07 Dec 2018, 8:51 pm
"When I dress up as a frigid bitcch I try not to look so constipated!"
Elle Woods, Legally Blonde 
09 Dec 2018, 2:20 am
12 Dec 2018, 9:21 pm
I loved the part in To Kill A Mocking Bird when Calpurnia put Scout in her place for being rude to Walter Cunningham about the way he ate his food with molasses.
"There's some folks who don't eat like us, but you ain't called on to contradict 'em at the table when they don't. That boy's yo' comp'ny and if he wants to eat up the table cloth you let him, you hear?"
And
"Hush your mouth! Don't matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house's yo' comp'ny, and don't you let me catch you remarkin' on their ways like you was so high and mighty! Yo' folks might be better'n the Cunninghams but it don't count for nothin' the way you're disgracin' 'em---if you can't act fit to eat at the table you can just set here and eat in the kitchen!"
How do you respond to that other than by saying "Yes Ma'am"? 
14 Dec 2018, 11:37 pm
16 Dec 2018, 3:57 pm
"She was nearly sixteen years old, a slim, smouldering girl, deeply reticent, yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then, when she seemed to give her whole soul but when in fact she only made another counterfeit of her soul for outward presentation. She was sensitive in the extreme, always tortured, always affecting a callous indifference to screen herself".
The Rainbow, DH Lawrence (Oxford World's Classics, 1915)
Sound familiar, Aspie women?
19 Dec 2018, 12:20 pm
21 Dec 2018, 8:18 am
I'm officially speechless 
:
I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before, how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate, and damn! I'd better work on my character! I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But, my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict and destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration, I was refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions -- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. I was feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge, ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Plath, Sylvia, and Karen V. Kukil. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000
21 Dec 2018, 3:13 pm
:I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before, how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate, and damn! I'd better work on my character! I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But, my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict and destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration, I was refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions -- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. I was feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge, ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Plath, Sylvia, and Karen V. Kukil. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000
Wow what clear articulation.
21 Dec 2018, 3:14 pm
:I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before, how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate, and damn! I'd better work on my character! I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But, my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict and destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration, I was refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions -- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. I was feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge, ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Plath, Sylvia, and Karen V. Kukil. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000
Wow what clear articulation.
That's my mutism in a nutshell.
21 Dec 2018, 3:23 pm
21 Dec 2018, 4:01 pm
21 Dec 2018, 5:06 pm
22 Dec 2018, 7:36 am
dragonsanddemons
Veteran
Joined: 19 Mar 2011
Gender: Non-binary
Posts: 6,659
Location: The Labyrinth of Leviathan
26 Dec 2018, 3:51 pm
26 Dec 2018, 4:42 pm
dragonsanddemons
Veteran
Joined: 19 Mar 2011
Gender: Non-binary
Posts: 6,659
Location: The Labyrinth of Leviathan
26 Dec 2018, 10:01 pm
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