Heroine Addiction

I have a terrible heroine addiction.  It started with Wonder Woman.  I mean, everyone loves Wonder Woman, she is hardly controversial, but it turns out that she was my gateway.  Suddenly, it is 1992, and Storm, Jean Grey, Psylocke, Boom-Boom, Lilandra, even fucking Jubilee are inspiring me to be pretty and take exactly zero shit from anyone.  Then Rogue happened.  I tried to get clean, but I just found more mainstream ways to channel my addiction - Sonya Semyonova showed me how to kill real demons.  Even Jane Eyre, who might be both the most boring and most heroic heroine of them all, like the Scott Summers of great British heroines, showed me that the realization of courage comes from acting in adherence to convictions, even when it steals happiness.  For Jane, happiness is a choice, and she chooses it again and again.  Damn that big, boring, beautiful damned heroine.

Now, I need heroines; I need them, and I see them everywhere.  I see them at my job, in my former students, in everything that I read, watch, otherwise consume.  I am a heroine connoisseur.  I can be picky; I know the hallmarks of the the best ones.  On Mother's Day, I am proud that I was ejected from the very best heroine, slung into the world by a woman whose superpower is her humanity.

Someone Please Tell My Wonderful Chinese Dad

that he needs to spend his money because I have no fucking clue what I will do with all of it when he is gone.  He should give generous tips at restaurants and make impulsive purchases.  He should go to the spa or fly first-class.  He should procure a tailor-made suit or smash up his Mercedes Benz.  He should gamble at the $100 minimum table.  He should get the nicer lunch special.  He should order dessert.

I know that it makes him happy to nickel-and-dime himself.  But I cannot help thinking that he also does this because he loves me, does not want me to feel unsafe or insecure, needs to constantly provide for me and my brother.  If he defines himself by the sacrifices he makes for us, his gorgeous, ungrateful, arrogant little silver shitbirds, he will come away with two handfuls of empty space.  In one hand, the empty self-denial and discomfort he needlessly suffers because he is not convinced of our happiness and thinks that he can earn it for us, store it up and hope that it yields interest, dividends.  In the other hand, the gap between us, his bemusement upon hearing our prodigal voices full of resentment and pity when we accuse him of being stingy.

I love my stingy Chinese dad because we cannot understand each other and I finally appreciate this as pure love.

Custodes

Who watches the watchmen?  I like the Pratchett answer in the person of Samuel Vimes.  I just read a darker, or maybe less disciplined, version of him in Brother Lono from the 100 Bullets series.  I miss that Azzarello.  I want him to give Wonder Woman some of that human darkness.  The Firstborn does not come even remotely close to the Azzarello man-monsters that I love.

OKCupid Book Recs

Books from OKCupid profiles

Soul of Iran, Afshin Molavi

Chuck Klosterman 

A Bright Shining Lie

Also, here is a little Fry et Laurie