“A” is for “Abortion”

I’ve always been vaguely pro-choice. Basically, I just didn’t care what women decided to do with their own bodies. It didn’t really seem like it was any of my business. I was detached. Not emotionally invested at all. Get an abortion, don’t get an abortion, not my decision. Didn’t affect my life, so I just stayed out of it.

Well, Karma decided to get me back for being selfish and self-involved, because it’s possible that I am currently carrying a bean that will develop into an alien that will shoot out of some part of my body in nine months.

I am never this late for my period, and I threw up this morning.

This is not good.

I do not want children. I am not maternal. I am not just, “not ready for parenthood right now.” I am not a baby-name-wielding, bottle-vs-formula-deciding, parenting-book-reading human being that’s waiting for the right moment to hear people chanting my name as I’m wheeled into a delivery room for a fun-time endless amount of pain. Motherhood is not my bag.

I am the fun, unstable aunt who shows up to parties and tells people who are stuck with their own gremlins stories about my ridiculous life choices. I entertain little monsters. I do not raise them.

And yet here I am, very possibly with child. A pregnancy test is sitting ominously on the sink in my bathroom, waiting for me to take the plunge. I am so nervous that I can’t get my body to release any urine so that I can either be devastated or throw a gigantic party.

And if fate decides to spite me, I’m going to get all these congratulatory messages as I’m sobbing into my cat’s fur.

Schrödinger is going to be less than thrilled.

Yes, I named my cat Schrödinger, and he’s the only baby I want.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I did everything I was supposed to do to keep this from happening. It’s not even like I’m shacking up and/or having fun with a new piece of ass every five minutes. I only sleep with one guy, and not exactly on the most regular of bases.

I am terrified. I can’t get an abortion, but I can’t be a mother. I cannot do it.



“If you’re looking for the word that means caring about someone beyond all rationality and wanting them to have everything they want no matter how much it destroys you, it’s love. And when you love someone, you don’t stop–ever. Even when people roll their eyes or call you crazy. Even then. Especially then. You don’t give up, because if I could give up, if I could just take the whole world’s advice and move on and find someone else, that wouldn’t be love. That would be some other disposable thing that is not worth fighting for.”

–Ted Mosby

Sometimes I think about this, and I struggle to decide how I feel about it. Yes, love is something that’s too strong to easily overthrow, but I also think that there’s a fine line between love and obsession. I don’t believe that it’s impossible to let go. I don’t believe that true love is never broken. Things end, and that’s okay.

Morally Immoral and Selfishly Selfless

“It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”
― Voltaire

Whenever someone talks about morals, this quote always comes to mind, for some reason. Right and wrong is always, always a matter of perspective. The same act can be considered either moral or immoral based only on who has committed it and who is deciphering it.

Yes, war is the most obvious example of that, but there are other things–lying, or stealing, hypocrisy, the list goes on.

When you lie for personal gain, it’s not okay. When you lie for a “greater good,” you’re a hero. When you steal to get rich, you’re the devil. When you steal to benefit others, it isn’t so bad. When you double-cross someone to serve your country, you are a patriot. When you double-cross someone because you want something for yourself, you are a filthy hypocrite.

I have a hard time with morals. I don’t think there’s a set list of what is right and what is wrong. I think that we sort of just have to do whatever clears our conscience, even if that thing would make someone else feel guilty.

Unpopular opinion: actions are sins if you feel awful after doing them, and not just because someone else faulted you for it.

Not that there aren’t exceptions. There are addendums to every rule. Some things are objectively wrong. Other things aren’t. Figuring out which ones are and which ones aren’t is supposedly what makes up the various personalized codes we live by, and that doesn’t always fit in a neat little box. Not everything is black or white. We swim around in a perpetually gray area almost all of the time.

Nothing ever really makes complete sense, and yet we are expected to make sense of everything. Otherwise, we’re in danger of engaging in socially frowned upon behaviors.

And I think all of us struggle with that, even if we don’t realize it.

So we should probably leave each other the hell alone until someone finds a body.

The Truth about Being Awful

For the majority of my life, I considered myself generally a nice person at heart. I’ve always done nice things for people, gone the extra mile to make others happy, been sort of a push over pretty frequently. I was no angel, but I was good. I was a good person with a bit of a dark side.

I was delusional. I am actually a shitty human being. I do and say shitty things, I make stupid mistakes, and I self-sabotage like it’s my job. Yes, I do many nice things, but those things do not overpower my crap-tastic tendencies. I am, by most definitions of the word, kind of an ass.

I’m not saying I’m evil, but saints and angels would laugh in my face if I tried to join their ranks.

And that was a really difficult realization to come to. It’s like going to bed thinking you’re a bad ass Snow White, and then waking up to a mirror telling you that you’re that bitch out here feeding people poisonous apples. It’s a depressing epiphany you can never quite stop thinking about.

But here’s the kicker, we crap-stormers are pretty much the majority. Only a select few of the world’s population are genuinely “good people.” Most of us are screw-ups who can’t stop pissing people off or putting every appendage we have in our gigantic mouths. We sometimes double-cross people, and sometimes we trip over our own egos. Sometimes we’re even more plastic than the face politicians put on in the morning before work.

And maybe it’s time to just be okay with that. It’s okay to be a sinner. It’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to make mistakes.

Yes, some mistakes are worse than others, and some mistakes are more intentional than we’d like to admit, but so what? Everyone has bouts of horrible misdeeds, and the sooner we learn to forgive ourselves for the egregiously awful predicaments we create, the easier our lives will be.

Life isn’t some Disney movie where the line between good and bad is clearcut and you’re either one or the other. The truth is, we switch sides. Every day, we switch sides. Sometimes we’re on the right side, and sometimes we end up on the left, where we willingly do some pretty bad things.

And that’s just what it means to be human. I am fine with engaging in suckfests that are spawned by my own hand. As long as I’m not wreaking havoc everywhere I turn, I think I’m okay.

And so is everyone else. Forgive yourself for that lowlife thing you did that one time years ago that people probably still fucking hate you for. Let it go.

Remember when we were younger, and we would watch Disney movies and root for the unlikely hero underdog fighting the evil overlord? Well, watch them again as an adult, and you’ll find yourself pretty much siding with Hades about how much of a little bitch Hercules is. Also, Zeus was a douche.

Anyway, we are awful meat suits, hear us roar.

Ted Talk from Hell

My father sat me down this morning to give me a nice long talk about my behavior, and all of the ways I am ruining my own life by not following religion.

He made the following points:
1) I am addicted to my laptop. I spend most of my time on my screen and do almost nothing else, and therefore need rehab for tech addiction.

2) I do not dress up in an attractive way to please my husband.

3) I do not read enough scripture, and my standards for good and evil are skewed.

4) I do not help other people, and that is against “our” belief system.

5) I am not taking care of my body.

First of all, I am way too old to be having this kind of conversation with my daddy. I’m staying with them for a couple of weeks until my apartment is ready for a move-in, but that doesn’t make me thirteen again. I appreciate the advice, but I didn’t buy tickets to this Ted Talk, dad.

Anyway, yes, I am on my laptop for the majority of the time that I am awake, but that is primarily because everything I enjoy doing is electronic, now. Writing? Laptop. Reading? Laptop. Watching film and media? Laptop. Self-righteous ranting?


To this point, he says, “Well, you shouldn’t always be doing things you enjoy. You should be worshipping god.”

Bro. I’m not making digs at people who spend most of their time saluting their savior, but I’m here for a good time, not a long time.

You know I.

And what the hell does he mean I “don’t dress up in a way that’s pleasing to my husband?” Are we still in 2019, or did we just ratify the 19th Amendment? Women got the right to vote a hundred years ago, father of mine. We’re not second class citizens, anymore. I am not here as a play thing for a man. I am clean, I smell good, and I generally look like a very classy hobo. He married me just like this. I am not a work in progress.

Well, I am, just not in the sense that I’m on my way to an extreme makeover.

And this notion that my standards all have to come from the exact wording I find in the scripture I barely read is ridiculous. My moral compass does not have a “WWMD” watermark on it. Yes, I get that there are some things that come from the book of all books that I should follow, but that’s up to me. I’m not out here knocking people’s hats off everyday, so I think I’m alright.

And lastly, my body is my problem. No one gets to jump in and try to hose down this dumpster fire.

My marshmallows are still toasting over it.

Some may wonder if I responded.

I did not. I’m moving out tomorrow. I think I’ll just watch him listen to the sound of his own voice for a while.

I am completely comfortable being the family disappointment.

I am the weakest link.


Who Put the “Men” in Menstruation?

Say it with me, “Women menstruate. They have periods. They bleed from their vaginas, sometimes.”

Women are always apologizing. We’e always hiding, always embarrassed by things we shouldn’t be embarrassed about. You can see us in droves on any given day, hiding tampons under other groceries like we’re looking to test whether last night’s cocaine fix is still swimming around inside us, awkwardly putting them on the checkout belt when the cashier is male, avoiding eye contact when he picks it up to scan it.

You can see us whispering requests for pads to each other when one of us is having an unexpected visit from that bitch Aunt Flo, handing them off to each other inconspicuously like an ’80s after school drug deal, hastily tripping all over ourselves to pick one up that may have fallen out of our bags in public.

Despite how melodramatic the picture I just painted was, my core point is true.

Yet somehow, buying toilet paper, a utensil that takes care of much grosser outputs from the human body than tampons do, isn’t embarrassing. Anyone can walk into a store and loudly inquire what aisle the TP hangs out in without a second thought, and there’s a very simple reason for that:

Only women experience menstruation. Men do not. This particular ordeal plagues only the female body. That is why it’s taboo. That is why expressing any indication that we may be on our periods is an uncomfortable conversation topic. That is why we are compelled to conceal the noble chain mail that protects our cute underwear from the red sea, as if they are scarlet letters.

The fact that a normal bodily function is a social unmentionable is outrageous, and it is just one of the many little things that show just how low on the totem pole women actually are in our society. Yes, many of us have reached a point where we no longer give a flying french fry about hiding our anti-pregnancy insurance policies, but many of us haven’t.

The sad thing is, so many of us don’t even seem to see why that’s a problem, and that is the result of systematic sexism and brainwashing that is rampant in our world.

I’m genuinely surprised you read this far.

Have a biscuit, Potter.

The Truth about Heaven and Hell

I’m not going to discuss whether they are real or not. It doesn’t really make a difference or add to my colossally unnecessary and outlandish impending rant. What I’d just like to throw out into this cyber never land is this undeniable tidbit of truth: We do not choose to be born.

Two people get together and get drunk or high on their own ridiculousness and choose to bring us into this world, and we’re supposed to bear that burden? We are forced to be here. We do not make the active choice to become people who inhabit this dying planet. Our lives are chosen for us.

A lot of things are chosen for us, actually, and several of them are things that could potentially lead us to hell. Our personality traits, the things we are good at, the circumstances we grow up in, the people who are shoved down our throats; These unavoidable realities make us who we are.

That doesn’t mean I’m making excuses for those of us (myself included) who turn out to be pretty shitty people in general. That’s not my point.

My point is that the concept of Heaven and Hell is absolutely unfair. We did not choose to come here or be the people we are, and yet we are expected to behave certain ways, meet certain expectations, so we don’t screw up our afterlife.

An afterlife that we also did not ask for.

This is like being forced to take a job you never applied for and being asked to fulfill duties you do not particularly want to fulfill, or being asked to repeatedly say thank you to someone who did something for you that you did not ask them to do.

Alright. Thanks for the unrequested solid, man. I appreciate it. Let’s move on.

The concept of mandated prayer sometimes blows my mind. Not only am I saying thank you for things I didn’t put in a p.o for, but I am also saying thank you for things I have that I actually worked to get? I am supposed to say thank you for the job I have, and the money I make, and the person I’m seeing? I have difficulty understanding why things can’t just be cut and dry–you did this, so you earned this–and that’s it. Why does there need to be divine intervention? What even are miracles really?

I know I sound like an infidel, or ingrate, or condescending atheist, or whatever you’d call someone who thinks most religious people are cracked, but I am actually a creationist.

I just think that the afterlife is a shitty concept that forces me to engage in activities that I find banal and unappealing. I don’t want to attended masses, and I don’t really want to fast, and I don’t want to memorize holy texts.

Believe me, nothing would make me happier than deciding “god” is just a fairytale social construct invented by people who want to control the world, but I can’t. Every part of me is, much to my own chagrin, chock full of unfounded certainty that it’s out there waiting for me when I kick the bucket. I’m going to be all up in that Judgment Day Family Unfun Day, admission ticket clutched in my hand, journey to the pit all but certain.

Bet all my posts will be printed on the back of that damn ticket, too.

I am so screwed.

My hair does not do well in heat.

Late Night Crowded Lonely

I’m taking a pause on the life story kick I’ve been on, just for a little bit. It’s too depressing to recount it all together. Hiatus time.

I’m too tired to proofread, so sorry for the errors.

Anyway, I got married five days ago. I’m in Orlando with my husband, and he’s asleep. I would love to say I’m happy. I would love to say everything is fine, now that I’ve met someone I enjoy being with.

But that pesky depression that has me wrapped around its finger. He’s inside, knocked the fuck out, and I’m out here in the dark, half a step away from a panic attack and on the cusp of the exact opposite of greatness.

Maybe it’s about time to tell him about the assault, about how it’s extremely difficult to sleep with anyone too close to me, because I feel trapped. I should tell him how hard it is to breathe when someone’s arm is around me, because I feel like I’m about to be dragged off somewhere. I should tell him what happened. It’s the right thing to do.

And I plan to. Every day I wake up planning to say something, but then I think about the aftermath. He would be afraid to come anywhere near me, because he doesn’t want to hurt me, and that’s just not fair. It’s not fair of me to make someone nervous about touching his wife. I should have told him before.

I should have told him before.

I had a panic attack in the middle of the night a few days ago, and he was so great with it. I know he’d be great about this, and that’s part of the problem. I almost wish he would be awful about it. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad. Maybe I wouldn’t freak out and panic. Maybe.

Sometimes I still can’t believe it happened. It hasn’t even been a year since Chicago, but it’s still almost dreamlike in a way. Like it was happening to me and I was watching it happen to me from the outside at the same time, if that makes sense.

I only told one person about it, and she just doesn’t count. We’re basically the same person. It also just doesn’t really affect mine and hers’ relationship. It’s different with him. It will change everything.

I need time to myself, but he’s always around. He’s always there. I don’t have a minute to be sad by myself and disengage from my life for a little while. I’m so used to being alone. I don’t know how to be with someone else. It’s turning out that I’m even worse at being in a relationship than I thought I was. What the fuck am I doing?

What the fuck am I doing?

Chronicles of the Lonely: Chapter Four–The Move pt. 2

A few days passed, and I still wasn’t very well-liked. I was the weird kid. I had always been the weird kid, but this was the first time it was so big a problem. I was only seven, and fitting in mattered more to me than anything else in the world, so I did the only thing I could think of: I lied.

I lied about my interests. I lied about my thoughts. I lied about crushes. Everything they talked about, I took part in, no matter how much it made me cringe. I told more lies than a seven year old should ever have to, and slowly, it worked. They became my friends–or rather, they became friends with the girl whose skin I was just renting.

This worked for a while, but it was starting to take a toll on me. Every passing day, I felt worse than before. It wasn’t even entirely working. I still said and did things that made people look at me like I had grown a second head. I didn’t realize that a lot of my character traits were out of the ordinary until someone pointed it out. They still called me weird, but not weird enough for me to become a pariah again.

Not a month later, the panic attacks returned with a vengeance. I woke up in the middle of the night on a random day of the week with my heart pounding in my chest. The extreme fear I hadn’t felt in a long time came crashing down on me. I started crying, and once again, I had no idea why. Tears just ran a race down my face, and I was shaking. I jumped out of bed and knocked on my parents’ door.

Now, we were only allowed to speak Arabic at home, but I was born and raised in America, and some sentences came out worded incorrectly. My language skills were even worse when I was upset.

I poked my dad and said what is translated to, “I have tears.”

My mother didn’t wake up, but my dad told me to go back to bed. He didn’t yell; he just didn’t take me seriously. I suppose he thought it was just a nightmare, and I could go right back to sleep if I turned my nightlight on.

I left and closed the door, and then I crept into my brother’s room. I knelt by his bed and shook him, but waking my brother up was harder than getting an agoraphobic old woman to go outside. He didn’t even stir.

Even though he couldn’t hear me, I started whispering through my tears. I sat there for some length of time, trying to be as quiet as possible, but it didn’t work. My father was an extremely light sleeper, and I had poked the bear. He came into my brother’s room and yelled at me. He told me I was making too much noise, and made me go right back to bed.

Now, pause. I know how that sounds. It sounds like he was a horrible father, but he really wasn’t. I just don’t think depression has ever been a real possibility in my family’s eyes. I was just a kid who was acting out, and I needed to go to sleep.

So, I went into my bed and laid there until morning, hoping it would go away.

Of course, it did not. He remembered it all the next day, but he wasn’t angry. It turned into a joke. He told my mother, and she thought it was hysterical.

They reference that night on occasion to this very day. It is still a running joke, but it’s still not funny.