Of love songs and fairytales

Of a love deeper than a jar of peanut butter

Mr. Marvel was playing Civilization 5 today. I walked into the room and started dancing to a song in my head. He stopped playing, watched me, furrowed his brow, paused then grabbed me into a hug. 
“Baby what are you doing?” he asked.
“Dancing” I replied.
He threw his head back and laughed. All the while holding me wrapped in his arms.
“I just was dancing.” I explained. “I was not doing nothing wrong.”
This is not the first time this has happened. Perhaps this is what love is. I have come to realise that I can be as child-like and stupid as I can be and the worst he will do is laugh in amusement. 

One time we were playing mercy and he pinned me to the bed to force me to surrender. I licked his face. He rolled over onto the bed, clutching his stomach, as he burst into laughter. I won just by making him laugh.

I don’t have any specific reason for writing this other than that Mr. Marvel is perfect, not because he is flawless, but especially because for all his flaws he instils in me the greatest happiness.

 
 I would rather be poor with him and have no luxuries than have all the Batman comics I could ever want with somebody else. 

Dear women who read Twilight/Fifty shades of gray

I don’t agree with your choice of reading material. And I don’t agree that you are reading something that is conducive to a healthy lifestyle or emotional state but who am I to judge when I am in love with a fictional billionaire with a penchant for dressing up like a giant bat and swinging from rooftops. 

Just please, please do us both a favour and don’t ask me if I have read either books and please don’t recommended that I do because I will not allow you to murder literature with your smut. Just remember that every time you and women like you read stupid fiction the Joker eats a fairy.

Sincerely
Freaked-out

I can’t give a compliment so if I give you one please embrace it wholeheartedly. I am always fair in my assessment of things. I don’t agree that I should say that I love something because you love it. I don’t agree that I should say half the things I do when they contribute nothing to the conversation but I don’t think I should be silenced. 

of why I am my mother’s greatest disappointment

My mother, the woman who gave birth to me, nurtured me, clothed me, raised me to adulthood, has told me that I owe it to her to finish my Masters. I don’t understand. I’m not really sure what it is that I owe her. As far as I was aware I went to university on my own, paid for by the government, and studied on my own. I received my bachelor degree on my own. I forged my own path on my own. I created this entire life on my own. She insists that I am wasting my time. Maybe I am. The most likely scenario however is that I am exactly where I want to be. I have lost count of the many times she has told me that I disappoint her. There was that time I failed to make it to the Air Force or to Law School or failed to move to London. You know what is aggravating the situation is facebook. She sees all these people on facebook with their graduation photos, their social life. She is projecting her own wants onto me. If there was ever an act guaranteed to elicit disappointment it is relying on me to rise to fame. She told me that I want recognition. I protested. But she insisted that the things I want most in this world are money and recognition. If I wanted fame I wouldn’t aspire to be an editor. How many editors can you name off the top of your head? Not magazine editors. Book editors. None? Because a truly great editor is invisible. You don’t read a novel and think about how well it is edited because you shouldn’t be able to find a trace of the editor in a masterpiece. I have never been happier with my life than I am now. I just wish my mum could share in my happiness with me.  

I will never be able to please you. 

The happier I am the more I disappoint you.

You have a bag full of well intentioned smiles.

But you haven’t got a single good intention left to give.

Of when home became my parents’ house

I am going down to Sydney by train tomorrow. Fourteen glorious hours of sleep. I am more of a sleep during the day stay up at night kind of girl anyway. Ten days with my parents. Ten days without Mr. Marvel. I don’t know how I will survive it. I can’t survive a day with my mum. She just tends to focus on the countless ways I disappoint her more than the fact that I have actually grown up a little bit since she last saw me. For one I learnt how to budget. That’s something right?

Mr Marvel is asleep after I made him promise me that he’ll eat well. He is going to eat pizza and Hungry Jacks the entire time I am not here. He’s like a child who’s been set free. I worry about him. I spent the weekend frantically cleaning the house, washing the clothes, making sure he has enough food, at least for a week, when I am not here. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends though. I miss them especially Kujira. I miss Kujira the most. 

But I am going to miss Mr Marvel. He’s too cool to admit that he’ll miss me but I know. 

My bike has been out of commission for awhile. She’s sitting at my place alone. I am looking for a stem quill for her so I can ride her again. She must miss me. I used to ride her everywhere. I miss her. 

An open letter to Square Enix

Dear Square Enix

I understand that videogame sales have been on the decline since the advent of torrents. I understand that competition is stiff but do you really need to cut back on writers? If you are desperate then I will gladly work for you for free but please, please just retcon Lara Croft’s origins to one that doesn’t involve rape.

It is disrespectful to victims of rape. It is disrespectful to women. It is also disgusting that the last bastion of female strength in videogames has been denigrated and debased. Are you somehow trying to imply that only women who have been sexually vulnerable are capable of the feats that Lara Croft is capable of?

Are you somehow implying that anyone who has been sexually assaulted who isn’t jumping off a cliff while shooting at bandits has somehow failed to rise from the incident?

I am very disappointed in you Square Enix. Women are women. Why can’t Lara Croft be an iconoclast with a perfectly happy childhood? I was looking forward to this game.

You know that episode in South Park when Spielberg and Lucas rape Indiana Jones? That’s what you’ve done! It’s like Lara Croft has somehow done some injury to you and the only way that she can make it up to you is by raping her.

Even if you don’t care, even if you never find out, I have lost all respect for you and I will not buy this game.

Sincerely

Disgruntled