Entropy > Love

Today, I will not talk about me. Much.

Is your mind exploding yet?

*Disclaimer on slightly incorrect info, I haven't gone over biology in a while.

Anyhoo, I'm here to talk about the concept of endings. About what really constitutes an "end". How to know you've reached an ending, and sometimes, it isn't so terrible.

The universe has something called entropy, which in simple terms means the measure of disorder. In simpler terms, it actually describes the way the universe tends to fall into the disorder. In thermodynamics, the greater the entropy = the greater the energy from the change. When there is no entropy, that means there is no energy. No change. No life.

I once read on Human's Of New York's blog how a woman's theory to staying young was constantly staying in a state of change. Maybe this is why things deteriorate and die. Because they stop changing. But, as the law of entropy goes if one thing doesn't change the energy of something else we do will be applied and produce more entropy. So really, where it is we apply this change and how we use this energy is where we see what happens to end up dying or ending.

What if in trying to change one's self so much they didn't have any energy left over to apply it to someone else? What if one person refused to use any energy to change an aspect of their self that instead that energy spilled out in terms of blame and rage? What if love is not enough?

Love is not enough. The law of entropy always wins.

-Grace #Adulting

L.Imp Biscuits

So let me tell you about that time I got dumped after being hit by a car. 

Let's backtrack a bit. I had used okcupid on and off for several years at this point to various degrees of success. I had thought this would be one of the more successful times. We'll call him OCD, because I swear to the baby Jesus statue I once threw out by accident, this guy had it. He folded his dirty laundry INTO his laundry basket. The same basket where you then take OUT the clothes and THROW them in the wash. 

After he had thrown them in the wash, he would wipe down the basket with a wet paper towel. And I would pretend it was totally normal. Because, that's what a good girlfriend does.

Anyway, around the time of our demise I had a slight cancer scare involving my cervix, which it would hope merits me some free passes for being an emotional wreck. I also got banned from that doctor's office because she told me my friends weren't allowed to come with me again and I told her to go fuck herself. And then I told her I hope she gets aids. 

I have a bit of a temper. 

Anyhoo, one night out of the blue he tells me he's gonna swing by after band practice later the week to grab "coffee". And seeing that he didn't finish practice at 10 at night, I knew what "coffee" stood for. I had used this line before myself. Fuck you, OCD, I was the master of the coffee beak up. 

I have to say though,I handled it well. The next day as my friend Kate and I were standing by the bagel toaster, I announced:

Me: "OCD is gonna break up with me on Friday"

Kate: (perplexed) "well that's specific"

And so my week went. I recorded a super emo YouTube cover, I planned my dumped outfit, and night of it was raining and I decided I was going to get something from the supermarket. I think it was mallomars. So I lived by new Hyde park road at the time, which was generally a death trap and long islanders are terrible drivers to begin with. I was wearing a black jacket with a hood and I had the right to cross the road, so I did. 

And then I got punched in the face by a minivan. 

I spun with the impact, had a moment of toddler silent scream/sob, and then composed myself because douchebags were honking at me. The lady who hit me was very nice, she had her kids in the car and I assured her I was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital. I didn't take down her info either, because I wasn't hurt. 

So I continue on my journey, because now I REALLY need those mallomars. As I walk, I notice one of my shoes is getting considerably tighter. And my foot is going a little numb. I keep looking for mallomars anyway. I then call OCD, and tell him:

Me:"so I just got hit by a car"

OCD:"oh. Are you okay?"

Me: "yeah, but maybe I hurt my ankle"

OCD: "ok cool. I'll see you later then?"

Me: "yeah. Sure dude."

So let's analyze this for a second. A guy wanted to break up with me SO badly he didn't even let the fact I got hit by a car deter him. So if you're ever upset about that text message breakup, just remember this. 

So I call Sarah, and I inform her of what happened. Well, first I tell her to guess. And she first guesses struck by lightning. Second guess is getting hit by a car. I congratulate her. For some reason, she's not as happy as she should be about being right.

So I end up back at my apt after I buy an ice pack and ace bandaged and my ankle has swelled up to the size of my calf muscle. It hurts like a bitch, but I need to pull myself together because I'm getting broken up with and I refuse to look like a victim. I end up wearing the only shoes that fit that are now my rainboots as I wait for OCD to pick me up. 

He actually follows through with the charade of coffee. We're at the 711 and I'm pouring my coffee and I'm just like "ok dude, cut the shit. I know why you're here".

So fast forward in his car getting driven home. 

OCD: "I feel bad about doing this after you got hit by a car. I feel like I should get struck by lightning. "

Me: "if only". 

Finally the moment of truth. He's dropping me off. I wore my good butt jeans. I'm ready to swagger off with the booty he'll never get to touch again, but my foot is now twice the size it was and I stumble into the SEXIEST limp ever. 

I limped away with all the dignity I could muster. 

Later that night, and after recounting the story to my friends while laying on an air mattress in their room, I start simultaneously laughing and crying at the same time. It was then I decided that I would not let this defeat me. I was going to do something passive aggressive but in such a way people would think it was awesome. 

And that, ladies and gents, is why I changed my Facebook name to Spanish Thunder. 

-grace #Adulting

So a psychiatrist, a dancer and the ultimate question walk into a bar...(EDITED)

The person I've always trusted least was myself.

Correction: I trust myself the least, but only after Nigerian spam emails. 

I've always been one to avoid confrontation. I know many people seem to think I'm a hard ass, or very combative, but I'm not. My boyfriend equates me to a jawbreaker: a hard shell with a very gooey center.  I don't even think I have that hard of a shell, but I guess I just don't like showing all my cards, because people use them to play against you. 

I filmed for Vermillion this weekend, and was talking to the girls about my recent and fully official, PTSD diagnosis and how I felt like I didn't deserve to have PTSD because nothing that bad has ever happened to me. I also spoke to them about my most recent sexual assault which I never reported despite me being too drunk to even legally say yes. I thought "he was sober but, he probably didn't realize he was doing something bad. We had been involved before, he probably assumed it was ok with me". He is the person I referenced in a former post with a picture of a text message. 

Niki the makeup artist called me out. I was making excuses for him and mostly for me. She said I had tried everything else possible to move on except for facing what happened and doing something about it. 

A month ago I spoke to a psychiatrist about this incident and a prior one. I have accepted the first incident being a "grey area" and so I never pursued charges. After speaking to him about both, he told me men can't fully comprehend a woman going home with them without wanting to have sex with them. He told me I needed to be more careful. He told me not to drink too much. 

I walked out of that office ashamed, and doubly afraid to tell anyone anything ever again. I was hurt. I was horrified. 

I was pissed. 

In light of all that has happened with Christy Mack, and War Machine, and the amount of slut shaming and victim blaming, I was disgusted with everything. And for those of you who post "Even if she is a porn star, she doesn't deserve it" are still perpetuating the idea that porn stars are beneath you. Porn stars have a job, and they do it for YOUR enjoyment.  No guy ever called me a slut while I was intimate with him, only afterwards. Why do you scorn people who bring you pleasure? Why do you scorn those who don't want to? Why must I be pure and yet sexy?

WHY?!?

This morning I went through all my previous texts with the man whom I shall refer to as "Dickbag", and I found proof (at least proof for me personally) that in no circumstances would I have allowed what happened to me if I had been coherent. I knew this. I had always known this. I have spent the last 25 years with myself, why the FUCK would I doubt it?

Someone I love once said something while angry that I will never know if they meant, but they said nothing bad had truly ever happened to me and that I had nothing to complain about. And I know people say things when they're angry that they don't mean, but that is what I keep hearing everytime I go see a therapist, or a doctor, or mention my PTSD. It's what keeps me quiet now, as I struggle with the ever constant question if I would want to risk a failure to prosecute, or just swallow it and move on. 

I'm so full, I don't know what more I can keep down. 

-grace #adulting

I didn't know there was a bridge nearby!

Once in high school, I dated a complete asshole.

...OK, more than once, but this one took the cake.

I was 16 years old, and my sister had just passed away. As in, a few days had gone by and I was back at school feeling like this whole death thing was really anticlimactic and school still sucked. There had been a guy I noticed, very pretty in an exotic way, with brown shaggy hair, big green eyes and skin the color of gold.

He turned out to be a Brazilian-Jew, and a couple grades younger.

Normally, this would have turned me off. But I was grieving, desperate, and in dire need of someone to hold me. So we dated for a couple weeks. We even made it "Myspace Official" . (Wow, do I feel old and pathetic).

One afternoon, I noticed he had changed his status on Myspace to "single". Understandably confused, I called and messaged him on AIM (JESUS I'M OLD). No response. Finally, hours later he told me he "texted" me and that his mom said we couldn't date because I wasn't Jewish. I was flabbergasted, ashamed.

And mad as hell.

Another few days pass. We are now closer to a month away from my sister's passing. He sends me a message on AIM, asking for forgiveness and for me to check out this webpage he made.  I acquiesced, because at 16 I was a fucking idiot. I clicked on the link, not knowing it was a bogus Myspace log-in page, in which he used to delete EVERYTHING and write:

"I'M A NAZI HORE". Over and over again.

Everything was gone. My poetry, my journal entries. Pictures of my sister that are now obsolete.  I have never actually wanted to murder someone, but now I knew what that felt like.  I could imagine his parents crying over his lifeless body and it made me feel GREAT. I decided to go to the school about this, since it was considered cyber bullying.

If you don't want to lose faith in Francis Lewis High School, read no further. Turn away now, or maybe transfer your kid to another school who actually gives a shit about its students.

Not only did they blame ME, for choosing to date him, all they did was call him in and "lecture" him on how wrong it is to bully people online. This piece of shit, who had openly told me he was looking into selling a fucking GUN at some point, got a slap on the wrist. I later found out it was on his birthday, so that made me feel better.

A year later, as I was graduating, I found out he got put in the hospital after being pistol whipped 10 or so times. Karma's a bitch, ladies and gentlemen.

Anyway, the twist comes last summer: Out of the blue, this kid (now an adult) messages me out of nowhere, saying he's now part of the Israeli Army and has been looking for me for a couple of years in order to apologize.  And you wanna know his reasoning for doing what he did to me?

He didn't know how to break up with me.

I mean, the apology was more for his sake, because at this point I no longer cared. The only thing that upsets me to this day is how the school handled it, because that is why so many people kill themselves. They're told they have to deal with it, and that the people that hurt them will never be brought to justice for it because they're too fucking lazy.  There will always be trolls, but we can change the way we deal with them.

After Robin William's passing, his daughter posted a very touching tribute to Social Media. She then received taunts about her father's self-induced death. Because you know, maybe they don't know how to break up with their girlfriends either.

It will never end. I had a guy in college claim he almost raped me on formspring. I've been told to kiss myself various times. I've lost track how many times I've been called a whore, stemming from before I even lost my virginity. (Not that that makes you more whore-ish, just showing how ridiculous it is)

If someone trolls you, don't engage, block. If someone sends you death threats, call the police. If anything, it will maybe be connected to something else they were notified of.  No one likes a vigilante, but there's a special place in hell for those that watch atrocities happen without doing whatever small thing they can. That's how 6 millions Jews died.

Not on my watch.

-Grace #Adulting

Now tell me whatchu want, whatchu really really want!

Today, I sent out 14 job applications. I'm pretty sure I was under-qualified for at least 5, but  potato POTAHTO, amiright??

Anyway, I'm exhausted because two of them required writing samples and essays. Which means I made some up on the fly, because I don't have any on me and they were due by 5 o'clock today. And goddamnit, I want a better job.

I want. I want I want I want. Today, thanks to a Cracked article, I really thought about what in the hell I wanted.

I thought I wanted to move out to escape my situation at home, because it's a bit unhealthy. If that were the case, I would have moved out 6 months ago, no matter if it meant eating ramen every night. So therefore, this is not WHY I want to move out.

The gun to my head isn't based on issues with my family. It isn't based on hating my space for what it is, but more for what it represents. Being in this place means I haven't moved forward, that I am not stable.

I want to move out because it would mean I was stable. 

This is why I won't move out without a salary position. This is why I'll spend my money right now on gifts for my boyfriend, or maybe a trip to Florida. Because I would rather sacrifice the apartment hunt for the ability to enjoy this time while I can.  Once I work 40 hours a week, I may be too exhausted between filming and work to really spend time with anyone.  I want to meet my boyfriend's grandfather, so that I can know a side of him I've never seen.

Maybe it's counter-intuitive, but I've always valued experiences over money. What's the point of working 100 hours a week if you can't enjoy what you make? Some people work for the day they retire. But how the fuck do they know they're gonna live that long? Most people in my family die in their 60's. I may as well party now. I would rather spend time with my boyfriend than go to school for something I may or may not really be cut out for. Maybe that makes me a weak person, or a terrible feminist, but my job won't keep me company when I'm old (again, if I get there) or mourn me when I'm gone. If I worked 100 hours a week to be rich, I wouldn't be able to have a dog. I wouldn't mind earning a little less so that I could have time for a dog. 

I'd rather take this time to find my passions, whether they end up being what I work in or something I work in order to take part in.

I will not push myself from one unstable situation into another, what would be the point? I can ignore my family, I'm used to it. I can channel the anger into things like this blog. Seriously, does anyone who's happy keep a blog?

I just take comfort in the fact that I am doing all the little steps I need to do in order to find a better job. Finding that better job will lead to me to looking for the right apartment. And when I do...

It will be glorious. I will probably (okay, definitely) ugly cry. I will have a whole new set of things to worry or get angry about, and a whole new set of goals to reach. But it will be well worth it.

-Grace #Adulting

Dirty Laundry

I've been criticized for a lot of things: My messy room, my terrible life skills, having to google what cleaning products can't be mixed so I don't die...

And for airing my "dirty laundry".

AKA, my rapes.

Does people knowing about these things through my abrasive jokes and pithy commentary make them think less of me? Maybe.  Does it turn me off from me? Probably, and I have evidence of such.

But, does it make me a bad person?

Today, a man I had briefly dated and had former consensual (and terrible) sex with but then later took advantage-wait no, no euphemisms- raped me while I was black out drunk, texted me after I told him I never wanted to speak to him again.  So while I tried to to ignore him, I wanted to say SOMETHING, not necessarily outwardly caustic, but sarcastic and funny to myself. Because I deserved to get some of that out, and I deserved to hear him accept he did something wrong.

Yes. Yes, still. He then said he had apologized, and that he was apologizing again. He also said it was a funny response. Which, made me feel really good. Because I got to be snarky, without being cruel. Because even though he raped me, I don't think he's a terrible person all around.  I just think he needs to rethink what constitutes as an appropriate time to be intimate with someone when you are sober and they are not. Which is 99 times out of 100, not the right thing to do.

Apologies help out the person who did the wrong feel better, more so than the person they wronged.  An apology doesn't erase an action, or words said. It's not a free pass. All it does is make you seem like less of a douchebag and make YOU, the WRONGDOER feel better. I admit this as a wrongdoer myself.  These things we do that hurt others are like shrapnel; a little piece always lingers in our systems. Whereas some of us are better at handling it, like Ironman, some of us get a little more cut up on the inside.

Sometimes we have a piece of clothing that hasn't seen any sunlight in ages. It's smelly, and worn and faded. No matter how many times you wash it, bleach it, or douse it in softener, the stink is so imbedded in the fibers the only way it will leave is if you hang it out to dry.  It needs air, and sunshine, regardless of how ashamed you are that someone will see this filthy laundry you have. Sometimes, it's the only way we can truly move on.

So here I am, airing out my dirty laundry. I've been raped twice, one a pretty grey situation that I rarely speak of because I always have to justify it. The other, date rape.  I have a pretty volatile state of being and I am addressing and working through it.  

I feel a lot less dirty now.

-Grace #Adulting

MOIST/The Wrong Side Of The Bed

Today is one of those days where I really want to just punt a small child. An evil small child, good children don't deserve to be punted.

I have morals.

Nothing happened, I literally woke up and on my way to work started crying over a stupid joke that would normally not offend me. I just felt this flood open up behind my eyeballs and this feeling of anger and futility washed over me.

My boyfriend was very confused, and the people around us probably thought he just dumped me.

My family has spoken of my infamous temper that showed its first inklings as a toddler.  My first word was "eso" (in english: that) And i used it conjunction to anything that captured my fancy. I wanted it all, and by golly fuck all y'all I was gonna get it. So I'd plant my feet, raise my clenched little fists and scream/grunt out of my q-tip shaped head :"EEEEEEEEEEEESSSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I know if I ever do decide to have children, there will be a major ass kicking from karma for this.

As I grew older, I learned to suppress my anger, especially after I started acting out violently to those I loved most.  I was a spanked child, and after a while I didn't see anything wrong with hitting first or hitting back. This is why spanking is mostly counter intuitive, unless you want to raise a socio-pathic Jackie Chan.

But as the law of energy goes, it doesn't disappear, it just transfers to something else. And it became through my tears.  I just started to leak, at the slightest provocation. And I was mocked, oh boy, how I was mocked.

My family thought I was being melodramatic. Boyfriends thought I was manipulative. Friends thought I was suicidal.

I thought I was wussy.

But fuck them, I'm not.  I may throw tantrums over little things and I may cry when I see a dog die in movies, but I rarely hurt people I love. I have always owned up to being wrong. I have been stoic and strong when it mattered for others more than myself. I have cried with people when they needed to not feel so alone.

So what, am I gonna cry about it?

You betcha, motherfucker.