As a general rule, I write social commentary about the things that annoy me. And I look upon it, and it is good. But it has recently been brought to my attention (by my mother) that I’m becoming too cynical. I don’t think there is such a thing as too cynical, but eh, mothers. So in the grand tradition of kids attempting to prove parents wrong, today’s blog is brought to you by kittens and unicorns and rainbows and whatever other crap makes you smile.
What makes me happy then? A number of things. While I do bleed cynicism and wield keyboards as though I believe they fire photon torpedoes, I’m not an unhappy person. I like small, cute things. Puppies and what not. Hedgehogs, for a preference. I think the fact that one of the most adorable animals in existence is covered in razor spines says something about the universe that amuses me.
But I’m rambling. Carrying on. What makes me happy, then, is people. Not all people, mind, since I loathe 99% of the human race. Before you judge, please remember that this leaves me 69,737,384 (give or take a couple hundred thousand) people to potentially like or love. I think that’s more than freakin’ enough, ok? Where was I?
Right, people. And there’s a bit of a rub. As strange as it might sound, I’m rather fond of being fond of people. See, I’m not kidding when I say I loathe the vast majority of the human race. But here’s the kicker: in a strange twist it turns out that, on some level or another, I can love lots and lots of people.
“So what? Parents do that all the time.”
Yep. But I meant romantically. The word for this is polyamory, which is a horrible thing. “Poly” is a Greek root word, and “amory” is Latinate. It should be “polyphilia” or “multiamory” damnit. But I digress.
I have a husband. We’ve been together for four years. I love that man so hard and hot, I could and would burn the world down if I thought it’d make him happy (I don’t own firearms for a reason, folks.) He’s my everything, my world, and he’s kept me upright and sane (for certain values of sane) through more crap than I can think to mention. He’s sweet and funny, with a sense of humor that whips back and forth between “d’awwwww” and “HIT THE DECK!”
He’s a teddy bear with a paintball grenade. He won’t hurt you much, but you will damn well be covered in it. And it will be funny.
We’ve had one boyfriend (who didn’t work out) and we’re dating another guy now. The new guy is this cute little boy that was new and shiny when we got hold of him. We’ve been working double time to get him firmly patinated, and to our delight, the shiny won’t rub off. As much as we corrupt the guy, he’s still playful, sweet, and speaks in lolcat, macro, and Net memes. I know that sounds weird, but you haven’t really lived until you’ve heard someone speak an entire paragraph of words in the “ERMAGERD” dialect. And there’s yet another guy in the wings who’s looking interesting, and we’re considering trying for a quad.
And that’s just the people I do, or might, share a pillow with. There’s quite a few more than that. There’s a tiny, catlike woman called tiger who greatly enjoys torturing me (not that I complain) that I would love to put in my pocket and keep forever. Her guy is Chewy, this awesome Army armor division vet that walks, talks, and approaches everything like he has his tank in his pocket should you piss him off. He’s sexy, trust me.
They have a poly family. One of the women is this fantastic smart-aleck called Monkey (it makes sense in context) who always has a spot perfect comment, and has the driest, most deadpan delivery. When I first met her, I thought she was being funny on accident until the first time she cracked a smile in the middle of a particularly ridiculous line of thought.
The other girl doesn’t have a nickname I can use here (yet), but knows who she is. She’s a brat, a little kid that has to pretend to be a grown-up most of the time, and then suddenly smiles like the devil’s inside her and all hell breaks loose for a few seconds. When it’s done, she’s smiling like butter wouldn’t melt, and the pile of bodies is a mile high. Needless to say, she’s adorable.
There’s a lesbian couple in Cali my husband and I used to live with. There’s no romance, but we call them family, and there is love there. One of them, Kitteh (yes, it’s lolcat; deal with it) is a Hello Kitty fanatic with a slightly prurient, giggly sense of humor and a tendency to be suddenly and randomly girly. The other half, Kryket, is another deadpan snarker whose favorite activity is to find the grammar errors in speech that change the meaning of what is said...and then go off and running with the alternate meaning. It’s incredibly amusing to watch happen to other people.
And then there’s the people we live with. One of them, Gem, I call sister. She’s a tiny Irish woman, with all the temper, stubbornness, and humor that implies. Her kids, one of whom (as I’ve previously mentioned) is dating my brother. And then Creed, who is currently with Gem, and is both nearly cripplingly intelligent, and a major, major n—nope, need another major—nerd. Which makes me happy, as I am also a (major)3 nerd.
This list could go on. But I think I’ve made my point. Oh, and for the record, I am gay.
Yes that’s more than a few women on that there list; I simply fail to see why not wanting to sleep with someone prevents romantic love. And to clarify, yes, I find them attractive. I’m just not interested in getting busy.
Point, yes. I have one, and will get to it.
Everywhere I look, the society I live in is confining love, beauty, romance, attraction. If I hadn’t fallen in with wonderful people I might be dead or, more likely, an alcoholic now. Because the world around me isn’t exactly understanding of a gay boy with a husband, a boyfriend, another potential boyfriend, and romantic attraction to both men and women but only physical attraction to men.
Why not? I mean seriously, I love lots of people. I can be in love with more than one person. I can be open to romance with just about anyone. And, to tie this all back to the top, the reason I end up loathing so much of the human race is that there are people that hate me...for loving others.
Hey look, there was a cliche! Right up there!
Quick note: monogamy is fabulous. It works for lots of people. But when it’s the option assumed because it’s simultaneously assumed that it’s the only option, we have problems. In all seriousness: all you poor mundane folk out there that chose to live in a box because “hey, look! A box!”—
I’m sad for you. I’ll be over here with my freakin’ party van of people to love, who also love me, while you keep right on searching for that one soul that makes you happy because society, or your parents, or your faith has told you that you are broken if you need or want more than one.
There. Social commentary, with rainbows and kittens and ponies and whatnot. Now smile, damnit. And go find someone to love.
What makes me happy then? A number of things. While I do bleed cynicism and wield keyboards as though I believe they fire photon torpedoes, I’m not an unhappy person. I like small, cute things. Puppies and what not. Hedgehogs, for a preference. I think the fact that one of the most adorable animals in existence is covered in razor spines says something about the universe that amuses me.
But I’m rambling. Carrying on. What makes me happy, then, is people. Not all people, mind, since I loathe 99% of the human race. Before you judge, please remember that this leaves me 69,737,384 (give or take a couple hundred thousand) people to potentially like or love. I think that’s more than freakin’ enough, ok? Where was I?
Right, people. And there’s a bit of a rub. As strange as it might sound, I’m rather fond of being fond of people. See, I’m not kidding when I say I loathe the vast majority of the human race. But here’s the kicker: in a strange twist it turns out that, on some level or another, I can love lots and lots of people.
“So what? Parents do that all the time.”
Yep. But I meant romantically. The word for this is polyamory, which is a horrible thing. “Poly” is a Greek root word, and “amory” is Latinate. It should be “polyphilia” or “multiamory” damnit. But I digress.
I have a husband. We’ve been together for four years. I love that man so hard and hot, I could and would burn the world down if I thought it’d make him happy (I don’t own firearms for a reason, folks.) He’s my everything, my world, and he’s kept me upright and sane (for certain values of sane) through more crap than I can think to mention. He’s sweet and funny, with a sense of humor that whips back and forth between “d’awwwww” and “HIT THE DECK!”
He’s a teddy bear with a paintball grenade. He won’t hurt you much, but you will damn well be covered in it. And it will be funny.
We’ve had one boyfriend (who didn’t work out) and we’re dating another guy now. The new guy is this cute little boy that was new and shiny when we got hold of him. We’ve been working double time to get him firmly patinated, and to our delight, the shiny won’t rub off. As much as we corrupt the guy, he’s still playful, sweet, and speaks in lolcat, macro, and Net memes. I know that sounds weird, but you haven’t really lived until you’ve heard someone speak an entire paragraph of words in the “ERMAGERD” dialect. And there’s yet another guy in the wings who’s looking interesting, and we’re considering trying for a quad.
And that’s just the people I do, or might, share a pillow with. There’s quite a few more than that. There’s a tiny, catlike woman called tiger who greatly enjoys torturing me (not that I complain) that I would love to put in my pocket and keep forever. Her guy is Chewy, this awesome Army armor division vet that walks, talks, and approaches everything like he has his tank in his pocket should you piss him off. He’s sexy, trust me.
They have a poly family. One of the women is this fantastic smart-aleck called Monkey (it makes sense in context) who always has a spot perfect comment, and has the driest, most deadpan delivery. When I first met her, I thought she was being funny on accident until the first time she cracked a smile in the middle of a particularly ridiculous line of thought.
The other girl doesn’t have a nickname I can use here (yet), but knows who she is. She’s a brat, a little kid that has to pretend to be a grown-up most of the time, and then suddenly smiles like the devil’s inside her and all hell breaks loose for a few seconds. When it’s done, she’s smiling like butter wouldn’t melt, and the pile of bodies is a mile high. Needless to say, she’s adorable.
There’s a lesbian couple in Cali my husband and I used to live with. There’s no romance, but we call them family, and there is love there. One of them, Kitteh (yes, it’s lolcat; deal with it) is a Hello Kitty fanatic with a slightly prurient, giggly sense of humor and a tendency to be suddenly and randomly girly. The other half, Kryket, is another deadpan snarker whose favorite activity is to find the grammar errors in speech that change the meaning of what is said...and then go off and running with the alternate meaning. It’s incredibly amusing to watch happen to other people.
And then there’s the people we live with. One of them, Gem, I call sister. She’s a tiny Irish woman, with all the temper, stubbornness, and humor that implies. Her kids, one of whom (as I’ve previously mentioned) is dating my brother. And then Creed, who is currently with Gem, and is both nearly cripplingly intelligent, and a major, major n—nope, need another major—nerd. Which makes me happy, as I am also a (major)3 nerd.
This list could go on. But I think I’ve made my point. Oh, and for the record, I am gay.
Yes that’s more than a few women on that there list; I simply fail to see why not wanting to sleep with someone prevents romantic love. And to clarify, yes, I find them attractive. I’m just not interested in getting busy.
Point, yes. I have one, and will get to it.
Everywhere I look, the society I live in is confining love, beauty, romance, attraction. If I hadn’t fallen in with wonderful people I might be dead or, more likely, an alcoholic now. Because the world around me isn’t exactly understanding of a gay boy with a husband, a boyfriend, another potential boyfriend, and romantic attraction to both men and women but only physical attraction to men.
Why not? I mean seriously, I love lots of people. I can be in love with more than one person. I can be open to romance with just about anyone. And, to tie this all back to the top, the reason I end up loathing so much of the human race is that there are people that hate me...for loving others.
Hey look, there was a cliche! Right up there!
Quick note: monogamy is fabulous. It works for lots of people. But when it’s the option assumed because it’s simultaneously assumed that it’s the only option, we have problems. In all seriousness: all you poor mundane folk out there that chose to live in a box because “hey, look! A box!”—
I’m sad for you. I’ll be over here with my freakin’ party van of people to love, who also love me, while you keep right on searching for that one soul that makes you happy because society, or your parents, or your faith has told you that you are broken if you need or want more than one.
There. Social commentary, with rainbows and kittens and ponies and whatnot. Now smile, damnit. And go find someone to love.
I love you and miss you like crazy Jeremy! :D
ReplyDeleteI'm the Kitteh in Cali :)
Miss y'all too, doll. We'll have to come visit at some point.
DeleteHey, Jeremy...Jaqui here. Kitteh shared this with me so that I could read it, and I can't help but to keep trying to wipe this weird grin that I have off of my face. I love you and yours so much and hope to meet the new one(s) sometime soon.
ReplyDeleteMiss and love you!
<3 and light,
Jaq