"Immortal"

We are the kind of girls that cannot die.

While others cookie cutter crumble stumble from your life
without leaving so much as a crumb,
we leave a bite;
best rock that bruise like a badge if you wanna roll with us;
we sit heavy in the pit of your hunger,
your restless;
fizzing through your veins,
we will be there, every time you hear that song--

When we touch I get a contact high
I'm done leaving if we can try
Am I guilty? Boy, you decide
I've got nothing to hide

We are the girls that soda-pop your shivers back to life.
You know, the ones you thought you felt for the last time
when you kissed goodbye your 5th grade valentine?
We are the kind of girls they call catchy--
Caught in your throat clever note we can choke you
Caught in your throat clever note we can choke you
if you try to swallow our memory, love,
good luck with keeping us down, 'cause
we are the girls that build like lead poison in your pencil spine;
Is that why you stopped writing poems when we left?
Don't you know that we're still living in your hands?
Even if you hold your shiny new heart like a leather briefcase
and each shiny new lover like a flower vase,
God, where are your fingernails?
Where is your pain?
Replaced it all with:
coffee-cup-smile-cream-and-sugar-stability
send every urge through a cleaning facility and then...
FUCK THAT, we are the girls you drink black;
drink us down, drink us dry, drink us nightly.
Dating girls like us? Means removing the words
"I'm too tired, honey, maybe tomorrow,"
from your goddamn vocabulary.

You will find us, time and time again,
dripping from the gaps in your traffic jam,
dancing with the ghost of your crash,
we'll be laughing.
Yeah you go on,
pretend you're so much better than our supposed insanity.
"Oh, her? No, that was a one time thing,
a phase, a childhood mistake,
I can barely remember her name."

But when I walk by,
the shutters in your eyes forget to close
and I can feel the moonlight streaming;
like the time you said your words weren't always
saying-what-you're-meaning
so I learned to lip read, loud and clear;
I listened for your hesitate, girl,
I trained my ear to your honesty,
your ambitions and your dreams;
Doing what you love is not as tricky as it seems.
We are the kind of girls that scream
GET UP GET UP GET UP
just when your passion's poised to kneel--
We don't care if we look crazy,
we just care for what we feel;
we are the girls to make a difference,
make our hearts a better place;
we don't need to make excuses,
we are here and face-to-face
with everything we've ever wanted,
everything we've ever been.
You didn't used to hide your teeth
but now your smile's wearing thin.
You put your wild in a casket,
all your pennies in a vault;
if you live Mild Ever After then it isn't our fault
'cause we're the girls you drop a wish for
grand prize
jackpot
and if you think that we're just crazy--
Ask your nightmares. We're not.

"Someday"

Someday.
Tell me there will be a place for us.
We do not belong here-- You know this better than I do.
I say it like a sentence, you say it like a prayer,
We do not belong here.
Hello. My name is Ex-Girlfriend.
I live on the corner of I Fucked Up and You're Dating Someone New.
You say you're into other things now, and you're happy, I believe you.
We do not belong here.
We are no longer welcome in the world of solid lines.
We are color bleeding through the rot of every space and time.
We live in dreams.
We live in those eight years of our corrupted memories.
Some people are surprised and disappointed I am still writing you poetry.

You, in all your unyielding simplicity;
you, the dimpled matchstick muse;
you, singing the storm to sleep.
You, who used to stand on my staircase;
won't you keep that creak in your step?
Yes, hide it if you have to.
You are my last open-door policy.
There is a key hidden on top of the mat;
Goddamn, I know I am the plank less traveled by,
but if your caution ever wobbles,
if you ever change your mind, I'll be ready
for you to come back Titanic-captained in the eyes,
asking, baby, tell me all the lovers make it,
tell me we won't sink this time, I'll say,
We won't. We won't,
we won't, we won't,
we won't.

Since you left I have grown fluent in apology,
and I will speak for as long as it takes you
to forgive my fear for trespassing on our love;
because the sun? It used to feel like a cigarette against my skin
until I washed my darkness in your yellow.
Girl, you got me so clean
clean slate
best love
best heart
new scene
I let the ground get green.
We can bury all the sidewalks in the park like this--
I will suck up to you forever,
like the holy kickback captain that you are,
sweet playground, jungle gymnast,
won't you pick me?
First draft,
last hope,
our team;
My knees won't buckle 'less you touch them to.
Safe bet,
no promises,
just us in our brutal honesty;
Good goddess,
my darling,
come home to me.
Put the orthodox back in my church,
I'm done healing--
Like the times we used to talk ourselves chapel-lipped,
all night,
my 8-track mind breathing heavy down the back of your structure;
Girl, I know I saw you shiver.

I still think it's sexy when you get scared over nothing;
Thank God that you care about something.
I want to show you so bad that my love has more to do with me than it ever did before,
and if hate was always winning,
now I'm typing up the score.
I came into my incredible;
Give credit where it's due
'cause I first learned to love myself
from giving love to you and

you may never hear this poem.
We do not belong here,
where timing still is everything,
and epiphanies run late, but
maybe there's a chance you'll grow old
knowing all the words to this,
and that we'll be happy
someday.

This Entire Post is About My Period.

Let me begin this post by saying I entered the bathroom this morning to find some unknown freshman blow-drying her hair in front of the mirror, and that she smelled like what I imagine heaven has to smell like. I feel like a lot of pretty girls, right after they get out of the shower, smell like this. What the actual fuck, you guys. How do you do that. There is something going on here aside from carefully chosen shower products. And does that mean, when I get out of the shower, that I smell that good? I don't think I do. I would be literally shocked if someone thought me to smell like fucking roses and sunshine and joy-in-scent-form. Is it just a pheromone thing? Anyway. Good thing I don't know that girl and she didn't get a good look at my face, and therefore will never read this, because I'm now realizing this may come off as terrifying and predatory. I promise I was just appreciating and observing! Not even observing! I am a gentleman even inside my own mind, really!

I was in the bathroom because I needed to tend to my period. I've been on my period since Tuesday. It has been one of the most destructive events of my young adult life.

By the time I was finished with the business I needed to attend to in the bathroom stall, the girl had finished drying her hair and had left the bathroom. I felt immediately angry and self-conscious. Do you have a problem with the pace at which I manage my monthly bleeding? Am I devoting too much time to my vagina in this particular instance? Fuck you, goddess of good smells, I'm awesome.

See what I mean about the whole destructive period thing?

I'm slowly regaining sanity, since I began to lose it entirely on Sunday, which marks the start of the PMS. If any of you recall (I doubt you do), it was Cinco de Mayo on Sunday. This means I was drunk from around 2pm up until about midnight. Combine that sexy breed of intoxication with some Grade A, primetime PMSing, and you have the hormonal nightmare of the century on your hands. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I HAVE ARRIVED TO RUIN YOUR INNER PEACE WITH MY OWN UNRESOLVED TURMOIL.

It was a bad scene toward the end. I ran into my ex-girlfriend, who I drunkenly tried to say hello to. When she apparently didn't hear me, she became the recipient of an angry text message sent from drunk me demanding to know why she could not find it in her heart to send a wave back to her poor, pining lover from the past. She was polite and understanding. I got apologetic as soon as possible. We have not spoken since. Now when I pass her in the hallways she just looks at me weird.

Periods.

I wrote the angriest poem I've ever written on Monday. It's called 'Immortal,' and it's fucking awesome. Emily says she likes the first line so much that she's going to get it tattooed on her stomach, so that any girl preparing to have sex with her will have to read that line and know that they're dealing with an OG. I like that. I think Emily understood the point of the poem. I wrote it for her and I, really. And for all the basic bitches we woefully harbor hatred for because they sucked in the context of dating us. Watch out, Exes of Emma and Emily! Emma is on her period toooonight!

This week was the week of midterms. I had one regarding Anglo-Saxon literature on Thursday. It was fucking terrible. I had a panic attack shortly before I left to take the test, which served little to no purpose because my projected midterm grade is around a C-. It was the hardest test I have taken since I've been at college. What the actual fuck, I hate you, I'm on my period.

Not to mention, the amount of bleeding this go has been excessive to say the least. WHY is this happening now, of all times, you ask? Why has this chain of events all but convinced me that the universe is rooting for me to break down and totally freak out? Why? Why? Why? FOR REASONS UNKNOOOOOOOWN

It's Day 4 of the actual period. So after two days of PMSing, and four days of blood, I should be, technically, on the tail end of my sentenced misery. I hope it's over by tomorrow. Tonight I am performing that new angry poem plus another new sad poem plus an old angry poem plus an old happy poem, but the happy poem is about my ex-girlfriend who now has a new girlfriend who is not me so maybe that translates to old sad poem okay who evens know or cares okay.

Also, I don't know how relevant this is to being on my period, but for the last three weeks, I have only been able to dream about said-ex-girlfriend, each night revealing a new and exciting scene to inspire searing self-hatred within in me when the morning finally comes. I accept that this dream thing may go on happening for quite a while, but for whatever reason, since I started PMSing the dreams have been particularly cruel and vivid. Reader, do you know anything about the nature of chronic dream subject matter? Or, in fluent English-- Why can't I stop dreaming about someone I don't even talk to anymore?

You would know better than I do. I need to go; I'm hungry and have cramps simultaneously. I swear I'll write a post to prove I'm not crazy and immature as soon as I cease to bleed.

Unicorn Call.

People often ask me why I think about romance with such frequency. It's completely obsessive and ridiculous-- I think about girls constantly. Girls that I've dated, girls that I want to date, girls that want to date me, girls that don't know I exist but look great walking down Broadway holding that little rat-dog. Girls rule everything around me. Girls. Love it. Love them. Love.

Firstly, I have the luxury of constantly being able to think about girls, so thanks, universe, for that. While other human beings are stoning each other to death, I am sitting in my dorm room, crying into my pillow because Lizzie McGuire hasn't texted me back in the last 24 hours and MY WORTH AS AN INDIVIDUAL DEPENDS ON IT, OKAY. Let me preface this post by saying I'm a completely spoiled little fuck and I know it, I know it so hard. I'm trying every day to develop my perspective and tattoo the word GRATITUDE across my mind-label, but that takes work, and working has never been one of my strong suits. I'm lookin' to change that fact, but, for now, indulge me a little, okay?

Secondly, I think about the girls all the time because, in my mind, I HAVE to. It's necessary. Because it is so obscenely important that when a worthy girl does become convinced, for whatever reason, I am worth her undivided attention, I need to be poised, pretty, and prepared to compliment her hair at any given moment. I can be an awkward fuck at times, especially when I think nobody is looking, so I have GOT to stay on my GAME. As much as humanly possible. Even when I'm brushing my teeth, somewhere my brain is thinking, HEY. Stay suave. Little circles. Don't rush it now, hey, you're Mr. Cool.

But, please note my use of 'worthy' in relation to 'girl.' In the past, I have mistaken some truly unworthy girls for worthy. I mean worthy in relation to dating me-- all worthy people, certainly, which is why I found them so wonderful in the first place. However, it was then revealed to me sometime during each specific romantic endeavor, that the girl I had been pursuing was, for instance, emotionally underdeveloped, not so bright, kind of a douche-bag, bat-shit fucking crazy, and, in a few cases, flat-out terminally evil. This is okay. Everyone is allowed to be a douche-face/asshole/lunatic/love-stunted prick/actually an idiot once in their lives. I've definitely played all those roles for other girls, too, at some point or another. The thing is, now I'm REALLY NOT ANY OF THOSE THINGS. IT JUST HAPPENED RECENTLY, BUT I OFFICIALLY DON'T SUCK ANYMORE, I PROMISE. It is a direct result of extended single-dom. Everyone should try this if they haven't already. Shut up, everyone who isn't a serial monogamist.

Anyway: I'm awesome. I could be really good to someone. I look forward to being good to someone worthy, someday. I'm building my self-esteem, and I'm learning what I like and how to make myself happy. My actions are matching up with my values with increasing consistency. I've started showering more often. Sometimes I brush my hair. It's great.

Now, I've just gotta wait. No more chasing girls for Emma Delsohn. I've never really been chased before (not when I was single, at least, and if you chase someone when she isn't single your argument is automatically invalid so stfu) and I want to be. If that means I don't see any action for a few months/years/decades?! or whatever, then hey, I'm okay with that, too. I refuse to lower my standards. I'm done with that shit, yo. I'm a strong single woman, and, to be frank, ain't nobody got time for that. I'd rather be lonely than settling.

It may be a while until I find someone worthy, because the kind of girl I am looking for is... not your typical broad. For one, she has to LIKE GIRLS. FUCK. WHY AREN'T LESBIANS MORE OF A THING IN THIS LIFE. She has to be sexy (I firmly believe that physical appearance does not dictate how sexy a human being is. Sexiness is being in touch with yourself and is founded in a willingness to take risks, be selfish, and think unconventionally. You can do it, I promise). She has to be intelligent, a good conversationalist, and somewhat open-minded. She has to respect other people on a basic level. She has to be an honest person. She has to be kind before she is nice. She has to truly love something other than me. BUT, MOST IMPORTANTLY, she has to love me. I mean. Duh. An important ingredient, don't you think? How did I disregard it before?

She will not love me because I am her first relationship with a girl, or with anyone. She will not love me because I'm the first person to treat her nicely. She will not love me because she's uncomfortable with being alone. She will not love me because she cannot have me. She will not be unsure of her feelings. She will not love me less than her fear of commitment. She will not love the idea of me, but nothing else-- She will love me, for me. The whole package. All of it. All my drama-bomb bullshit, my OCD-ridden brains, my almost-invisible boobs, my ostrich-esque dance moves, my huge-ass feet, my chronic sinus infection. ALL OF IT. She will love me for me, confidently so, because she will know that I love her for her. When I love, I love hard. It's a thing that I'm proud of. I'm the kind of girl that can make your dreams come true. Really. I'm the lesbian Prince Charming. I've got this shit on lock, and I will prove it to you. Now, unlike ever before, I'm ready to do this thing, if there ever is a thing to be done.

I know I need a unicorn, but all I see are horses. And what usually happens is either me or one of the horses is like, "ehhh?" and then I'm like, "Sure, okay," and pretend to be a horse-lover for a while. Until the horse is like, "NEIGH," and I'm like, "What the fuck man, that sucks," and the horse is like, "Dude, I told you I was horse when we started this thing," and I'm like, "I KNOW I KNOW WHERE ARE THE UNICORNS?" and the horse is like, "Unicorns don't exist," and I'm like, "YES THEY DO I SAW ONE ONCE," and the horse is like, "No, you didn't."

And then I'm like, "Yeah, I did. Just wait, horse. There is a unicorn out there for me. And she will blow your bullshit out of the water, horse!"

And then the horse is like, "Goooooood luck with that. I'm gonna go be a horse now and hang out with my horse friends."

And then I'm like, "GROOD.
I mean good.
And great.
Great and good."

A Good Place.

From an outsider's standpoint, one could say that shit has not been working out for me.

I'd provide more context, but I want to avoid spending too much of my energy on that which a) makes me sad and b) is out of my control. Some things happened recently that made me sad and are out of my control. When I say recently, I'm referencing the last four months or so. I've never experienced so much intense change in one half-year-ish period. Shit is crazy. Girls are crazy. Up until recently, I have felt a little crazy.

I don't feel crazy anymore. I feel sad, definitely, but I feel grounded. Not grounded in my sadness-- I want to be clear about this. I am not defined by my sadness or depression. Sadness and depression are different things. Right now I am not depressed. I am often sad, but I'm sad for a reason, and that reason does not define my entire life or personality, either. Not even in the thick of the bullshit. The sadness comes and goes, and when it comes, I feel that sadness and that sadness alone. I'll give you an example of my inner monologue--

(eating pho by myself, today, around 1:30pm)

Me: This pho is really great!
Also Me: Yeah it is. Never been to Than Brothers alone before. Feelin' like such a renegade.
Me: Right? It's wild. Except. Damn. I wish I could be sharing this meal with *******.
Also Me: Yeah.  *****  and I never went to this place together. Fuck. This hurts a lot.
Me: It does. I don't like this feeling. But this feeling makes sense because reasons.
Also Me: Yeah. Just gotta power through it I guess. I'm just afraid that I'll never find anybody who will lov--
Me: HEY, HEY, HEY. Is that what you're really sad about right now? Being alone forever? Cause you know you can't know a thing like that. You're 19.
Also Me: I know, I know. I'm not sad about that. I'm sad about the isolated incident of rejection that occurred in a specific moment in time. I'm sad about that, and I should be, because I wanted something and I didn't get it. That is a normal human thing.
Me: That's right. You're normal.
Also Me: Yay! I'm normal! I feel so happy! Psh, I don't even care about what happened! Woo!
Me: Woah, woah, slow down there brother. You aren't happy right now. You're sad. It'd be weird if you were happy at this stage in the game. You're sad because your desires and expectations were true of heart and well thought-out, but didn't happen anyway. You respected what you wanted. You cared and still do care. But someday, something better will come along and it won't hurt so much. Eventually, it won't hurt all.
Also Me: You're right. I believe you. So I just need to sit with this pain until it goes away?
Me: Pretty much yeah. It's not gonna be fun. It's not gonna be quick. But you'll be so much better for it later... Right?
Also Me: Of course. Know that from experience!
Me: RIGHT. I bet you'll have a few happy hours later tonight when you do your radio show with Laine, streaming live from KSUBseattle.org.
Also Me: That's a great point!
Me: I'm full of 'em! Okay. Let's eat this cream puff.
Also Me: CREAM PUFF. SWEET ACTION.

End scene. The pronouns may be confusing but you get my general vibe, right? So that conversation is what's happening in my head on a daily basis-- whenever I get sad, I have to battle for the healthy processing of the sadness. I have to fight to stay sad, not FUCKED UP HORRIBLE DEPRESSED PANIC ATTACK MAFIA OF SELF-LOATHING. And I really have never felt like I was able to beat that shit back into submission until like a month ago.

I know what I want, and who I am. I am Emma Delsohn. I am obsessed with the worlds of romantic love, awareness, Adventure Time, goodness, respect, poetry, music, Pokemon, standup comedy, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and honesty. I am worthy of some pretty girl's unquestioning, crazy-ass passionate love, and I hope I find some pretty girl like that someday. I care about my friends and family, I write every day, and I am happy more often than I am sad. I am a good fucking person. I'm gonna have a meaningful, and hopefully long, life. And I'm gonna have fun doing it. No matter where my heart thinks it is, no matter where my head thinks it is, Emma Delsohn is now and shall henceforth be in a good place. And I will MAKE YOU FUCKING DANCE.

I'm Not Writing This For.

I'm not writing this for my best friends. My best friends already know what's up-- they have heard me whine endlessly about my problems with the way people work, and subsequently with the way I work. They have endured my disorganized and half-baked questioning, offered up vague answers to unanswerable questions in hopes of providing me some peace of mind or, I'm sure in some cases, convincing me to shut the fuck up. They know the key details of my most amusing stories: they know about the orchard I peed in, drunk, during my junior year of high school and they know the ethnicity of each one of the four men I kissed in a singular, trashy evening during my freshman year of college. They know my most often employed metaphors; they've heard the slam poems read aloud, they've been to a reading or two, they've lent me the books that have shaped my voice as a writer. For the most part, my best friends don't read my blog, and I wouldn't expect them to, nor do I care one way or another. I don't need to explain myself to them, and as far as any wisdom I may have to offer, they know that all they have to do is ask for it. God knows I need their wisdom far more often than they'll ever need any of mine.

I'm not writing this for The Girls. While most of my best friends happen to be girls, there is a clear distinction between those particular girls and The Girls-- those belonging to the female gender who I have paid extra-close attention to, from both an emotional and physical standpoint. For whatever reasons, a handful of ladies over the past twenty years have appeared (and sometimes reappeared), consuming me in some sense, thoroughly intoxicating me with nothing more than their personal details, the way they use their hands, or the simple fact that they, for some unknown reason, found me worth their undivided attention for a sec. To be clear, I do not write this blog for them, save for the occasional poem that shows up. Reader, know that I have written hundreds of shitty love poems: some I have recited for the girl in question in front of a crowd of people, kissing her publicly and obnoxiously afterward, with no qualms about the reaction of those around me, while there are some poems I have never shown to the subject. I expect I never will. Maybe I'm afraid of her reaction, or maybe the moment has passed, or maybe she simply doesn't deserve to know the time I've allowed myself to spend thinking about her. Regardless of where the poetry goes, that is the writing for them. This blog has stopped trying to be a love letter or an apology. The Girls know what they want to know, and they are aware that any answer they are looking for, from me, has always been in front of them. I've found they often don't ask until it's urgent, and with good reason-- love is not meant to be solved, but unfolded slowly, and so The Girls I've fallen for in the past do not always read what I write. Clearly I will never be condemned for being too mysterious, which is okay with me. I will always, always be too open, too honest, and too obsessive when it comes to my interactions with other people. It is for this reason some of The Girls have stopped reading, and for that I'm glad. Of course, some no longer care enough to, didn't care to in the first place, or may not even remember much more than my full name by now. To this, I say good for them, and godspeed.

I'm not writing this for my family-- though I can't say the unconditional praise and approval gets old, and I'm glad if and when I can amuse them. I'm not writing this for the people who don't like me, who may be reading this to get a good laugh at the OCD and self-obsessed teenaged blogger who spends too much time with a nervous look on her face; I know they'll find a new source of self-esteem as soon as the next overly-dramatic lesbian is equipped with a Blogger account. I'm not writing this for my former teachers, because I'm mostly embarrassed by how I must come off to them, taking myself so seriously at such a young age, and taking for granted all the wonderful resources I've had over the years, both earned and given to me freely. Please know I'm fully aware of how ridiculous I sound, but I write to work on myself. Maybe if I let myself suck hard now I won't so much when I'm older. I'm not writing this in hopes someone will 'notice' me and find me talented, because my blog isn't even close to my best work and I'm 99% positive less than 5 people read this thing anyway. No, what you read here is not for my grandmother. I hope to God she never finds this, she'd be homophobia-heartbroken.

I'm writing this for you-- You, with your hand on the mouse scrolling down the brightly colored page on the screen, hoping to find something meaningful or interesting in what I've written. You, The Stranger. The person I don't totally know yet. Maybe I will know you soon, and maybe I won't-- I hope I do, in any case. I hope I can write something you connect with on some level, something powerful enough to inspire you to send me some sort of message, anonymously, privately, publicly, or even just a silent, solidly good vibe. Because I'm a lonely motherfucker and I'll never be content with the amount of connection I already feel to the external world; there is always somebody else to understand, always somebody else to laugh with, always somebody new to learn from, and I want to learn from you, because you cared enough to read this whole thing so at the very least, we both like reading and should go from there. I'm writing this for any person at any age who may feel naturally isolated from others. This is for the people whose words don't just come out differently than how they want them to-- Oh no, this is for the people who sometimes wonder if they're speaking another language entirely. This is for the people terrified of making phone calls, and for the people whose whole day can be made by a well-phrased, deliberate text message. This is for the people who chose vulnerability over self-preservation, and believe that one day, all this pain will pay off. This is for the cynical romantic, the introverted performer, the self-obsessed self-hater, the talkative writer, the peaceful artist, the angry artist, the empty artist, the die-hard lesbians, the questioning breeder-peeps, the Adventure Time fans, the impulsive, the thoughtful, the Harry Potter enthusiasts, and the motherfucking feminists. It's for someone who believes there is something bigger. Maybe you haven't found out what that is yet. Well, me neither. I'm writing this in hopes that you may want to look for it together.

Not Sad To Be Sad.

I'm sad today. But I'm not sad about it.

It is when I try to convince myself my sadness is useless and counter-productive to my growth as an individual that I have panic attacks. It has nothing to do with the actual periods of extended thought, or, as some will call it, "dwelling." I can spend hours in my bed, thinking about my life or somebody else's life-- Like, I think about death all the time. I think about distance, minutes, physical health, mental health, love, jealousy, and, above all, awareness. I can think about these topics for days on end, and most of the conclusions I draw are sad ones: Love changes, and most people aren't prepared or capable to get involved with long-lasting love. Physical human contact (or lack thereof) can change who we love, who we trust, and what kind of relationships we value. Time is a construct of society. We are forever trying to reconcile with the concept of YOLO and of working for a reward that only lies in the future. What you put into your body will change the way you think and feel-- on grand scales, like illicit substances and alcohol, and on small scales, like sugar, caffeine, and water. No matter how logical you are, and no matter how many perspectives you take on the situation, jealousy will still rise in you from time to time. You will compare yourself to others, even if you know that it makes no sense to do so. You'll momentarily give authority to someone who has no insight into your worth, and isn't trying to define your worth in the first place. You know you gave them power they didn't ask for, but you don't know how or why. So you sit, and think about these things until you've exhausted yourself, waiting for the feeling to pass until you can function again, and finish all the things on that seemingly-endless To Do list.

This is how I am. I spend time in my own head. Most people would consider this behavior mentally unhealthy. By several standards, it is. But I refuse to base my own judgment of my mental health on somebody else's understanding of how humans, in general, should live.

Generally, I do not fit in. I have a hard time holding conversation, even though I have endless things to say and questions to ask, because something in my brain is set off around other people and then I become too riddled with anxiety to speak. I'm a woman who falls in love with other women, and I live in a society that is not wired to include me in this context. I don't conform to the female gender role most of the time-- you won't see me in skirts or heels, wearing dangling earrings or nail polish; you'll see me in baseball caps and leather jackets, with unruly hair and tennis shoes. I don't measure my worth based on what grades I get, how much money I make, or how many friends I have. I don't believe in the God of Christianity, Judaism, Islam, or of any other organized religion, just in an equal balance of good and bad forces in the world. I'd rather listen to Crystal Castles than Rhianna, and I walk around Seattle in my pajamas frequently.

Why, then, if I have accepted that I don't fit in when it comes to all these other categories, should I force myself to fit in to someone else's idea of what mentally healthy should be? I'm not going to dismiss processing the world around me for the sake of appearing to be happy, or for the sake of getting more done. I'd rather have fewer, briefer moments of deep, pure happiness than lots of moments of superficial happiness. I'd rather sacrifice the extent of my success in school or work than sacrifice my ability to enjoy being alive. If I want to get out of bed and be social, I will do it of my own accord. I'm an adult now, and I can balance my social, academic, work, and solitary life without significant compromise in any direction. I give myself the authority to decide what is worthy of my time. There are more important things than a steady stream of good feels. There are ideas to dissect, friends to listen to, poems to write, strangers to help, clothes to clean, songs to sing, and a city to memorize. I will not force happiness, love, friendship, or awareness upon me-- these things will make their way to me organically, and at their own pace. All I have to do is be receptive, and give them the opportunity to manifest. They will not manifest if I'm too busy pushing away my sadness to notice their presence.

I'm inclined to sadness. I feel most like myself when I am contemplative and sad. Not sad in a desperate or confused way-- more like a quiet resignation to the way things are. The way things are aren't terrible, they're just the way things are. Often times, though, life picks up and surprises me, and then I am thoroughly grateful for the easy transition into pure happiness for a few moments, a few hours, or even a few days. When I am sad, I am still useful, still important, still a good person, still creative, still hopeful, and still alive. When I am sad, I am taking a moment to reflect on reality, whatever the emotional cost. My ultimate goal is not happiness, but goodness, and goodness cannot be achieved without an understanding of sadness. You all are just hatin' on my steez. Let me be sad.