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21 Boston, MA Woman, Genderfluid, Genderqueer

Woman, Genderfluid, Genderqueer

I’m looking for

  • Everyone
  • Ages 18–99
  • Located anywhere
  • For new friends, short-term dating

My Details

Last Online
Today – 3:26am
Pansexual, Bisexual
Hispanic / Latin, White
5′ 0″ (1.52m)
Body Type
Mostly vegetarian
Very often
Buddhism, and laughing about it
Graduated from two-year college
Banking / Finance
Rather not say
Relationship Status
Relationship Type
Doesn’t have kids, but might want them
English (Fluently), Arabic (Fluently), French (Fluently), Chinese (Okay)

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My self-summary
Write a little about yourself. Just a paragraph will do.
Words are such fickle things. You try to give them a meaning, and it is lost in translation. From person to person amid the medium of its expression, it gives way to some bastard child of a deeply personal thing. Why? Because language is for its speakers, an inherently public act, and if one is to speak, one is to speak with the words of another, declining to their constructed meanings. To try and be heard, and understood?

Words are finite organs of the infinite mind.

Truly, there is no private language. For even if words are intended for oneself, they speak to a self of past; in each moment we evolve, and in each a passing we become other than ourselves. The concept is quarry to manifest, our words lost upon ourselves. (That is to say, the rule-following of Wittgenstein disintegrates as it is overwritten.) But words, fickle as they are, are transcendent.

Listen to the words I intone:

I have watched ocean tides, purple thistle blossoms, my dogs’ trust, and babies’ laughter. I have heard cicada songs, whispered confessions, Gregorian chants, and the squeaking of bamboo growing. I have held the hands of dying people in my own and tasted tears of both heartache and joy. I have ached to describe the commonalities in all of these things; I have crumpled pages of text in my inability to convey to my own satisfaction, the relatedness of all things beautiful, the essence of goodness which permeates all that is.

Like a sunlight grace the soul: they may touch one's heart and soul; proffer love, comfort, and gentle caresses one can only fathom of another; may be one's salvation.

As she gazed the cityscape. The impression of the archipelago on which it was. The gentle curve of the Pacific on which it was. On which it was was the Earth. What she saw was as any great art does or with which any true journey begins, anew; and anew, what she saw? The groundlessness of the Earth.

As though if she were to meet the ground with sufficient force it would give and she would soar through into the great æther of the divine.

So I did.

And so as the character may, she did, her story a study into ecstasy - the sensation of being outside one's body - climaxing at its end, spirit subsiding from eternity, the anonymity of an omnipresent She, to know the ownmost limit of herself by Organism. The world exhausted of its reason, bereft of, that is to say, Eros. Absolution, deliverance. Myself? I did not. In words I found salvation, my reason.

In living life, being delimited.

A rogue object drifting.

But so though the true polyphony of the human song I may never capture in language, because transcendent as they are I am a many but wordsmith, perhaps in the silences, in the nonverbal spaces between the words, I will. But words my presentation, I offer this:

She stood on the first rail of the little splitwhite fence, barefoot, thighs leant against the second, and in her hand she held a paper airplane. The air clear atop the promontory, little cirrus clouds hung in the sky, wistful, befitting of the occasion's metaphysics, she slowly creases the underbelly of the plane and at the folds of both wings, and then loosens them proud to isometry of angle. There is no thought; all is, and is, just is - thoughtless blessed, improbable being, is beautiful. The gentle terpsichorean rhythm of the tide, in and out, residues of sound cross-fading in roil, the smell of salt and a young, nubile, spring affect the sense; delight it is to her to invoke, to feel as one, a part of a greater thing, a greater, more grand, order, symbiotic, yet, still, as itself, sense sensing.

She inhales.

Lift off.

Watch as it soars steady, up and up wafted gently by a gush of cliffside caroming air. Simple majesty as it flips, innocent, playful, and eclipses the sun—the rays of darkness, as the wings touch, forever darkening the world.

And exhales.

If there are such as an identity and an essence, may mine be of art, love, philosophy, and eternal reconfiguration.

Also, KITTY!
What I’m doing with my life
Don’t overthink this one; tell us what you’re doing day-to-day.
Considering what I said like just above, wondering why I am here trying to make a profile that is somehow to capture me in all my polyphony knowing that will probably never happen because I have no idea what the necessity imperatives that impel me to do this are nor accordingly the percept I am going for here nor thusly then the science of its reification into concatenations of words then sentences and then so on as well as into photographic presentations and a calculated network of admissions and omissions beside a panoply of other àpropos further reifications of that such and but so doing it anyway and weeping gently about it while I chastise myself for being such a cliché in weeping gently about it and for being this incorrigibly hyper-analytical ditz who by the very flaw she acknowledges and knows must work to correct has herself vera causa and yet still finds herself weeping irrespective of the very thought, really, even while weeping knowing she has no reason in her own self-interest to weep but does so anyway thusly substantiating her proposition of her own thorough irrationality. So yeah . . .
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Global warming, lunch, or your next vacation… it’s all fair game.
I have specialist knowledge in non-philosophy, ontic noumenology, genetic structuralism, philosophical and mathematical schemata and categories, the theory of systems engineering, the theory of application, mnemonotechnics, Borromean Knot-era Lacan, modes of existence, engaged theory, simulation, emergence, the philosophy of computer science, the philosophy of finance, business model ontology, transcendental empiricism, representational theory, model theory, the interrelations of physics and mathematics and philosophy, and post-Austrian praxeologies. Though I dabble in many other fields, I practice a buggery pretty much what Deleuze describes.

Here's an example of me thinking and editing:

With your rendition of the Modes of Analysis, you offer the metaphysical connection between the technicality of Man and his many novae whereby practice escapes from the static analytics of the atemporal singularity that manifest because of necessities and desires. Raison, as you say, refers to the calculated state wherein the plaisir of living for the inquired moment exceeds the drive toward the omni-jouissance of death. Desire refers to a de-specification of Raison via aesthetics and an emotive sign structure to the Other-Object, which is temporarily pleasurable but ultimately pre-destined toward exhaustion. Needs refer to the minimal structure of Raison whereby its calculus accumulates via desirous instrumentation against contrary progress. Modes of Analysis network these concepts and establish the foundation of a link between the mnemono-technical and Raison.

Each level of abstraction corresponds to an expanding conceptual network. A-1, or the empirical, begins with technicality and Raison. Simply, the empirical institutes the being-in-the-world into Being. A-2, or the conjectural, adds need. With the technicality and Raison of Man, the means by which interaction between the pair occur passes through need. Need establishes the multiplicity of both concepts and the many manners of toward instrumentation. A-3, or the integrational, adds desire. Unlike need desire does not correspond to the inexhaustable source and changing multiplicity of Raison, desire corresponds to the tooling of various mnemono-technical machines into being though temporary suppliers of Raison. A-4, or the categorical, adds a concept much more unyielding. Startling or obvious as it may seem there is a fundamental limit to the practice of Man contained in his technicality and what A-4 does is the most simple and complex thing — the categorical gives Man to himself. Practice flows through the abstracted network because Man (de/re)constitutes via novae and singularities beyond the Order. What Man may practice through his action a finite quantity of qualitative changes and you might with the broad stroke grasp at two poignant illustrations of the idea comparing it, one, to the four meta-levels of motion and, two, the diminishing returns of differentiation from the initial philosophical categories to approximations of Hegel's impossible complete concept via uniqueness. Though there is a relative ease in describing specific practice modals, difficulty remains in describing the tension between the conjectural and integrational as some modes of practice are ethnic and accord from a differing technicality in man himself.

We cannot emphasize enough the importance of explaining the relationship among and secondary practice modals vis-à-vis the technicality and Raison of Man. While our most primary practical modals derive from the biological-specific needs of the human Organism, secondary practical modals from the ethnic-memory are possible given the infinite morphological possibility of Raison and its non-Imaginary attainment given from technicality itself.
On a typical Friday night I am
Netflix and takeout, or getting your party on — how do you let loose?
I am the sort to wake up, read and write and have breakfast at a little cornerquaint indie coffee shop and bakery, seduce a man on the metro and lead him to a parking garage utility closet and lockpick it for a bit of kinky D/s with some Domina toys I have in my knapsack, go into the Pentagon City Mall and do a bit of shopping and end up more chatting with the employees at a boutique or bookstore than actually shopping, bid adieu and eat lunch at Nando's Peri Peri, afterward try and slip into a gala at an art exhibit or yacht club by a bit of social engineering and end up commingling with either DC hipsters and intelligentsia or the aristocratic well-connected sort, come home late into the dusk doing some parkour along the way, find a warm blanket and my lilo, bring them upstairs to the roof of my apartment complex, set them out abreast the stone railing then laying upon the parapet - feet dangling the side - watching the bronzing of the sunset over the city rooftops and highrises as birds lilt about the dying sun peeling the corona back to departing flocks, eventually getting up from the parapet and retiring to my lilo, supining as the stars and their constellations soothe my existential heart, messaging friends whilst reading Cox's rendition of the consummate lyric poetry of Sappho and Adler's lovely Speedboat until, at last, which is appropriately homophonically alas, my mind lulls into a great, contented sleep, napping for an hour or two, going to a rave ecstatic by the abreast writhing disembodied sea of bodies, transindividual, synthesizing with each other one another and the low, thrumming deep and electro house, air ablaze with lines of color and pigment nebulae and the primal, visceral scent of mixing chemistries, pungent with the orgiastic of night, leaving and somehow ending 53-stories up atop the roof of a highrise, shattered beer bottles, people strewn about in various states of consciousness, stretching, groaning, distended to overlap bodily, as the sun rises over the waking cityscape, walking over to the side of the structure, standing at the edge as I take in the indescribable beauty and sublime of the moment; all within a day, and wherever I am pondering, luxuriating in the ecstasy of sensation and being.

You see, I try to live each day as though it were Joyce's Ulysses, attempting to transmute life into veritable artform. Every moment, every second a painting, a sculpting, a Victorianesque machinic intricacy, a sonorous masterwork, polyphonic and formalist in its ambiguities as the paragons of Modern and their literature. Why? Because, as much as we tend to forget, as much as it may pain and anguish us, life is ephemeral and may end at each a passing, any moment, any second, and, that is to say, how much I tend to forget, as much as it pains and anguishs me, thus I try to live in that one way that makes me feel real, simultaneously ecstatic and, amid the omni-present groundlessness, here and grounded. And yeah, sometimes I fail. But I always remember. On my skin inkly etched the intimate signifiers.


As of late, I have found myself writing a private autobiography, which I write to better understand myself and how I ended up where I am and as well to exercise my writerly muscles for fear of lethargy. A little excerpt from an epistolary tune for you, dear Reader:

And yeah, I did not know who I was or where I wanted to go. So what I did was learn psychoanalysis and sociology and turn the knowledge I had inward, and by this intrapersonal exploration not only did I then know who I was and where I wanted to go, but also what in my life had caused me to become who I am today. Like philosophy, I was always a precocious little girl. And a bit of a computer savvy one at that because of my father, a whiz at every dialect of Lisp and a well-respected hacker in his day. I had my own PC in my room and a pretty good DSL hook-up, so by the age of six I was browsing the fledging Internet. On the Internet, I had found forums and message boards.

Did you know, I was one of the first /b/tards? (Circa. the Christmas season of 2003 or so). True story.

As a precocious little girl, and being a major daddy's girl, I was used to getting what I wanted. A part of that was a tendency to always be right, whether by the favoritism of my father or by my 'intellect,' if you can call it that that early, often giving me a pretty sage and cogent view on things. If I was not right, oh just imagine the mushroom clouds. If other people did not accept that I was right, well. If A is mushroom clouds, I guess a proper intensification to B is a red giant. Oh just imagine a red giant sun engulfing the Earth.

Did I mention I have this streak about me that involves pride and anger? I inherit it from my mother, whenever I used to get in heated argument with someone I had a caustic combination of addressing the main point and mixing it with character assassaination. A rhymeless women of words, I was, if, again, you will.

This need to be right, this precociousness, this wrath and anger, it all came together on these message boards. They teamed with false facts and ridiculous opinions more often that not, and I gave myself the impossible task of convincing the unconvincible and trolls about the truth of my propositions. Much frustration later, I discovered philosophy. This frustration pushed me toward more frustration, which implicated reading more and more posts and trying to convince more and more people, so eventually someone had to have mentioned critical thinking and logic, and so on, so. From critical thinking and logic came research, and then, as was the compelling desire, application in the persuasive context. Of course, it worked less often than it did but as I was, as said, blessed rather sage, I had the position and, as a sage, a rather blunt but emphatic manner, so I noticed a change and was thus positively reinforced by my applications toward more study.

I could go on, but you get the essence of it:

A while ago, I was a fiery young thing obsessed with truth. Broad as it may sound, any other description would in its specification lack economy. Now, I am reformed, but I still get that classic masculine thrill from power and domination, no matter how Budda-chill and versed in tact, social grace, and Southern polite I may be.

Did I tell you I was born on the Eastern Shore of Virginia? I remember playing with wild ponies when I visited my grammie and paps. Hyper-feminine, on it all too. Woo! A character, that is what I am.

I remember one time I was outside. It was around evening, and along the beach. We were visiting Assateague for a cook-out and it was me, my parents, my grandparents, and my aunt, and her family, and uncle, along with his family. Together, there were 12 of us, meaning there were six children including myself. The aunt and uncle, they never really visited because my extended family was spread along the East coast, one a lawyer and another being an early advocate of permaculture who lived in a egaltarian community, but it was special because my grandparents were celebrating their silver anniversary. But, they were all there and I wandered off North away from everyone being my curious self. I walked for a while, and then a while more, and I came upon a beautiful pony with a breathtaking pinto pattern to the fur. Oh God, I wanted to just pet her. She looked so soft and I guess I knew she was a little mare like myself too. (Call it female intuition.) So I did, I got closer and closer. She was bigger than me, so I guess she didn't feel threatened, nor did her mother who was a few hundred feet off or so down the coast, so I got closer and closer and I was right up to her, and I put out my palm, thinking the concept of greeting a dog applied to a horse somehow, but I don't know it worked and she put her nose to my hand, and my eyes must have lit up. All I recollect is petting, loving, following, and playing with her. It was so lovely, and with proper climax when she went to sleep with her family I got to sleep cuddled up to her.

Ah, memory.

Sweet madeleine, how you taste!


As an infrequent writer, you might find me freewriting some ontic fiction:

She looks outside. The taxi is a fourth across the bridge, and as far as she can see no one is moving. She looks to her left.

No freighters, tankers, or high-load vessels; seagulls float with the breeze above the canal, and as she looks one eclipses the sun, one with the horizon, and another outlines the solistice and tangents off the corona three-fourths through as it arcs and rejoining the other seagull toward the Ocean.

She gets some money out of her backpack and knocks on the divider.

The driver looks back.

She slaps the $10 on the glass and gestures outside.

Opening the door, she walks to the driver's side. She hands the woman the $10 and walks over to the E-side pedestrian walkway, pops the first rail and monkey vaults the railing, stopping at the concrete barrier.

She steps up onto the concrete barrier, and the air breezes back her hair and a crosswind billows in a lilt to the left.

She takes her phone out and photographs the scene, centering the composition on the sun's peeling corona, seagulls to either side, the reflection rippling and tapering off as it nears her, bronze subsiding to canary.

Then along the concrete barrier she run-gallops, tricklewalking her middle and ring fingers along the top astride her breast leaping over the thick absences, then she stops. Deep breaths, small steady steps. Her bipedaling fingers slow and languid; she allows her fingers to go limp, and they drag along their glistening pads, a mute luster of sweat and dew and, now, condensate from her mocha as she reaches behind her and wiggles her mocha from the sidepocket and takes a long dragging sip, the glacial thing amid a vanillabrown mocha sea draining descending slow and as she begins to switch it from hand-to-hand and stops she returns it as she transfers the cup into the other hand and returns the other back along to astride the barrier it stops 3/8th from the bottom. Looking down the N-bound lane, far, she continues to walk, striding longer, and look back, mouth open-O tongue at the palate brows and cheeks furrowed and a cute eyesquint about. Reverse, she looks down the S-bound lane, far again, and reverses cycle thricely again, and to the bridge and vehicles ahead.

She looks off to the E as she brushes her sunlit hair aside.

Nothing moves.

She vaults the barrier, walks between the cars, smiling at each driver as she passes, and walks along the E-side barrier until she is beside a storm-water drainage grate. The snow melts visibly, the sounds of that which already melted flowing by further parts of the bridge. She retrives her mocha removes the lid and pours it into the drain and places the cup in her backpack.

She looks at the walkway and back into the leftmost lane, walking along the traffic to find a clear rank. She finds one takes a deep breath. Runs pres the railing arches her body as she goes to flip vault the divisor as her hands touch the divisor arms nearly 90 with a slight horizontal bias to the S-bound lane as she releases the tension in her arms dropping both shoulders onto the divisor manufacturing parallel bars as her shoulder touch and palms press and form to the divisor and her right leg pikes she glides into a pre on to the N-bound lane's walkway railing turning S-bound and walks along the railing for several steps, and littlehops off.

Some people are watching as she does this.

Some people are not.

She turns back N-bound and jerks her backpack back into a higher resting position, pulling the adjustor strap right then left. Fine-tuning to the symmetry of something.

From there she begins to walk. Watching cars, unmoving and the faces inside as the bridge curves into ascendency at the crown stopping. A speedboat on the water, skipping. Seagulls curving and too cresting in eclipse with the Sun. Cirrus clouds rarefied whisps against a brightening blue. Kites on a faraway beach taut with gentle tension, behind humming above on a bend ablaze a tram quiet rolling with illumination. A few rumbling diesels, mostly an electric silence. With her finger traces the air changes and follows from the kites to the crown, lips mouthing the distant interval. Feet dangled over the water as the wind ripples the Lake's immaculate surface, she watches as her legs swing from the parapet and then begins to walk, again.

From the crown along a light incline.

Walking, walking.

A deep thrumming and the sound of the Sea.

Calm sub-bass, long, slow, morphing, drawn out to the most summer of leisures, between the dromology of shifting Earth and the incoming roil of a welcome beach. Larghissimo, dying out. Only the most patient of ears find the music growing from the sound. Growing to encompass all sound. Her eyes closed as fingers again trickle guiding her body with the parapet, humming along.


Being the one inclined toward daydreaming, transcribing a vision I have:

There are two children. In the desert - on the plains. A boy - a girl. One has a buzzcut - the other has curls. Geographies apart, they feel the same thing - as the primaveral noonday lulls into the autumnal melancholy of evening and into loss and the autumnal melancholy into the winter chill of grief and denial - as the setting sun impels him up that rocky and bare mountainside - as it obliges her toward the horizon - desire of an ineffable thing absent to each moment. That ineffable thing - with the summit - with the skyline - pushing them - inspiring hope - as they begin to walk each step into a receding light. That ineffable thing - whatever it may be - pushing them faster - inspiring a hope unique to youth - as they begin to run - the chemical euphoria and ecstacy of an aesthetic event wracking their bodies. That ineffable thing - whatever it may hold - slipping away - against a determination indestructible - as he reaches the summit - as the sun eclipses her horizon - and watches as his shadow distends for miles - and stops to witness as a brilliant crepuscular ray emerges - and his arms raise his body Christlike as it grows - and a band of black light rushes over her and becomes one with the sky - they both feel a primal awe as they both observe - as his shadow begins to creep back in - as it begins curve back into the divine - and the day breathes its last - and the sun elides tragically from view - they both are left in that tenebrific night. Sweating, euphoria and ecstacy gone. An exodus of angels with the immanence of their wake.

I'll be adding two more examples in a little bit here.
You should message me if
Offer a few tips to help matches win you over.
Though I no longer write fiction in any degree of regularity, among the advice I still remember from other writers as I honed my craft was to "Show, don't tell." Though pretty basic and more or less wise advice bordering on the cliché, as much as I want to follow that advice, bring up some story, some anecdotal experience to mind, that somehow will explain all the traits I like to have in my partners, I cannot. Sure, I could lie and come up with a story, but then it would not be from the heart. Too, I could just write a little allegory, but that would not be specific to me. Too ambiguous for anyone to tell anything.

Among the other advice I remember, it is to write with conviction. Because if don't care what you are writing about, how can you expect anyone else? So, I say with convinction these traits cannot be explained by any one story. Coming to know what exactly you want out of life is, laughably, a life-long process, and the telling of that story is more than this box, or any sane person's attention span, will allow.

But, what I can do is relate these traits to my identity, my essence, which contain my passions.

I could explain how I have a passion for exploration, urbex especially. Explain how charm, brilliance, and cunning are needed to infilitrate, say, the Sathorn Unique building in Bangkok looming 50 stories, or how a little bit of existential spirit will tease the Sublime from the roof, a picture capturing simultaneously the distance from the ground and the beauty of the city around it, a symphony of lights and forms that climaxes in an awe of enormity.

I could explain how I travel the world, and rarely stay in one place for more than a month or two. How everytime I move I create a new life, history, and persona to tease every facet of life from the hiding places of a fixed character — an avant-garde artist in Belize, a priestess in Israel, a normal housewife in Germany, and an intellectual historian in Singapore.

How such a life requires one to be a rogue, living outside the restricted economy of what may be called a normal life. Lying, bribing, stealing your way across the Cambodia-Thailand border. Couchsurfing your way through Mongolia, China, Myanmar, Malaysia, Indonesia, New Guinea, the Soloman Islands, and around Polynesia on a year-long journey to both discover oneself and somehow convince a rich Kiribatian resort owner to both sanction and accompany you on a jet-fueled visit to the Johnston Atoll, which is 750mi removed from the nearest Hawaiian island. Working in the vineyards of Calabria for room and board as you plan a tour about the southern Italian isles. Wandering the Andes Mts. with a family of nomadic goat herders across many an international border. Urban camping as a photojournalist for a month in the abandoned metropolis of Ordos with as your home an uninhabited pool room with a stunning view of the skyline, all the while writing a luscious stream-of-consciousness to convey the surreality you felt.

How it requires you to be bold and have an inner fire urging you toward an interesting life despite having the world against you, to work degrading often back-breaking jobs for food, sleep on the streets, but nonetheless finding such great joy in being free. Making friends with strangers everywhere you go, and learning little by little something about other people, about humanity as a whole. Exploring every nook and cranny and aspect of life you could ever imagine by experiencing and living through them. Building an odd sense of universal brotherhood. Rediscovering a childhood sense of playfulness and uncensored infinite possibility.

I could explain how I take great pleasure in teasing the extraordinary from the mundane and ordinary, which requires a romantic spirit. I could explain how a grand ambition of mine is to reproduce the Physis in the Nomos, which requires a quite philosophical individual.

I could do all of these things, and to some extent I did. But, if you truly possess any of these qualities about you, I am open to you.

Fire your messages away.


Also for you are three matters for consideration:

1. I recently left my job as an associate investment banker and I am beginning to learn the more concrete side of management, entrepreneurship, raising capital, and so on. Anyone with some advice or who wants to network, hmu!

2. I get so many quality messages, you really have to try and get my attention. Everyone has a message that relates back to my profile, so either teach me something, give me a cogent analysis of an issue for which you are passionate, or entice me to a philosophical debate in a topic you consider yourself an expert. Most compliments are lost on me, unless you compare me to someone dignified that I did not know like Dylan Thomas, Gilles Châtelet, or Mikhail Bakhtin or really just write an extensive oratory of my praises. Either will still work. I like to masturbate my ego from time to time, so. Oh, or offend me! Gosh, offense for me is so hard to find, so do please try you hardest. Hit a real nerve and I'll be so hurt and happy. Also, unless your passage is particularly forceful or relevant to a personal deficiency I know I have, I ignore messages under a paragraph. So, an even higher barrier for entry, indeed.

3. Oh, and I am and have been a nomad who lives out of a 50L backpack since my early teens, so. Not in a place for more than a week or two, so catch me while you can!