When I was a kid, my mom told me a story. She told it like it was a fairy tale, and it was imperative that I understand the moral, although it was a true story about a friend of hers. My mother knew a girl who, like me, had been fat. My mom didn’t use the word fat. She’d always substitute “fat” with “plump” or “bigger” or “not thin.” Fat was a word one whispered, like the name of a boogeyman who would be summoned upon hearing its name spoken by human tongues. This “larger” friend had been like me…
My laptop was busted. The IT guy in my office was sitting by my little desk, setting up my replacement computer. It was nearly Thanksgiving, so by the Unwritten Rules of Office Etiquette, he was required to ask me about my plans. To be polite, I asked about his in return.
“The wife does all the cooking, so it’ll be great for me.” He laughed, as if this was the greatest of jokes. I cringed. The wife. Reducing his romantic life-partner to a common noun who cooks robbed her of any semblance of personality or person-hood. The IT guy continued…
The checkout lady is eyeing my body in juxtaposition to the ice cream I’ve put on the conveyor belt. As a long time fatty, I’ve often treated the act of eating as private, even a secret on occasion. Because of course, fat bodies have to feed themselves, but when others see a fat body eating, they treat it as an invitation to scrutinize, insult, and mock. Grocery shopping has never been any different. …
Horror
From the Xenomorph to Parasites
Instead of focusing on which movie monster could decimate the other, let’s ask a more compelling question: which movie monsters are the hottest? Or, more accurately, which horror movies treat their monsters as thirst traps for horror freaks?
Who would win in a fight between Freddy and Jason? Which is more powerful: a werewolf or a vampire? Could a Predator alien really take down a xenomorph? These are all, undeniably, questions. …
Maybe an early autumn hike up Mt. Rainier was a bad Tinder date idea. We certainly weren’t prepared; I drove us nearly two hours out of Seattle and up a mountain only to find snow. We were not prepared for snow in late September. We skidded up the trail for about twenty minutes before mutually deciding the laborious drive back would be more fun than tripping uphill to look at a glacier.
It was on the ride back that my date began to ask me about my kinks. We’d already fucked; he was already aware of my collection of bondage…
It’s that beautiful time of year, when Horror Fanatics like myself get to strut our stuff and gush over all things scary. October is the one time of the year my mad devotion to the macabre and the horrifying seems almost appropriate.
For Quarantween this year, movie marathons are the safe and responsible way to celebrate Halloween. But how do you navigate the sea of options available to you? How do you know what will wet your whistle, and what will suck the joy right out of you?
Why, the stars, of course! The answer is always in the stars!
…
I don’t like my hair. This is not novel or unique; it seems like most people dislike their hair. People don’t usually get why I dislike my own, though, the same way I raise an eyebrow whenever someone with seemingly flawless hair complains. I always wished it was thicker, fuller, less curly, more manageable, more tamable.
Back when haircuts were a thing you could get regularly without breaking quarantine, I used to dread them. I never knew what I wanted or what I should ask for, and I inevitably hated the result. …
It’s the stupidest argument, every time. It’s a reflexive thing, the thing people say because it’s scripted that way. It needs to be said, and I am no longer convinced it is even supposed to be for my benefit. It has more in common with an elegy or a prayer, spoken by the penitent and the fearful.
This must be what talking to a flat-earther feels like, I think, not for the first time. The willful disbelief of what was right in front of them. The conspiracy theory that was my body.
“Oh, you’re not fat! You’re so pretty,” they…
One of my creature comforts is rewatching horror movies from my childhood. My parents had a very “hands off” style of parenting that resulted in me watching some EXTREMELY age-inappropriate flicks. As a toddler whose folks routinely sat her in front of the television to keep her busy, I’d checked off most of the classics before turning 5. Think Alien, Return of the Living Dead, The Shining, and so on.
As an adult, these ghoulish features fill me with a strange sense of nostalgia, given the gruesome nature of most of the subject matter. During quarantine, I have returned to…
Describing subspace is a lot like describing a color or an orgasm: you can use as many flowery descriptors as you like, but none of them are really going to do a good job of capturing the feeling you’re trying to articulate unless the other person already knows about it firsthand. In its simplest form, subspace is the physical sensation often experienced during kinky sex.
For me, subspace is the holy grail of fucking. The prize after an arduous journey that almost got the best of you. It’s that Pavlovian itch you keep scratching. …
