The Pleasure Principle

March 26, 2016 § Leave a comment

I’m in a very ballsy aggressive mood currently. In the present minute, in the best possible way. I always change through the seasons. I can recount the differences in my character, my outlook, my abilities and even my appearance as vastly different when comparing Winter Maghan to Summer Maghan. I always look forward to my Summer self. Obviously, I’m a narcissistic bitch so I’ll confirm that, of course I know how mood etc. etc. is affected by season (Finland’s high suicide rate in Winter without any sunlight, but look it fucking up yourselves, there’s Google kids).

My insomnia’s starting to get a wee bit worse, increasingly so. I’m starting to feel things stronger, instead of the sluggish whiny boring thoughts that tend to invade my winter brain. I’m not even in a good mood right now per se, but I’d much rather be angry if I’m in a pejorative state of mind rather than sad and self-pitying.

I have a few things I know I need to write about. I have them written down in some notebooks, and yes, yes, I will. I will incorporate some of them into this post, but will write according to each in detail when I have more time.

Currently, however, let’s discuss a few issues I’m having with the penises of the population as well as the scummy men who possess them who claim they are just incapable of controlling their urges and attractions. (I’ll clarify that I’m generalizing and including the entire male population, just a select few at the moment, but let me vent okay)? Before I start going into more detail about the specific injustices I’ve just recently been faced with regarding all of this, I would like to say to all of the men who use this bullshit as an excuse, as well as outside parties who reinforce that men can’t control themselves, basically placing the blame on us women (or men, but right now I’m talking selfishly about my own gender) for wearing certain clothing, acting or looking a certain way, and to be honest, just being ourselves and being a member of the female community, that if that’s your go-to, you are all pathetic and weak. Not being able to control yourselves, not being able to use your brain (or just saying you can’t to get your way) to make logical choices over your biological urge to stick it in any of us, is sad. So fuck you. Unfortunately of course, this idea is condoned far too often, so it’s not seen in this way by general consensus. And usually, the fault and the punishment is laid on the women, no fault of their own.

The Jian Ghomeshi trial verdict was issued this past Thursday. I expected the verdict unfortunately, despite having very mixed and emotional feelings in regards to it as well (maybe more so) toward the opinions and musings of many a friend and stranger that I’ve either heard in person or via social media. I will write more about this specifically in a few posts later. Because really, I want to vent about something specific to myself. Incidentally, the bullshit that happened to me occurred the day after this fucking verdict came out.

I mentioned briefly, the opportunity that came up for me about a month ago, out of the blue that was a huge deal for me and the future of my artistic career. I didn’t go into too much detail because it was still so new and surreal and I wanted to wait till I really got my feet wet with the whole thing to discuss it. Well…it’s all gone to shit. Because the artist who, I guess ‘discovered’ me in all the cliche sense of the word, apparently can’t spend too much time with me in the way we’d arranged and agreed upon because he can’t control his dick. Sorry, if he keeps “working with me, he will continue to develop stronger and stronger ‘feelings’ for me”. The beginning of this entire partnership, I established that it was professional and I thought at the time that he was on the same page as me. I mentioned (and continued to do so, as I am always wary of men in any situation) that I was involved with other people, therefore not available. He is also around 40 or so, and though I’m not ageist I’m also not attracted to him in any sense. Even if I was, I can control myself. Especially new to this kind of professional relationship, I want to be taken seriously. I want to work and know that I am working because of my talents and potential. But of course, nope, I’m just a woman, only good for one thing.

I tried explaining this. How much it hurts to be reduced to my vagina, my position as an object, a potential relationship or lay. That’s no longer an option, so I’m discarded completely, reducing all of me to the importance of all of that, my other abilities not anywhere as important, easily forgotten and replaced when the possibility of fucking me is no longer in the picture. I actually got the excuse that, “you don’t know what it’s like for us men sometimes” and “don’t you understand how I can’t as a straight man, be around you.” Yeah, sure, feels great man.

I already have such trust issues, honestly, mostly to do with myself and my confidence as a person. I have trouble thinking of myself as more than my sex on my own. And experiences like these keep digging their heels into me, into my self esteem and my ability to think of myself as anything besides someone to be used and then thrown away. I’m seriously working on it. I’m also, as I said, loving my new found energy. I think in other circumstances or at other times, I’d be upset and weepy and sad, but really, I’m just pissed as all hell. Which I enjoy. Anger, at least in this way, feels good to me. And deserved. It’s not irrational, I don’t think, it’s completely appropriate. I’m not feeling like editing too much, so fuck it. These are my words, these are my thoughts, stream of consciousness, out of my brain. Just all me, mistakes and typos be damned. I’m going to leave you, now, with this very fitting quote from the incredible Anaïs Nin:

For too many centuries women have been being muses to artists. I wanted to be the muse, I wanted to be the wife of the artist, but I was really trying to avoid the final issue—that I had to do the job myself.
—Anaïs Nin



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