Tag: stream of consciousness

Pride

Pride Month is, or at least should be, about more than just rainbows and parades.

Reduced down to its most basic elements to be more palatable to the mainstream, so much is lost in translation. It should be about celebrating alternative sexual identities, yet fails to be truly inclusive. Some people still call it “Gay Pride Month” which does a genuine disservice to the larger queer community. Strides have been made to recognize greater nuance beyond the swath of hetero-normative values that dominated western society for all of recorded history, so why does it still feel like such a fight? Why is it still so hard to be heard? Why is it still so hard to be seen?

Do my words not matter? Are my colors not bright enough?

Purple, White, Grey, and Black Macarons

I’m asexual. Should I even say that out loud? I was always told to leave it unsaid, let people guess or come to their own conclusions. It doesn’t matter. No one needs to know if I am or am not having sex.

It’s true, but also incredibly shortsighted.

It isn’t even about me anymore. It’s about standing up and modeling the representation that I never saw when I needed it most. Asexual people are out there, being successful, living full lives, but remaining largely invisible. I didn’t even know that it was a thing until I was in my 30s. I thought I was just… Nothing. Or broken. Or wrong.

A label doesn’t change anything, but it does help things make sense. In a society that sexualizes everything, would it be so terrible to talk about something that runs in the opposite direction?

Asexual people are queer people. More importantly, asexual people are people. Let’s make this the new normal.

Hannah (BitterSweet)9 Comments

An Everyday Kinda Birthday

Happy Belated Birthday To Me!

What does it say that I’m late to my own party?

The law of diminishing returns would suggest that I’ve passed peak celebratory years, jaded to the passage of time. While there’s a good dose of truth in that statement, it’s far from the full picture. Let’s turn the concept on its head for a moment.

Cupcakes with "Happy" Candles

What if, instead of reserving the festivities for a single calendar date, we lived every day a little bit more like a celebration?

  • Instead of saving the best bite for last, we dug right in and savored it along with the rest?
  • Instead of keeping prized collectables pristine in their packages, we tore them open and played without restraint?
  • Instead of saving cake for special occasions, made the act of eating cake a special occasion in and of itself?

Becoming an adult requires you to do one of two things: Give in, or give it your all.

So here I am, another year older. It doesn’t feel significant because, quite frankly, it’s not. It’s one birthday of many, not the greatest but absolutely not the worst, with many more to follow. It’s special precisely for the reason that it’s not.

I’ll be out here living everyday a little bit more like it’s my birthday from this point forward. Who’s with me?

Hannah (BitterSweet)16 Comments

Memories

Memories are like tattoos. They’re a permanent stain on our person, staying with us for life. Some visible to others, some not, they may change our perception of the world, or how the word perceives us. Indelible as they may be, no matter how many layers of skin the ink penetrates, no matter how deeply our thoughts alter our present, they do change.

Slowly, imperceptibly over the years, lines begin to blur. Colors become muddy. Once vibrant, sharp, crystalline pictures fade into confusion and darkness. Can you trust your own mind? Can you understand the symbols painted on your body? Does it all still make sense?

Memories can be painful, seared into our consciousness through traumatic events. Once they’re there, it’s almost impossible to remove their lingering outlines entirely, forever tracing around wrists and ankles like ghostly shackles. Cover-ups are like bandages with weak adhesive at best. No matter how many solid color blocks you add or intricate geometric designs, they’re still there, lurking beneath it all.

Sometimes our memories are tattoos, literally, and vice versa. If you could go back, would you change them? Would you paint a new picture? Would it even make a difference? The body underneath is always the same. It only matters what you do with it.

Portraits of and artwork by Squiggle Tats.

Hannah (BitterSweet)3 Comments

Luka Love


My beautiful baby boy, do you remember the first day we met? It’s hard to imagine life without you, but it’s true, we had no idea the other existed when you entered the world. Where did you come from, really? Not a parking lot in Hercules, CA where you leapt into my arms without looking back, that much is sure. I’ll never know what came before that, though. What became of your original home, and why did you first mama disappear without a trace? Who could surrender such a sweet child to a complete stranger?

My beautiful baby boy, did you know that they first called you, “Max”? Yes, short for Maximilian, or perhaps the Roman family name Maximus. Barely tipping the scales at 6 pounds, you were more like Mini than Max. Do you like being called “Luka” better, or is it too much like Loki, the God of mischief? I was worried about that myself, but you seem to have taken to it, and it’s grown to suit you, my little troublemaker.

My beautiful baby boy, how is it that four years have passed since that fateful moment when you adopted me? Do you recall that rough start, with so many sleepless nights, ruined rugs, and frantic vet visits? You’ve certainly trained me well since then. Now I’m a treat-dispensing, belly-rubbing, walking pro, just like you always wanted.

My beautiful baby boy, Happy Gotcha Day. I don’t know how I ever got so lucky, but I got you. Through the good days and the bad, that’s all I really need.

Hannah (BitterSweet)9 Comments

Discomfort Food

Don’t get too comfortable. Don’t make yourself at home. This won’t be a nice, soothing, easy read. No; this is the opposite of soup for the soul. Sorry to spoil it for you, but isn’t a classic happy ending either.

There is no foolproof recipe for success. Don’t be fooled by the ratings or praise; sometimes, even the most sound advice, the easiest path, the most obvious choice, is doomed to fail. It’s not you. It’s not even the recipe. I don’t know what it is- Bad luck? Destiny, or fate? Some things can’t be explained away by science or reasoning. Life is unpredictable like that, both infuriatingly incomprehensible and exhilaratingly changeable.

Even presumed constants are forever in flux. That’s to say nothing of the random accidents, the drops, drips, splashes, and spills. The bumps and bruises, the cuts and burns. Everything that can go wrong, at some point or another, will, and sometimes all at once.

Things fall apart. The center cannot hold. Dishes blow up in the oven like a volcano in a pressure cooker. Stews overflow their stockpots to leave impermeable stains on the countertop.

Shit happens, and shit happens to all of us. At least, when it comes to food, you can clean up to try again another day… Or just order takeout.

Take solace in this heaping serving of discomfort food; you’re not alone.

Hannah (BitterSweet)6 Comments

Thunder Lullaby

Thunder rolls ponderously, ominously overhead. Unseen but felt, like a heavy weight it rumbles and shakes, groans and snaps, sounding off on pain that mere mortals fail to comprehend. Speaking a language we can’t translate, it is unreachable, inconsolable. On and on it wails into the dark of night, interrupting the continuous staccato of rain bouncing of asphalt shingles and aluminum siding. For what, for whom does the thunder grieve so achingly? There is no soothing this profound pain. The thunder suffers alone, but with all the world in attendance, until it cries itself to sleep.

Hannah (BitterSweet)5 Comments