Queer Bookworm

Sometimes (well, most of the time, really), I feel as though I’m not very remarkable. I made a post a while ago about how there’s always that one person on tumblr who you absolutely adore and you try to talk to them so you can be friends, but it just doesn’t work, and it was reblogged by someone who said that I was that person for them. It astonished me.

What do I have to offer them? I was talking about people who actually contribute things to their fandoms and communities, people who write fic and draw art and create theories and meta and analysis, people who write about queer theory and racism and oppression, people with a single damn original thought in their heads.

What can I do? I write—half-heartedly and never finishing anything. I reblog things—things that other people far more clever than I came up with.

Everything I know about social justice and oppression and feminism and intersectionality, somebody else came up with, and when I find out that what I thought was right is wrong, what I thought was good is bad, I blithely switch perspectives.

I’m not even fucking smart enough to take five seconds and try to think critically about anything. I know a bunch of useless facts, I’m a walking fucking encyclopedia, I absorb knowledge like a sponge, whoop-dee-fucking-doo, that doesn’t make me smart. What’s the use of knowing shit if I don’t even have enough determination and focus to follow through on anything?

And I was thinking the other night about how we supposedly see ourselves as twenty percent less attractive than other people see us, so, well, I must be about a six, or a six point five, seven or seven point five on a good day, and that’s only if I’ve got my hair down and nicely done and Becky’s done my make-up, because fuck if I can do anything besides basic mascara and lipstick myself, because if I think of myself as an eight, that means other people think of me as a ten, and yeah fucking right, like that’d ever happen. Have you even seen my face? I’m not saying I’m ugly, because I know I’m not, but it’s nothing special. It’s just… there.

And jesus christ, I’m insecure (this post aside, and honestly, I don’t think what I’m saying is entirely baseless). I’m always afraid of annoying people, even people who love me and who’ve said before that I’d never annoy them. And I’m bitchy and lazy and so easily distracted it’s not even fucking funny. I’m not kidding about being bitchy, either, I can be absolutely horrible to my youngest sister. Fucking hell, it’s a wonder I ever had any friends at all.

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You know, all I want right now, is An Adventure. A Magical Adventure where I can go to some Magical Land and Fight Evil and Do Good and Learn Things and be a Big Damn Hero, and even when that particular Adventure is done, I could still go back to that Magical Land any time I wanted, any time that the real world got to be just too much, and I could switch between them with No Time Lost. But until that happens, I suppose I’ll just have to settle for the kinds of Magical Adventures that I can set down on paper and dream about.