"If you love something, set it free."
Most boys wouldn't advise this, but most boys aren't me: I allow people to draw mistaken conclusions from misapplied negation.
Gender confusion is imposed on boys by telling them they're no longer boys. First off they might look at the hair they didn't have when they were young boys and think that by inference they've just been called men.
The inference is called, thinking the best of people.
As a six-year-old I was told about a girl in the neighbourhood, two years older than me, who had kissed a boy. The important detail was in the number of seconds the kiss lasted for. I would like to call it harmless, but I've heard echoes of that detail from countless women, including those my mother's age.
Coed schools have been about children experimenting with each other since my parents were at school. I received a message recently that those cheap things called maths sets were of particular use to boys who wanted to ask for something from a girl, or vice versa, without either of them saying something their parents had forbidden.
And then it hit me: quality dividers are used to take measurements from plans. Mathematicians used to be presented with a pair simply as a token of their place in the education system.
I had a pair because we did technical drawing: being the task of making plans, dividers are unnecessary for it.
Thus if I don't call myself a mathematician, no-one else will.
Nothing won't be turned into a lesson for children whose parents don't give a fuck.
My dividers were kept in a box which if I say was pink I'll think it was orange, and if I say it was orange I'll think maybe it was actually pink: I have to mention this seemingly irrelevant detail, as I must mention everything that might relate to the advice that I aught to be less ashamed of who I am.
I have no more idea of the whereabouts of the dividers, or the box, than I have of the person who sent me the message about maths junk.
But she also told me--and don't ask me why I can be told these things without being able to know where she is--that she rebelled against the stockings that schoolgirls were required to wear if they felt cold in winter. For the message was pretty clear, when taken in context of the bridging class, just how dirty were the hands that ruled us.
I recall now when I began to see America as the very last place to think of emigrating to, in contradiction to all other advice I had received: we had been in the habit of blaming America on its lawyers.
If nothing is sacred then law is just a weapon for the rich.
So, then, what shall we hold sacred?
While I let people's thoughts gravitate to one thing and then find that they're immunizing one sex as being the exception to the matter of righteousness in men, I return to the vain thought that one girl fell head-over-heels for me, but didn't like the idea of Complex theory.
I've known married boys to make nasty jokes about a woman's intellect. The fact is I had used mine, for at least since I had been told about a long running kiss, for what we call dry running. To this day I check myself, as to the whether I really fell in love or just went mad after so much of that mental activity. The inclusion of that which heightens our imagination had brought me in conflict with a legal system that is abused by lazy parents. And religious institutions with feet of clay.
I've had a lot to learn. Learning to chill is going to take time.
At the same time, I rather enjoy this editing and amending more than watching old movies of the old fashioned ideas of rich boys who knew what was more important than money, and of course, dirty old men who knew what clean fun is, which dirty old men girls know how to avoid if they want to.
It's not quite as much fun as my monster motorbike which, when I told her to chill, committed suicide.