just minishorts.

I like Greek Tragedy. On Greek Tragedy, you come face to face with the internal arguments of a woman running her life just like any woman does. Except, Stephanie is excrutiatingly honest:

I begin to wonder about the last time I really made out with a guy. Men are visual creatures who respond to physical stimuli. Want to turn a man on? Grab your breasts with one hand and his dick with another. Bonus points if you call it a cock and tell him how much you want it to be yours for the night. But women are more cerebral. Yes, we want the “I love you”s and “God, you’re beautiful,” but we also want him to boss us around a bit. When I say “we,” I mean me, but I’ll still say we, just incase. We’re too busy being professional and assertive in our everyday lives, trying to prove ourselves in the world as women. The bedroom is the one place where we don’t want to have to be in control.

If you didn't know that site, it's a blog by Stephanie Klein, who's so cool over on the other side of the world, she's got contracts to write her own novels. Thanks to her blog. And that's cool.

I'd like to write like Stephanie too. I think most women can relate to Stephanie, after all, most women who blog dare to be vocal and expressive in their emotional realizations have blogs that are crafted in that manner–except this: over in this side of the world, women bloggers like Stephanie are hard to find.

For one, sometimes, as a woman, if you blog about the realizations of your sexual awakening, you get raised eyebrows, and people wondering if you've done it. You can ask a silly question to the public like, 'Do you think I've done it?' and you'll get strange responses. A lot of strange responses from a supposedly conservative society.

Like the other day, I said it carefully, 'I commited my entire relationship to Him.' And that meant God, why would it mean otherwise? But some people have to think it's because I've gone and popped my cherry. Wow.

So much for being conservative, eh?

I don't want to call it pathetic, I don't want to call it silly. I don't want to give the scenario degrading namesakes.

I just think its differen yet the same–our themes, Stephanie's and mine: our themes are the same, yet because of where we are on Planet Earth, our themes have to be different. My themes have to be different, distinctively, even though I identify with her in many ways. And in many ways, I want to be like her, be able to write the things she writes, be truly open. I want to.

But really, there's nothing wrong in wanting, and thinking that these things will happen. I like Stephanie because she's raw, she's vocal. She talks about her last time making out with a man, the sexually charged emotions that you get when you're alone in a room, with a guy you love a lot. That you almost want to marry. She talks about the kind of feedbacks she wants to hear when she strips naked in the bedroom with a man she loves, the little thrills she gives him when he 'unbuckles her jeans and lifts her top' and she blogs about them. She talks about her conversations with her family, so close, so close, I wanna write them like she does, I know I can, but I can't do that because my readers aren't open enough, aren't mature enough, aren't serious enough to see beyond the 'cheap thrills' of 'she's talking about sex'.

You forget that even without having sex, I am entitled to wonder about what could happen, what would happen, because it's natural for a woman, for a human like me to wonder. Because YOU WONDER TOO.

I can try to almost become Stephanie, but I can't really. Like how I want to write about the guy I almost want to worry, but I can't. I want to write about the women I want to be like, but I can't. I want to write about how I imagine it must be fun to french kiss a woman, but I can't. I want to talk about my angers and frustrations about the long-gone pasts and my struggles to live on in the present despite regrets and living past regrets, but I can't. They're all so privy, so how can I be open?

I can almost be, but almost only, because I can never be too sure. Usually, never-be-too-sures are concepts that you finally get a grasp on after your heart gets smashed once, or at least, once.

The thing is, why can Stephanie talk about her Greek Tragedy, and I can't talk about my Being Minishorts in a truly, truly cathartic manner, the way that you won't raise eyebrows and whisper strange things like, 'What a self-appraising attention whore she is.'

Or she's pretending to be a woman of the world, showing off the things she can't be on her blog.

You even forget it's my blog, mine, mine, mine, and by right, you have no right to dictate what exactly I ought to write in my blog.

The truth is, even if I'm merely pretending, someone tell me just what is so wrong with pretending because I don't really know. I don't smoke, I can't really drink, I'm not all that interested in going around in strange social circles, and I don't mind professing to being a busybody most of the time. I am a busybody-what, I'm a woman, duh, duh, duh!

And my worries are real, just like yours.

Hence why I can't be so vocal anymore. Because it's not safe. And hence, I have to be superficial. And hence, and hence, and hence.

Someone said that it's a once a month thing–maybe. It was the first day, and Eyeris guessed it right. Someone else said that I've got to be less explosive on monstrous days, because more people read me now, because I should be careful of what people think, I shouldn't, burn bridges. I want to be like that, however, why should I be? After all, maybe that was my reasoning–I didn't want to allow too many people into my life right now–it's overcrowded as it is, burning bridges can be an option you know, when those people aren't who you need. (And at least you know I'm sincere and I don't like to lie)

At the end of the day, it is my blog, and another reader said it right, because you should have known, should have known, I wasn't talking about you, but siapa yang termakan cili, dialah terasa panas, did you think I'd be concerned enough to think about you, much less, blog about you?

I'm sorry for misleading your memories.