Reclaiming The English Language.

So, my friend (you can check out her blog... here) and I are fans of words. We both write a lot, we both read a lot, it comes with the territory. Because we love words, we occasionally like to talk about words. The most recent of which is: Harlot.
Thanks to dictionary.com:

har·lot

   /ˈhɑrlət/ Show Spelled[hahr-luht] Show IPA

noun

a prostitute; whore.

 

For the sake of context, I will give you the first occurrence of the word "harlot" in our text messaging. I have to first give you a forewarning. These messages are not exactly appropriate for young eyes. If you will:

Avery: Dicks are vital. You must protect them from harlots. They could suck your life out through your dick. Literally.

Emily: What the fuck. I found my true identity. I am a harlot.

A: You suck the vitality of men out through their dicks? And dude, I would be a harlot in a second. You don't even know.

E: Being a harlot would be a good life.

A: Dude, I know. Quick money and I don't have any self respect so sex for a living.

 

First, I know I say "dude" a lot over text. I apologize; it's just a word that I am quite fond of, no matter how much of an eighteen year old surfer boy it makes me sound like.

Now, onto a little explanation. Emily and I are both very sex positive people, who view sex as a positive and vital part of living, regardless of if you're sixteen or sixty. I can't speak for her on this topic, but I am very much pro-prostitution. I believe that with the legalization of it comes regulation and taxing. The women in the sex industry would have access to STD testing and help if a customer ever got out of hand.

So, when I say that I would be a harlot in a second, I am not saying that I want to become a sexually, physically, and emotionally abused drug addict with a pimp. I am saying that I want to be a healthy and sex positive individual who respects everyone's need for it and someone who may or may not monetarily benefit from the desire of sex that we all naturally have. That's what being a harlot means to me.

I want to take back the English language.

Harlot, I think, is an absolutely gorgeous word as apposed to its synonyms. Prostitute and whore both have these terrible connotations and every social change starts with small steps. And so, we take the easiest and arguably most beautiful word and start with that.

This blog is now being run by one half of the HHIC: Head Harlots in Charge.

Are you there God? It's me, Avery Gault.

Okay, so touchy subject today that I would like to breach and not talk about so touchily.
The church/synagogue/temple.
Now, I'm just going to refer to them as "the church," for brevities' sake but I mean all of the above as a social institution.
It's no secret that I'm an atheist. I, as a general rule, do not hate religious people individually but more hate the institution of organized religion. I don't care what your personal beliefs are. I hate the church, what it stands for, how it acts, the way it handles serious legal and moral decisions.
But while I believe the church is God-awful--no pun, of course, intended--I recognize it's not the only catalyst to global problems. Sure, the church has been a driving agent in many wars and terrorist activity but I have to say, when people fully blame it, they are wrong.
Sure, Hitler was a Christian and felt he was doing God's work but he was abused as a child in the Austrian camp he lived in. He was constantly told that he wasn't good enough. He wanted to be an artist but the--I believe--Vienna Academy of Fine Arts rejected him. Why does no one blame that institution? Do you really think that Hitler would have followed the path he did if he had instead become a painter? I highly doubt it. Obviously, religion is not the only thing that drove him to be a psychotic lunatic who murdered people simply because of their religion.
So, basically, what I'm trying to say is that, as much as I despise the institution of organized religion, to push blame for every godforsaken thing that has happened or still happens today on it is ridiculous. You just look like a generalizing asshole when you say that.

The Curious Case of My Mother.

My mother is by far my favorite person in my immediate family. While my dad and I are much more similar in personality and appearance, my mom and I relate much more in our interests and humor. So, tonight my mom and I were talking about teenagers getting tattoos and what the tattoo laws are in Minnesota (where we live). I told my mom that I had looked it up before and that, even with parental consent, minors cannot get a tattoo legally.
So my mom asked about Arkansas (which I also know off the top of my head--don't judge me! I love tattoos) and I told her that with written consent and presence of a parent/legal guardian, minors can definitely get a tattoo.
My mom then proceeded to talk about the tattoo that she has been wanting upwards of fifteen years, a black widow spider. Now, you have to know that my mother and I have shared a loved and respect for spiders since I was a little kid. We hate killing them because they serve a fundamental purpose in our house: Killing those damned flies.
Next, she asked if I would be up for getting matching black widow tattoos on our ankles the next time we go to Arkansas.
I knew my mom was super badass.
But this surprised even me.
I obviously agreed because, well, that sounds frigging ideal. I love tattoos, spiders, and my mom is pretty cool so a matching tattoo with her would be totally cool with me.
So, guess who has just signed up to get a tattoo with my mother.
And to think some kids have to do this crap behind their parents' backs.

When the Levee Breaks.

Okay, I would like to talk about a topic near and dear to my heart, though what don't I talk about on my blog that isn't near and dear to my heart?
Anyways, onto the topic of today: Faking depression.
I had to see the school counselor somewhere around once every one or two weeks in freshman year because she firmly believed that a recent house move I had had would lead to some self-destructive tendencies and she was right. But I refused to admit I had a problem, even though I fell before my carnal and violent desires.
And to this day, even though I've stopped seeing her, I still struggle with waking up and getting out of bed. I hate going out and seeing people. I just want to spend all day at home in bed with the lights off and my laptop playing endless movies on Netflix, until they all blur into a haze of color lights.
That is why I hate people who claim to have depression. I wish I didn't. I really, really wish I didn't have it and it makes me really angry that people want it. There is nothing glorious in suffering, there is no honor in hurting yourself. There is no spark in a life with no passion.
And seeing people being like "LoL I cutzz meself so hard and mii deprezzion is so bad it herts me!!" just makes me so indescribably angry.
Especially when you quite obviously have no idea what depression is.
Depression isn't feeling down on yourself for a couple of days because you got a shitty test score or it's getting colder outside.
Depression, for me at least, is about living knowing that it would be better if you never left the house or even if you never even existed. It's about knowing that I'm nothing more than an annoyance to everyone around me. It's about hating people and envying them. It's about endless sleepless nights and cutting and migraines and lying and starving and crying and hating everything and anything, just because it hurts less to hate than to love.
I suggest you think long and hard before claiming to have any kind of mental disorder.

Of Mice and Men. (Spoiler Alert)

So, Of Mice and Men was on TV the other day and, along with being one of my favorite books, it's also one of my favorite movies. We read it in freshman year at my school and watching it again made me remember a discussion we had in class.
At the end of reading books in class, we would have "fishbowl discussions," wherein we sit in a circle and then have a smaller circle on the inside and only the small circle can talk. If you have something to add, you walk up to someone in the inside circle and tap them out, so to speak.
So I was in the outside circle when an interesting question came up. "Does George deserve to be punished by the law for murdering Lenny." I knew my answer in my head right away. The inner circle began to debate.
Although, they weren't debating.
They were all agreeing that the emotional pain of George having to kill his best friend was punishment enough. I was floored, completely appalled.
So I got up and tapped a girl out.
I sat down and gave this speech, obviously not word for word.
"I get it. Killing your best friend is not how most people imagine spending an ideal Friday night out. George is probably tormenting himself inside for what he felt like he had to do. He's probably in an insane amount of emotional pain.
But unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, the law doesn't consider your emotions when considering your punishment. Murder is wrong, no matter the reason it happens, especially when not done in self defense. George killed a man. He deserves to and will be punished firmly by the law. The law is harsh and the law is firm, but it is the law."
With that, and without being tapped out, I left the circle.
Of course, my teacher didn't dig the dramatic exit and asked me to come back in for debate. And even with my awesome speech, kids still refused the idea that George would be punished. And don't get me wrong; I loved George! I empathized with him! But he broke the law. If my brother broke the law, I would understand people wanting him punished. The law doesn't care about you, it cares about being just.

The Messed Up Tangle of Worry, Interrupted.

People sometimes ask me why I'm so okay with being blatantly inappropriate or offensive and my answer has always been the same. "Oh, I just voice my opinion." "What people think of me doesn't matter."
The latter is true, it doesn't matter what people think of me. What matters, at least in my brain, is that people think of me at all. As afraid as I am that people will get mad at me and say awful things about me when I'm not around, as afraid as I am that people will begin to hate me for the things I say, I'm terrified of being so unimportant that people don't bother to talk about me at all.
That I'm just the forgettable girl in that one class in sophomore year, the smart one who was kind of gross looking. I would much rather be that "fucking bitch who was hating on Christianity" at lunch. That gets you remembered.
Every kind of publicity is good publicity.
Not mattering is scarier than being hated, to me.