can't say goodbye!

HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! HYPE!! :)

hay dear,finally i have time to update my blog. after a few months I was busy, and i dont have someone who help me to take the picture.
today is the day where I had to leave Jakarta, friends, family and boyfriend, because today I will move to Malaysia to continue my studies, I feel very sad and not yet ready, but on the one side I feel happy, because I'm going with My besties Diana and evellyn. omg! I feel scared to face the day I was in college later on, pray all will be fine guys.
OMG! almost forgot, happy chinese new year all, and sorry this is late, but that's okay I think :)
about my photo was taken in surabaya a few weeks ago, when I would eat lunch with my boyfriend. what you guys think about this photo? thanks dear :)

-amante shoes-geisha polkadot dress-must have bag-forever21 bangles-random rings-

The Telltale Heart

(by danx2)

Hey there, vagitarians!


Guess what?

I've been keeping something from y'allfags.

[by CHUNKS!]

It was really hard. 
But it was something I badly wanted, so I couldn't tell you about it.


Are you like that?  Able to talk at length about any old thing...but if you truly want something, you keep it a secret?


That's the way I've handled things since I was 9 and I tried out for the Green Bay community theater's production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. 

At the time, I was under the impression that I was a uniquely gifted child - I had the best voice in the entire world, and playing Cosette in Les Miserables on Broadway was my destiny.  (Never mind that I was already too old.) 

Bewailing the fact that I lived in Wisconsin to all my friends, I spent enormous amounts of time singing Jasmine's part of "A Whole New World" by myself, in our empty garage, when no one was home. 
(The acoustics were vibrant in there.)


Anyway! The first step towards Broadway was clearly becoming a member of the children's chorus in Jospeh and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  


I chose that song from The Little Mermaid - you know, "Look at this stuff, isn't it neat" as my audition song. 

As the final note of my song pealed out onstage, I knew I had nailed it.  


I smiled, thanked the casting directors, and went off to the dance portion of the audition, where I completely screwed up and ended on one knee with jazz hands when we were supposed to end up standing with jazz hands.

But my gut told me it didn't matter. My gut told me I was a star, and that the only thing the directors were going to care about was sheer vocal ability.  
And I had that in spades.  


Dance steps.
Like I couldn't pick those up later.

At dinner that night, when Dad asked me how my tryouts went, I said, "Fine" and tried to look humble. 
I wondered what it would be like for him a few months from now, when he'd be sitting across from a child star. 
Would he be nervous?


Sifting through my puddle of ketchup with a fork for any meatloaf bits left behind, I silently plotted how I'd kick my legs precociously against the bottom of the armchair during my first interview with Letterman.

I had told all my friends about Joseph.  Every girl in the 4th grade knew I had tried out for the musical.


And so I waited.
I waited for days and days.  
They had said they would let me know. 
But I never heard back.

[by sally mann]

I assumed my phone number had been misplaced.  
I looked up the casting director's name and called her at her house, slowly and carefully enunciating the digits of my phone number.

I remember I spelled out my first, middle, and last name. 
In each of the four messages I left.

[via cuteoverload]

Eventually, I learned that all children cast in Joseph were called within 48 hours of the audition.

I had been waiting to hear for over two weeks.  

(by Benoit Paillé)

To say that I sobbed until I choked would be an understatement.


Then I had to face all my friends.  It was awful.  


In retrospect, it's obvious that they couldn't have cared less.  
For me, though, it was the Ultimate in Shame.  

I had publicly, openly wanted something.
And I had failed.


Mom had warned me not to count my chickens before they hatched.
And she was right!

Ever since then, I've maintained this mandate:


Never tell people what you really want - that way, if you fail, no one knows.


It is only later in life that I'm realizing how fucked up that is.

[via nikolai-wolf]

Here's what I've been keeping a secret from even my family, homos:


I quit the bakery three months ago.
For the last three months, I've been auditioning to be a writer at Groupon.  


Big whoop, right? Not so hard to admit that.
Now, before you say anything:


1) I wanted to be a staff writer (one of the people that writes the deals and the funny shit) really, really bad. That's why I hid it - I wanted it so bad. 
Can you imagine getting paid - salaried - to write jokes?


2) The Superbowl ads.  I know.  


I've spent the last three months learning to write in Groupon-style - staying up into the wee hours of the night reading old copy, freaking out, and telling no one.  

As each day passed, and I made office friends, and the editors treated me like a human being, and there was no dress code, and I could come in whenever I pleased and leave whenever I wanted, and I found I enjoyed thinking of creative new ways to talk about mani-pedis and Indian restaurants...I wanted to work there more and more. 

So bad it hurt.  I'd never had a job I liked. 
Never.


Lemme tell you: I covered all my bases.
I put $50 under my Ganesha statue (it has to be more than you can afford or it won't work), kissed his trunk, and promised him more if I got hired.

I swore to Our Lady of Guadalupe that I would wear the necklace with her icon on it throughout the entire last two weeks of hiring decisions.

A candle got burned for the Virgin Mary, and I solemnly promised Jesus that, if he didn't make me go back into the service industry, I would not make any blasphemous baby jesus remarks for fourteen days- which is a lifetime.

Well, on Friday, I was hired on as a full-time Staff Writer. 
Hooray!!!


People are giving me money to type out thoughts.  
Ridiculous.

This is the first time in my entire life that I've gotten excited to go to work.


And then Effing Dykes was nominated for two Bloggie Awards:  Best LGBT Weblog and BEST WEBLOG OF THE YEAR!!  

Holy, holy crap. 
It's been a good week. 


Btdubbs, will you vote for me, gayelles? 
With all five of your email accounts?
Click here to vote for the promotion of sacred lesbian values. 
Yay for gay!

And now: let's talk us some dykes.

(via kimberlygillett)

Today we're keeping it simple. 


Actual letter from an actual reader: 


Hi effingdykes writer,


i know your name is krista but i feel weird calling you by you're name cos i don't know you for real.  sorry i'm weird haha. i have a problem i thought you could maybe talk about in your blog: I like this girl at my college and i know she's a lesbian for sure.


i've had a crush on her for a long time, but i don't know what to do about it cos i act like an idiot when i'm around her! she knows who i am, but she must think i'm an asshole cos i say stupid shit to try to be funny and then its not funny. i'm kind of a chicken, so i guess my question is how do i tell this girl i like her without walking up to her and saying that? pls help she's really hot.


-E.L.

[via scatterhearted]

E.L.? I'm no advice columnist. But since you asked...


#1. It makes people's brains bleed when you don't capitalize "i." STOPPIT.


#2. If every lesbian hides behind being "kind of a chicken", then no lesbian gets laid.  
Take an awkward stand.


#3. Your crush probably already knows you like her.

[via eyeh8pie]

And that's what I want to talk about today, sluts. 
A seriously basic, back-to-gradeschool topic.


How can you tell if a woman likes you?

[pinktaclovers]

Or, conversely and more importantly: How do you act when you like somebody?


I've gotta tell ya, I've got nothing. 
The day I'm able to tell if a woman likes me is the day I shut this mess down for good.

And when I like a girl, there are only two clear behavior options:


1) Silently stalk her.

 (by sannah kvist)

Casually-but-totally-obviously try to find out everything there is to know about her. Facebook is utilized. (Not that that helps much anymore, thanks to Yahoo!News blaring headlines about securing your facebook privacy). 


Those who know her are questioned. I'll tell everyone within hearing distance about having a crush on her, and then, upon coming face to face with her in an elevator, clam the hell up. 


Totally ignore her. 
Act too cool to even look at her.  

[via jpegdump]

I pull this shit all the time - in bars, at work, at parties, you name it. 
I like to think that the sheer force of my laser-like thoughts will beam into the girl's brain and spur her into asking me out.


You can guess how well this works.

via vinylsnotdead

2) Gabble like gregarious turkey when she's anywhere near me. 


Even though I am never impressive when faced with a woman I think is cute, I will invent reasons to be in her area juuust to torture myself.


Join a bookclub I'm not interested in, protest at a rally for a political reason I don't understand, go daily to the tea shop where she works and pretend I enjoy drinks like yerba mate and rooibos.  


It always ends in me trying to be witty and appear as if I didn't plan on seeing her.
This = FAIL. 

[via floatinggoat]

I'll then spend the rest of the day recreating the interaction in my head, mentally banishing my actual, uttered phrases, like:


 "That hat looks just like the one my friend knitted for me. When she was alive."

Eventually, months later, I usually somehow find the courage to tell my crush, "I, um, think you're really cute."

[via girlcrushing]

And then sometimes it all works out.




But it's not like I'm surprising anyone. 
My crushes are invariably aware that I like them. 
They apparently just want to watch the awkward show.

Like a cat toying with a beetle before cracking its exoskeleton. 


So who are we fooling, with our little games? 
Are some of you more suave than me?


Good god, I hope so.

[via lezbhonest]

I clearly have no answers, so I'm opening this up for discussion.  


Two reasons: 


1) I need help in this area. I cannot act normally around other cute lesbians, nor can I distinguish between a lesbian who's hitting on me and a lesbian-who's-just-talking-to-me-because-she's-a-normal-person-and-normal-people-are-polite.


2) If enough dykes write in about how they act when they have a crush, we can study the list for patterns and then use our secret compiled knowledge for evil slutty purposes.

[via sirchiefsalot]

So how 'bout it, tramps?


What are the telltale signs when you like somebody?

Two of a Kind

[via stingslikeabee]

Hiya, pearl divers!


The end of January fast approacheth.  
I'm so relieved.


January is my least favorite month.  

[via womenreading]

It's still winter, but Christmas is over. 


Before Christmas, when it snows, I go, "oh isn't this magical" and hum Carol of the Bells to myself and re-read The Dark Is Rising and think about the delicious, slightly creepy magic of the holidays, especially as portrayed in English movies where there's a boys' choir making wispy "ahhhh" noises in the background while snow settles on thatched cottages.

After Christmas, I go, "look at all this fucking slush" and spend time locked in a bathroom stall at work, furiously rubbing the salt stains off my boots using spit and wadded up, greyish toilet paper. 


Then I go home, run a hot bath, put on woolly socks, burrow under my blankets, and refuse to move.

 (by Ignacio Dansilio)

There are no fun holidays in January. 
The gym is always packed. 



And Chicago is mysteriously unorganized - they have no snow system. 


Unlike civilized villages, such as Minneapolis, there are no laws in Chicago about everybody having to shovel the part of the sidewalk that lies in front of their houses.
  
Nobody shovels, so the snow packs down, freezes, and turns to a thick, bumpy layer of ice.

And so you fall down a lot. 


In the grey dawn, silent Ukrainian men stand in their doorways, smoking, and watch you pick yourself up from the pavement, studying your ripped tights with cold appraisal.

January is not even close to spring and it's an extra long month, just for spite.

'Cause February is the winter turning point - it brings Valentine's Day and my birthday and only has 28 days and therefore isn't really even a month at all, and March is the light at the end of the tunnel, when you sniff the air hopefully and think that maybe it's warm enough today so you don't have to wear your hat. 


April is spring, and spring means the start of scooter season, which means you officially don't have to get on a bus for half a year.

So fuck January. I'm so glad it's almost over.


But you know what? 
There is something to celebrate in January. There is!


Effing Dykes is TWO YEARS OLD!!! 
HOOORAAAAY!!!

Two whole years of talking about lesbians! 
And instead of becoming bored by the subject matter, the obsession has only, um, grown.

[via hellogirls]

Like the many-headed Hydra monster, who sprouts hundreds of new heads every time you hack one off...the more dyke-specific topics we tackle, the more crop up.

D'youknow, when this mess got started, I actually worried about running out of stuff to talk about?


Hilarious.
That's like entering a cake-eating contest and worrying you might not place.

Anyway! Because being two years old means you can finally eat solid food, CJ and I decided to celebrate by going out for brunch at the Longman Eagle. (Now I know that sounds like a leather bar, you dirty slags, but it's not.  The Longman Eagle is one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago.  Lots of lesbians eat brunch there, and the chef has his priorities in order - he worships at the shrine of local pork belly.)


As we were getting ready to leave for the restaurant, I noticed that CJ was wearing a bright red shirt.  
Now, that would ordinarily be fine, but...

I was wearing a bright red dress.  

UNACCEPTABLE!


I stood in the bathroom door.


Me:  Hey. We're both wearing red.

CJ:  (grabbing keys) Ha, yep.  Ready?  Got your phone?


Me: You have to change.


CJ: (pulling on boots) Baby, who cares.

Me: I'm wearing red.


CJ: Well, I am, too.  Deal.


Me: No. I got dressed first. That's the rule. You have to change.  

CJ: (zipping up coat) Who. Cares.  We're already late.

Me: We can't be those lesbians!  Hold on, I hafta change.

CJ: (shouting down the hall) Baby, no one will even notice! It's already 11!


Me: I just need two minutes!


Homos, while being a lesbian is the greatest and best thing ever because you get to date other women and see what their boobs are like and have bathroom sinks free of stubble-hair-dust and never deal with penises, ever...


there are a few things about being a lesbian that still scare the bejezus out of me.  

One of those things is Lesbian Bed Death.  We've talked about this.

But there's more than one nightmare out there, tricks.


And this one's called The Merge.

[via peachtree]

In the comments from last week, someone wrote in and said we should talk about The Merge, and I've been thinking about it ever since. 


In light of this morning's lil' incident, it's become patently clear that this issue needs to be addressed.

[via iloveyousew]

Avoiding The Merge is habit at this point - so much a part of my daily routine that it's like brushing my teeth. I never even thought of discussing it.


Q: But what is The Merge?


A: I'm so glad you asked!
You already know what The Merge is.  You've seen it. 


The Merge is when two romantically involved lesbians suddenly start to look like one lesbian. 

You know what I'm talking about.
You see them everywhere. 


Dykes - about the same height, usually about the same body type- who slept together last night, then got up, put on jeans, a button-down shirt, a black North Face fleece jacket, and went to breakfast.

[via jelly]

Both of them.

They didn't mean to do it, but they're dressed the same. 
They look like one another.  A lot like one another.

[via fuckyeahboysunderwear]

So much so, that, if seen from the back, it miiiiiiight be difficult for someone to tell them apart.

The Merge.

Half urban myth, half gayass truth.
It's so common among gayelles that we joke about it. 


Ew, you match!


Um, did you guys plan that?


Do you know that you're wearing the same outfit, just different colors?


Ha ha, you guys are twins. 


HOLY FUCKING SHIT.  It scares me to death. 

I mean, I get why it happens.
Your girlfriend is adorable.
She looks great in those skinny jeans.
You've never tried a pair, but hey...you guys are about the same size...

[via kikicube]

Cripes.  It's a slippery slope, sluts.
One day, you're throwing on your girlfriend's pajama pants to go let the dog out, and the next day, it's 15 years later and you both have matching bowl haircuts and Tevas on your Alaskan whale-watching cruise.

[via crooksandqueens]

To be fair: the straights are guilty, too. 
You know, those weird couples in identical windpants with their matching Cubs hats (except hers is pink, 'cause girls can totally like sports, but only if they're feminized!), jogging along with their fucking chocolate lab.

And gay boys do it as well - you see them walking, hand in hand, in the Castro, wearing tight white t-shirts and matching leather jackets, oblivious to anything but how fierce they both look since they've been working out.

But gay girls are the most guilty, and I'm not sure why.

[via julyshewillfly]

It's always creepy. 


I always picture two dykes holding up mirrors to one another before they leave the house, going:
"You're hot."  
"No, you're hot."  
"Gawd we turn ourselves on."

[via whatifpunkneverhappened]

Let's cut ourselves a little slack, though. 


We're girls.  


We all went to middle school.  


We all know the best way to form a little special club all our own and make other people feel weird is to privately decide on a specific thing to wear and bond with each other through the fact that we are excluding everybody else by wearing it.

Women copy one another. 
When they're 12.


It's like what your mom told you:  Flattery's the best compliment, a.k.a. if Jenny Verhaugh is copying you, it's because you are rocking the hell out of that side ponytail.

Too bad it's horrifying when you grow up. 

[via venuslacy]

The Merge breeds stories.  
Bring 'em.