By Dana Jerman

Let me tell you about my rules. There are unaddressed rules here, which speak to how one should operate in intimate relationships once they are established, ie: whatever you do, don’t get back together again once you break up. However we’re taking it back a step.

The revolution begins with you, closely followed by your relationships, which are about your choices. If you’re going to have and maintain nice things, you might want to smarten-up your baseline so you start with something nice in the first place. Pandemic-times are a perfect scenario by which to give yourself permission to reevaluate your desires and set fresh boundaries with yourself. Make them into a quip. Say them. Post them. Know them.

The following triad have been my primer and my (mostly) uncrossed guideline. A reminder of what I’ve learned from prior mistakes, and a strict barrier to committing any further atrocities in the name of self-recrimination. Rules like these reinforce self-respect while saving you time, money, potential injury and heartache.

My rules are:

NO CATHOLICS. This really means no heavily orthodox religious practices of any kind. We are starting with the most insidious one, but the line of offenders is long and winding and, ultimately, block the acceptance of new information. I grew up in a family that went to church, but they really didn’t give a shit about worshipping God. Which could be a bummer but turns out, doing a community service and showing up to save face probably aren’t overall bad things. 

Take a cue from the British royal family and be careful about who you let in. If someone’s belief system is so ingrained as to dictate how they act around you and around others. And governs what they can talk about, driving the subject and tone of conversation (diet is okay, you put whatever you want or don’t want into your body), this presents a problem.

Of course this rule did arise because I dated someone who was the picture of Catholic guilt. His struggle and attitudes had a whole lot to do with his broken family (he truly needed some therapy and to be surrounded by people who had been through what he had instead of a girlfriend), but I don’t not include the smash the state radical wobbly sociologist, or the queer, jealous polyamorist who probably had no business initiating a serial monogamist (me).

To wit: it’s dangerous to be with someone who has no idea what they want, or are afraid of getting whatever it is/afraid of change. Read: sexual hangups are a real buzzkill.

NO COPS. I’m taking a Lysistrata approach with da pigs. It’s mostly about not fucking them because ACAB, aka I don’t have respect for them on a myriad of fronts, but moreso, I think this is about seeing the writing on the wall and being conflict avoidant. I do not have it in me to be the support system for that much ambient stress and Pandora’s Box-potential for rampant abuse. Police and Military exist to perpetuate their own indoctrinated systems much like the religious dogmatics stated above. We all have to play a mental game or two to get thru life, that’s the price paid for being sentient, and nobody’s perfect. But your job can’t be a third wheel. You have to at least like what you do to make bank, or have a modicum of a plan to move on to the next phase of the dream. No politicians also fits into this category.

Perhaps I’d like to avoid becoming a statistic or another casualty of said system. This is also about being carefully realistic in terms of my role and what I can, at this point, energetically offer. I’m not a social climber, don’t want to be a mom, and I’m probably a shitty caregiver.   

I’ve been in some rocky relationships before, and if I fucked someone and they became a cop later, that’s none of my business. But I have not and will never knowingly willingly fuck a cop. My plate and my palate aren’t big or strong enough for that heaping serving of bullshit.

NO GUYS NAMED DAVID. Because David is my dad’s name. Uh-huh, I know. This one might sound throwaway and arbitrary, but I’m inclined to be a little chatty during sex. If I have to call out “Ohhh, Dave” mid-coitus that’s just a level of echo-chamber/ouroboros mommy-issues-weird I simply can’t handle. I feel icky just thinking about it. As we all know, therapy is expensive. Let’s not waste it on dumb shit, shall we?

Stay cool out there, babies. Set your own rules.