7 Ways to Be the Best American

As many of you may already know, I’m a short, round, brown Rican dyke queermo who runs around the Bronx trying to hug all the people and dismantle the patriarchy. But as of late, it seems like this type of living just isn’t conducive to being the Best American. In fact, many of the issues in my life seem to stem from the fact that how I live is in complete opposition to what my country really wants from me and for me. Every time I turn around, something so terrible is happening to someone who lives and/or looks like me and I feel helpless to stop it. Protestors are sent to jail or murdered. Riots have been turned into American Express and Wal-Mart commercials disguised as parades. Starving hard working people are stripped of food stamps and the minimum wage is literally a number that reminds you of how minimal your importance is to this country. So I’m here thinking aka wasting my time because I should be working at a shitty job bc America and I’m like well ‘how should I live to best suit my country?’ Thank God for all the news stories that helped create this list. Here are the gems I came up with:

7 Ways to Be the Best American

1 – Walk Around with A Semi-Automatic Weapon AT ALL TIMES.

There may be people darker than me that I need to shoot at because they may cough or act like a human being in my presence. And there may be white people that need protection and hopefully they’ll have guns too in case I get out of line.

or better yet, a device where bullets come right out of my breasts which would also keep me from breast-feeding

or better yet, a device where bullets come right out of my breasts which would also keep me from breast-feeding

2 – Grow Out My Hair.

Right now my hair is an unacceptable length of DYKE. It makes people uncomfortable and keeps me from being accepted as a woman. Obvs, MY FAULT. So time to let it grow and grow and grow until I can ride on it into the arms of an awaiting man.

3 - Never Run for Office of Any Kind, Esp If I Go to An Elite Prep School Intended for White & Wealthy Legacy Male Heirs

If I’m lucky enough to be given a scholarship to an elite prep school or if somehow by the Grace of White Jesus, my family makes enough money to send me to an elite prep school, I should sit my brown ass down, be quiet, and give all mighty head to the privileged white males at said school otherwise I deserve to be humiliated and stripped of the position I earned fair and square.

4 – OBVS Give Up Lesbianing

What I really need to succeed is a man. Also, in my heterosexual relationship we should follow very strict gender rules. Queerness makes it so that I’m confused about my needs as a woman because there isn’t a hetero man telling me what to do.

finally, a billboard telling me how to live RIGHT from the Bible.

finally, a billboard telling me how to live RIGHT from the Bible.

5- Live by the motto: THINSPIRATION

Being overweight is GROSS and keeps men from wanting to stick their favorite body parts inside of me. Also, when losing weight I need to document it on social media and use hashtags that promote anorexia. In fact, I should try and catch a disease like mono or cancer or develop an addiction to heroin so that I can be thin and happy and not have to deal with FAT BITCHES calling me out on my instagram.

6 – Have all the Babies FOREVER

Since the only reason any of us engage in sex, and by us, I mean women because obvs men will be men and they can’t control themselves and will have sex all the time whenever they want and never use contraception or care about the age of consent or consent at all, is to give birth and create life, then why would anyone ever need birth control? Stupid feminazis and their birth control that’s what PRAYER is for. derp.

oh please let this be my uterus one day

oh please let this be my uterus one day

7- Become a corporation.

The world definitely DOES NOT need more women. In fact on a scale of one to ten, one being a blade of grass and ten being a corporation, women fall right in between a place to ejaculate and a sandwich maker. It’d be better for American if I just denied my personhood and became a corporation.

 

Whew, I think that almost covers it? Seven is a good number, you know, day of rest and whatnot. Wouldn’t want to wear out my very fragile woman-brain. Please, help me come up with more ways to be a better American!

 

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because angie said so

i’m home and i’m writing all day, by myself in the crib, like what are humans? i’m rewriting and editing this novel i’ve been working on for almost four years.

maybe even longer, give or take some periods of inactivity. life has thrown me some wicked curve balls, like hit, knocked into the stands, only to be deemed foul type of shit.

i can’t be any more specific just yet. let’s just say i have mad time on my hands now.

but i’ve got a book contract. a finalized version of this novel, complete with edits from my editor/publisher, is due at the end of this summer. so that’s something right? none of this feels real tho. i feel like i’m working hard and not moving fast enough.

i’m trying to get myself on a schedule. i’m trying to make it feel make or break because it is. why is it so hard for me to feel the burn? like right now, this book contract is all i have. it’s the only concrete connection to the real world that my personal writing, my almost artistry has to the world of functioning adults. can i finish this work?

— besides autostraddle, which is why i’m forever taking time to write good shit for my autofam —

the framework of the novel is complete and i’ve been told by some people, trusted authors, that it could be published right now. but my editor and i think it needs some extra layers, some real life complicated depth, and all my ideas for how to do that, all the things i’d feel wracked without adding are in alignment with what the publisher wants. so it’s all good right?

maybe. i feel like i’m writing in circles, in the dark, and what is the fucking point anyway?

isn’t someone like me supposed to drown?

i feel like everything i write is shit. then i have these moments where everything i write feels like gold and rainbows and i just wanna print it out and run around the block screaming in the hood READ ME MOFOS.

what is this wave? what is this wave when you’re all alone? no wonder so many writers drink and pop pills and smoke like mad because this is maddening.

i have to get this done. i don’t know how people write things, write books, get things finished. i’ve seen it so why am i still writing this one novel? i have friends that turn out a book a year or a book every other year and they make their lives as writers. they speak and write and read and tour and that’s the life i want. with some time to make movies too.

i used to dream so hard and so big. i used to believe that anything was possible but i just don’t know. life is cruel and hard and weird.

i only feel powerful on the mountain.

but i was spilling these guts out to some friends. specifically to vanessa martir and angelique imani. they were kind enough to listen to my self-deprecating, embarrassingly dark feelings of pointlessness and angie was just like:

put those feelings on your blog and get them out of your soul and then go work on your shit.

at this moment, angie is at VONA and so is vanessa, they’re worshipping at the altar.

so i’m just going to listen to them and to my girl and push forward, push past all my doubt and do this thing.

i can haz a book published?

yes, yes i can haz that.

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what is the universe?

stella

laid in bed last nite with the sweetest human in the world and talked about the universe. so many of my conversations start there, i mean where else should they start? we’re all fucking molecules buzzing around looking for light and oxygen, right. like that’s just pure science. SCIENCE. haha i can’t even say the word science with a serious face. i don’t know a damn thing about science. i passed it in high school cuz i’m charming and i always knew how to hang with the smarties. but when i think about life and when it bogs me down, when rape culture, hate culture, race politics and all these other things wear out my flesh, i just think about the universe.

i asked her if she believed if the universe operated with morality. do the things that happen in nature occur with a universal sense of good vs evil? or is it all just happening because movement and creation push onward because there’s nowhere else to go? do our life plans even matter? i asked her all these questions in my rambling, crooked smile kind of way. she held my hand. we stared up at my blue ceiling. i pretended that it was the galaxy and that we were gliding on love energy through the atmosphere. that’s what talking to her is like. her hands are smaller than mine. they whisper to me without words like the way constellations trade the secrets of existence. and like always, i was off and running, answering my question to her because I can’t ever sit still and wait. ‘the universe must be amoral. we apply hope and rage to its actions for explanation, right? like am i crazy?’ still she was quiet, still she held my hand, thank god because sometimes i feel like i’d slip off the planet without an anchor.

how can anything matter? like truly really matter, if we’re all just going to fucking die. most of us poor as hell, dead in some violent or sickening kind of way, most of us drowning in bills, living in a society where those that make the most hate those of us who can barely make ends meet. i run through life with a big ass welcoming smile on my face waiting for the rest of the world to meet me half way. i wonder about the vastness of the universe and what the point of all of this. i feel like most people subconsciously have babies so that they can believe in a future and give their life some sort of tangible purpose. that’s cool with me but if everyone shut up and disappeared the earth would keep on keepin’ on. so like what is the point?

i say all these things in that order, in that type of jumbled seussical way trying to explain the disconnect. she is quiet. she rubs my arm. fingertips along forearm, along soft brown flesh. she wanders me without moving any other limbs. she stills me. we are quiet in the sea of deep blue, surrounded by walls that have seen me take my first steps. i wonder how this human is in my bed. did the universe do this for kicks? or does it believe in love?

she knows that if she stays quiet enough, i’ll tell her all of my truth. she knows that if she’s quieter still, her truth will find mine. how does she knows those things? she says that the universe isn’t amoral. its existence hinges on balance, on stabilizing the equity of creation. she says that we are the only creatures that haven’t figured out how to balance and center our lives around making sure that all things are equal. the universe is focused on making sure that nothing tips over, that for every bird there is a tree and that every speck of dirt is accounted for and ready to be the foundation of life. i paraphrase her words because i couldn’t catch them in my hands. she was holding them.

i broke the hold, clapped my hands together. what about chaos? what about volcanic eruptions? what about a bus hitting you on the way to work? what about the inexplicable and horrific occurrences? what about the bad things? that shit is amoral. that is the universe saying “see all the fucks i don’t give”? i’m relentless, focused on this point. i know she will have to agree with me. right?

i write this and her song comes on my spotify and somehow she’s here as i write, even though i know her ass is at work.

Ai Se Eu Te Pego…

she doesn’t agree with me. she takes my hands back. what about chaos? even chaos is the manifestation of the universe’s need to balance out the world and our actions. just like us, the universe isn’t just pure movement, pure physicality. it isn’t just a combination of molecules and gas and all the things your brain imagines that it is. you’re ignoring the spirit. you’re forgetting that everything has a soul. the universe has a soul. you are a part of that, ms. rivera.

who is this creature in my bed pulling apart the galaxy and showing me its veins?

in some stories, lucifer was an angel with a tortured conscious who couldn’t handle God having all the power and knowing all the answers. i hold her hand and think about the soul of the universe. can i believe in that with her? maybe lucifer just didn’t know how to talk to god, maybe they should have held hands.

we gotta believe in something. frank ocean sings it and i believe it. his voice makes me think of her skin and the way she curls up into my back late at nite. she is the reason i sleep to dream. i owe it to myself to believe in the possibility that the universe has a soul.

 

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