Grindelwald Rant

I shall start this by saying this is my opinion. That should be obvious, but I still feel the need to state it because it’s about to get scatterbrained. I need to rant, lads.

So I missed last week because I didn’t feel I had anything noteworthy to say, but oh boy my dad never should have shown me Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald. I gave it a chance if only because I really love the character Newt Scamander and highly relate to his love of creatures. I also love the characters Tina, Queenie, and Jacob from the first movie. What I didn’t care for was the need to include Grindelwald, whose only importance is owning the fucking Elder Wand for a time and being the Voldemort before Voldemort existed. Get that shit out of my magic Steve Irwin time.

I was apprehensive of watching the movie, but with quarantine, boredom, and attempts at proving that I’m not just a hateful critic (massive fail on my part here) with a degree, I gave it a chance. I loved the parts with the creatures. I loved the special effects. I loved Newt. There were parts I loved about this movie, but the rest I could just cut the fuck right out. I will be vulgar, I’m dropping professional and just being angry right now because that’s what this piece of shit deserves, not an analysis.

My good friend Sarah over at Mad Zombie Productions on Facebook told me ages ago that JK Rowling is a one-trick pony. I believed her. I really did. She couldn’t seem to leave well enough alone when we were already in love with her series (need I even say its name?). Harry Potter wasn’t perfect, but he shaped a generation and had kids my age awaiting their letters to Hogwarts, so I’m willing to forgive the vast majority of its rather grievous mistakes. But between this sure to be series and the wretched play and the bullshit website Pottermore, I’ve had it up to here with Rowling’s ability to ruin even the best of times. As my love loves to say, she’s a one-woman argument for the death of the author.

I can talk about how much of a shit person but a decent character Dumbledore is till I’m blue in the face. Same with Snape. Both of them, upon analyzing their treatment of literal children, are cringeworthy, but I’d be lying if I said their deaths meant nothing to me. I loved them, flaws and all, and that’s something I need to make clear here. Newt is a well-fleshed out character. He has quirks, he has desires, he has a fucking life that I can see and feel in Eddie’s performance. Johnny Depp, all controversy aside, is a FANTASTIC actor too, but Grindelwald just ain’t it for him. Grindelwald just doesn’t belong in the same story as Newt. What is it with Dumbledore handpicking people to fight his battles for him? What is it with the alleged greatest wizard of all time needing people half or even a fifth of his age to continue his legacy when he’s perfectly fucking capable?! Dumbledore, get your shit together, I’m begging you. At this point, what even MAKES you the greatest wizard of all time?

We can talk prophecies and such, but if this pair of movies has proven anything it’s that established lore doesn’t matter when Rowling needs money. Hell, Pottermore told me that established lore meant nothing to her. In the first Fantastic Beasts Tina’s wand locked magically with another wand. That’s only supposed to happen between wands made from the same materials, i.e. Harry’s and Voldemort’s. This is supposed to be something unique to them. Clearly, it’s no longer relevant. Being able to cast magic without saying the word is supposed to be rare. Guess what, not anymore. All of this I could ignore. I can’t ignore the existence of SPOILER Aurelius Dumbledore.


I have SCARS! SCARS! from the Layton franchise pulling this shit, and here the fuck Rowling is, pulling this SHIT. It is such a weak, baseless, unnecessary money grab and attention grab. I cannot forgive such slacker writing, such awful writing. I could have overlooked literally everything, the pointless inclusion of the Lestrange drama, the shitty arc of Newt and Tina ‘breaking up’, the blatant racism Rowling feels in casting only Asian characters when their goals are to be used in the end, oh the complete bullshittery that is making Nagini into a person, ALL OF IT! I could have overlooked all of it had we not gotten fucking Aurelius fucking Dumbledore.

That . . . is a lie. I will not overlook one other thing. Y’all did Queenie dirty. Y’all did that beautiful angel dirty by having her, a woman whose absolute love of her life is a No-Maj, side with Wizard Hitler 1.0. Really? In these trying times?

In conclusion, JK Rowling is a retconning, greedy, fucking TERF. She can eat my ass.

Depressive Musing

Have you ever been told you’re important and your body just rejected it? Like, not just your mind but your whole being rebelled from the inside out screaming no. Or maybe, it wasn’t so much a scream as a whisper so persistent and hushed that only a skilled self-hater could hear it.

My self-loathing is cleverly disguised. Not to anyone else, but to my own head. I tend not to notice when I’m being terribly self-depricating. It must be pointed out to me, and even then I may deny it. There are many parts of me that I find unattractive, inefficient, unkind, or even broken. I refer to myself as being broken in many ways, but most visibly in friendships and relationships. I see myself as never being enough or doing enough.

I’m lucky to have people who tell me what I’m worth so often. Friends, family, lovers, all tell me what I’m worth. And, I do know what I’m worth. However, it is an uphill struggle to get my head and my heart to agree on the aspect of a complete me.

Viral Reading

Work gets busier for me, even as the virus continues to spread. I’m a cleaner, so my work doesn’t stop. I haven’t been able to write, too tired to get anything done. I feel like I’m losing time, even though I’m my own boss with writing. Writing has always been a compulsion for me.

I’ve been reading and sorting my music. I’ve finished three books, two of which I’ve actually enjoyed. The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson. Gender Outlaw by Kate Bornstein. Midnight Son, an Audible original. I liked the first two. The last one I only disliked because it felt melodramatic given the content. Parts just felt missing, and rushed. I wanted more from the narrator. But The Gargoyle reminded me that I love romances that span lifetimes. Gender Outlaw affirmed my nonbinary identity.

I’m now listening to Monday’s Not Coming by Tiffany D. Jackson. I have been apprehensive to start it, given the content. A girl goes missing. No one seems to care. It’s bleak, but I wanted to read it ever since BowtiesandBooks reviewed it and gave it glowing praise.

I like a good mix of fantasy and realism. And that’s what I’m loving right now, the mix. It’s keeping me sane these days.

My Dreams Tell Stories

I often have linear dreams, meaning I get a beginning, middle, and end style story in the night. Many books I plan to wrote started off as these dreams. I had one such dream last night.

I dreamt of demons. Two were working under Lucifer and one was made into a human for punishment reasons for a time and sent to earth. That demon fell in love with a human who took him in and the other demon, whose name was actually Saphirla the White, watched to ensure the demon was serving out his punishment appropriately. The main demon eventually was told that he was sent to earth to learn kindness only to have it ripped away. So he spent his last days with his human and then went back to hell. There he started looking for ways to return to his human only for Saphirla to continually put a wrench in his plans. And Lucifer is this distant ruler who’s always at a feasting table with the dead bodies of Brutus, Cassius, and Judas just cut open on the table. He just sits there ruling hell, and the poor little demon has to face him to get back to earth.

This is not the first time Lucifer has presented himself to me in my dreams. He has been showing up a lot. If my tarot is anything to go by, it’s due to a heavy focus on excess, materialism, and a fear of losing such things. That makes sense. Having been without savings for a few years, I’ve been anal about not wanting to touch that money. However, I like taking these dreams and making stories out of them. The challenge is always finding where these stories fit in my multiverse.

Coming Out . . .

Diana finally convinced me to watch Shame, the new Contrapoints video. We’re fans of hers, but I’ve been removed from many of her latest developments due to business or just not feeling up to highly thoughtful commentary. I started watching it because I’d already been thinking in-depth about something, and the idea that our culture could shame us into behaving a certain way in spite of ourselves contributed to that self-analysis.

The long story short is, I realized I’m asexual. I will be talking about sex in this, so, you have been warned.

My mom always told me I don’t have to be gay to find members of my same sex attractive. She describes women like works of art, and I definitely can agree with her descriptions. She just tends to lose me when she says things like, “I’d love to lick Bruce Willis’s bald head.” Yeah, I could never relate. But I do find both men and women aesthetically pleasing. I’ll stare at a nice butt regardless of who it’s attached to, as noted by my coworkers. But what I never really felt was that primal desire to be sexual with someone. Have I been sexual? Of course. I’ve been in a relationship with the same person for ten years and we’ve had an open relationship for at least six to seven of those ten. We’ve had a lot of time to explore and figure out our needs while holding each other close and being each other’s biggest support. There were many moments where Diana asked me, “What do you actually want in a relationship?” and I couldn’t give her an answer. It only occurred to me recently, sex and sexual attraction were rarely factors in what answers I could come up with.

I’ve been operating under the belief that I’m bisexual since college. I’m attracted to my gender and others, or at least have been in the past. I’ve had a total of two steamy romances since my first steamy romance with Diana, one with someone afab and another with someone amab. Both were very fulfilling and I found myself loving the way each individual desired me. However, I took way more pleasure in giving than I did receiving. In receiving, I found myself freezing up and becoming unresponsive. I couldn’t talk or encourage or do anything except let the other person do what they wanted. I’d been under the impression this was a result of residual untreated trauma and past insecurities coming up to bite me, and I’d addressed those possibilities in therapy many times. I figured, I just don’t like to talk during sex. I just don’t want to be an active part of the scene. I went to rigging classes for a time. I fell in love with rope play, but I enjoyed the intimacy and lack of control way more than the idea that anyone could take advantage of me in the process. In fact, my first rope scene was entirely just tying and sensation play and that was the absolute best I’d ever felt after an intimate encounter. I don’t even need to think of his name or face (though I do remember his name and did find him attractive). The sensation was just what I needed, but not the person.

I’ve found myself realizing, I could be in a sexual relationship with someone and not feel any attraction to them really. But I thought, that can’t be asexual. Diana always pointed out it could, but I didn’t believe it. Asexuality was what one of my platonic exes felt, where they would oscillate between disgust and scientific study of sex if anything. I did my own studying of sex, and not just in person with Diana and my other two sexual partners. I write romance, erotica, smut, relationships of all kinds in my fiction. I love depicting relationships and have always been ashamed that, when I fantasize about sex, it’s about characters in the act and not myself. But that’s still fantasizing about sex, so it couldn’t be possible that I was asexual. Right? I’ve even run across the definition of autochorissexuality, which is definitely how I specifically identify now. But it didn’t click that, that was asexuality.

Eventually, the guilt of fantasizing about fictional people in the act put me in a dry spell. Diana, bless her beloved soul, provided me with a vibrator as a gift. She wanted me to explore taking care of myself so bad, thinking that was the key to me figuring out how to parse my own desires so she could help me. I always said I wanted to be better in bed (though no one, not a single one of the people I’ve been with, has said I was bad), but I recoiled at the idea of anyone touching me so often that it became impossible. So I picked up the vibrator . . . and promptly came to the conclusion that I would never need another human being to pleasure me again. Now, you wanna talk about SHAME!

This realization was way more terrifying than the realization that I, dare I say, preferred eating girls out over sucking male dick (girl dick is exempt, it is indeed different, thank you Contrapoints for mentioning the mouthfeels). I couldn’t believe Diana had set aside her own needs for so long just for me to get in a relationship with my damn self.

The tipping point was my new job. There are people in this job I’m getting close to. People I actually adore. Normally, when I start to adore someone, I adore everything about them. The whole package. If that means putting out, okay. If that means being the shoulder to cry on, you got it. If that means being there in the hour of need, I’m for it. But my days of exploring my sexuality and even my gender have been over for a long time. I’ve come to terms with my libido and my nonbinary identity, and even my presumed bisexual identity. When faced with the fact that, I could possibly enter into new relationships and find more people to confide in or even new partners . . . I stopped. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s the Florida mentality I’ve adopted. Maybe it’s the damn vibrator. But I couldn’t bring myself to get into another sexual relationship ever.

I’ve always been a romantic individual. I joke that I can have a romance with a plate of pasta, and it’s only half a lie. I’m not into vore, just throwing that out there. When in romance with people, I just normally assume that sex came with the territory. The one platonic partner I had well, that was one study in abuse I’d rather not relive. But each time I’ve had a sexual relationship . . . it wasn’t me acting on the sex. It was me going with it. Now, let’s be clear. I was not assaulted by my partners. I was exploring. I learned new things from each of them and I take those lessons to heart. The lesson I take most to heart though is that I’m an extremely empathic individual. So it goes to show that, if someone I’m deeply connected to shows me any level of palpable desire, I’m going to reciprocate it. But with the way people act towards asexuals, I was afraid that my want to please others would be taken as me being manipulated. I’ve been manipulated before. Those three partners did NOT manipulate me, I went willingly to their physical aid happily and sometimes screaming dammit. Diana described what I was feeling the best way, though: I was scratching an itch. After giving me a vibrator, we observed that I described masturbating as a routine scratching of an itch. I’m a creature of habit, so that makes sense.

Everything about my coming out as asexual (and biromantic) has been a process of uprooting the shame I have allowed to mutate. I have always been a supporter of asexual rights, and have always SAID that asexual people can enjoy sex but not feel the attraction. Little did I know, that that was something I needed drilled into my own brain. I’ve always been minorly grossed out when people described in detail what things they’d like to do with someone, as seen with my mom and Bruce Willis. I’ve always been equally perturbed when someone tried to factor me into a conversation about sex, and I would always act like I was a Ken doll with nothing in the pants except maybe a void monster (because that’s how nonbinary be some days). It never occurred to me, for some silly reason, that I didn’t have to link sexuality and romance in my relationships. You could blame the media. You could blame my own insecurities. You could even blame some aspects of my relationships, but the fact of the matter is I didn’t put it together until now.

I’ve come out of the closet a total of four times now. First as bisexual. Then as nonbinary, genderqueer. Then as polyamorous. Now, I’m out as asexual, specifically autochorissexual, and biromantic. I always believed you grew into your identity, but I never knew I wasn’t done growing. Here I am, still growing. I’m just relieved I have the support network I do to feel comfortable coming to this realization.