iamaberdeen:

translation: rick perry, you fucking fuck. GTFO. 

Not my best work, but I did manage to do all the research and write the paper in one night. It opened my eyes to some really interesting research that I didn’t know existed. Turns out parents even react emotionally to infants based on gender, which carries over into adulthood. Were I to do it again, I would narrow the study down and focus on a single type of interaction. I’m not posting the bibliography, but I have a copy of it upon request. No copy writing here. Any advice or constructive criticism is welcomed.

Parental Influence on Children’s Learned Gender Roles

Often, before their baby is even born, parents learn the sex of their expected child and begin planning his or her life based on traditional gender roles. Many parents decorate their unborn child’s room with colors, toys, and images that fit the gender roles they will socialize their child into (Crespi 2003; Witt 1997). “The strongest influence on gender role development seems to occur within the family setting with parents passing on…to their children their own beliefs about gender” (Witt 1997:253). Parents provide their child with his or her initial socialization and framework, a perspective that will impact the rest of his or her life (Crespi 2003). Through the use of behavior reinforcement, household chores, observational learning, language, and emotional expressions, parents socialize their children to adapt traditional gender roles beginning as early as infancy.

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I finally wrote something! It was for an assignment and it is poetry, but at least it’s something. The assignment was first, to write a sestina (Last Words) and second to write a poem using a single word family (At Sunset). Here are my attempts prior to revising:

Last Words

The tin roof echoed with the sound of rain,

Composing a soundtrack for my engorging agony.

I sit beside her breathing in the scent of death.

Nobody to witness my horrendous deed—alone.

Reaching, my bloodied fingers brightly oppose dusk,

The sun barely visible over the yard.

Her body, her grave, the yard

And her blanket—the rain.

Her funeral eulogized by dusk,

My tribute: my agony.

Suddenly, I am alone

Haunted by her death.

I carry her outside with the intent to entomb death,

Thrusting my nails into the virgin yard.

Tearing into the dirt, I present to the sky a stone.

Screaming at the heavens, my murderous eyes spill over with rain.

Rock clenched in fist, I prepare to purge her face of that scowl—antagonizing.

Propelling downwards, I miss. Landing upon her, inhaling her musk.

No perfume. Just musk.

I embrace death.

Numbness replaces agony.

Penetrating the yard:

Marred fingers, soothed by rain

Distract me from my loneliness.

Only a few handfuls left before I am finally alone,

The grave’s completion marked by the passing of dusk.

Lifting her limp form, my tears mingle with the rain

As the wind howls at me, accusing me of her death.

Reluctantly, I lay her lifeless body into its crypt, the yard.

With soil I will forever conceal her agony.

Pride, Shame, Lust, Agony.

Not for long—alone.

Sheltered by the yard.

Never again to see dusk.

Flowers to be fertilized by death

And nourished by the rain.

Returning to her room, I note that I must rid it of her musk.

Sitting upon the floor, I gravely begin to remove the signs of death.

First, tossing the knife she used to slit her wrists into the rain.

At Sunset

Feathers blooming from her painted eye

Nose transformed into a curved sparkling beak

Small silver flowers burst out of the darkness

Diamonds outline her stunning veil.

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Her gloved hand dances gracefully to her side

Painted nails stroke a fashionable sheath

Long fingers grasp a blacksmith’s best work

Metal screams as she draws a deadly blade.

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Full of joy she glides over the leaves

Full of anticipation she leaps over fallen trees

Full of agility her legs twist in a wild fashion

Full of life she breaths in the forest scent.

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At ease with her presence, squirrels play tag in the trees.

As if composing a soundtrack, birds sing a fanciful tune.

Never a moment to spare, insects are busy beneath her bare feet.

Life choreographing her every step, leaves dance with her in the breeze.

In less than a year, I will have to make a major decision that will determine my entire future: Creative Writing or Sociology. I’m double majoring. I finally got my shit together and am making the grades I need. I am extremely passionate about both subjects. I will settle for nothing less than loving my job. Unfortunately, both require completely different degrees (Sociology is a BA or BS followed by a PhD; Creative Writing is a MFA).

Pros and Cons?

Sociology Pros:

• (Slightly) More job prospects
• New field means ability to advance research and have a real impact
• A chance to open student’s minds to new possibilities and realities
• Teaching and studying a subject I have reveled in since I was a child
• Diversity, Passion, People

Sociology Cons:

• Still hard to find a decent career (may have to move for a job)
• Several parts of the field exist that I strongly disagree with
• Students may be uninterested or unable to grasp subject
• Negatively viewed by a society who considers social arts insignificant
• Much more time and money spent in schooling

Creative Writing Pros:

• Only 2 years of grad school before teaching begins
• Getting paid and having time for writing
• Inspiring students not to give up on English as an essential part of the world
• Getting to read works from a younger generation who will be the future of literature

Creative Writing Cons:

• Horrible job prospects and only getting worse
• Teaching composition classes and suffering through illiterate moron’s papers
• Teaching advanced classes and still suffering through illiterate moron’s papers
• Reading students works and noticing that they sound suspiciously like Twilight
• Slowly coming to the realization that English is a dying art and that my novels will only be read by a handful of people
• No diversity (only one profession available)

I have never been more motivated to move forward and succeed. Only, I’m having some trouble deciding which subject I want to succeed in. Finally, it’s time to stop relying on other people, signs from the universe, medication, or relationships. I have the reigns to my own life, and I am so excited to move forward. I am extremely thankful that the hardest decision I will be forced to make in the next year is between two subjects that I am equally passionate about.

TL;DR

You can do anything, be anyone, accomplish whatever you set out to do. So, don’t settle. Make yourself into something fantastic. Do only what you love. Be all that you can. I believe in you.

I lied about writing and posting it on here. I am, in fact, writing, but I’m trying to get the short stories I’m working on published in literary magazines, instead. Unfortunately, that means that those stories can not be previously published, and an editor could claim that a blog counts as a private publication. Instead, I’ll post any rejections I receive, or stories written for class assignments (if they are remotely interesting and I don’t intend to publish them). Maybe after I get a work published (crosses fingers), I can post it here. Not as if anyone was interested in reading those stories in the first place :P

Before you read this I want to clarify two things. First, it was written for my English class and the style it is written in is an imitation of “A Rose For Emily” by William Faulkner. In no way is it an accident if this story seems familiar to you. Second, I do not wish to offend anybody by what I have written. I can not explain this statement without giving away the ending, but I want everyone to know upfront that this is just a playful, ironic story and my intention is never to insult anybody.

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Hearing Voices

Our town is small and isolated from the rest of the world. Internet and television are virtually unknown to us. Everyone who lives here grew up here. Very few people ever leave and nobody new ever makes a home out of this place. That is until Paul moved into the small cabin at the Far East corner of town. The Levay family used to live in that house, but Anton died three years ago and his wife passed only a year later. Some say she died of heart break. Paul came wondering into town a year ago raving to us about needing a fresh start. He begged us to provide him with housing and only a week later he purchased the Levay cabin from Anton’s son. Paul never speaks to us of his past and hasn’t made any lasting friendships since assaulting our town with his presence. I suppose if we had known then what we do now nobody would have made the effort to get to know Paul. After all, schizophrenics are known to be dangerous people.

                Bethany was the first to attempt to reach out to Paul when he moved here two years past. She went to visit him some afternoons while her husband was away working. She kept doing this until she became pregnant with her first child. After she stopped going to visit Paul, people began to talk. They wondered if her husband had forbid her from seeing the man under the suspicion that the baby she was carrying was his. Other people were outraged by this accusation. They claimed to know Beth as if she were their own sister and vowed she would never betray her husband so. Eventually, the real reason she stopped visiting became clear. Bethany claimed that she ate lunch with Paul several times, but as soon as the food was ready he would start chanting as if he were possessed. He closed his eyes and his head fell limp as if his soul had left his body. Suddenly, he would sit up, alert, and begin eating as if nothing had happened. He never acknowledged the strange behavior as if he were unaware of it himself. Beth was afraid that during one of these episodes Paul would attack her and harm her child. People began to talk about Paul being haunted or clinically insane.

                After that they began to sneak around Paul’s property and some of them tried to make friends with him just to discover the secret behind his strange ways. Once, about a year back, Paul got a girlfriend. Casey had always been sort of the black sheep around here, so none of us were surprised when she started spending time around the new guy. They began asking her questions about him and the stories she told spread through the town like wildfire.  As it turns out food was not the only substance that sent Paul into a trance. At random points during the day he would zone out of reality and begin chanting. His activities were extremely routinized and repetitious. He even read the same book daily. A thick novel, which none of us had ever seen the likes of. Sometimes he would start in the middle and the next day reread the first chapter again. A doctor in town, Benjamin, took an interest in these happenings and soon the term obsessive compulsive disorder was used to describe Paul.

                Once, only a couple months after arriving, Paul made the only male friend who would stick by him the next couple years. Still, this town is hungry for stories and everybody’s favorite central character had become Paul. As a result, even Jack, Paul’s only real friend, confessed to us some of Paul’s more irrational habits. Paul didn’t believe in death. He truly believed that he was immortal, and that any of us could be as well were we to say some magical words. In Paul’s mind, magic existed all around us. Magic was the cause of all life and existence. When Jack tried to explain biology to his friend, Paul shook his head and laughed to himself as if science were nothing but a joke. However, these beliefs were not the most ludicrous of Paul’s.  Jack told Benjamin in private one day about one of Paul’s more disturbing habits. Of course nothing ever stays private round these parts for long, so everybody was talking about Paul’s paranoia within a week. According to Jack, Paul was convinced somebody was watching him at all times. A man who resembled Santa Clause, the myth parents tell their children to make them behave year around. This man was supposedly watching Paul’s every move and if Paul didn’t behave he would be punished. Paul’s fear of this man never subsided and kept him in a permanent state of extreme paranoia. This was the only man that ever threatened Paul’s faith in immortality. But nobody had ever seen this mysterious person, not even Paul himself.

                Around this time the word schizophrenic was being used to describe Paul by several people including our doctor, Benjamin. This was confirmed when Casey and Paul separated and she revealed all of his deepest secrets. Paul was constantly talking to the ceiling asking invisible men for help. Instead of taking the steps to improve his own life he would cry and beg his imaginary friends for help. He would scream and curse at them sometimes. He fought with them and asked them why they tortured him so much. If they didn’t reply he would only get more upset and beg for them to answer him. Not only was Paul schizophrenic but he was very aware of the voices he heard and he felt as if he needed them to survive.

                Routines, paranoia, and hearing voices—the symptoms of schizophrenia described Paul exactly. Yesterday Jack confronted Paul about this diagnoses and asked if he was aware of his illness. Paul laughed at this accusation. “Good joke.” Paul shook his head, “it’s almost as if you people have never met a person of religion.”

                “Religion?” Jack asked.

                “Are you serious? I knew that this place didn’t have a church but you must have at least heard of Christianity.” Paul demanded, “You know: God, Jesus, Satan. They are always watching over us, asking only for our praise and recognition. God promises us eternal life in exchange for our worship.”

                “Have you met this man? This so called God?”

                “Of course not, but I know he exists. He is inside of me. He is inside of all of us. Guiding us. Telling us what is right and wrong. He is here.” Paul pointed to his heart.

                “I’m sorry, Paul,” Jack replied quietly, “but all of those are signs of schizophrenia. Paul, God is not a real person. Jesus and Satan, they don’t exist. You’re schizophrenic, Paul, and doctor Reynolds wants to help you.”

                Paul closed his eyes, got down on his knees, put his hands together, and began to chant. Jack was unable to break him from his trance and left Paul alone in his house. Today Benjamin went to Paul’s home with several police officers. They restrained the man who called to the clouds for help. Of course the clouds did not answer his cries. We knew they wouldn’t. Still, Paul let a look of betrayal cross his face as they dragged him into a holding cell for safe keeping. I feel sorry for the poor man. He truly believed an imaginary man in the clouds would protect him. Instead this deity has sentenced him to a life of medication and therapy.

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TL;DR- This story is a playful critic on religion (Christianity in particular) that compares a schizophrenic to a Christian. That doesn’t mean I think every Christian is schizophrenic. I have a lot of religious friends and I support their beliefs and choices.

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The idea for this story came to me after watching The Rite (the newest exorcist movie). In the movie the main character is constantly questioning whether the patients are clinically insane or actually possessed. Several people have died during exorcisms and it is my belief some of these people could have survived with physiatric help. I took this idea a few steps further with this story as I began to wonder how Christian rituals would appear in an atheist society that knew nothing of religion. This is not meant to be insulting to any religious person who may read it and I apologize if you felt otherwise. It is meant only as a critic of religion through the eyes of an atheist. I welcome your opinions and arguments.

I’ve used Xanga, Livejournal, Myspace, and Facebook, so why do I feel the need to begin my fifth social networking site. Quite honestly because everyone else has one, so why the hell not? There must be something exciting I’m missing out on. Still, I had to create a real reason for having one of these so when asked I could reply with an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a peer preasured sheep. Well as it turns out, I do have a need for an online blog. I’m an English major with an emphasis in creative writing who doesn’t write anymore. So this Tumblr will motivate me to write and post short stories, chapters from my novels in progress, and essays that I write while I pursue my doctrate in English. Of course that is just a theoretical use for this blog. In reality I will probably write more about LARPing, school, media, and gaming than I will write stories. Of course in reality blogspot would be a much better site for this type of blogging. Yet here I am. Following the crowd. So is life.