safety pins!

Tanking Bigots

So, I went and got my Bitch Planet tattoo today, and someone in the shop asked, “That’s pretty… Visible. Aren’t you afraid of being that obvious?” And I replied, “I’m pulling aggro.”

But the more I think about it, the more this metaphor fucking works. I’m a white middle class woman with low expenses, no criminal record, and I live in liberal-ass New England (or at least, I thought I did before the Trump/Pence signs cropped up like fucking forsythias but that’s a whole other post.) I’m safe. Even if I get in a knock-down-drag-out, I’m not going to be seen as an agitator, or a troublemaker, or the “problem.” I have money for bail. I am privileged.

While I have physical disabilities, they actually don’t get in the way of me feeling like I could get in a scrap. If anything, the opposite. I have this whole other post (yeah I think of more all the time like this) about the genetic evolution of Ehler’s-Danlos Syndrome but suffice to say, you can’t hold on to me and you can’t break me easily. I have martial arts training, but I look harmless, so even if I did get in a scrap, the cop is going to go, “You got in a brawl with a 35-year-old fat woman… Yeah… whatever.”

I have mental health limitations, but they actually don’t get worse from being exposed to this shit - I’d feel way worse and more anxious if I didn’t step in. I’m the kind of person who would just second guess and eat themselves alive in thinking of how they should have jumped in to help someone. 

I’m a tank. I’m tough, I’m bendy, and bigots aren’t going to shock me or hurt me.

Not everyone is a tank. This is super fucking important. Some people are healers. They deal with the fallout when someone like me comes home shaking and breathing in a paper bag because holy shit I just took a picture of a guy in a CVS who tried to grab my tit. Some people are DPS - they leap in and fucking maul people with cited facts on Facebook arguments and are physically imposing and probably could punch a bitch out. 

It’s okay to be what you are. And it’s also okay to take care of yourself. If you’re a tank, you gotta heal up. You need downtime, or you get hypervigilant and debuffed and you’re too fucked up to help anyone. If you’re a healer, you need to get your resources back so you can do what you love without taxing yourself unduly. It’s like that. 

So I’m a tank. And I’ll wear my Non-Compliant Genderqueer tattoo with pride. I wear my “Respect Existence or Expect Resistance” tattoo the same way. I wear them so that the girl with the neutral gender haircut who just wants to fucking ride the bus isn’t as inviting a target as I am. I pull aggro. I don’t want a fight, I won’t start a fight, but you better fucking believe I’ll step in the way. 

Taunt, pull, peel, sustain, rest, drop your stacks, and fight on.

I saw this meme on Twitter that said “okay ladies now let’s gentrification” and y’all…it stuck with  me hard.  I’m trash, yes, but I really be entertaining myself.

*sing with me!*

Y'all Negroes corny with all that anti-protest mess
Get some sheetcake, yell into it if you feel stressed
This statue drama ain’t important, let’s do what’s best
These guys aren’t racist, they’re just proud of their heritage

My daddy drives a tractor, Mamma can’t stand those rappers,
You mix that pumpkin with that spice and get some All Lives Matter

I don’t like spicy just give me some avocados
A venti skim latte with double shots espresso
Earned all this money but to sing on key is far beyond me
I got mayonnaise in my bag, swag

I see it, I want it
Forreal tho, I want it
You dreamed it, I stole it, appropriate til I own it
My single sounds like Peaches, but y'all still hope it reaches
The top spot, to cockblock that Bieber snot from achievin

Got my pussyhat (pussyhat), safety pin (safety pin),
Marching ‘cause (marching 'cause), Hill ain’t win (Hill ain’t win)

And I’m stale (stale), I’m stale (well), I’m stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell)
Big Fail (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell)
We so stale (stale), so stale (oh hell), we stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell)
I’m stale (oh hell), oh hell (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell), Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell, oh hell

Okay Harlem, here’s some gentrification, cause I’m stale
Okay Oakland, here’s some gentrification, cause I’m stale
Woodridge DC here go some gentrification, cause I’m stale
Raise rents cause of gentrification

When the fuck is decent we go get some Panera
When I almost came it’s cool, he tried, he’ll get better
If he make me come, just once, I'ma call a win for that session
Hasn’t happened yet, but I pray one day, it’ll get better

You gon hear my song played on the radio station
You gon wanna die cause it’ll be on rotation
My song is whack but y'all don’t care cause I’m Taylor
You’re gonna buy my album just cause I’m Taylor

I see it, I want it
Forreal tho, I want it
You dreamed it, I stole it, appropriate til I own it
My single sounds like Peaches, but y'all still hope it reaches
The top spot, to cockblock that Bieber snot from achievin

Got my pussyhat (pussyhat), safety pin (safety pin),
Marching 'cause (marching 'cause), Hill ain’t win (Hill ain’t win)

And I’m stale (stale), I’m stale (well), I’m stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell)
Big Fail (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell)
We so stale (stale), so stale (oh hell), we stale (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell)
I’m stale (oh hell), oh hell (oh hell), I’m stale (oh hell), Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell, oh hell

Okay Harlem, here’s some gentrification, cause I’m stale
Okay Oakland, here’s some gentrification, cause I’m stale
Woodridge DC here go some gentrification, cause I’m stale
Raise rents cause of gentrification

Okay Harlem, here’s some gentrification, I’m stale
Okay Oakland, here’s some gentrification
You know you so whack when you cause all these scornful memes
The whackest pop star music has ever seen

Blue Lives

This has to be the best damn post I have seen posted about police officers on Facebook.

“It’s not the police who need to be retrained, it’s the public. We have grown into a mouthy, cell phone wielding, vulgar, uncivil society with no personal responsibility and the attitude of ‘it’s the other person’s fault’, 'you owe me’. A society where children grow up with no boundaries or knowledge or concern for civil society and personal responsibility.

When an officer says "Put your hands up,” then put your hands up! Don’t reach for something in your pocket, your lap, your seat. There’s plenty of reason for a police officer to feel threatened, there have been multiple assaults and ambushes on police officers lately. Comply with requests from the officer, have your day in court. Don’t mouth off, or fight, or refuse to comply… that escalates the situation.

Police officers are our sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters. They’re black, white, brown, all colors, all ethnicities, all faiths, male and female, they are us. They see the worst side of humanity… the raped children, the bloody mangled bodies of traffic victims, the bruised and battered victims of domestic violence, homicide victims, body parts… day after day.

They work holidays while we have festive meals with our families. They miss school events with their kids, birthdays, anniversaries, all those special occasions that we take for granted. They work in all types of weather, under dangerous conditions, for relatively low pay.

They have extensive training, but they are human. When there are numerous attacks on them, they become hyper vigilant for a reason, they have become targets. When a police officer encounters any person… any person, whether at a traffic stop, a street confrontation, an arrest, whatever… that situation has the potential to become life threatening. You, Mr & Mrs/Miss Civilian, also have the responsibility of keeping the situation from getting out of control.

Many, the majority, of law enforcement officers are Veterans. They’ve been in service to this nation most of their lives, whether on the battlefield or protecting us here at home. They are the only thing that stands between us and anarchy in the streets.

If you want to protect your child, teach them respect… for themselves, for you as a parent, for their teachers, for police officers. Police officers do not make the laws, they merely enforce them. If you don’t like the law, be proactive in the political process. The police officer doesn’t have, or want, the role of judge and jury.

If you get a speeding ticket… were you speeding? Don’t blame the cop if you broke the law. Go to court, pay the fine, don’t do it again.

It’s easy to judge, it’s harder to look within oneself and see what your role should be as a citizen, as a responsible person seeing both sides of the issue.

All lives matter, Blue lives matter, too!“

Amen to that

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

DIY Ftm Packer

A while back i found a tutorial but i cant find it, but i remember how to do it, so in result i made my own to help all of my transmasculine brothers who can’t afford packers, aren’t out to everyone, or can’t buy a packer for any other reason! You’re all so strong for getting through each and every day and i hope this makes your daily lives better!! I love you all!!!

Materials: Five(5) socks of the same size, three(3) rubber bands/hair ties, one(1) or two(2) safety pins(i used one(1))

Step 1: Fold three(3) socks together, either from the inner sock or an outer one, so that there are two(2) inside of one(1).

Step 2: take the other two socks and fold them into mostly spherical shapes.

Step 3: put one of the balled up socks into the other.

Step 4: put the two balled up socks into the other group of socks, just before where the two inside socks are.

Step 5: put a rubber band towards the tip, another one between where the balled up socks are and the folded ones, and one between the edge and the balled up socks.

Step 6: fold the edge over so that it shapes the balled up socks some more and put the safety pin on top of that.

Step 7: use the safety pin to attach the packer to the inside or outside of your underwear(inside if youre using traditionally mens underwear, outside if you use traditionally female underwear. I’d also suggest putting another pair of underwear or compression shorts/leggings over it if you pin it outside to keep it in place better.)


And you’re done!! Good luck, and be safe my dudes!!