a pharmacist to notify superiors of a refusal before it occurs, and it is doubtful that this would have any practical effect. Brooks/Eckerd was the only pharmacy that does not allow pharmacists to refuse to fill a legitimate prescription for any reason. Fenton aside, there’s no reason to single out Target as an offender.

So why would Planned Parenthood choose that specific pharmacist refusal, at that store, to launch a national anti-Target campaign? It could be that it happened in Missouri. Planned Parenthood has not been having an easy time in Missouri. Reproductive rights have not been having an easy time in Missouri. There is only one abortion clinic left in the state. Planned Parenthood has been ordered to pay back millions of dollars of family planning funding to the state. They have been targeted by legislation that would make it illegal to aid Missouri minors in obtaining abortions, even out of state. Governor Blunt has made a personal crusade of restricting access to abortion and contraception. In fact, at the same time as Ms. Pourchot was being refused her prescription, Governor Blunt was proposing legislation to protect pharmacists who refuse to fill prescriptions from being fired. The day before Planned Parenthood demonstrated at the Target district office in Bridgeton, Missouri, a group called “The Coalition against Governor Blunt’s War on Women” protested at the capital against the proposed legislation. Why protest a corporate policy rather than a law? It seems illogical, even useless, to protest against a corporation for following a policy that will soon be legally mandated. However, by centering the campaign against Target in Missouri, Planned Parenthood may have been able to turn the energy of local supporters towards a national target. Thus, they maintain an impression of advocacy on a local level, without spending any energy lobbying an unsympathetic legislature.

Why would Planned Parenthood of America care more about the accessability of emergency contraception to Target customers than the accessability of emergency contraception to every resident of Missouri? Being a Target customer is a choice. It is simple to simply go somewhere else for prescriptions, housewares, clothing, groceries, and all the other goods that Target supplies. While Missouri is not a prison, there are many reasons a person cannot easily move to another state when laws threaten their freedoms. Missouri is a state, growing socially more and more conservative, and more politically hostile to reproductive rights. Target is a store, beloved of young, socially progressive, middle-class, coastal and urban, women. Planned Parenthood put so much energy into changing Target’s policy, and so little advocating for Missourians, perhaps because Planned Parenthood supporters are more likely to shop at Target than live in Missouri. Their mission statement says they support the reproductive rights of everyone regardless of “income, marital status, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, age, national origin, or residence.” However, they seem to be changing their mission to preserving convenient access to needed services for their key demographic, while ignoring the growing restrictions on choice for those unfortunate enough to live in more conservative areas. This shift could be tragic. By prioritizing the desire of current and potential Target customers to have emergency contraceptive prescriptions filled at they same store where they can purchase enameled toasters in mod colors, Planned Parenthood becomes little more than a consumer advocacy group.

Very, very important.

If you think you're a feminist, if you think you're pro-choice, you must read this

This is the most important bit of feminist writing I've ever read. This is practical. This is political. This is personal.

I am not, as you recall, any kind of traditional feminist. I am, however, rabidly pro-choice. In fact, I'm pro-abortion. This woman details, completely, how to perform an abortion.

If Roe is overturned, if women in red states lose legal rights to bodily integrity- this is what will need to be known.

If Roe stays, this piece is still important. It is important to any woman or man who has sex and can imagine a circumstance in which there cannot be a child at the end of a pregnancy. This is abortion. This is what it is. There's nothing else. Dilation. Curretage.

The anti-abortion movement has always held the procedure itself hostage, as an ace in the hole. They feel it's so brutal, so complicated, so inhumane to mother and fetus, that knowledge of the procedure is enough to turn one from pro-abortion to anti-abortion. And, even if women want abortions, keeping the knowledge of what is involved in medical hands (hands with careers and reputations to lose) means that it's not the woman who needs to be persuaded not to have one, it's a doctor that needs to be persuaded not to give one.

I'm not saying women should perform their own abortions (or their friends'). I'm saying that it might be something that becomes necessary, and that if we fear the facts of a procedure we support, for even a minute, we're sad advocates for it.

Dirty, Sanctimonious Motherfuckers.

Fucking salon readers. Fucking salon.

Salon has an interview with a woman who wrote a book about how tough it is, economically, to be young right now. And, predictably, there's a fucking firestorm of letters about how it's not tough to be young now, and everyone else has had to walk up hill two ways in the snow to work at McDonalds for a bundle of sticks and twigs.

Bullshit.

Let me tell you the differences between then and now:
1. Housing costs.
2. Job Opportunities.

Let's start right up with housing costs.
Let's start with where I live. I live in a one-bedroom apartment. With a roommate, an inadequate stove, and no utilities included. For this we pay $750 a month, which is a steal. My landlord could be getting 1100 for this below-code charmer. And, of all the people I know...I am the only one who is not married and not living with their parents.

Renting is too expensive, period. The shittiest, smallest apartment in Boston is too expensive to even dream of renting if you don't have a serious, non-entry level, non-service industry job. It's expensive because people try to make the biggest profit they can, and everyone wants it now. Some motherfucker dies, and his heirs sell his house for 250,000. Some dirty motherfucker comes along, slams some cheap corian knock-off countertops in there, sells it for 475,000. Guy next door, bought his house for 30,000 fifteen years ago, decides to cash out for more than ten times what he paid. Sells his triple-decker for 450,000. Dirty asshole developer buys it, refinishes the floor, adds a fire escape, sells it as three 'luxury' condos for 275,000. And the next motherfucker who buys the condo expects to sell it for 325,000 in six months.

The rich are now rich enough and mobile enough to buy up any housing stock, anywhere they please. The poor are now richer than they were, but not rich enough to live.

And you know what? This shit drives the economy. Take a generation. Force them to live with their parents. Now, even if they make much less than they should, a greater percentage of their income is disposeable, because rent is no longer the largest expense in their budget. Result? Everybody buys a fucking ipod. Everybody leases a car. Everybody buys every shitty cd, gets credit cards, frequent flyer models, and luxury goods.

Note to assholes everywhere: MY GENERATION ISN'T POOR BECAUSE IT'S BUYING LUXURY GOODS, IT'S BUYING LUXURY GOODS BECAUSE IT'S POOR.

We'd sure rather spend thirty percent of our income on housing, save thirty percent, and spend thirty percent on disposeable goods. But since housing would be sixty percent of our income, the very thought of living within means is absurd.

I made 10,000 last year. My rent is 375 a month. Heat averages to 107 a month, if I were on the budget plan. Phone is 40, internet is 40. (Don't say internet isn't a necessity, I need it for school). Tell, me, folks. What luxuries did I spend my 3000 dollars on? What fabulous consumer goods did I consume?

Not meat, I'll tell you that.

Housing is impossible. It just is. And it's impossible because of selfishness and profiteering at every level. So that's a factor.

2. Job Opportunities.

There are none.
Let me tell you about a magical time, children. That magical time was called the internet boom. During that magical time, there were jobs. There were jobs for technical people, administrative people, creative people. And there were jobs for people without experience.

Then the internet boom busted.

And there was nothing. No jobs. And suddenly, experience was a keyword. As in, years of. As in, young people need not apply. There are no entry level jobs, friend. There are none. Nobody wants to train somebody right out of college for something that could grow into a career, when they can post an ad on the internet and get someone pre-trained.

Anything that doesn't require experience is not posted, not advertised, and only available to someone with connections. So, the middle class need not apply. Too bad for you, you ugly motherfucker, if your parents don't have chums in the industry you'd like to enter. Too bad for you, unfortunate choad, if you didn't get that one internship available. Too bad for you if you were working too much for pay to work for free, and didn't make a connection.

Especially too bad for you, sugar-pie, if you believed them when they told you you could be anything. Turns out you can only be anything useful, profitable and technical. Writers- in oversupply. Need connections. Photographers- in oversupply. Anything fun or creative, anything a child could name as a goal...even policeman, fireman, carpenter, plumber...nope, kid, need to get into a union, take the test they aren't having for another five years...

There are no jobs. The only jobs available are those serving people lucky enough, connected enough, to already have them. Like mine.


Solutions:

1. Penalties for real-estate profiteers. Instead of capital gains, I think we should get to pelt you with shit, for longer and longer periods, based on how much price-gouging you've engaged in.

Say you bought your house for 25,000 at a time when the average salary was 5,000 a year. Now, you want to sell it. The average salary is now 50,000 a year. You may sell the house for 250,000, or get pelted with ripe shit for five minutes for every 10,000 over the set price.

The real estate agent would be immersed in sour milk for the same amount of time.

2. Nepotism=similar solution. If you hire someone recommended to you by a friend or relative over someone similarly qualified, and that can be proven, I get to pelt you with shit. Every other week, on a friday. For 35 minutes. Until you've learned your lesson.

That guy.

He's pretty great, actually.
He's tall. He laughs with me. Even when it's not funny. Even when it's just so I'm not laughing alone. It's a great laugh. Nothing high and squeaky, nothing with a guffaw. It's pretty great.
He's got these brownish eyes. Hazel for real, not like mine, which are lies. Perfect eyebrows. Smile with no fangs.
He gives me all the little things without thinking. He lets me choose everything. I abuse that, actually.
He reads very, very fast. He thinks Stalin is funny. And Mao. He's smart. He makes his own jokes. He knows how to be quiet right; most people don't know how to be quiet without being resentful quiet or bored quiet or angry quiet. He does the right quiet.
His arms are perfect and he's so warm. He is enough human being to be enfolded in. Which is nice. Which is really nice.
He likes the beach in summer and everywhere else in winter.
I love him at the aquarium. I love him in line for doughboys. I love him at the stove. I love him drunk on the couch. I love him on the ferry.

I love him when he loves me back.

Time until deletion: 12 hours. You have 'til nine am to read this, guy. Then it stops gaying up the internet.

Where have I been?

Well, I've been busy.

I've been applying to law school. What a fucking pain. I've been doing a lot of work, trying to graduate. And I've been working for very low compensation. I've been, basically, not myself.

I've never been a busy person. I've always been the person who managed to have free time when everyone else was hiding out, camping under textbooks, working too much. This may be why I failed out of college the first time.

I've always had interests. I have this coat. It's from dollar a pound. It's a long winter coat, but it's a petite so the sleeves are real short and the proportions are off. However, if I cut it to hip length, take in the back, move the sleves in and crop them to bracelet length, trim the edges with some kind of piping, and use the excess to make a mid-length skirt, it would be the sexy hotness as a winter-weight suit.

I have the knowledge. The materials are no problem. What is a problem is the time.

I like to paint. To cook. To bake. I want to start running. I want to get fucking drunk one more damned time. I want to go out with my friends. I'd like to actually be able to become friends with people, instead of just being on the precipice. I want to see a movie. I want to read a book for pleasure. I want to watch television for an hour when I get out of work, without feeling guilty.

I want to watch the still cello-wrapped zombie movies that sit on my fucking coffee table. I want to relax.

But I can't. I don't have the time or energy for what I have to do. Maybe I should start abusing licit substances. From my reading, although there's no guarantee that I understand it, if you don't have the natural propensity to be an addict, you may not experience ill effects from drug use, such as dependency. Which is why I'd sure like some, maybe, ritalin or something. I think that would work. Or even ephedra. That stuff was fucking sweet. Take it all day and all night, and it didn't matter if you slept. It didn't just keep you awake- it kept you from getting tired.

If I could maybe use all 24 hours of each day, I may be able to get through this month without doing any harm to myself or my future.