Occupy Your Emotional Reality


Don't warn the tadpoles!

I just read something on Sience not Fiction that made me think a lot about reality; and so I started thinking about my emotional reality and my lack of ability to accept and live in it and the way I drive myself insane with cyclical feelings and second arrows and whatnot. But in thinking about my emotional reality in the context of basic reality versus virtual reality, I had an epiphany.

If I’m ok with there being a world in which I can control everything, in which my choices don’t need to be second-guessed, in which I am basically able to do, be, say, and make anything I want without affecting anyone else; If I’m ok with everything my virtual self can say and do, then why can’t I accept my brain as MY emotional space. My personal other world where nobody can even see what I’m thinking and feeling, let alone judge it. Where I don’t affect anybody else, and therefore am entitled to everything in that space.

Nothing I feel can ever be wrong.

Nothing I think can ever be wrong.

Nothing I dream can ever be wrong.

Nothing I imagine can ever be wrong.

Nothing I hope can ever be wrong.

Reality in my head is MY reality. Nobody else is allowed to log into my emotional account and alter my world. Only I have the password. If I think it, then it is true for me, period. Nothing anybody says or implies about what I think matters. That’s what they think, and they should keep it to themselves.

It’s ok to be ok when other people aren’t. That’s how I feel and nobody can tell me it’s wrong. They can, however, get the eff off of my emotional lawn.

I will see my world how I want to, and no power in the ‘verse can stop me.

I am the 20%. Cooler.

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Love Me?


  If I had a gentleman caller…

We’d pull over on the highway and go for long walks in the woods, hand in hand. We’d play kickball in the rain with our friends. We’d hide in closets to eat raw cookie dough without being judged. We’d dance in grocery store aisles. He’d be awkward and clumsy and have a goofy smile and a Xander-esque sense of humor.

We would cuddle and watch Firefly and Friendship is Magic and Buffy and Top Gear and Monty Python for hours. We would read comics together. He would get all of my pop-culture references and laugh at all my jokes. He would introduce me to the wider world of gaming beyond The Hobbit for Playstation 2, and he wouldn’t judge me for my lack of exposure. We would stay up late reading the internets together. He would fence beautifully and I’d always beat him, but only by one touch. And he wouldn’t mind.

We would be big damn heroes together. There would be plenty of chivalrous punching. There would be a total re-enactment of that episode of Firefly where Mal punches that jerk that called Inara a… woman of easy virtue (but in cruder terms) and then beats him in a fencing duel like a total badass and then there’s that part where he stabs him and says that line about how mercy is the mark of a great man that makes my knees go weak every time.  And we would teach all the bullies out there a lesson. And we would make giant cauldrons of soup and feed everybody who was hungry. And we would mess with all the corporate douches who capitalize on other people’s poverty. And we would go around saving people and sticking it to the Alliance- I mean man. We would be total Robin Hoods. With swords.

His love would give me faith. I would grow strong. I would hold on to the rope of God and I would pray sincerely and fervently all the time. I would believe that my prayers were heard. I would believe that God cared. I would feel love from and for God and all of His creation. I would be grounded, humbled, and one with everything. I would believe in myself. I would believe that I was lovable. I would feel safe and warm and loved and like I belonged. I would be able to sort through all my complexes and fix all my broken parts and be at peace with my whole family. I wouldn’t need to run away from the family mess. He would fix me.

I would be witty and intelligent and better than everyone else at most things. I would be delightful both to look at and to sing with. I would enchant everyone I met with my superhuman kindness and good looks, I would awe them with my strength, inspire them with my wisdom, brighten their lives with my wonderful quips. Birds would help me get dressed in the mornings.

All the boys would want to take me in a manly fashion, because I would be pretty (but I would be loyal to my gentleman). And yet; I would not have to be conventionally effeminate. I would be gallant and brave, I would save lives, I would build things and lift stuff and fix cars. I would throw a football farther than any star quarterback, I would out-fence all the boys. I would be able to do fifty chin ups in one go. I would sucker-punch scumbags for doing scummy things that merit punching. George Bush would have several shiners from me. As would Cheney. And Ahmedinejad. And every jerk who has ever bullied a kid on the playground.

We would climb trees together and sit among the leaves and look at the toy-world below and talk about nothing and everything. We would snuggle up under blankets on snowy afternoons before a fire and read to each other. We would go for walks in the wintry woods and he would give me his coat and I’d give him my mittens. We would watch musicals and mock them but secretly we’d know that there was a void in us that was filled by the spontaneous singing. Sometimes we would pretend we were in a musical and sing songs that applied to our situations.

We would have a bird named Jacques and a cat named Miss Kitty Fantastico. We would eat ice cream for breakfast on rainy mornings. I would wear my dockers to our wedding. And we would adopt and foster tons of kids and give them a real home. We would teach them all to fence and they’d join the bigger family that I’ve found in fencing. We would have an old volkswagen bus and we’d call her Serenity. We would help people for a living and I would write revolutionary comic books, comics that redefined the medium forever, and donate all the profit to charity.

I would have my own home. If I had a gentleman-caller.

UPDATE: So, wrong pronouns, same wistfulness.

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I Want the Fire Back


Prologue My dear gentle-readers, My mundane existence has been shamefully un-publiscized as of late, and for that, I say, you’re welcome. Unfortunately, my therapeutic writing sessions are now back with a vengeance. To those of you who are groaning and closing their browser windows, I offer my sincere condolences, and I say, live long and suck it. I’m back. Live with it. Have a nice day. There are other things on the internet- believe me, I understand. To those of you who are actually reading this, I say, you’re very kind people and you deserve cookies. Ahem. Moving on.
The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.     —Dawn Summers

 

Not to carry its weight on your shoulders, not to escape it, not to save it, but simply to live in it. To accept your impotence and watch the cruel juxtaposition of suffering and opulence all around you and do what you can and be okay because you really and truly believe that God is taking care of us. You believe it, even as you look out and see genocide and hunger and war and poverty and Jersey Shore and are completely powerless. Thanks, but I’d much rather go on carrying this cross down this lonely winding country road and screw the chiropractor because this backache is nothing compared to the heartache of being utterly powerless in the face of injustice. But maybe, one day, when I grow up… I’ll be brave enough, strong enough, to lay down my burden and trust in God. Someday. Someday when things are better.

But I’ve been mostly happy this summer. Mostly. I’ve pushed my feelings about the mess the world is in to the back of my mind and enjoyed my new upper-middle class spoiled-ness. I fenced as much as possible. And watched Buffy when I couldn’t. And in the few moments where I was forced to be alone with my thoughts, I cried. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that in an imperfect world, all acts of pure goodness are equal. That there is no way to change things in a big way. That I can’t be Buffy. Even Buffy couldn’t really save the world. She could prevent its impending destruction by supernatural forces, but she couldn’t save us from war and poverty and all the natural forces of destruction we create for ourselves. We don’t all have the luxury of living on the Hellmouth where we can use our superpowers to fulfill our need for a sense of purpose every day. Some of us have to be human. Some of us have to go to school or to work and work as hard as we can because maybe, just maybe, we’ll get somewhere and then if we work even harder from that point, we’ll get somewhere better, and maybe, just maybe, when we get there we’ll be able to help someone else. And, as Anya so eloquently says, “we have no purpose that unites us, so we just drift around, blundering through life until we die, which we know is coming, yet every single one of us is surprised when it happens to them. We’re incapable of thinking about what we want beyond the moment. We kill each other, which is clearly insane… and yet here’s the thing. When it’s something that really matters, we fight. I mean, we’re lame morons for fighting, but we do! We never… we never quit.” But do we really never quit? When the cameras are off and we’re out of character and the writers are at home sipping tea and we’re just living our lives, don’t we sometimes give up? Even when it really matters? Isn’t that why the world is and always will be the way it is? Because we’re lame morons for fighting, and we know it. Because we could always be reading the internets instead of striving for some lost cause like idiots. Because that makes more sense.

And just when it seemed all was lost...

But it isn’t about making sense. Being human involves many things, but making sense is not one of them. How do you explain the thrill of fighting for a lost cause? Why is it that when we know we’re going to lose, we take that much more pleasure out of frustrating our opponent? Why does every bead of sweat on his brow feel like a medal, and every touch we score feel like a winning a war and not a battle? (I’m sorry, am I speaking Fencer again?) Humanity is a beautifully twisted thing. You see, we all have this little flickering bit of innocence somewhere deep down inside of us, and when things get really, really bad; when we reach the final battle scene, it leads us out onto the field and arms us with something that is either faith or delusion- but either way it’s frakking powerful. Why should it matter that it takes literal impending doom to ignite the flames of innocence in most of us? Why shouldn’t those of us who can see the urgency of injustice and all the worlds that need saving wield the swords of compassion-albeit clumsily- and take on the whole world?  I may be alone, but as long as I can see suffering around me, I will walk through the gosh-darn fire for my fellow humans, even if all I can save is one measly scrap of happiness for someone else. Even if it means going to grad school.* Which I really do not want to do.

*This is PSAT anxiety talking- I’m thinking way farther ahead than is necessary or possible because I have no tangible goal in sight and that is what caused me to need to write myself this motivational speech. I don’t even know what I’m going to major in yet. Granted, I’m a sophomore in high school. I just don’t know what I’m getting through high school for, exactly. How is this a step farther in the direction of opening a foster home? And high school is not something one can screw up the willpower to get through just for the fancy diploma. It needs to fit into the master plan. But anyway.

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On Bravery


That is all.

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Asberger’s, Attacks-au-Fer, and Innocence Missions


...

It’s funny how exhausting it is to think. Perhaps it’s because to think is to change, because “man is but the product of his thoughts, what he thinks, he becomes;” the exhaustion is caused by the transformation, and like butterflies emerging from cocoons, we must rest and allow our intellectual wings to dry out before taking flight into the fresh realm of possible transformations. (If I sound a little Prousty today, it’s because I’ve been reading and falling back in love with Ray Bradbury, my admiration for whom I cannot begin to express.) Maybe it’s the Nostalgia Conundrum, but my transformations seem to me to be much more like unwrappings than growings or changings, like I’m merely rediscovering what was always there- what was true of myself, and shedding the delusions with which I, confusedly ashamed in my uncertain Pigletishness, attempted to cover it up with. Part of it, of course, is The Circumstances, but, as was wisely pointed out to me this morning by my mum, I am much more in control of them than I would like to think; and it is up to me to break out of my confusion and shame to embrace these truths in all of their, well, truthiness.

The fact of the matter is that The Circumstances have recently culminated and exploded in a great big ugly mess and it’s all over me and this has exposed a whole smorgasbord of things for my carnivorous mind to latch onto and think  (and, more often than not, fret incessantly) about. Perhaps foremost among these things is the knowledge that my best friend (she’s my best friend, I’m probably not hers, but I’m okay with that… I have a unique, Pigletish way of labeling relationships)’s mother thinks she may have mild Asberger’s. This troubled me for very strange reasons. The first thing I thought when I heard this was Why can’t I have Asberger’s, too? I have always admired this friend because of her earnest kindness and because of how… comfortable, happy, and not self-conscious she is. I have always hoped that maybe, because she was older than me (by a little over a year), she had been where I am, and had grown to become the way she is; that I too, might one day be as she is. And here comes someone tearing this hope down around me, telling me that she is able to salvage this innocence- something which by definition cannot be regained, because she has a condition. So I’m just stuck the way I am, self-conscious and afraid and jaded and sad, because I have the right chromosomes or whatever. That’s a crappy deal. Hence the weird jealousy.

This brings me back to the whole self-conciousness thing- which, if you’ll remember, is my personal (and thus very difficult to follow) diagnosis for the symptom of my inexplicable beat-attacks in fencing. Maybe it’s all part of this nervous self-distrust thing that’s causing me to hide the truths of my self; maybe I’m self-conscious and panicky when I fence because I’m ashamed of myself, because I don’t believe I can send my foil straight home, unadorned with trickery or fanciness (which is also why I had so much more trouble with epee when I fenced it on Thursday than the first time I picked one up- the culmination of The Circumstances has magnified and clarified all of this for me), more to the point; I can no longer feel my faith in God, I can no longer let go and really honestly believe that He will make everything okay. I’ve become so horribly jaded, you see- which brings me back to Asberger’s and Innocence.

The answer to everything, as always, is Kimya Dawson. An example of someone with whom I can identify on countless levels, who seems to have experienced considerable suffering, who feels the need to save the world despite recognition of the impossibility, but who, in spite of, or even because of how jaded she is has managed to preserve and regain and cultivate her innocence- to redefine innocence. Like attracts like (not scientifically, of course), and the very fact that we are drawn to innocence means that we still have our own, that maybe it’s not quite as elusive and lost as we thought it was. Because that desire to save the world, to ignore the facts staring you in the face and telling you that you can’t; that’s innocence. The flickering tea-light of ridiculous hope that we shield from the cold winds of reality is what will save us all. Because for all my jealousy, my second thought after hearing about my friend was How dare they call that a weakness?!, and this overwhelming sense of protectiveness swept over me; and I felt that need to shield the tea-light, I felt my own innocence again. Perhaps what I’ve learned from all this thinking- or rather what I’ve become as a result of it- is somebody who, at least way deep down, is able to be truly at peace with herself, self-consciousness and all; and isn’t that exactly what I wanted to be all along?

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@$#%!!!!!!!!!!!


In Which I Do My Best to Tiptoe Around Using Colorful Language In Order to Relieve My Gender-Role-Based Angst

First order of business: Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m done with school for ever and ever—until August… but still, WHEEEEE!!!!!!

Second order of business: Apart from this partial ecstatic joy, I’m experiencing some angst about which I will write today. How can I write an angsty post when I just got out of school for the summer, you ask? Because I’m listening to Depresstival while I do it, of course. And who is this Depresstival character, you ask? Why she is only yet another reason for me to spend all day every day on the youtubes. She’s a lovely, angsty, depressing girl with a beautiful voice and wonderful writing talent and also the ability to make practically anybody depressed and angsty and never want to stop being depressed and angsty because they don’t want to stop listening to her sing. She is satan! Anyway, I’ll be cured of this by Thursday when I go to fencing.

Third order of business: I apologize for the decline in eloquence and coherence- quality in this post because I tend to decrease in coherency (is that even a word?) when I feel so strongly about something that I don’t have the discipline to take myself down a notch; so, anyway, bear with me. WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS MATERIAL THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR VIEWERS WITH A NEED FOR INTELLIGENT WORDING OF THOUGHTS.

Fourth Order of Business: I promise to write about things that are a bit more interesting to persons of the male variety (I no talk pink in next post, for those of you that need a translation *wink*) in my next post. Like fencing!!!!!!!! I actually wanted to make a post detailing some of the conditioning and drill stuff that we do at practice because I’m terrible at describing physical things like that and… anyway, it’s useful for fencers and other athletes as well and if you don’t fence, well, you should. And also other things, too. Manly things, like My Little Pony- I hope the bronies out there will appreciate my Fluttershy clip, by the way. Anyway, so that’s what’s coming up over the cyber-horizon in the next few weeks- for those of my imaginary friends who I like to pretend actually care about this.

And now to plunge right into the depths of my enraged psyche:

It’s horribly selfish, but the societal issue that urinates me off the most right now is the image of femininity that is presented to and expected of girls today. I know I should be madder about starving children and girls who can’t go to school without getting acid thrown in their faces and whatnot, but right now, this is what I’m angry about. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I watched an episode of What Not to Wear followed by Say Yes to the Dress as per the request of a certain conventionally effeminate sibling of mine yesterday. I usually hate watching What Not to Wear because it’s just so painfully frivolous and because every single woman that goes on the show is re-arranged to adhere perfectly to this image of The Perfect Pretty Girl. I hate how they embarrass these poor women who simply don’t spend six hours in front of the mirror because they just don’t give a flying frakk whether the cloth (I wrote the word drapings here and that dotted red line appeared under it and one of the spelling suggestions was droppings- just had to say that because I haven’t grown out of poo-poo jokes yet) drapery on their bodies accentuates their best physical assets (or arses). I hate how they act like these things define a person. And what really, really, really infuriates me is how the standards for a woman’s attractiveness are oppressive to her- exhibit A: high heels are painful and I doubt that wearing them on a daily or even weekly basis is any healthier than wrapping your feet or neck in metal, not to mention you can’t do shit(ake mushrooms) in them.  I hate the fact that women are supposed to go through all of this stupid frakking poo to make themselves “appealing”, to wear clothing and makeup and pay for operations that are useless and paralyzing and uncomfortable  and dangerous and time-consuming in order to be considered attractive; while men are allowed to wear clothes that they, personally, like and enjoy wearing for their own sake and not because they’re expected to- comfy T-shirts with sarcastic or offensive remarks on them, sneakers, jeans.

I understand that some girls believe they actually enjoy wearing conventionally effeminate clothing and going through all of that excrement, but- and I don’t care what you say about this- they don’t really. Women do these things because they believe that if they don’t, they’re ugly, unnatural, not feminine. And it irritates the hay out of me. Why can’t we look at a woman who doesn’t cake chemicals onto her face or fork out thousands to have her ta-tas embiggened or turn herself into a sex robot and think, she’s pretty— no, not even that, why can’t we just think, she’s a person. Not God, she should wear lipstick, or What is that ungodly growth on her face, she should cover that up, or she has a nice figure, it’s a pity she doesn’t show it off more, or she probably thinks she’s better than me ’cause she’s so pretty- what a meanie. NOOOOO!!!!!! Girls are people. Why can’t we just look at each other as people who have thoughts that are almost always much more interesting than what we look like, and interact with each other on that level? Why it it just ok for men to require all of this shi(r)t out of a potential partner? I mean, I don’t ask guys to go out and have their thingies injected to be made bigger, or that they learn to walk on stilts or whatever- I mean if guys work out to be attractive that’s fine, it’s actually good for them, and they usually genuinely enjoy it- I know I do, because I do it to be a better fencer and because I like feeling tough and I imagine I’m not the only one who does. Anyway, you’re probably wondering what sparked this little outburst of mine. Wave hello to public enemy number one, everybody: Rima Freaking Fakih.

I’m just so frakking sick of seeing girls all around me buy into this shet(land pony), and torture themselves with needing to look like a cardboard cutout and feeling insignificant… and you know when I say I sometimes feel like I should have something to show for every inch of my being? Well, it’s because of this, the Rima effect, as it will be known henceforth, this thing that tells me that if I don’t look like a fantasy goddess I have to compensate for every physical imperfection with some sort of accomplishment or virtue, and..and I just want to stab something repeatedly!!!!! If I wasn’t sick as a dog (oh, yeah, that’s another reason I’m not reeling in exuberance at the fact that it’s the last day of school) I’d go to fencing and actually try to hit everyone for the first time just because I’m so pee-peed off!!!!!!!!Allow me to explain. I have actually lived among Arab girls. I’m sorry, but the Arab world is just a toxic environment to raise an adolescent girl in. Toxic. (Before you read the rest of this, understand that this does not mean that there are not wonderful, empowered, strong Arab girls who have managed to rise above all of the  stupid societal pressures to become interesting, real, three-dimensional individuals; or that I didn’t meet them. I am blessed to have had some wonderful friends over there who I dearly miss and who did just that- it’s just that it’s not right that they should have to deal with any such pressures.) Women can’t frakking drive their own cars. The fascinating thing about modern Arab culture is the juxtaposition of two extremes: the hyper-repressed, hyper-traditionist-puritan-zealot-ized, hyper-religious-ized facade, and behind it, the hyper-westernized, uber-sexualized, spoiled, rich, drunken, rebellious underground. This is toxic. There’s no other word for it. The girls I knew were torn between these two oppressive extremes, and when forced with the choice, what teenage girl wouldn’t choose the latter? So they become sex objects, laboring under the delusion that they are being independent, liberated, modern. It’s frakking depressing. And now along comes Miss Rima F**k-mih (like my dirty little pun there? And yes, I switched up the cutesy little sound-alike this time), and tells these broken girls that yes, you, too, can and should be proud of the fact that you mean absolutely nothing more to the world than this does: 

Anyway, so today we learned that girl+ crown = ground beef. Class Dismissed. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about how I wish I was an elf.

UPDATE: This post at the Mary Sue expresses all this and more much more intelligently: http://www.themarysue.com/looking-for-a-few-good-chells/

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Flames, Heroes, and Kindred Spirits of Old Lang Sine


A post at The Mary Sue on the significance of childhood cartoon crushes inspired me to post about some of my own old flames- and what I learned from them. Of course, I couldn’t neglect my childhood heroines (and the only reason Mariel isn’t in this, by the by, is because I’ve already dedicated an entire post to her) and what it was about them that inspired me. A couple are from books (because I’m a nerdy no-fun bookworm), but to be loyal to the Mary Sue I tried to stick mainly to cartoon characters.

He is dreamboat, no?

Flame No. 1: Fievel from An American Tail
As you know, I have a soft spot for mice. Something about the David up against Goliath motif (one of my favorite motifs) that they’re really great at illustrating. And they’re just so darn cute! An American Tail was my favorite movie for much longer than was developmentally appropriate, and this was mostly because I had the hots for Fievel. I won’t say that Tony didn’t ever make my heart go all fluttery (was it the accent?), but he was an older man, and he was too much of a rogue and philanderer for my tastes. Fievel taught me to be resourceful and hopeful and brave, and that second-generation Russian accents are very sexy indeed- even when your voice won’t change for a good many more years.

Come on, don't say you haven't thought about it.

Flame No. 2: Christopher Robin

I must confess that the theme song from The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh does not cease to make me well up unashamedly- and this is coming from someone who has never ever cried over a movie (not even when it was that time of the month). I laughed much more gleefully than is probably really healthy at the end of the notebook (what can I say, they were stupid and it was about time). I’m just saying, I do not cry at the drop of a hat. But I loved this show. And I dare you to watch The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh
without falling in love with Christopher Robin. I mean he’s just so nice and innocent and fun and smart and lovely! He taught me to be nice to my animals and to be happy and to just plain enjoy my childhood, and he still makes me all achy.

 

He has a sword.

Flame No. 5: Edmund from the Chronicles of Narnia

He has a sword. He has a sword. He has a sword. He has a sword. He has a sword. Also, he has a sword. Oh, yeah, and he has a sword. But look at how awesome and kick-ass he looks with his sword(s)!!! I hated him in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but came to forgive and gradually to fall for him in the later books (I am talking about the books, regardless of the fact that the picture is a movie screenshot- but I’ll admit the actor is something of a heartthrob- especially because he has a SWORD!!!!) He showed me that It was Ok to make mistakes- even huge ones, and that in fact that they can make one stronger if one learns from them and decides to grow rather than wallow in guilt and shame. He taught me to be loyal and strong and brave and caring and forgiving of oneself as well as others; and he taught me that I don’t need to have something to show for every square inch of my being in order to feel comfortable in my own skin. Plus also he has a sword.

Yes, I do have a thing for the scrawny underdog in oversize winter clothing type.

Flame No. 5: Arthur from Disney’s Sword in the Stone

The Sword in the Stone was another one of my very favorite childhood movies. I love Arthurian legend and wizards and… what’s that other thing? Oh yeah, SWORDS!!! Arthur was just so dreamy- in his scrawny, shy, clumsy, goofy way. And he taught me that the things you have the potential to become will surprise even- especially- you. He showed me never to shy away from leadership because you think you’re not worth it- that it’s something you have the duty to accept when it’s granted to you (unfortunately, I am yet to take this lesson to heart- or to meet anyone foolish enough to grant me a leadership position).

And now for my Heroines.

Heroine No. 1: Mulan.

1. She’s a frakking badass.

She is lighting a cannon with a dragon's breath. That's frakkin' awesome.

2. She’s a frakking badass.

3. She’s a frakking badass.

4. She’s a frakking badass.

5.She’s a frakking badass.

Also, she was a misfit like me- a failure at the role in which she was placed, but a hero when she was allowed to choose her own. She was quirky and clumsy and awkward and a tomboy- when it was precisely the wrong time and place to be one – just like me.  She had a firm sense of justice, and she risked everything just because she was doing what was right. She worked her butt off, even when it seemed like she was hopeless and would never be able to compete with the others. But she persevered and ended up playing with the boys- better than the boys. She was smart and creative and funny and kind and positively everything I’ve ever wanted to be. (And I could fly higher than an eagle, ’cause she is the wind…)  This movie was yet another of the staples of my early childhood. And adolescence. And I watch it on a monthly basis still.

Heroine No. 2: Pepper Ann

I loved this show as a child, and I’m proud to say that this was precisely the type of teenager I wanted to be, and it is precisely the type of teenager I have become. I loved how absent-minded and imaginative and geeky and cool she was. She taught me that I was special and lovable and cool just the way I was.

Coolest Little Girl To Grace the Earth

Heroine No. 3: Pippi Longstocking

Pippi Longstocking is Pippi Longstocking. ‘Nuff said.

"The dorsal fins allow for ease of movement, duh!"

Heroine No. 4: Tish Katsufrakis & Lor MacQuarrie

Ok, so I watched and loved the Weekenders. I was a nineties kid. And I miss those cartoons. Tish and Lor were the embodiments of my two major personality facets: the tomboy and the nerd girl. They rocked. And they showed me that I was awesome and that being a person with a personality and unconventional tastes and sensibilities did not make me any less of a girl, and that I should embrace the things that make me different.

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