[9] I live! And to celebrate, I’m going to ramble at length…

Y’know, I had such high hopes for 2010, but it’s turning into kind of a bust year. Part of that is me — I’ve been on such a downer lately — and I reckon part of that just that we’re still in the early grey months, but damn. There seems to be widespread lethargy all over place — or just plain tragedy, for the more unlucky people I know. It’s extremely uncool.

But! Today is sunny, I’m wearing an awesome pair of new shorts I should totally take a picture of, and it’s time to climb out of this sinkhole.

(I’m also amazed at the number of page views I’m still getting, despite not being online for almost a month. Is someone linking me around? Hi, new folks!)

So, good things! I have some awesome new tech, because I’m a total sucker for shiny things that come with black leather accessories (wow, that punchline practically writes itself). And I actually sketched out half a draft post about this, something like three weeks ago, so now I’m going to plagiarise the hell out of myself. I R Rebel!*

*plagiarizes*

‘I have a love-hate relationship with technology, mostly in that I love it, while it seems to feel we’re more suited to a relationship that leaves holes in the walls, concerned neighbours, and occasional cooling-down stints in prison.

Technology, baby, why do you make me hurt you?

This is all a really roundabout way of saying I just bought a new phone, and now I’m to talk about Stuff. Specifically, Stuff I Like. Though not all the Stuff I Like, or we’ll be here forever. But I have noticed lately that I’m developing a stunning fixation for anything chunky, weighty, and black. Especially if it comes complete with a leather carrying case. I love leather. Really, I should have a kink. Or at least a fetish.

There’s still time.

In any case, this was the phone that got my attention — but in this version, natch. And it’s gorgeous. Almost the exact size and weight of my iPod (which is another recent purchase, also black, with a leather case — thank you, Christmas money from crazy!mom), and nothing like the last slimline phone I used to have, which always felt like it’d snap like a cookie if I held it wrong. This one has substance. And it’s also a Nokia, which I’ve heard carry a reputation for being indestructible**. Also, it organizes like a fiend. One of my major goals this year was to be more organized, so this seems like a step in the right direction***. Plus it has a multi-functional calendar, an ability to chart up memos, notes, and meetings, and I can store almost any kind of document on it. As soon as I figure out the ninety-one pages of user-guide, at least.

In short, it’s made of awesome. And it feels extremely butch, what with its ability to survive a four story drop and also be used as a ballistic weapon whilst texting like a fiend. (In my head, butch apparently = dangerous amounts of multitasking. Who knew?)’

*stops plagiarizing*

Other good things! I’ve kicked smoking. Again. So far I’ve made it to the … *thinks* two week mark, roughly, and I’m out of the major craving period. I’m told it takes three days for the body-cravings to go away, and after that everything’s psychological. So this no-cravings thing seems like a Very Good Sign.

(Though now I’m thinking about it, I want a cigarette. CURSE YOU, CATCH 22!)

Other-other good things — I made it through Valentine’s Day without killing anyone. There’s probably a whole blog post in that alone. A whole bunch of blog-posts actually, because this whole dealing-with-your-ex-dating is a new and not entirely fun thing, but it has been good for my personal learning curve. There’s this feeling like you lose the right to bitch about things when you’re the one that calls it off — and that’s true, you do lose the right to bitch. But you don’t lose the right to talk. Or feel whatever the hell you’re feeling. So once I put my head together enough to work out a coherent thought-sentence, I’ll tackle that.

But I’m in a better place. And I really am glad she’s dating. (Even if the person she’s dating is so hot it makes me want to FROTH with jealousy. *laughs*) And hey, I’m still getting a crush-confession about once a fortnight, so it’s not exactly like I’m without options, even if I’m not taking any of them.

So, how’s 2010 treating you?

–
*Anyone ever watch I R Weasel as a kid? I loved that show.
**I just completely jinxed myself, I know, but the thing is almost a brick. A pretty brick.
*** He says, as he types this up three weeks later.

[8] Smoking blues.

To paraphrase Ivan E. Coyote: You are never an ex-smoker, you are just a smoker who doesn’t.

I wish I could find the essay he wrote that in. But seriously, what is it with butches and smoking? A cigarette seems to be part of the dress code, alongside ass-kicker boots, button-down shirts, and hair just long enough to grab. For half the people I talk to, it’s a piece of the sex appeal. The gentleman-rogue who always has a heavy silver lighter sitting in one pocket, just waiting to spark up. Ready to light his lady’s Virginia Slim.

I had one advantage when I quit; my then-girlfriend was deathly allergic to the smoke. And you can best believe that became a motivating factor when she barely let me in the house after a few drags, forget kissing.

I should say: the last time I quit. It’s an ongoing process. An endless battle not to give in and die young of cancer, or heart disease, or getting hit by a bus on the trek to get that midnight pack. And sometimes it’s easy. I just have to think of all the money I’m saving, or the way things taste better, or the relief of not having clothes that stink. I like having white teeth.

But other days it’s harder. Like today.

And I’m not just saying that because I have the warm curl of two cigarettes sitting in my lungs, and a pack of eighteen still in my pocket. (See what I mean? Even when I write about smoking, it’s sexy. I should start talking about black-lung and mucous instead.) I’m a stress-smoker. A self-destructive smoker, occasionally, when things have gone to shit and I just don’t care about the health risks. I wind up relishing them, in the same way a fight feels good, and a drink takes the edge off, and punching a wall until your knuckles bleed resets something in your brain.

It’s stupid. And young. And nothing I welcome in other people. But god, sometimes it feels good.

But why is it butch? And why so many butches? Ivan E. Coyote is one, obviously. I’m pretty certain Bear S. Bergman is another. In most of the butch iconography–which granted, there isn’t much–you’re more than likely to see a lurking cancer-stick, a wreath of smoke. And don’t even get me started on the butch literature.

Is it the inherent old-world masculinity of it? The feel-good of having something to take the edge off that doesn’t require talking? Well, beyond “A pack of twenty, please”. Is it the image? Or is there just a higher correlation of socially damaged, growing-up kids in the queer community who’re more likely to fall into bad ways?

Or are we butch and transmasculine folks all just idiots who like to set ourselves a new challenge every week?

Hell, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s an equally common femme trait. Or a queer trait. Or just a generational thing. Maybe the next group of growing-up butches are more likely to chew alfalfa greens — though you’ll forgive me if I crack the hell up over that particular image.

Either way, if I can whine for a minute, all your butch fellas out there could make things a damn sight easier for me if you kept looking cool without the smoke rings. I’m just saying.