Wokesday: It’s Going to be Okay.

Lyfers.

It’s really, really important that you remain calm.

Now is the time that we need to advocate on behalf of others.

If you are white, you need to advocate for people of color.
If you are a man, you need to advocate for women.
If you are straight, you need to advocate for those who aren’t.
If you are cis, you need to advocate for trans.
If you are able-bodied and neurotypical, then you need to advocate for people who are not.
Advocate for veterans.
Advocate for the elderly.
Advocate for children in the foster system.
Advocate for yourself.

This is deeply, deeply disappointing. But this has not occurred in a vacuum.

We have to make this matter. We have to.

Please, please remember that we still exist, and there are still people who love you.

Fuck, if you have no one else, I’ll do it. I love you.

In the words of a dear friend of mine: We are going to make this okay.

I love you all,
Buttnana

Wokesday: You Need to Handle Yourself

Mama’s upset again, Lyfers. AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.

*soft crying*

Kidding. Let’s hit the ground running on this turd pile, shall we?

OMG What Happened, Buttnana?
GIRL. ARE YOU SITTING DOWN. God I need to reel it back. Actually, I don’t. This was pretty supremely fucked up.

I had a friend visiting from out of town (let’s call him Trevor), and a mutual friend of ours decided to throw a sort of chill kickback at his place. I, personally, was not a fan of the host (let’s call him Dusty). He always shoulder punched me in high school and referred to me as a bro. And as bro-y as I can be…not actually a dude. So…maybe…don’t fucking hit me?

And, honestly, I should have just turned around and left when I showed up and there were two people there: Dusty and someone who tried to date me in middle school. I didn’t, though. I wanted to see my friend, you know? After some small talk that consisted mostly of me playing with Dusty’s three giant dogs, Trevor showed up weee!

Almost immediately, it got weird. It takes longer to make a hot pocket than it did for my night to turn to shit.

Dick Parade
Shortly before Trevor even arrived, this whole trash fire was just primed for awkwardness. Dusty, in what I can only imagine was a desperate attempt to look cool, decided to show me all of his tattoos. And he had like…three big pieces? A different guest, not to be outdone I guess, showed me all of his tattoos.

Okay cool so I didn’t ask about anyone’s ink…why are these dudes stripping to show me their bodies. Why. Ew. Ew ew ew. I hadn’t seen either of them in seven years and my first introduction to both of them is “LOOK AT THESE PARTS OF MY NAKED BODY.”

So this was my life.

Photo credit

It only got worse when from there. Because Dusty started drinking. A lot. And he did a lot of real cringey shit like:

1. Stop playing Cards Against Humanity to brag about the Pokemon he’d caught in Pokemon Go. In an unironic way.
2. Stop playing Cards Against Humanity again to talk about how big his dick was. I’m not kidding. I cannot make this up.
3. Make a note of mentioning how his wife (who was traveling at the time of the incident) didn’t want me at the party.
4. Mention how much money he makes. Like, putting a specific number on it.

I just.

Photo credit

It was about this time that he started making pretty sloppy passes at me. Like calling me beautiful over and over again. And draping himself all over me when I was trying to talk to another guest. Just…hands everywhere. Gross. So gross. I brushed him off and didn’t give it any more attention than that.

So Dusty, embarrassed, drunk, and impotently angry…decided to try and hurt me.

Wait. I’m Sorry. What?
You read me right. He was mad that I wasn’t into his unwanted paws being all over my beautiful temple of a body so he tried to hurt me.

How?

Not by shoving me, or saying mean things. No no. Worse:

He rolled up to Trevor, who has been my good friend for over ten years, and told Trevor that I was going to kick his ass. And is he going to let me dominate him like that? Is he going to let me just walk all over him like that? Is he just going to let me do that? Trevor has me by nine inches and fifty pounds, but that doesn’t matter. I didn’t actually say anything to Trevor, but that doesn’t matter. Trevor is really kind and would never hurt anyone, let alone ME of all people, but that doesn’t matter either.

Dusty tried to manipulate Trevor into causing me bodily harm. And I had no idea until about a week after the party when speaking to someone else about it.

If Trevor had been a less secure guy…Trevor could have really really hurt me. I’m tiny. There are domesticated house dogs that look me in the eye when they’re on all four legs. Peep holes are usually too high for me. I wear large children’s shirts. The Merman is 5’7″ and his shirts are dresses on me.

Just let that settle in for a second. When you’re sufficiently upset and confused, keep reading.

Yeah No I’m Mad too, Now. What Even?
I was about as shocked and upset as you all might be now. I had lots of questions. Trevor more or less asked Dusty to chill out and  calm himself.

Or, if you’re a Dodgeball fan:

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Dusty then fell apart and confessed that his life is falling apart. Here’s a comprehensive list of all the people who are surprised:

1. No one.

Here’s where I get to my point. The moral of the story, if you will.

My Point
This is going to make me sound a little heartless. Please go here with me for a moment:

I don’t care that his life is falling apart.

I don’t mean I actually don’t care. I see that struggle and I honor it for being a struggle. I know how it feels to feel like everything is crumbling. I have been there. My problem is not with the struggle.

My problem is the way he chose to handle it:

• You don’t see me for a hell of a long time.
• You tell me your wife doesn’t want me there.
• What…do you just…forget you’re married from then on?
• You get way too drunk and hang all over me like the world’s shittiest meat garland.
• You’re actually surprised that I don’t want you.
• You try to get my friend to cause me bodily harm.

Photo credit

So…what? Because Dusty’s life sucks I have to pay for it with my body? Because Dusty is drunk, that excuses him from trying to get my ass beat? Because he thinks I’m pretty, that’s enough for him to do whatever he wants? Because he’s having a hard time, he’s justified in trying to cause me immanent harm? Fuck that. No. Ridiculous. Get it together.

Handle it. He needs to handle it.

What Does that Mean, Buttnana?
Could mean just about anything, really. Find a therapist. Go somewhere beautiful. Find a new hobby. Practice self care. Or, pardon my salt, how about don’t sexually act out with me. How about that.

How about growing up and confronting your feelings. Maybe do that too. Because what happened at that party was 100% unacceptable regardless of the circumstances. That was planned. A virtual stranger planned to cause me harm.

It is never ever okay to intentionally hurt people because you are hurting. I know that’s a hard thing to hear. But it’s not. No one ever says things like:

• Oh I had no idea you liked me. Let me dab off my bloody lip and I’ll hop to that blow job.
• I had no idea you were getting divorced. My mistake. Let me drive myself to the ER and I’ll have them take care of this broken bone.
• Lost your job, you say? Well that explains why you buried this beer bottle in my face. No worries. 🙂 🙂

Why? Because it sounds ridiculous.

So in closing, don’t be that guy. I know it’s hard to handle things. I really do, believe me. But we have to draw a line at violence, be it physical or verbal or emotional. We have to.

Because aside from it being deplorable…it doesn’t even work. Being a dick does not solve the problem.

Go forth, and handle it. I believe in you. The links really are to helpful resources that I myself have used.

See y’all Friday. We’re doing a makeup look so be sure to come back! Stay classy.

❤ Buttnana

 

Wokesday: Mental Autopilot

Happy Hump Day, Lyfers. It’s me. For this segment of Wokesday, I’m talking about what I like to call Mental Autopilot AND, so this blog isn’t one paragraph, about the last time I used it.

The Hell is Mental Autopilot?
Good question that I totally didn’t anticipate! Mental Autopilot is a term I’d like to coin to describe the action of doing certain things without being emotionally invested in them. I don’t mean “emotionally invested” in that bullshit loaded “oh ha ha ha look at how rational I am, with my lack of emotions and huge surplus of pizza rolls, someone please hold me, I’m so alone,” way. I mean it in the “I do not have enough emotional bandwidth to deal with this so I’m just going to mechanically do it,” way.

Mental Autopilot is great for people like me who have shit to do even though their feelings (I like to call them my fee-fees) might not be cooperating that day. It basically guarantees certain things like basic hygiene and cleaning happen even though The Eternal Void of My Unending Despair rages on inside of me.

When Does Mental Autopilot Happen?
It’s different for everyone, which is a real cop-out of an answer. I personally have a hell of a time with transitions because they unsettle me in a way that leads me to question the meaning of life and everything in it like an asshole. And I can’t just not bathe, so I disengage from myself and do it anyway. I’ve also used it for much shorter periods of time like when:

• Making a phone call.
• Answering a phone call.
• Paying my bills.
• Cleaning bathrooms.
• Talking friends off the ledge.
• Going to medical appointments.
• Dealing with grieving people.
• Not punching my great Uncle into next year when he once grabbed and squeezed my thigh at a family gathering.
• Breaking up with someone.
• Writing papers in college.
• Checking my grades.

See how some of those things are big, and some are small? Well, all of those things have two things in common: they made me very, very anxious, and they were unavoidable. It’s an unstoppable force (life) hitting a soft and sensitive object (me).

So When Was the Last Time you Flipped that Switch, Buttnana?
Two days ago. And I realize what I am about to tell you is sad and morbid and uncomfortable. So I’m coping with humor again. Content notice: death of a pet.

The Scene: I had roughly 48 hours notice to fly somewhere (yes I made it safely). I had a couple things planned for my week that I had to do all in one day as a result. And I had some  personal stuff go awry at the same time because when it rains, it pours.

I was sleeping at 9AM when the doorbell rang. I answered it to see my neighbor. Who was crying. Hysterically. Why? One of their cats had been run over and, unfortunately, had died. They needed my help moving the cat from the street because I am more able-bodied than they.

Monday morning and I had to help my neighbor move a body. *beep boop* Mental Autopilot engaged.

I went outside and immediately locked myself out of the house with no shoes, no bra, no phone. Excellent.

Between the two of us it took a hot second to retrieve a plastic bag for the cat because we were both hobbling over the asphalt.

Plastic bag in hand, I limped back to my house to grab a piece of wood to move the cat and promptly stepped in a pile of shit. Awesome. Me neighbor was still crying and trying to put their other cats in the house. And their dogs were just. Fucking. Barking. Unending borks forever. I felt like I was in one of those war scenes where someone’s numbly making their way through death and destruction everywhere except there was only one death and one-and-a-half destroyed people.

Between the sharp-ass asphalt and the morning dew on the grass my feet were already numb when I knelt next to the cat in the street. Not a gruesome death, but a death nonetheless. The wood I’d grabbed was too thick. Useless. I could feel my neighbor watching me, though, so I couldn’t like, make it look like I was trying not to touch the corpse of their friend. What kind of asshole would that make me?

So instead of pausing to think about how fucking ridiculous this whole situation was, Mental Autopilot empowered me to say a little prayer for the kitty because she was my neighbor’s good friend, and gently lift her into the bag with my bare Buttnana hands.

My neighbor was still inconsolable when I limped back to them, trying to keep the smeary, bloody side of the bag facing behind me. And it was so, so morbidly surreal how heavy that bag was. I never thought of cats being anything but weightless, you know?

We had to hide the body from their young daughter. Because what’s moving a body without hiding it, right? Well, while they were unlocking the gate, I heard one of my dogs give a mighty operatic wail because he could hear me, but couldn’t see me and he didn’t like that. I said, “Oh I know, Slob,” which is a well-known and loved nickname for this little guy:

And my neighbor…I shit you not…stopped crying to say “Oh I know, my back yard is a mess.”

I’m sorry.
What did I just hear?

MY NEIGHBOR THOUGHT I WAS CALLING THEM A SLOB. OH MY GOD. Like I took that moment to really kick them while they were down. Like it was in any way appropriate for me to remark on the condition of their back yard at that moment. We were moving a fucking body, not hosting a garden party.

I was mortified and my hurried reassurances that I was talking to my dog did nothing to undo the dark solidity of that moment. Holy shit.

We secreted the body where it would be safe from the dogs, because there’s nothing more morbid than that thought, right? “Yeah no I don’t know where the cat is but it has nothing to do with what the dogs just ate.”

I helped them corral their other cats into the house. So I touched a dead cat before I touched live cats that day, which is weird to think about.

My neighbor let me call my brother to let me back in the house. But not before I stepped in a second pile of shit. Bruh.

Mental Autopilot: When you just need to do The Thing. You can always drink about it later.

Anywho
I’ll see you lovelies Friday! I have some tutoring to do before then. Wanna tell me about your experiences with Mental Autopilot? Go for it.

Love always,
Buttnana

 

 

 

Wokesday: The Master Debater

Good day, Lyfers. It’s Buttnana. Welcome to the first installment of Wokesday. The hell is Wokesday? It’s the Wednesday segment where I briefly discuss some aspect of social interaction. The key word in that last sentence is “briefly” because my goal is to give y’all the quick and dirty about a Buttnana observation.

Today’s Wokesday topic is the Master Debater. Who are they? What do they do? Most importantly (my favorite point), why is it important to not be this person?

What in the Hell is a Master Debater?
Glad you asked. The Master Debater is a person who takes it upon themselves to open debate-like discourse where none was invited. Or, if philosophy-talk tickles your fancy, the Master Debater sees a phenomenological argument (where someone describes a thing that has happened), has an old-timey conniption fit for whatever reason, and turns it into an analytic one (where every component of an experience has to be logically sound in order for it to be admissible to them).

Okay, so what the Hell does that Mean, Buttnana?
Don’t worry, fam. I got choo. Buckle in, because mama is lowkey super pissed but copes with humor.

The Master Debater thinks everything is up for debate, all the time, because they love science and skepticism and they’re warriors for the truth.

The Master Debater misuses logical fallacies while also being one big giant walking logical fallacy.

The Master Debater loves rationality above all else. Their rationality is deeply and problematically biased, but they called it rationality so they get to occupy a place of intellectual neutrality/epistemological invisibility.

The Master Debater tells YOU to calm down in an argument. They know full well that that’s never worked. They just want you to get upset so they can continue to use the +3 Shield of Self-Defined Rationality.

The Master Debater makes you educate them. Always. They can’t be bothered to Google anything. The Belle Jar did an incredible piece on this phenomenon.

The Master Debater asks rhetorical, intellectual questions about someone’s lived emotional experiences and doesn’t realize how profoundly insensitive and inappropriate that is.

The Master Debater loves to be the Devil’s Advocate as though they and the Devil are good buddies that help each other out of a jam every once in awhile.

The Master Debater does what I like to call the Shitlord Bait and Switch. Observe this faithfully paraphrased example:
MD: Does philosophy have a woman problem? Or do women have a philosophy problem?
Me: I think philosophy has a woman problem. I am a woman who has studied philosophy. I have lived experience in that area. Talk to other women in philosophy and see what they think.
MD: I just wonder if women have a philosophy problem.
See how they asked a question about a group they weren’t part of, then ignored that person entirely when they ventured an answer? It’s because they didn’t want an actual answer. They wanted to be the Criss Angel of rhetoric and flex their Master Debater skills.

The Master Debater wants you to reinforce their worldview through the lens of pretending to care about your worldview. You know, like the person who asks you how you’re doing so they can talk about how they’re doing.

The Master Debater’s definition of a “fact” is anything they want to be true. Your lived experience is not a fact. What people have said and done to you is not a fact. What THEY said or did to you is not a fact. However. Anything they can infer from what you’ve said, even if you didn’t say it, is a fact. The mere event of them having that thought qualifies anything they think as a fact. Because they’re the Criss Angel of rhetoric.

The Master Debater is lowkey this person,

but is also, unfortunately, this person,

and then turns into this person later.

The Master Debater isn’t going to like what I said here, then cite the fact that I use humor to make a point to prove my writing is substandard, serves no purpose at all, and then condescendingly suggest that I edit my work a little more 🙂 😉 :).

The Master Debater JAQs off onto every available surface with the frustrated fervor of a mating raccoon.

The Master Debater is going to gaslight the shit out of you. This is super cruel and dangerous, so please be kind to yourself and talk to someone if you’re feeling unsafe.

The Master Debater acknowledges their emotions as valid, but dismisses everyone else’s as frivolous and not necessary to the discussion at hand.

Oh my God, the Master Debater says “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And actually thinks that’s an apology.

The Master Debater, honestly, is a budget-ass lawyer who kicks in the door to your support meeting, turns it into a monster truck rally, blames you for the monster truck rally being loud and destructive, leaves because they can’t handle how emotional you’re being, then posts to reddit how lonely it is at the top and sends pictures of their genitals to people who didn’t ask for them.

The Master Debater is a fucking charlatan. They’re a bunch of god damned frauds, and they know it.

Well, Shit. How do I Not be that Person?
I’m going to give you three really really easy things you can do so as to avoid being the Master Debater.
1. If someone is talking about an experience they’ve had, online or in-person, listen to them.
2. Err on the side of being charitable. The worst that could happen is that you learn something.
3. Remember that there are groups of people who have way different experiences than you do because of their race, class, sex, gender identification, sexual orientation, and/or religion. They might stand in direct conflict with what you think you know to be true. But you need to accept that people’s experiences will differ from yours and that doesn’t necessarily make them not-real or made up.

Aaand that’s all for me today, lovelies. I’m off to enjoy breakfast before I confront my one mortal fear: the dentist. Stay classy. ❤

–Buttnana

P.S. Do you want to hear my thoughts on more stuff? Do you have experience with Master Debaters? Let me know in the comments below.