the sunshine will blow my mind, and the wind blows my brain
Andy Warhol, Querelle, 1982
*picks it back up because that’s not how we handle sound equipment*
So, I paint my nails pretty regularly these days. I also work as a barista/cashier pretty regularly these days. A few weeks back, I had a customer come in, a fairly typical, sheltered, suburban soccer mom, and she ordered a latte from me. She saw my brightly colored nails and said, “Wow, you’re so brave! My son asked me about painting his nails, and if it’s okay for boys to do that. Now I’ll tell him there’s a cool guy who does it too!” It was a nice moment, very cute.
Then, last week, she came in again, and said, “Hey, I’m so glad you’re here! I want you to meet someone!” She then brings her son forward, and says, “Okay sweetie, show him what you did!” And he throws his hands up, showing off his bright, sparkling blue nails. He shows them off, and I show mine off to him. He smiles. We fist bump.
Guys, I’ve only wanted to cry once at work before, and that was when someone ordered a large dry soy cappuccino on ice.
This time, though. This was a good cry.
I was expecting something where someone was being judgemental and nasty but got a pleasant surprise I love this
I normally have so much respect for the standards of NBC News and The Washington Post, but, with this most recent round of articles, its depressing to see millions of rape victims swept under the rug yet again.
Personally, I’m a guy who had an experience that would fall under the “unwanted sexual contact,” category of the CDC’s numbers. It wasn’t rape, but damn if it didn’t impact me to the point of tears.
I can’t imagine what it’s like for the multitude of women and men out there who’ve flat out been raped in one form or another and can’t even get it counted in government statistics. (A problem I’m sure is even a larger scope than just the one type of rape I address here.)