“What’s the worst possible thing you can call a woman? Don’t hold back, now.
You’re probably thinking of words like slut, whore, bitch, cunt (I told you not to hold back!), skank.
Okay, now, what are the worst things you can call a guy? Fag, girl, bitch, pussy. I’ve even heard the term “mangina.”
Notice anything? The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl. The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl. Being a woman is the ultimate insult. Now tell me that’s not royally fucked up.”

~ Jessica Valenti

A Sofa in a Room

The second coming is indeed at hand.
I watched the moon flicker blue behind thin twilight clouds in the city of thousand thoughts.
I drove by a woman unsteadily cradling a bouquet of fragrant flowers - on a street corner with no takers.
I wandered the streets in search for a sofa, a sofa in a room, a room in a clutter, a clutter called home.
I met myself, at every corner, from years past and years thence, shuddering off the spiders of moldy memories.
I watched machines doing mechanical things in robotic repetition; boys stealing kisses; men mauling mistresses; women pecking men - all masquerading meaning.
I saw raindrops marching in yellow reichs on shriveled flowers of christmas-lit silver oaks.
I reached out and found myself again, in a gentle smile across the table; in locks of blonde hair in a faraway land; in a pair of soft brown eyes at the breadth of a breath.
I grew my nails long and they stretched out farther, divorcing my fingertips.
I thought and thought, wave upon rising wave, on the night the moon was largest.
I crashed on my rocky shores and crumbled to sand.


Through long labor, I delivered myself, heaving a fresh sigh in this strange old world.


Jun 27th, 2012.