Tag Archives: relationship

My First OTP

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I was introduced to shipping relatively recently. Like three years ago recently. And I ship a lot of characters. I ship like twenty characters. But one thing that always baffled me was that elusive OTP. Apparently everyone had an OTP. Some people had four thousand OTPs, which baffled me even more, since the O is supposed to stand for one. And yeah, my ships are adorable and all, but none of them evoked the sheer emotional destruction that is supposed to go hand in hand with an OTP.

Until now.

I was introduced to Tumblr relatively recently. Like a year ago recently. And in that time, I saw so many posts (especially gifsets) about shows I hadn’t seen yet. Some I hadn’t even heard of. Like In the Flesh. From the posts, I discovered that In the Flesh was a romance show about high functioning zombies. I thought that seemed like an interesting take on the zombie genre, so I decided to watch it.

Oh my.

In the Flesh turned out not be a pure romance at all, but rather a general drama show. I’ve got to say, I’d probably be better off right now if it had just been a romance. Because my emotions are not okay! Anyone who knows me knows that I get really worked up about discrimination. And my feelings about its portrayal in fiction are pretty contradictory, as on one hand, I love the realism that it brings, but on the other hand, witnessing it makes me physically angry. X-Men did it with mutants. Dark Angel did it with transgenics. And In the Flesh is doing it with Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers (the show’s medical term for zombies).

But the show isn’t all just anger.

And that’s where the the romance aspect comes into it. Despite the fact that quite a bit of my anger at the show revolves around the relationships between characters, they’re still so easy to get caught up in. Watching Kieren grow and learn to accept himself as a result of his relationship with Simon… Watching Simon struggle between between upholding his beliefs and honouring and protecting the man he loves… It drives me crazy. It’s beautiful and sad and maddening and grounding and inspiring all at once.

And if this show doesn’t get renewed for season three… If I am left with less than six hours of footage of my very first (and probably only) OTP… Oh I won’t exaggerate. I’ll just be very very sad.

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How to Flirt in Three Easy Steps

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I have come to the conclusion that I am the best at flirting. And by ‘best’, I do of course mean ‘the actual worst’.

Flirting tips from the Ninja Robot:

  1. Play werewolf with the person of your affections.
  2. Get dealt the cupid card.
  3. Make the lovers the said person and yourself.

Wallah! You have now (un)successfully flirted. Warning: This may or may not (but most likely may) be completely unbeknownst to the other.

Support Matters

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I’ve been looking through old photos recently, and they’ve gotten me thinking about the relationship I have with my father. Our personalities often clashed when I was growing up, and in all honesty, we didn’t get along very well. I didn’t particularly care when he moved out, and with regards to our relationship, I’m a lot happier now.

The thing is, my dad just wasn’t very supportive. He had a good relationship with Tara. She was athletic, and a good swimmer, and enjoyed cycling. But my dad just couldn’t accept that I wasn’t like that. I preferred reading and writing and drawing and singing, to going outdoors and playing sports. But according to him, those weren’t valid interests. He tried to push me with my swimming, and criticised me when I never got any better. Not being very good with confrontation, the only way I could bring myself to tell him my feelings about this was to write him a letter – which he promptly tore up in front of me.

Even now that I’m an adult, he still hasn’t gotten much better. He continually grills into me for not having a job (as though I can control the employment market) or a drivers license (as though his teaching wasn’t what scared me off). And funnily enough, those are the only two things he ever asks me about every few months when I see him. Oh, and one other question – whether or not I have a boyfriend yet. Except for the last time I saw him, when he followed that by asking if I have a girlfriend. Which brings me to my next point.

My dad is a huge homophobe. He goes on about how being gay is unnatural and a disorder, and that he could cure it if he had enough money. Whenever Tara or I call him out for it, he says (and I paraphrase) “[he] can’t possibly be a homophobe because [he’s] not scared of gay people, [he] just think[s] there’s something wrong with them, and anyway [he has] gay friends”. Fine dad, you’re being heterosexist. Whatever you decide to call it, it’s incredibly bigoted. Tara once asked him what he would do if she were gay. He scoffed and told her (and I actually quote this time, not just paraphrase) “don’t be stupid, you’re not gay”. He was right, Tara isn’t gay, but that’s completely beside the point. What if she was gay, and his bigoted attitude was preventing her from safely coming out? What if I was gay, and she was trying to test the waters for me? I’m fairly sure the only reason he asked if I had a girlfriend that time was to appear tolerant with my aunt and uncle in the car, as my female cousin recently revealed to them that she has a girlfriend.

If I ever have children, I am going to try my best to be the most supportive parent possible. It doesn’t matter whether they want to swim, or run, or dance, or sing, or act, or write, or draw. It doesn’t matter whether they like men, or women, or everyone, or no-one. It doesn’t matter whether they are a boy, or a girl, or something else, or none of the above. It doesn’t matter whether they want to be a teacher, or a doctor, or a lawyer, or an actor, or a nurse, or a dancer, or a bartender. The only thing that does matter is how they treat people, whether it be other people or themselves. I vow to accept my children for who they are, because I know only too well how much it hurts when even the small things go unsupported.

Beware the Pink Meat

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When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who was a Muslim. He liked getting free things, and part of that involved eating people’s lunch when they didn’t want it. He told me that he remembered all those nice providers of free lunch by what they had on their sandwiches. Some people would have chicken. Some people would have cheese. Others would have salad. And one girl would always have “the pink meat”. Yes, that’s right. My lovely Muslim boyfriend had unknowingly been scabbing ham sandwiches for all those years.

Dreams Suck

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Well, some of them do, anyway. Most dreams are terrific. But when they hijack your emotions and distort your perception of reality? That is just not on. When I woke up this morning, I was in love with a fictional character. In my sleep last night, I went to a fancy city sort-of place, along with several of my (fictional) friends. One of them was my boyfriend. He had dark hair, and looked a little like a cross between Harry Lloyd and someone with a shorter neck. His name was Jordan, and we were very much in love. The city we were in was rather small, probably more of a village, but bustling, and it had sort of a Qarthish vibe to it. But it was big enough to contain a zoo. At some point during our visit to the zoo, Jordan managed to break both of his ankles. Somehow he was still standing, so it took a while for me to convince him to go to the hospital – which was also inside this supposedly tiny city. As he was gone, the rest of the girls and I went to this row of nightclubs. Okay, everywhere we go in this dream is inside the city, so just take my word for it that this supposedly small city is actually rather big. One of the nightclubs in the lane was the .Katy Perry nightclub. Whoever names venues in this city appears to be lacking imagination-wise. But anyway, while the Katy Perry nightclub was a nightclub in name, it most definitely wasn’t an actual nightclub. It was more like a giant bathroom. There were two storeys to it. The first floor contained a bath, and the second floor contained a shower. But the Katy Perry nightclub wasn’t an ordinary bathroom, oh no. The taps in its bath and shower did not dispense water, but rather, they dispensed milk. Or more specifically, they dispensed milk that smelled like liquid milko chews. The Katy Perry nightclub was really quite delicious. After we had gone there, we continued along the lane to the other nightclubs. As we had our fun, we kept an eye out for Jordan, who was taking an abnormally long time. Finally, after a mix-up with someone’s ID, we decided to take a break. I’ll take this time to explain the layout of the places we went to in the city. The nightclub lane was in the West, with the Katy Perry nightclub towards the outside of the city. In the North-East was the zoo, with the hospital directly to its West. Just South of the zoo and the hospital, directly in front of their entrances, was a large grassy circle area, with benches facing in around it. As we had our break and waited for Jordan, we sat on one of the Southernmost benches, facing the hospital. Finally, after a few minutes of sitting and talking, I spotted Jordan hobbling towards us with red and purple casts on his legs. I waved and shouted out to him, and then noticed my old boyfriend from high school a few metres in front of him, who had thought I was waving to him. We awkwardly caught each others’ gaze and looked away, before Jordan finally reached us at the bench.

This happens to me surprisingly often. I already posted about the time I woke up feeling like I had too many kidneys. And the time I had a crush on a fellow uni student for several weeks following a dream. I haven’t posted about the time it happened while I was dating that old high school boyfriend. I had dreamt that I was in the shed room they passed off as a classroom – the one next to the Omega toilets, on the side that the sports shed was not – with a very attractive young man. He had curly dark hair, and having recently watched Misfits, I could compare him to a smaller-eyebrowed version of Nathan. But anyway, I was fooling around with (let’s just call him Nathan for convenience’s sake) Nathan in the shed room, and one thing led to another, and we ended up having sex. And I bloody well loved it. Which is really quite hilarious. But anyway. When I woke up, I felt like I had cheated on my boyfriend. Like, I actually liked this fictional Nathan guy. And I had gone further with him than I had with my boyfriend. I felt bad about it for a few weeks after that. It was all very strange. And now it’s all very strange again. Because I have once again fallen for a fictional character that my dream-self made up. Thanks, brain. Thanks a lot.

Misfits and Intimacy

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A while back, someone recommended that I watch the show Misfits. I was watching other things at the time, so I didn’t watch it for ages, but they kept on trying to force it on me. They told me that one of the characters was an immortal, arrogant, narcissistic sociopath, and that I would like him. Now, I don’t know if it was the case, but the way they said it (and the fact that our relationship with each other was extremely temperamental) sounded like they were having a go at me, and saying that I would like him because I was the same.

Well I finally started watching Misfits last night. And let me tell you, I am addicted. I’m already up to the fourth episode of the second season. Thankfully I had forgotten about the immortality part by then – because who the fuck spoils the end of the first season as part of their recommendation of a show? But I spent the first couple of episodes wondering about this arrogant narcissistic sociopath. I figured out pretty quickly that Nathan was pretty arrogant and a tad (in the colloquial sense) narcissistic. But he’s definitely not a narcissist, and there is no sociopath in sight. And even more problematic – I do not like Nathan. Nathan is a dick. I can picture myself in a school or college environment with these people. Nathan and Kelly would be the classmates I actively disliked. They would be the Madisons and the Taylors who were antagonistic to me for no reason other than the fact that they could be. Curtis and Alisha would be the classmates who were too different to me for us to get along. We wouldn’t fight or anything; We’d just be in different groups. But Simon… Simon would be me. He would be quiet, and when he spoke it would seem forced and awkward. He would feel so invisible that he would be shocked whenever someone noticed him or knew who he was. He would retreat to his shows and games so much that they would be the only things he really knew how to talk about.

Simon is the character I like the best, because he is the only character I identify with. And if that person did in fact mean that comment the way I thought they did at the time, then it just shows that they knew me even less than I knew them. And that is just the final confirmation that we were never meant to be.

Non-Sexual Fetishes

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Many a time, I have seen people describe a strong attraction of theirs as a fetish. I’m a bit iffy on that one. Now, I’m not trying to stop people from calling something a fetish if they’re attracted to it. If they feel comfortable with that label, then so be it. But to me, it just seems… deceptive to call something a fetish if it doesn’t actually turn you on (I will, however, accept the use of the term ‘turn-on’. Because that’s logical…).

If I were to be deceptive myself, and label something a fetish when it’s really not, then I would have a hell of a lot of fetishes. But I do not have a fetish for long necks, red hair on women, upturned noses, gay men, dark hair, physical vulnerabilities, androgyny, male ballet dancers, or Egyptian feet. Just a strong attraction. I would feel wrong describing any of those as fetishes.

Now when I write, I don’t write fanservice. Random pairings that don’t have much point? No thank you. Sex scenes? I’d much rather them occur off-screen, if at all. But I do write a fair bit of Caitservice. A fair few of my story attempts have actually started as pure Caitservice. If I have the opportunity to include one of the above things in my fiction, I bloody well will. Sometimes multiple of those things. But I will not refer to them in a sexual way, just as I do not think of them in a sexual way, and no way in hell will I call any of them a fetish.