WOMAHN

Great, I'm a woman, a great big woman, a great big curvy brown woman. No, not really. I don't really have the breasts for that, nor the hips for that. SO OKAY LET ME START OVER! I'm a woman, tall, skinny, beautiful. Long legs peeking under every dress and high heels making me .....wait....I'm not that either. So I'm not the standard big beautiful curvaceous brown woman, nor am I the standard walk-down-street-faces-turning sort of woman. Alright well here it is. I'm a woman. I'm a "size 3, sometimes a water bloated size 5" type of woman. I'm a "sometimes I breakout due to stress and make a personal choice not to cover every blemish with makeup because honestly, my flaws are a part of me" sort of woman. I'm a "sometimes my feet smell, I get dandruff, I sneeze loudly, laugh loudly, and breathe loudly due to nasal congestion" woman. And no, I'm not the "feminist fuck you chauvenistic bastards" category of woman, I'm the "I fall in love, I cry when I'm sad, I try to get my homework done, I get upset when hungry, I cuss, I make do with what I have" woman. I'm just a woman. I really don't fall under any category of woman. I'm not this nor that, or too much of here nor there. I just am. I was born with two breasts, a vagina, eggs, the ability to have babies. Biologically, that makes me a woman- but what makes me a woman? You may ask, I might know. But I'd rather show you. (:

Finally Finals Fandango Frafflebums

Different in the sense of ceiling propellers, whose only motivation lies in the force of a circular and constant motion, or rather different in the sense of running water against young skin, bouncing like beads against stretched rubber, or maybe different the way televisions are, being stared into by food-holding people with gaping open mouths and nothing else to do all day. I don't think it matters, though. That some movements grasp tightly and others hold hardly anything at all. It's movement and if I'm movement then really I'm no different than the previously mentioned banalities. Hurrah, I'm a banality, a mundane activity, a process of elimination, a processed food, a 75% processed, a debit/credit process. a profession that says: "Excuse me as I profess and confess, or digress to trangress my distress." Endearing really, piercing thoroughly enough to be painfully searing, steering the unconscious dead rat into another direction with pixie sticks and 1983 pennies. Currency currently curing me of all my obscenities. Maybe.