An Experiment in Anger Management

So, I guess I'm doing this, huh?

For months I've been toying with the idea of starting a new blog. One for me to talk about Serious Issues, instead of the usual inconsequential and inane ones I find myself writing about normally. Countless times I've started something like this, only to put off updating or abandon it a few posts in.

This time, that won't happen.

How do I know this? Well, I am fucking pissed. I furiously, unrelentingly, unapologetically, unequivocally PISSED, like I've never been pissed before.

So if I'm so pissed--if I let my anger get to these unprecedented levels--why did I wait so damn long to start writing about it? I did this thing I do a lot, called making excuses. I thought that in order to have a successful blog, I'd have to have a schtick. Or, to use a less kitschy phrase, an angle. There are tons of feminist blogs out there, and I thought that to be viable and worthy of participating in the blogging conversation, I'd have to make myself stand out somehow by putting a label on myself, and being known as that one thing.  I am a feminist, and I am:

a college student.
a Women's Studies major.
a Creative Writing major.
fat.
pansexual.
doing a lot of dating, lately.
hoping for another sexual revolution.
20 years old.
a music fan.
a consumer of media.
...et cetera.

Well, I am all of those things. And yes, sometimes my ideas are broad and disorganized, but I've gotta start somewhere. And as for success? Who the fuck cares. This is a way for me to get down my thoughts. If nobody reads it, at least I know it's out there.

Likely, this will end up detailing the things that piss me off every day. Because things piss me off, every day. It's difficult, living with all that anger. It's pretty obvious to me that I need some sort of outlet.

I decided on the "Serious Oves" title based on a conversation my mother and I had a few months back. It probably started with her telling me a story about something gutsy she did, and my answering with something akin to, "Wow, you've got some serious balls."

In response to that, my mother said, "You know, that phrase always pissed me off. I don't have balls, I have ovaries. So, can't I have some serious oves instead?"

The two of us burst out laughing, and agreed that this needed to spread. Since that conversation, whenever someone comments that I've got "balls," I always correct them: "I think you mean, 'ovaries.'"