If you care about women...

~IF YOU CARE ABOUT WOMEN READ THIS~

(the links failed to work so please read this version instead)

WARNING: Some of the content shown here may be slightly shocking to some viewers; please handle what you are about to read/view as maturely as possible. (Nothing that is shown on this page is above a rating of PG13)

If you didn't already know I am a -huge- supporter of women rights. Obviously we don't have it as women did 100 years ago, or even 50, but we still are trying to achieve "equality" with men.

True, we have all the legal rights men do, but women still get raped ten times more than men do, we are harassed because of our bodies, we are expected to be the size of super models (so we either have to starve ourselves, crash diet for the rest of our lives, or throwing up every ounce we eat).

We are also expected to be perfectly shaped, our breasts must fill a "D" cup or more, our cheek bones must be high and well shaped, our hips must be well rounded as well as our bottoms, and we must have an hourglass figure and fit into a size 4 jeans and small shirt. Not to mention we must have flawless skin, almond eyes, and our lips must be plump, but not to the point where we are constantly puckering.

Well guess what, society; these women are fake. That’s right. The women you see on the front of magazines have pounds of make up on, have been starving themselves for months or crash dieting, and have had plastic surgery or some kind of cosmetic surgery to enhance their body or face, and even after all this they are still being modified with computer to make them, look flawless. You want proof? Here's a perfect example of what women have to do to get their face on a billboard.

This is what we are biasing ourselves on.

It’s said that 8 women will have the body of super models, 3 billion women will not. Personally, your body is beautiful no matter what shape or size you are.

Don’t modify your perfect body!

Small breasts are just as beautiful as large ones, low cheek bones are just as sexy as high ones, triangular hips are just as striking as rounded ones, and most importantly this body by far more appealing than this body.

Now tell me, why must you conform to what society wants you to be? Why would you want to give up so much to look like what others want you to? You should look how you want to, you should be the woman you want to be, and you should never look in the mirror and be able to say “I wish I was different” because I wish you would stay the same.

Women are beautiful, in every shape size and color; no matter what.


The reason I’m telling you this is because I want to start a zine about women, their rights, their struggles, and the pressure the media puts on them. Please if you are interested send me a note or e-mail. If I get enough people participating in making the zine I will be uploading each issue that we “publish” to deviantart. If you care about women’s rights please help, you don’t have to be a woman to participate!

The women of the world need your help, and I need your ideas to help them.

Contact me at: Sketch999@gmail.com or click here for my deviant art.

Thank you.



Here are some links that may give you a better understanding of feminism:
http://www.feminist.com/
http://feminist.org/
http://feministblogs.org/

Here is a link to a feminist group that has their own zine:
http://www.gzagg.org/

And why are we still in school? (School daze, school daze II)

"Because they have no survival value on their own, they must get jobs. This isn't something that's optional for them, unless they're independently wealthy."



This particular quote made me think about how our society created our culture so we are forced spend 13 or more years of our life learning information that may or may not be important to our future. We have to make money to support ourselves, and if we have a family we have to get a job that will pay well enough to support them as well. this all leads back to keeping the food under lock and key.

Things use to be much simpler. All people had one job that they needed to do. We were able to preform this job and create items to do this job by the time we were 13 or 14. If our culture was still living the life of the hunter/gatherers (or as it is called in My Ishmael the "leaver" lifestyle) we would have only consumed the information we had wanted to learn instead of having these ideas forcefully drilled into our memories. Our culture today is an obvious failure for this reason and many more.

30 Pills or Less...

I stared at my face in the mirror, looking at the beams of liquid pouring from my eye sockets. I choked on my nixed emotions. All I could think of was all the things in my life I’ve done wrong and come to regret. I pulled the mirror open, revealing three rows of pills and medication. I began to skim the back of them, reading the ingredients, not quite knowing what I was looking for. I finally selected a large container with the word Ibuprofen written in bold font with two salmon colored tablets on the front. I was confused and hurting, all of my thoughts were irrational, seeming to be controlled by my demons and shame. “Give or take six months, your family and so called “friends” will get over it.” They hissed in my head, their words poured poisons, sounding like terms that trickled from my moist lips. The voices pulled harder and harder at my heavy heart, causing me to spiral downward into a deeper depression.

Dressed my best with my purple eyeliner streaming down my face; I twisted the lid of the container, allowing a hand full of capsules to fall into my trembling palm. I filled the transparent glass in my mother’s bathroom with tap water, not minding its bitter taste on my tongue. I didn’t know if this would work, I didn’t know if I’d end up coming face to face with God or Buddha or whoever’s up there, but I put the first tablet in my mouth, then drowning it with the semi-tasteless fluid in the glass. I felt it roll down my throat, scraping the lining of my esophagus, knowing it would take more than the time I had to hit the bellows of my belly. I took the rest of the pills that rested in my palm one by one, counting them like a skeptic counting the hours in disbelief.

Within minutes my hand was empty. I felt fearfulness, but relief. It was an odd sensation, like the butterflies in my stomach just gave up on flying and lay dead in the bottom of my belly. I thought about all the beauty of the world and how badly it treated me. I thought about my family; my mother and father would cry as my corpse was lowered into the earth and my sister would look away, fearing death will shed and overcast her sky next. I thought of my only friend, Amelia. How I would miss her smile and laughter. Than I remembered why I was doing this, why I was ending my pathetic existence. Those who scowl in my presence, fling fists and rocks at me, and label me as “faggot” and “ugly dyke.” The sadness and masochism of my life became overwhelming. I was torn; live and be tortured, or die and torture those who I loved.

I scribbled a few last words on a piece of parchment, not knowing if I was to live or give up. I tucked it inside my bra, not knowing who would read it, the doctor who saw multiple like me; unsuccessful at ending their life, forever mangled and deformed the mortician, or a member of my family. All that was left was to wait. Wait for the end, or a horrible new beginning.

A Delicate Blessing

Click this link for audio 24 Hours Old

A small noise was barely audible in the next room. It sounded almost like a squeak- no a kitten's meow, the noise was linked to life in some way; a tiny, helpless life. I followed the petite sound into the next room, just before I gently influenced the door open with my palm a series of giggles and whines found my eardrums, melting my heart into a puddle; overwhelming all my senses and filling me with warm, motherly emotions. I heard a slight shuffle as I opened the door, and peered onward into the room, soon seeing a mother cradling her day old child as it softly groaned, singing the song of new life to the world outside the womb. The newborn did not seem to cry, just seemed to try and communicate what he felt to the world as peacefully as he can. I knew nothing of what he was trying to communicate; I could only guess. Was he trying to reveal a secret of life in his mother’s womb, or perhaps he longed for a small suckle of milk from his mother’s soft breast. Just hearing the child made me long to hold his fragile body, and protect him with all my might.

The precious baby smacked its pink lips together making what sounded like a miniature, wet pop. He reopened his mouth and began gurgling his gentle cry. The average person would grow tired of a noise such as this, but to me its beauty was as great as the first blooming flower of spring; delicate and small as it opened its eyes to the gorgeous world. Unwrapping its brittle shell it called to the world “Hello. Hello, big new place. I am new to you, but know you welcome me with open arms. I will be another one of your beautiful creations, your blessings of life. I am grateful to breathe your air, and I am grateful to be held in warm arms. Thank you, strange new place. Thank you for having me.”

All these words poured out in a series of noises that weren’t understandable, but so beautiful and intricate. As he let out a few last mumbles, I whispered “Welcome to the world. We are so glad to see you. Welcome to the warmth and beauty of life.”

In Memory of Cinnamon

Dear Diary,

Today started like a normal Saturday. I woke up with my tight, kinky hair flying in every direction, my brown skin warm from the heat of the covers, and my sisters just waking up. Normal I would help August tend to the bees, but I had not been up to work this morning. Lily Smith (or whatever her real name is) had squashed my favorite cockroach, Cinnamon, last night. He had wandered over to the honey house and crawled into her bed. She saw him and let out the worst scream I could have possibly imagined. She came in hysterical, complaining to June about how the "Biggest damned bug crawled into her bed." I knew exactly what she had done. August had sent me to the homey house to finish my cry and say goodbye to Cinnamon.

After I had finished wallowing in my sadness I sheepishly walked towards the kitchen, humming "Oh! Suzanna!" in a dreary voice. It was when i saw Lily sitting at the table that my humming grew more frantic and faster. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and onto my chin. It's not her fault. I told myself. She didn't know he'd lived here for longer than she has. She was just scared of him. And he was scared of her. I left and went back to the honey house, and sure enough Cinnamon was still lying there, stiff as a stone.

I lifted Cinnamon;s cold body onto my dry palm, his insides spilled everywhere, but I didn't mind. I took a pink handkerchief out of my pajama pocket and carefully wrapped him in it. I dug him a little hole by his favorite rock and gave him a burial there. I knew it was a minor loss, but sometimes it's all the small hurt in life that make me cry so hard, 'cause it just adds up like drops of water in a river. Eventual you're so deep in your little worries and fears that you can drowned in them...

Diary, I love life so very much, just sometimes I wonder why the good lord gave us such terrible things such as death, and anger and sadness. If God loves us all, why does he put such hard tacks in front of us?

I'll write again tomorrow if all goes well, Diary.

The one and only,
~May Boatwright

My favorite Fictional Hero

Immortality is a gift and a curse, Being forced to live until the end of time, and having all the freedom in the world. Living in a magical place among Indians (Currently called Native Americans), mermaids, fairies, and pirates. Having adventure among side the beloved lost boys. With a pinch of fairy dust, and your happiest memory you have you can soar through the clear blue sky. My hero if from the original English play, and adopted by Walt Disney; Peter Pan.

Peter Pan is with no doubt my favorite fictional hero. His scene of fun and adventure causes him to be an unforgettably part of childhood. I couldn't imagine growing up without him. He is my favorite hero for just that. He turns childhood and innocence if to a forever lasting dream. To me Peter Pan represents every child who is reluctant to grow up. Peter if forever fighting the man who symbolizes getting old, the infamous Captain Hook. His carefree ways are inspiration to me he lives every day like it's his last among side The Lost Boys; Tootles (Skunk costume), Nibs (Bunny costume), Slightly (Fox costume), Cubby (Bear costume), and the twins; Marmaduke and Binky (Raccoon costumes).

The reason Peter Pan is so special to me is because he has a beautiful mind which is filled with risks, laughter, and fun. His love of life and the thrill of enterprise brightens up my mind. There is a saying that goes perfectly with his life; "Dream as if you'll live forever, Live as if you'll die tomorrow."

30 things you (problably) didn't know about me.

I love candy

I have sleep insomnia

This is my favorite number

three

I know all the lyrics to every Hawthorne Heights song EVER!!

I can put my foot in my mouth (literally)

I was born in Wisconsin

I have a very weak bladder

My favorite state is New York

I go to the beach a lot

I love dinosaurs!!!

Tristen

This is my first blog ever.

I love to go camping

My favorite scent of deodorant is cucumber melon

All of my close friends are a lot older than me.

I love to give people nick names.

I have 4 pets

I normally dislike school

I rock out on the harp

I've never broken a bone

I like roses

I'm Buddhist

I don't have a favorite color

I love to paint

Breakfast is my favorite meal

I'm a vegetarian

I have the worst memory ever (where am I again?)

I spend most my time reading

Kitty-kat

I hate MySpace

I want to learn sign language

When I grow up I want to be a mortician