Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

A Melancholy Zebra determined to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


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The Zone is a Lie; My Brain on Running

I’m not one of those blissed-out runners who flies over the pavement like someone spiked their nutrition gel with particularly excellent ecstasy.

Nor shall I ever be.

Fear keeps my feet turning over for miles down the road. I’m completely terrified. (And lo! Another indication that I am not entirely normal. Go figure.)

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Queering the What?! Lest We Assume

“You’re ‘queering’ the what?!” = what I imagine the immediate response to the blog title might be.

NB: I am not turning triathletes queer. (Although…*wink*)

Somewhere along the linguistic timeline, “queer” became a verb, not unlike how “adult” became a verb, but in far more scholarly and less whiny manner. Granted, I do not want to adult most of the time, but that neologism has become banal through undergraduate student overuse.

“Queer,” meanwhile, is still a confused term, and it damn well should be. It’s queer, after all. (Bad pun. Revel in it!)

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A Borderline’s “FP”

FP = “Favorite Person”

I recently learned about this term when I started browsing Tumblr again (“The horror! The horror!”) While tumbling through the various tags looking for some camaraderie, I kept seeing this acronym. Fp. Fp. Fp. What the shit is an Fp? Fart pancake? Flabby pancreas? Flirty parakeet?

And then: Ooooh!! Favorite Person. I have one of those. … I have a ton of those…  Continue reading


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The Gift Within My Diagnosis

For at least a year, I was not allowed to eat cheese. I was not allowed to go jackknife into a fabulous round of brie or, god forbid! goat cheese. It was the worst culinary year of my life, not being allowed to indulge in that magical coagulated milk.

This terrible fate was thrust upon me in an effort to quell the wretched fiend known (idiotically) as BPD. And for the years since, I’ve struggled with this son of a bitch and made every effort possible to kill off his stupid hydra heads that grow back in slimy multitudes. With great thanks to this whole mindfulness nonsense, I’m much calmer, wiser, and stronger than I was several years ago.

Still, some days are better than others.

But not until today have I ever thought of BPD as a gift, and maybe it is.

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Metta Practice as a Borderline

Many different sorts of meditation retreats are available to the sadistic folks who want to spend several days alone with their own mind: vipassana, jhana, zen… the list goes on, and some are more specific than others.

For example, I attended a retreat this week focused especially on cultivating metta. Translation: Love Everything.

Well, it was 99.99% successful! Continue reading


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I Hear You, and Thank You For Your Input. Now @*#& Off.

I gave my first dharma talk today, the substance of which was:

“Hello, fear. I hear you. Thank you for your input. Now please eff off.”

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The White Crayon is Boring: Justifying My Qualifications

No, really. What good is the white crayon? Generally speaking, the sheet of drawing paper is white, so if the artist needs something to be white, they use the negative space. Actually drawing with it ends up pointless. You want someone to see your drawing? Pick up a bright crayon. Use the blue. Use the red. Use the purple. Hell, use the tan. Just don’t bother with the white one.

So, perhaps you can imagine my exasperation when presented with this prompt: “In an essay, discuss… Please include any experiences, challenges, or opportunities…; how you might contribute to social or cultural diversity…; and/or how you might serve educationally underrepresented segments of society with your degree.”

… I am a skinny white girl with blue eyes and multiple liberal arts degrees. COME ON NOW.

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