When They Say “War on Obesity” I Hear “Casualties”

Beautiful. I love this writer. “A war on obesity is a war on fat people, and a war on people has injuries and deaths and collateral damage and that’s exactly what’s happening.”

Dances With Fat

Design by Kris Owen Design by Kris Owen

Twenty-one year old Eloise Perry bought diet pills on the internet.  The pills are believed to contain dinitrophenol, also known as DNP.  The UK government had warned people about taking pills with DNP because it is very dangerous. The pills killed her. Many people are outraged because “she wasn’t even fat.”  I am outraged at the idea that her size would matter.

At the age of 32, Christina Mettias was pushed by her doctor to have Weight Loss Surgery. She was in perfect health and didn’t meet any of the criteria for having the surgery – including the ratio of weight and height – but her doctor scared her into having the surgery.  After 14 additional surgeries to correct the problems that landed her in intensive care for three months, she still suffers from painful abdominal scar tissue, daily vomiting, chronic eating problems and intolerance to oral…

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When a 5% Deduction is 100% Awesome

April 26, 2015, 10:51 p.m.

I’m a few hours into writing a seven-page final paper. It’s due in an hour or so, but I won’t be able to finish it on time. I’ll have to take a 5 or 10% grade deduction for handing it in late.

It’s no big.

For the first time in so long, I felt passionate about writing a paper. I was all, “Am I arguing about Bram Stoker’s hidden homosexuality itself, or the effect it had on Jonathan Harker’s feelings of self-worth concerning his attraction to Dracula?” It was intense. I was seized with that feeling I get before I spend hours working on a song or an art project. Sure, it took me until 11 o’clock on the night of, but at this point in the semester, grades don’t matter as much. I’ve put in the mental effort to attend class most days, therefore I am a champion and I can get a C if that’s what’s going to happen.

Caring about life matters to me. Grades won’t mean squat if I don’t live to appreciate the work I’ve put into them. Without classes and without a serious-adult job, I’m going to have a lot of free time this summer to give up on trying. To give up on creating. To give up on caring.

So if this excitement about the homosexual themes in Bram Stoker’s Dracula is anything to me, it is hope.

It doesn’t matter when the paper is due, not really.

What matters is that I can still care.

And I’ll hold on to that, pass or fail.

Poetry Friday: Stand

Stand

You blend in, cottage,
with your pastel friends.
They dot the hilly landscape
and brighten cloudy days.

You stand firm in the
winds and mists and webs and years,
listening to the gulls call
over hungry, icy ocean rolls.

You can’t hear the trees,
but they speak of you,
whispering to me that you,
you, cottage, are a stranger.

And no matter how bright your paint,
or sturdy your walls,
or patient your heart,
you’ll never belong.

But I watch as you stand still
and firm and constant and smile
even as trees whisper,
cold suffocates,
and mist rots your wood.

Because you understand,
and I understand,
the need to just
stand.

Poetry Friday: Baby Words

Baby Words

I thought my heart had reached
its maximum capacity,
little one.
But when I saw you so tiny
in your black and white world,
I fell in love with a stranger.

I don’t know you but I can’t wait to.

I can’t wait for all the hats
I’m going to make you
that won’t fit.

I can’t wait to defend
your tiny body
from your overeager siblings.

I can’t wait hear you
snuffle and coo and cry
in your baby words.
I’ll whisper back
in my grown up words,
“I love you.”

Death Will Grow My Jasmine

Today I opened the door and was greeted with a hearty gust of wind. It tugged on my flyaway curls and buffeted my face.

The walk to the bus stop was spicier than usual, bits of dirt and leaves and twigs scratching my calves. It was the first day I wore shorts to school this semester, and already it was paying off.

I crossed the street to stand by the lopsided blue sign, halfway convinced the bus had already come and gone. Cars whipped past on the busy road, swirling blossom petals and making once-ugly trash dance in the breeze.

I breathed in the April air, cool and fresh as the mountain it had run from.

I remembered that just a few months ago I wanted to die; had begged God for it.

And I was happy to be alive.

But looking back now, hours later, it feels bittersweet. I’ve buried the Maney that wanted so desperately to die, just so this Maney who craves life can live.

So now we’re dancing through the garden
And what a garden I have made
And now that death will grow my jasmine
I find it soothing I’m afraid

Now there is no need for suspicion
There ain’t no fraud kissing your hand
I won’t be lying when I tell you
That I’m a gard’ner I’m a man
In your eyes babe

Lyrics from “The Gardener” by The Tallest Man On Earth.

Don’t Believe Everything You Hear

Such a beautiful and complex piece. “You get so tired sometimes because there isn’t just one problem to tackle. There are unlimited problems.” Keep your hope, team! (P.S. it has a few F-bombs.)

Must Be This Tall To Ride

(Image courtesy of chadhyams.wordpress.com) (Image courtesy of chadhyams.wordpress.com)

A convicted child rapist’s face was being shown on TV.

He was 19, and convicted of molesting a 3-year-old girl (which is heinous and disgusting in every imaginable way).

The Orange County, California judge hearing the case reduced the convicted rapist’s sentence to 10 years, even though law mandates a mandatory 25-year sentence for child rape convictions.

I was sitting in the living room with my mom who was visiting. She joined the chorus of people absolutely infuriated by this judge’s actions.

“Doesn’t this upset you?” she asked. “What if that was your son?”

“Assuming it’s true, it’s troubling. Yeah. I don’t know enough to make a determination one way or the other.”

“He was convicted of rape, Matt,” she said.

“Sometimes an 18-year-old has consensual sex with his 16-year-old girlfriend and gets convicted of rape.”

“This is a child, Matt.”

“All I’m saying is I…

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Poetry Friday: Not Speaking

Not Speaking

The sound of the rain reminds me of you;
one arm around my shoulders, your head on mine.
We are just standing, not speaking,
because you understand how I feel about the rain.
The rhythm is steady, yet unpredictable.
Pat, pat, pat on the sidewalk,
on the roof, on my outstretched hand,
like oceans waves,
or the beat of my heart.
Barefoot on the cold porch, my feet are freezing,
and between the clouds,
one white star is shining bright.