While I strongly believe that we, as humans, tend to be hypersensitive to a subject close to our hearts, I also believe that being cognizant of this would do everyone a world of good.

I knew when a fellow blogger told me, “oh no – I’m not even touching that topic,” that I probably hit a nerve with my last post.

I get that.

It happens.

When writing about things that might seriously offend, I should probably take enough time to ensure that I articulate exactly what it is that I’m trying to say.

Sometimes, I’m just not so good at that. For that matter, it’s why I still haven’t fully blogged about my religious views (or.. lack thereof). I don’t do religion. Of any kind. For any reason.

It’s cool if that’s your shtick. It’s just not mine.

The thing about touchy subjects is that they’re really just that.

Touchy.

Often times, it doesn’t matter how well you try to formulate your opinion because someone is likely to misunderstand or misread what was written. If that’s not the case, then there’s the potential for reading “between the lines” even when there’s nothing there to read.

I am idealistic and simplistic by nature. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I’m pretty sure if everyone stuck by that rule, we’d all be better for it.

But that’s where our human characteristics step into play. We are flawed. We can’t always see past our anger. We don’t always want to admit defeat. We often prefer not to concede when we are, in fact, wrong.

It’s these factors that keep so many people in this world treading water.

Now, I don’t believe that two wrongs make a right. I doubt I’ll ever comprehend how an entire country allowed our current president to go to war when all the facts were there from the beginning. Sure, they were sugar coated, glazed and not right in our faces for easy grasp.

But they were all there.

Yet, we still went to war. And as I recall it? The majority of this country was behind it because people couldn’t see past their anger.

Now there’s some crazy disapproval rating because the administration was clearly wrong.

Of course.

I just never understood how fighting fire with fire was really a solution.

If we always did that, wouldn’t we just burn everything down?

It doesn’t matter what region of the planet you’re in, what religious view you subscribe to or what opinion you have about your neighbor.

We all live here together and we’d better start figuring out a way to do it in a way that won’t oppress, hinder or kill other people.

Period.

After hitting a proverbial wall when it came to blogging, Um…Yum! suggested we give each other topics to write about. Of course, I jumped at the chance because she’s cool as hell and I’m always down for blog fodder.

Topic: discuss your favourite place in the world. It could be a city or a whole country or even just a building. Share something memorable that happened there.

At first I thought, “damn, I’ve been to a heck of a lot of places… this is going to be hard.” But in reality? That was not the case at all.

My favorite place in the world is Blacksburg, Virginia. For those of you not in the know, this is the home of Virginia Tech, my alma mater. It’s hard to explain how amazing this little town is. Most Hokies understand this implicitly but have a difficult time coming up with a reason or good analogy. Blacksburg is just… different. Hokies are just… different.

We come from separate parts of the world, including countries I can’t even pronounce, and then dropped in the middle of no where.

Literally.

Maybe it’s the mountain air? Maybe it’s the immediate camaraderie with 25,000 strangers? Maybe it’s the football games, or the sea of orange and maroon such an occasion brings? Maybe it’s the food? It could be the Cascades, the plethora of (good) mary jane, the beautiful scenery, or the calmness that surrounds the area. Maybe it’s all of this combined.

The campus is beyond huge. No one enjoys walking across the Drillfield at 8am in the morning with wind gusts of 1,000mph at sub-zero temperatures in the dead of winter, but by 2pm most of us were usually done with class and ready to partake in whatever debauchery we could find.

See?

That’s only half of the campus. The marked buildings were the dorms I lived in.

1) West AJ: DMB (formerly referred to as Lily) lived in East AJ and freshman year would not have been the same without her there.

2) Lee Hall: The first dorm in which DMB and I lived together. Our room number was 411 and all the girls from the 4th floor wing were amazing. It’d be silly to try to explain how fabulously we all got along. You just had to be there. Also? This is where we met Kay. I guess you could say this was ground zero for the Three Stooges. It still amazes me that we lived across the hall from our R.A. and didn’t get caught for the.. uhm .. “extracurricular activity” that went on. Daily. I guess those Downy dryer sheets did the trick.

3) Payne: We loved calling it Major Payne since DMB and I were stuffed into a small ass room on the top floor. Coincidentally, we lived in room 411. Figures.

I think I like Blacksburg because it’s where I finally found my footing.

I loved every second of it. To pick a most memorable part of my college life feels out of place. There were just so many things that stand out it’s hard to explain.

Maybe a few more pictures will do.

The Cascades. It’s a 30 minute drive from campus and a several mile hike up a mountain.

Downtown Blacksburg. It’s about a 4-square block radius, give or take a few. It’s one of those places where people are actually nice. I’m sure my love for small towns plays into this.

Smith Mountain Lake. Hello! They filmed parts of Dirty Dancing here and it was only 30-40 minutes away from campus!

Hokie Football. ‘Nough said.

Serenity. I think that’s it. That’s what makes Blacksburg my favorite place in the world.
I miss it profusely.

My first Brazilian Wax has officially been scheduled. Naturally, I had to set my appointment while at work.

In a cubicle.

Where two departments can easily overhear me if they tune in.

Oops?

Come to find out I’m supposed to give my lady bits 48 hours to chill out afterwards. Well, that’s just too bad because it’s going to be more like 30 hours.

Assuming my plan comes to fruition, of course.

…and it will.

Because I say so.

I don’t really want to admit this, but I’m scared as fuck about gettin’ that Brazilian done.

For seriously.

I feel like I’ve run out of things to say.

Or more accurately, I feel like I’ve got so much to say I don’t even know where to start.

It’s a fun feeling.

…

I know, the last post was vague. I’m pretty sure that only sparked more curiosity, but I really do think it’s in my best interest to leave the specific topics I semi-addressed alone.

Also, I think it says somewhere in the “Rule Book” that we’re not supposed to post twice a day.

Well, fuck that, I say. Fuck that!

For a few weeks now, I’ve wanted to legitimately address a situation I’ve been in so often I can’t even count them anymore.

Namely, sexual harassment.

[Definition: a form of harassment or unwelcome attention of a sexual nature. It includes a range of behavior from mild transgressions and annoyances to serious abuses, which can even involve forced sexual activity.]

I don’t understand how so many men feel it’s okay to participate in the aforementioned situation. Since I was 13 years old, I’ve had to deal with this inexplicable activity. When I was that young, it grossed me the fuck out and I’d curse out grubby, old men for doing so.

When I was 16 and my hormones were all over the place, I couldn’t tell if I was welcoming this behavior or if it was really just a nasty habit perpetuated by dirty men. The difference between those three years was the boldness with which it occurred.

At 13? It was a bunch of crass yelling and nasty oggling. At 16? It was the “light brush up” against my ass, insinuation of sex if I were just “a little bit” older, staring at my cleavage and disgusting comments. At 17? It was statements about what they’d do to me if I let them, usually from co-workers. By the time I hit 18 it was, “I want to take your virginity and teach you everything I know,” “accidental” groping and stuff along those lines.

I never quite knew how to properly handle all that either. I vividly remember going to my mother and being asked, “But wait – what were you wearing? Are you sure you didn’t egg it on?”

Let me tell you how much I loved that shit.

Oh, wait.

I can’t.

Because I didn’t.

That question particularly incensed me when I was working at Uno’s as a server, wore jeans and a button-down shirt with a damn tie. The cook decided to corner me in the freezer and his 200+ pounds scared the piss out of me. I could’ve shit a brick from being asked if I had welcomed this behavior. For that matter, I think I might have.

There was another time when the ‘rents million-dollar house was being built. They were having cocktails with one of the contractors to talk about god-knows-what when I walked in to the restaurant. He took a particular liking to me as soon as he laid his greasy eyes on me. The flirtatious comments came within seconds and made me ridiculously uncomfortable.

When I told my mom about how this dirtbag had given me the creepy crawlies all she said was, “Oh, lighten up! And be nice! He’s building our house! Maybe even flirt back a bit.”

At the housewarming party, he took the opportunity to seriously grope my ass. Not only did I feel violated, I felt like I had no where to turn. He was a guest in my parent’s house and I’d already been told to lighten up. I wanted to scream, cry and vomit all at once. It took the anger of a family acquaintance, who had witnessed the whole thing, for me to feel the slightest bit of validation for having the same pangs of bitterness.

When a friend of a friend stuck his un-welcomed hand down my pants in college, I didn’t bother telling a soul about it. Not for several years, at least, and even then I only shared the story with one person. I felt downtrodden and gross. I didn’t think anyone would believe me and I was pretty damn sure there was no point in reporting him.

I had become a statistic.

Don’t even get me started on the assholes at the club, which is why I don’t actually go to those places anymore. That’s where hands have “accidentally” grabbed every private part of my body or, better yet, where pelvic bones are thrust so far out that you have to rub against penises while walking to the bar. In those circumstances? I’ve always retaliated with some form of physical violence. Keep your dirty dicks to yourselves, assholes.

It’s taken me an incredibly long time to come to terms with the fact that it’s NOT me. That I DON’T egg it on. That it is NOT okay.

I get it, I’m not ugly. Cool. Great. Wonderful, even! But my looks make up about 1% of who I am and when idiots only see that part of me? It pisses me the fuck off. I could be the most horrible person on the planet underneath all of this skin.

I mean, seriously.