It’s Ok to Feel Like Shit

The reality behind the highlight reel on Facebook. We are human!

tonysbologna : Honest. Satirical. Observations.

Long before smiling faces, shiny new toys, witty emoji play and seemingly perfect lives became commonplace on your Facebook timeline, aka your convenient portal to the outside world– the Earth turned to a different beat that was softly playing in the stars.

You see, when the earth was young, three wise men met in a manger and shared a secret that has been buried behind a millennia’s worth of secrecy, smoke screens and illusions. This secret was about happiness and how to find it.

This secret is said to be so controversial that the thought of sharing it in public forces the secret holder burden the weight of the disbelieving masses – a heavy lift indeed.

With modern society’s bumper-sticker-mentality and my-life-is fucking-amazing-so-like-my-picture  social media craze, we all have forgotten a simple truth.

So I need to ask you something.  Are your nipples hard now? Do you want…

View original post 636 more words

Advertisements

I’m (Not) a Feminist… But

When I hear a young woman, or even a woman from Generation X say, “I’m not a feminist, but…” I cringe. Thanks to Rush Limbaugh and his disparaging term “femi-nazi,” I think many women feel shame when they think they might be a feminist. OR, shame could arise if you buy into stereotypical ideas of what a feminist is–a man-hating lesbian who refuses to eat meat and never shaves her legs. God forbid!

I am a feminist. I’m not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with it). I’ve been married three times (widowed once). I do shave (when I remember). And I am proud to call myself a feminist despite the sometimes negative and erroneous baggage that comes with the term. From my point of view, a feminist is a person who believes in fluid gender boundaries. That means equal pay for equal work, sharing household duties, and supporting each other no matter what through life’s ups and downs.

I was raised by my father, a second-generation Italian immigrant. My mother was not part of my life until I was in my 20s. She was born in Europe, went to college instead of raising her two babies, and lives a hoity-toity life in Rhode Island. My stepmother had a tenth- grade education, was hostile and short tempered, and favored my brothers over me. From a young age, I lived and despised injustice.

When I was three, my father took my older brother and me to Ross Park Zoo in Binghamton, New York. It was sweltering that day, and I had ratty brown hair that hung past my shoulders making the heat worse. At home, my father let me run around in my underwear and no shirt. And since I wore my brother’s hand me downs, I’m not sure if I knew I was a “girl.”

As the summer heat and humidity became more unbearable that day, I asked my father if I could take my shirt off. He said, “No.” I’d emerged from the womb asking “Why?” so I asked him, “Why?” He said, “You just can’t.” I stomped my foot. “But, Daddy. Why?” He stopped answering. I remember thinking, “I’ll fix him.” I pulled my shirt up and over my melon belly. He snapped this photo.

10152376_10152287643163187_1519810734_n

When I look at this, I see a feminist in the making. It’s more than the shirt pulled up. It’s more than the wad of gum in my open mouth. Truly, it’s my expression. Sure, the sun was in my eyes, and yet, if you really look, you can see that I’m, as one friend describes me, “indignant.” You can see I’m “feeling or showing anger or annoyance at what is perceived as unfair treatment.” That’s me in a nutshell.

Feminism can bring out anger and annoyance. Any woman who’s been cut off in conversation during a business meeting, telling a joke, or simply chatting knows what I mean. I dislike injustice. And if you’re telling me I’m not equal to you simply because I have a uterus, then I’m going to remain indignant and fight for my right to party.