Nothing is Perfect


There’s a part of feminism I do not get sometimes. To give a blatant example:

Rape & Race. Or the views thereon.

An article about how a woman shouldn’t have to say she’s someone’s daughter, wife, sister to her attacker because she is a person, a human being and that should be enough.

Then I come by an article from Bitch Media talking about what if Justine Damond was black. How she would obviously be treated very differently in our society.

So if a woman is sexually assaulted, “she’s someone” is enough. But if she’s murdered instead of painting her as someone’s daughter or wife or sister, it’s okay to paint her another race to prove something?

Let me layout a few facts about myself before I continue:

I am white. I am a woman. I am a feminist. I voted for Hillary. All lives matter BECAUSE Black Lives Matter, not just because I believe in it. And I am sure I am guilty of white privilege.

Nothing’s perfect.

I also read another article that bugged me. And this will probably get me more shit than the race thing above. Guess we will find out.

Apparently there was a trending hashtag on twitter called IfMenHadPeriods. Gender is a spectrum, I know that just because a person is born with a vagina, doesn’t make them a woman. It’s just physicality. So it would be safe to say that not all men have penises therefore can technically menstruate.

I just don’t think it was meant to offend. I think people got a little too sensitive with it which, sometimes I find myself offended over shit on the internet so I get it, but at the same time, how could we word that hashtag to suffice everyone?




Just because you identify with something doesn’t mean everything about it is going to apply to you.

For instance, I am a feminist. I agree that sexually assaulted women shouldn’t have to be labelled as someone’s wife, daughter, sister, mother, aunt, etcetera to be someone worth respecting and not raping. What I don’t understand is why it’s okay to paint them as a person, but a murdered woman gets theorized upon by painting her another race. In my head it’s conflicting. But just because I don’t agree with all feminists out there doesn’t make me any less feminist. I do believe in women’s rights. I do believe in equal pay. And I damn sure believe in bodily autonomy and reproductive rights.

The thing is, when it comes to gender, men who identify as men and are born with penises pick on traits of the opposite sex (women who were born with vaginas and identify as women) and vice versa. Mansplaining, Man-Cold, Women in Target, etc. You get the picture. It’s always been that way.

Also, just because I am a woman with a vagina who identifies as a woman, doesn’t mean I am like all other women. I think I’ve been in a Target maybe 5 times in my life and doubt I ever spent more than $40 bucks in there.



The only physical photos I have of my life stop at the age of 3 or 4 years old. I have a really kind of fucked up habit of purging. Not food, but things. Things left behind that remind me of a time or person that was once apart of my life.

My Facebook has just hit the two-years old mark and it’s the longest one I have had. The WordPress account this FluxPanica blog is attached to is five years old and I have lost track to how many blogs I have started then deleted.

About a year ago I was cleaning (going through my shit and throwing away most anything I could find) my room and I came across my dusty middle school yearbooks. They were the only yearbooks I had because unlike the idea that high school is the best four years of your life, mine wasn’t. I looked at the books, I looked at the black garbage bag — then I put the two together and hauled it out to the curb.

I have no pictures with friends on my Facebook. It’s kind of hard to when you don’t really have any. I mainly go on Facebook for the pages I follow.

I guess this could be looked at in one of two ways. I’m either running constantly from everything and everyone — including memories. Or I am overly sensitive to life’s complications so I’m minimizing what I have been through in some sort of self-preservation.

Either way, if I deleted my pictures and everything I have put online and disappeared, it would probably take whoever wanted to find me a long time to do so.



My dream is haunting me. I dreamt I was in the lobby of a fast food joint. I had an iPad and the case was clear plastic and in pieces. I was mad. I then found out it wasn’t the latest model, so I smashed it to pieces. Then I am in a hall of a school with a friend. We see a woman. I know her as Alice, she was best friends with my mom for 30 years. My friend knows her too so I ask how. She doesn’t answer. I am on the side of a huge bridge dangling above a huge body of black water. It’s night time. I have two other people with me and there are these cement blocks that we are holding on to and we have to get to the flat rocks beneath us that protrude out of the water. They both drop and disappear. I look down and the rocks have shifted so there’s less of a chance of me falling into the water now. I drop. I am outside of a building. There are large shadowy figures and I am scared. I am crouched down in a bush. I am in a brightly lit house. I am with a man I used to date. I see he’s been messaging with a woman online. He’s upset that she prefers anime looking guys. He’s jealous. I’m jealous that he’s messaging her.

I wake up.

Meaningful Connections


Have you ever been mulling over something in your mind while doing something (to be honest, I was smoking a cigarette), but you’re mulling so much you are on autopilot with the thing you are doing?

Well when I realized I was down to the butt and it was time to smash it out, the thing I had been mulling about lapsed for a brief moment and a thought occurred in an instant. Still related to what I had been mulling over. Then the thought stuck because my mind was like YES! That’s it! It has to be! So it started repeating the thing over and over almost in a light chant.

The thing: You don’t make meaningful connections. (just to clarify: with people)

There’s a blogger on my FB that I thought knew this was my blog, (spoiler alert, my name isn’t Nora) but something strange happened just in the last day or two. She liked a post of mine and then disliked it. So I was like, hmmm. I went to check my followers, and she’s unfollowed me. So then I checked my FB — she’s still on my friend’s list. Perplexing… The post she liked/disliked was a kind of “contemporary” short poem (I watched Paterson recently — good movie, Adam Driver is fucking awesome) and I don’t think it could’ve offended her because it was about my feelings on being a loner.

But of course that was only one of the things I was mulling over about. The moment I first thought I don’t make meaningful connections, it became clear that there was truth in it since I am alone. And in my past relationships with people whether family, friend, or lover… I haven’t ever depended on them. I haven’t ever required anything. I have never asked for anything, I just let them lead. If they ask of me, I do. If they want to do something I wouldn’t personally choose to do, we do it.

But I think and I feel that because I do not make similar demands upon them to where the relationship is evenly matched, or somewhat meets in the middle, I am just people pleasing. I am just letting them have their way. I am just fucking play-doh waiting to be molded and then tossed away when that’s not what they care for anymore.

Maybe it’s a good thing I am so alone right now. Maybe I have a lot of work to do on and for myself.

Invisible – 1992


TW: Domestic Violence, Alcoholism, Abuse

I am an adult child of an alcoholic parent. That’s what society and pop-psychology teach. That family is family no matter what.

But that’s just not reality, at least not mine. If I could strip away his last name from me, I would. I don’t want to be known as that despicable man’s daughter.

Parent. That’s never been a title that he could proudly claim — or even claim at all.

The first time I saw him in a drunken stupor hit my mother, I was 7 years old. It was nighttime and I was in my mother’s bed watching a TV show with her. Now, this wasn’t the first time I had witnessed him obliterated. And it wasn’t the first time he had come to harass my mother after a night at the bar. It also wasn’t the first time he was violent with my mother. This was just the first time I saw it.

He rapped on the door calling her name. Mary, Mary, Mary…

My mother told him to go back downstairs. He was insistent. She unlocked the bedroom door and came back to sit on the bed. He stumbled in making the room reek of used booze. Slurring his words he kept telling her she had to see the mascot on some football game. She refused and told him to go watch his game downstairs. He went to the little TV and changed the channel. She got up from the bed and went toward him. This was the part where he cocked his fist back and punched her in the face. He left the room without looking at me. She got up and locked the door, picked up her broken glasses, and grabbed the cordless phone to call her friend. She sat in the bathroom relaying to the person on the phone what had happened.

I buried my head under the pillow in fear and sadness. I was invisible.



I am alone.
I live alone. I eat alone. I sleep alone.

I know 4 people.
4 people with whom I sometimes communicate.

My mom is one.
A former coworker another.
A Tinder match from a year ago.
An old flame from high school.

I only see my mom. The others just text.

Friends come and go.
But for me… no one stays.

I’m alone.


A loner.