I will put my tongue in your ass but I will not scrapbook your fucking vacation pictures.
I left a shorter version of this in comments to ursulav's rather ashamed post about her fear of being mistaken for a scrapbooker. That post is worth reading in its entirety. Ursula is awesome.
I buy all kinds of stuff from the scrapbooking aisles because I can use them in my faux curiosities, and I reflexively flinch at the thought that someone might *GASP* think that I am a SCRAPBOOKER who jauntily arranges pictures of her seventy-eight perfect children in whimsical photo albums in between minivan trips to Whole Foods.
I am so far from being that person it's not funny.
And there's nothing wrong with being that person anyhow, I'm sure. She sounds like a fine person.
Yet I am afraid people will mistake us for one another.
I think for me it's A) a weird fear that people will think I have children, which assumption never fails to disturb me, or B) an even worse fear that people will think I engage in dreadfully insipid activities like latch-hooking Precious Moments toilet seat covers or something.
The irony is that I fear this while wearing a Miskatonic University shirt, or a shirt with a giant severed demon head on it, or a naked woman riding a giant wolf. Like somehow people would look at that and think "Yeah, that person makes scrapbooks for her kids, and she's totally into macramé."*
In a bizarre manifestation of the kind of oozing guilt which drives people to shamefacedly explain away their simultaneous purchase of a dog bowl, vinyl gloves, lube, condoms, a choke collar, infant teething anesthetic, and several large zucchini as "Just picking up a few things for my, er, friend," I will sometimes go to the counter, my purchases clutched in vaguely sweaty hands, and feel this nearly irresistible urge to explain that I'm actually going to be using this frou-frou paper as a backdrop for shooting pictures of a severed hand, or that the Pearl-Ex mica pigment powders are going to be used in witch bottles labeled "Satyr Semen," or used to apply a pearly finish to a faked archaeological find of millennia-old Atlantean anal beads.
I would rather look like a complete pervert than a soccer mom.
If only I could find some of those obnoxious stick-figure car stickers shaped like a Sheela-na-Gig. Or the Cerne Abbas giant.
* Not that there's anything wrong with kids, or scrapbooking, or macramé, though I don't know about latch-hooking, and Precious Moments is right out.
I buy all kinds of stuff from the scrapbooking aisles because I can use them in my faux curiosities, and I reflexively flinch at the thought that someone might *GASP* think that I am a SCRAPBOOKER who jauntily arranges pictures of her seventy-eight perfect children in whimsical photo albums in between minivan trips to Whole Foods.
I am so far from being that person it's not funny.
And there's nothing wrong with being that person anyhow, I'm sure. She sounds like a fine person.
Yet I am afraid people will mistake us for one another.
I think for me it's A) a weird fear that people will think I have children, which assumption never fails to disturb me, or B) an even worse fear that people will think I engage in dreadfully insipid activities like latch-hooking Precious Moments toilet seat covers or something.
The irony is that I fear this while wearing a Miskatonic University shirt, or a shirt with a giant severed demon head on it, or a naked woman riding a giant wolf. Like somehow people would look at that and think "Yeah, that person makes scrapbooks for her kids, and she's totally into macramé."*
In a bizarre manifestation of the kind of oozing guilt which drives people to shamefacedly explain away their simultaneous purchase of a dog bowl, vinyl gloves, lube, condoms, a choke collar, infant teething anesthetic, and several large zucchini as "Just picking up a few things for my, er, friend," I will sometimes go to the counter, my purchases clutched in vaguely sweaty hands, and feel this nearly irresistible urge to explain that I'm actually going to be using this frou-frou paper as a backdrop for shooting pictures of a severed hand, or that the Pearl-Ex mica pigment powders are going to be used in witch bottles labeled "Satyr Semen," or used to apply a pearly finish to a faked archaeological find of millennia-old Atlantean anal beads.
I would rather look like a complete pervert than a soccer mom.
If only I could find some of those obnoxious stick-figure car stickers shaped like a Sheela-na-Gig. Or the Cerne Abbas giant.
* Not that there's anything wrong with kids, or scrapbooking, or macramé, though I don't know about latch-hooking, and Precious Moments is right out.