F**k femininity.

Sometimes I think being a writer would be a lot easier if I were a guy.

Just saying.

Not that I believe having balls makes a difference whether you have better writing skills or not.  But since most of the so-called great writers are men, maybe it does.

I once underwent a full agonizing semester studying feminist literature in a class that was called "Literature of the 18th Century."  Once I knew what the fuck I really signed up for, I starting pulling at my hair at the occipital, because that's what I do when I'm bored as hell and antagonized by the subject material.  All the young ladies around me starting shooting out about how unfair that guy was to the poor girl and how hot that other guy is and how that girl should marry him and make all her dreams come true.  Oh, my good hairy God.

Growing up, I couldn't watch a full episode of Lizzie McGuire without wanting to throw up my popcorn onto the TV.  So as you can probably guess, I was never the full-on girl you would envision with the giggles, rosy cheeks, and bulging water ballon breasts.

That's why I've chosen to write about a subject material that is probably quite unlike the interests of many other aspiring women writers, since it's not about vampires, werewolves, romance, and hot guys and shit.  And being that that subject material is mainly written by questionably sane and socially comatose men, I've hit a four-foot-tall stumbling block.

Oh, I have ideas, all right.  They're just a trifle unfocused at the moment, thanks to some of my inescapable inbred female qualities.  Because of that, every now and then when I start tapping away, I find myself spewing all this overemotional shit that really has no place anywhere on the screen.  So all that crap about love and romance and feelings shows up where I never intended it to be.

And also, being a woman, sometimes I just like hearing myself say clever shit just because I like hearing myself talk.  And why is that?  Because I'm so goddamn self-absorbed, that's why.  Every attractive woman (or woman who thinks she's attractive) is like that--come on, admit it.  Then I become so full of myself that I consider making myself a character.  You know, like the tough-talking, no-nonsense writer that guys check out from time to time?

Then I have to think, do I really think I'm that fucking interesting?  And I already know by now that most people out there don't give a shit anyway.

Being that one of my favorite films is Pulp Fiction, I often question if a woman could ever write something as edgy and provocative as that.  The answer is probably not.  We're too goddamn sensible.  But, goddamnit, I'm trying, with little success. 

I realize now that the only solution is write as close to how a guy writes as I can.  Not I know how to do that since I don't have those hidden urges or feelings of male superiority, because, you know, I don't have balls.  So there's my problem.

But still, I'm fucking trying.

With some thinking and practice, I realize now that your writing doesn't have to sound like it was written by a raging pervert to sound masculine.  That puts me in a state of ease and relief.

Yes, yes, I'm getting there.  I've changed most of my female characters to male, and I'm seeing the difference already.

So now here we are.  No more overly detailed, soap-opera-ish subplots.  Just characters going through their lives and reacting to what they see.  Direct dialogue.  Very profane.  Romantic moments are quick and not overblown.  Everything happens for basic reasons.  No bullshit.  Yes, that's what I'm talking about.

I just need to keep fucking trying.

Torn.

I now realize that my last entry made me sound like a hypocritical asshole.  So here's a less whiny, allegorical, but still personal version of pretty much the same damn thing, and then some.

Three years since I've left home, one of the biggest shocks for me to see is how thick the line is between the well-off and the screw-ups.  In fact, it's not even a line that separates them.  It's a WALL.  I imagine it for one side to be made out of smooth 'n shiny granite and the other to made out of dry concrete that someone just slathered on, and standing about 100 meters high and encircling the entire globe.  Holy fuck, is that huge.

I had lived on the borderline of that concrete side for 12 fucking years.  Now I'm on the granite side and I am at a loss for words.

Apparently, what is serious shit to me is not serious shit here. If you're looking for a good time, you're supposed to say, "Let's get wasted, kill someone and get arrested, bitches!"  The guy with tobacco dribbling from his beard and talking to himself near 7-Eleven gets his picture on Facebook with the caption "OMG" underneath.  Girls post provocative messages in the elevators hoping to get laid on Valentine's Day.

Oh, sure.  I can do that when I know that there are people out there getting whacked out and shooting people and getting handcuffed everyday, the guy at 7-Eleven probably has had no one to talk to for years, and hookers go out at night hoping to make some good money because they're too afraid to go home.  HA-HA!  LOL!  THAT IS LIKE SO FUCKING FUNNY!

Every once in a while I find myself back on the concrete side, because everything just makes more sense there, kind of.  But what I get is people who are so messed up that I can't think of anything I can do to better their situations.  They swear.  They hurl insults.  They fight.  They laugh too loud.  They can't save their money.  They don't listen to advice.  They have no class.  Oh, thank God for these God-sent, wonderful people.

Before long, I'm begging to go back to the granite side, where the streets are paved with smiling, normal people and opportunities.

So that's where I am--torn.  I'm not a screw-up, but I don't joke about screw-ups or subjects pertaining to screw-ups.  So which side do I belong to?  Neither one.  And it SUCKS.

As much as I would like to be part of the well-offs, since that's the more favorable lifestyle, I feel as if I'm blocked by my own bubble.  Because they just have NO IDEA what it's like out there, where I'm from, and they're pretending it doesn't exist.

But as for the screw-ups, they are chucking away offenses at the people better off than them.  They're finding ways for others to despise them even more.  Do they know that?  Do they care?  No!

So what do I do?  I'm just sitting against this wall here, watching the activity going on on both sides.  The side I'm on now is too safe for me, but the other side is too dangerous.

So now what?  Do I hang on the edge of this dividing wall, and see which side I fall kersplat into?

Maybe.

Blindness.

Oh, dear God.  Some people just don't know how much they have it good.  

Even me.

And how stupid I am to think that writing about people in unfortunate circumstances would evoke any sort emotion in my creative writing course, where creativity goes to die.

It's probably because when I said "unfortunate circumstances," they thought I meant horrifically tragic shit like losing your job, totaling your car, or dropping your smartphone in the toilet.  But instead they got narratives about homelessness, violence, drug addiction, teen pregnancy, prostitution, and overall insanity.  Oh, why I never!

And hence, from their no-questions-no-applause expressions, I knew that I had succeeded in biting the class in the ass with unpredictability.  Ha!  Take that, lovers of generic crap!

But since my story failed to connect to my audience, I, the writer, has failed, right?  Well, that's in the words of my creative writing professor.  However, here's the truth she won't admit to--she doesn't know what the hell I was talking about.  She didn't understand a thing of it.  It might as well as been written in Chinese; it was all foreign to her.

Okay, let's just get something clear--you ARE well aware that there are issues like homelessness and drug addiction that DO exist, correct?

How did I know that was the case?  After receiving a good dosage of life on the wild side, I have a general idea of what it's like to be in the shadowy areas as well as the well-lit ones.  And finally, after almost seven years, here's the conclusion I came up with--if you've always had a home, grown up with stability, was never abused, finished high school, and fully applied your DARE education to the T, your problems are NOTHING compared to what some others are currently going through.  NOTHING.  

And guess what?  They didn't get to choose their lives, as many might say.  They were born into darkness and emptiness and have been trying to light their own ways and fill up those holes ever since.

At the moment my college social life is virtually nonexistent.  The reason is because I'm surrounded mainly by people raised in sheltered families.  In their world, you don't use the word "homeless" unless you're making a joke.  Owning the iPhone 4 when everyone has the iPhone 5 is an unthinkable travesty.  And you don't get involved with strange people.  You just don't.

So far, I've broken every single one of those rules, and then some.  Oh, yes.  She's an outcast.

You guys post every single one of your shallow, repetitious emotions on fucking Facebook, and you're calling ME a freak?

The most common complaint I hear from college students around me is that they are stressed.  To many of them, if they don't get straight A's they will fall under the life-long curse of celibacy.  Complain, gripe, text ":(" face to friends, update the Facebook status with, "Wish it was Friday."  ...Really?  You've got a stocked fridge, over $500 in savings, are in a relationship that sounds trouble-free, AND can afford post-secondary education, and YOU'RE complaining?

My, God.  How can you be so blind?

This blindness, ladies and gentlemen, is what keeps people from seeing the dark reality, or even believing that it's true.  This blindness, it is what keeps people from realizing the things that matter, and overemphasizing the things that don't.  This blindness, it is what draws the squeaky, unerasable chalk line between the well-off and the screwed-over. This blindness, it is what keeps us divided in our understandings.  This blindness is killing us all.

It pains me to see this blindness rapidly spreading, because I can think of so many others who would give the little they had to live the same lives as the certifiably fortunate.  I myself wish that I could them the life that far too many are taking for granted.  Among those people is my own best friend--fatherless, in and out of group homes as a teen, hated by many, constantly broke, but still willing to buy a hot meal for a lady sleeping at the bus stop.  Another--unemployed, abused, 6-months pregnant, fears to come home at night because she might be in pain the next morning.

No, this is not some sort of eclectic mix of brain vomit from my sick mind!  This is fucking real!

Am I the only one here at my college who is blind to the bright side, where everyone seems to be?  Is this why I am so surrounded by people, yet so alone?

So here I am, floating in this empty, dark space--a void of my own thoughts.  

And nobody knows I'm right here in front of their fucking faces.