My mother wonders aloud, how I keep going, pay all the bills, live alone and somehow thrive. Maybe friends who know me wonder too. I don’t know. They don’t say anything.
It’s pretty simple; passion. At every turn, out in public, in former jobs and relationships, in politics and on FB, on every TV show and magazine that comes in the mail and song I hear on the radio, it seeks to define and control me as a woman, I suppose for the purpose of money and sex. I never saw so much drivel and malarky, disingenuous ignorant propaganda as what passes for women’s values in print, in media, and in society. “Women’s Day” magazine could be used as the phone book in an outhouse.
Do I really mainly care about clothes, shoes, hair, makeup, women’s pharmaceuticals, reorganizing my closets, romantic books and movies, babies, cooking and the latest cleaning products?
No! I want to increase my education, my income, and my independence. I want to feel my body so keenly that I’m the best lover I can be. I want my 20-year-old son to never feel obligated to take care of me because I take care of myself and I want nothing more than to see him happy as a man. I can’t wait to get my next book in the mail to read and use to improve my mind, and I only clean in 5-minute spurts so I don’t have to think about it. I’ve got more interesting things to think about than a clean floor.
I wake up every day to be happy and well, to create and define myself as a human birthright and I get a passionate kick out of it. My blank canvas to create on is my life and I’m giving no more away than I already have. I’d rather live than die a slow death, calling it life, while reacting to someone else’s vision of the world that I don’t feel or care about.
At least I’m not bored, I’m enjoying my own company and having fun.