Ok, I finally get it: Bass

What about that bass


As recently as a few years ago, I didn’t get it: pounding a car system with enough woofers and subwoofers to get what I can only describe as “rattle bass” —enough bass to make the car rattle and buzz. “Doesn’t that just overpower and blunt the music?” Indeed in these cars, you’ll almost always only hear the bass well.


Shift

A few years ago is also when I got my headphones—a pair of Skullcandy Crushers. The decision was made after testing a ton of different brands, and this one blew it away.

Of course, the first time I used the bass booster, I was thrown for a loop: it’s rattle bass, but in my head…

And it sounded good.

I tested a few tracks on it, and during this test, I started to understand the bass obsession: it makes the beat reach the bones. And that feels REALLY good. It led to me trying EVERYTHING with extra bass. Songs boosted gained extra impact as the beat of my pulse matched the bass. It’s almost primal, really.

I finally got it.

I mean it only took 15 years but now I get it.

Watch: Insomnia, and The Possibly Maybe Hot Computer

Ever wanna hear one of my stories like you were there?

Stick with the ramble and you’ll get to hear the Possibly Maybe Hot Computer story. It’s wild.

Money terror.

$470.

That’s how much money I need, fast.

The factory has us working two days a week and I have the phone, light, and internet bills due. The most urgent of these is the light bill: the heat is alarming and besides, if it goes off, they WILL evict.

If I’m lucky, the Housing Authority will reduce my rent on Friday. I will have to live with the blistering allergic reaction to the bugs, the aching rash covering my right arm, hand, and foot.… that could actually get scarier. More on it later, when my stomach isn’t nervously flipping inside out.

The entire situation is fucked.

If you can help? Or know someone who can? Send here: https://www.paypal.me/CyggieStardust

(as usual, disregard the deadname…)

I’m going to attempt to sleep. It’s second day of the work week…

Out, Many Times

It was when Sheik turned into Zelda in Ocarina of Time and I was still attracted.

Incidentally, that was when my cousins started calling me “gay.”

I didn’t know what gay meant then.

I was 13.


One day in grade school I was asked what I thought of boys. I answered honestly — and after I answered all the girls avoided me. I’d said that I liked girls better, and suddenly I was shunned by all.

I was 12.


A few years earlier I’d had a good friend. We shared the same interests. We got along well. But a rumor started. I didn’t know about it until I arrived for the scheduled hangout and was told that her folks didn’t want “that type of girl” hanging around. Then the door was closed in my face.

I was 7.


I was 20.

I’d just successfully confessed my feelings to my crush on campus. He’d shot me down. My friends took me out for sushi to make me feel better. A few weeks passed and I saw more of the guy that made me realize that I’d actually dodged a bullet — the guy was beautiful, but BOY was he problematic. While all this was going on, one of my other friends had something awesome happen to her — and in her soaring euphoria, she kissed ME before skipping off to her destination.

“Guys,” I said to my group as the realization finally dawned, chest a flutter, “I think I might be bisexual.”


I was 30.

I’m freaking out because my clothes are gendered. Male is wrong. Female is wrong. But if that’s the case then what am I? I panic and cancel my plans. I hit up the new LGBT sub on 4chan of all places — where I learn about nonbinary identities. The panic subsides a bit, and I research into the night. By morning I have a handle on it.

Ze/zir.

Genderqueer/Genderflux.

And a private identification tied to my blood that I reveal only to those who I trust.

For the first time in years, things are clicking.


I am 33.

Things have settled in. Some have evolved: as a nonbinary individual, I now identify more as pansexual because it’s outside the binary. Some have refined: my attraction type is demi-panromantic, if we’re splitting hairs.
I have accepted that I am settled firmly beneath the trans umbrella — something that I denied vehemently before. And I am growing as a person.

… well, that’s my Coming Out™ story.

The job search blues.

I filled out another three applications today. In keeping with the requirements of the unemployment situation, I jotted them down on a piece of paper to keep them straight. Part of me wishes I had already heard something, the impatient part. The other part knows that this is a slow process, and that I have to make sure that I wait patiently for a hear back from these people. I wish this were a faster process.

I don’t remember how long it took when I was looking for this first job. I remember the day I got the callback, the time I took the wrong turn and wound up in the wrong side of town and wound up getting a ride to the proper place from a good Samaritan who took me from the gas station to the motel. Nothing like that will happen this time, I am sure, because this time around I carry around a cell phone with a map, and I will be able to navigate with that.

I am frustrated with my impatience. Though my body continues to rebel—with numbness in one hand, pain in an elbow, the usual trouble with my knees—I would like to work. I liked making money, feeling productive. Knowing where the money for bills was coming from was a nice thing.

It’s been keeping me awake. I’ve been keeping a running list of things I’ve wanted to get when I get work again. The list at points has included a lunch at a local sit down burger chain, sheets, an expensive (to me) fish to cook for dinner, elderberries to ferment, a video game, and spices. But I think the thing I really want to get when I get this job is a good night’s sleep.

No sleep til…

The week has been something else. Job hunting, storms, and a phone interview that I cannot tell was good or not. The tone seems to have been a good interview, but I have never been good at telling tone without seeing a face conclusively—it is always a guess for me. That is an irony for me, since I can remotely read someone’s cards with remarkable ease.

This week has also brought some surprising news: I’m down a pants size. Whether this is because I’ve been forced to eat less or because I’ve been drinking more tea, it’s…interesting. It ceretainly busted my (what I now realize was rather outlandish) theory that I had done the laundry wrong at some point and had stretched my good pair of jeans.

If I’m being honest, tea and tarot have been the reliable comforts in this time of struggle. I can brew a hot cup and sip before a meditative reading at night after a day of trudging around finding out that the places I was going only take online applications now. The hot drink makes everything fall away, makes it feel for one second that everything is going to be okay, for just one second. It’s not like I can say that it takes me back to a time before—my past was a fraught one, even though it was in that past that I discovered my love of tea. No, a drink of tea brings me uniquely into the moment, so that nothing exists but that moment, and the sip that exist in it. In a similar vein, tarot brings me into a mindfulness that makes me focus on both the now and what I have to do next, so that I don’t get trapped in the spiral of unending what-ifs that my brain is prone to sending me into. It’s a trick I learned early into experimenting with my faith and while it’s not for everyone, it works for me.

It’s late. Well, if I want to get technical, it’s pretty early for me—lately I go to bed at four in the morning, and it’s barely one in the morning. But, my tea is getting cold waiting for me, and my cards are waiting for my nightly meditation.

So, good night…