I went somewhat begrudgingly, not unironically, to Turnabout, with no date (at least no nonSapphic one) and no drunken hookupfull afterparty planned. Why, I'm still not exactly sure. Some combination of cultural/social obligation, curiosity and homemade Chinese food, made by real Chinese people. (Taiwanese, whatever) And to end the barrage of "Do you ever straighten your hair? How often? How long does it take? What does it look like?", I straightened my hair and for a couple hours abandoned my frizzy heritage. It was quite well-received, with the obvious exception being the only other Jew who was available for comment.
There is something about a specific combination of sudden vanity after weeks of cosmetic neglect and really bad rap music that turns me into something that can only be described as not-Sophie, or dirty-ass ho, if you so prefer. Blame it on the integrated community, MTV, the Internet, Save the Last Dance, but I enjoy being somebody who my friends don't recognize for a few hours. This might prove problematic when I turn eighteen. Or even more so before then.
By the end of the night, my two best friends were dating each other.


I know, right?



I guess it had been kind of naive to expect a straight boy who spends most of his free time with the same few girls to remain neutral forever. Certainly to expect that my straight male friend would never hook up with one of my friends, given the parallels in our personalities, and the likelihood that we would get along well with each other's friends. But I was always really hoping this wouldn't happen. Given the circumstances (her moving to Maryland in June, with the obvious termination of the relationship and less opportunity for an ugly breakup), its not as bad as it could be.
There haven't been enough situations for me to really evaluate how awkward this whole thing is going to turn out to be. I'm not quite as weirded out as initially, but still not quite comfortable. I always had this fantasy that he would date one of my friends, have some kind of horrible breakup that for the rest of high school we would have to tiptoe around, and my social circle would become even more incestuous than usual, and long story short, my fun for the rest of high school would have been obliterated. This is one of the reasons that, yes, roll your eyes, become so exasperated that you punch a hole in your monitor, that it would be preferable for him to be gay. But he isn't. And we love him anyway. I'll get over this, things will become normal, and I really am happy for them. My reasons for not being are totally selfish, and I accept this. Joe really did need to date somebody.

I don't even like Harvey Fierstein. How many creepy, gay, self-absorbed Heebs does the world need to fill its quota? I was creeped out by him when I was little, and still am to some extent. I could not sit through the Torch Song Trilogy, and even Celluloid Closet got irritating when he showed up, and I am as much of a sucker for queer cinema as the next lonely, liberal straight chick. He is the kind of Jew I really can't stand ( or one of the myriad), one of those lapsed Jewish types who exists soley on the labels that birth and chromosomes have slapped on him. So talking like Harvey Fierstein all weekend through no choice of my own, but of a virus that seems to be limited to my throat, has not been ideal. Any of my own laughter creeps me out.
But I did find a dress for turnabout that doesn't make me look like a pillow from Pottery Barn Teens. And I always have John Leguizamo to be my Sugar Daddy, my Sugar Pimp. Sugar Daddy, by Yerba Buena is a worthy iTunes purchase.

http://kevan.org/johari?name=Sophie Kern

After what has been since about Christmas or so, a throroughly apathetic winter, the downy Midwest flakes have come back to cover our streets and and make us smile and think, yes, maybe the American dream hasn't been threatened into silence and inaction, maybe it's time to go sledding. Then your dad tells you that it's just lake effect and won't last. You try not to let this burst your warm-mittens and hot cocoa high, but then you realize how many times you have pulled yourself with the weak chains of optomism that you still don't have the heart to break, despite how abysmal the facts surrounding your life might look.
Sometimes I understand those emo boys. It is pretty clear that this age sucks, and a very small percentage of the people i have encountered have been really skilled with irony and unique self-expression. Despair, hopelessness, I get. Catchy songs from a cool new misfit band that everyone else likes, even having to have the t-shirt, I get. Apathy, check. Desire and confusion surrounding sex, check, check. But those pants? The ones that make their legs look like fabricky cigarrettes, the ones where swear you can see each sperm being crushed into oblivion, on the boys who are too depressed and/or sexually confused to eat, with frightening haircuts, which somehow make them irresistable, i totally don't get.

Today was one of those days where I wished I had stayed in South America. I think I'm better suited to the laissez-faire, all-night-long highly carnivorous pseudoEuropean way of life. Other than that, I'm just feeling thoroughly uninspired, will post again when the iron is hot, whatever the hell that means.