Mar 31

I’ve Seen Stranger Things Here than a Live Monkey

Today, I ventured out. When I say I went out, I mean my ass woke up at 6:30 this morning, took a shower, got dressed, put on eye make-up and sunblock and was on the road at 9am.

I did TWO social activities. First I went to the Medieval Fair with Renee and her family, and then I went to Angela’s baby shower. Two social activities in ONE day.

The Medieval Fair was fun because I had only been there twice, and I really enjoyed Renee’s family. The title of the post is a quote from her mom that struck me as hilarious. I don’t know how to describe this, but I am going to try. I don’t see Renee often enough, but when I get around her I remember parts of myself that get lost. Something about being around her makes me  feel more awesome.

I did my complimenting random strangers thing that I always do. This will sound silly, but it makes my day even better. There is something satisfying about making people smile, and it trains you to see the beauty in people. I think everyone would be happier if they gave more compliments.

At Angela’s baby shower, I was just so happy to see some people I haven’t seen in a very long time. On a purely selfish note though, I remembered how vibrant I am. I forget I am vibrant, or I think that I used to be vibrant, and now I am somehow dull. It is a gift to be reminded of things like that. I forget so much about myself. I think everyone does. I think part of how you know you are around good people, when you remember the incredible things about yourself.

I feel like a real writer. I am a few really good work nights away from finishing my novella. This will be the second first draft of a sizable work. I went today and I felt like  a real grown up writer, and people were excited and impressed about it for me. It is the first time I felt confident in saying that I was a writer, and I wasn’t looking for the ‘until you grow up and get a real job’ look in people’s eyes.

I am sore as hell, and sunburned (in spite of two applications of sunblock), but I feel amazing. It is like when you sit on you foot too long and it falls asleep, yeah, but the feeling after you stand back up and the feeling rushes back.

The beautiful thing about age and experience is that I could get through times like earlier this month, and come into days like today. All days can’t be like today, but when they happen, they make the rest of everything more wondrous.

 

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Mar 29

Winning at the Internet

Winner of the internet

We need to make up some of these

May I present to you two stories of winning at the internet:

First tale takes place yesterday when I was absolutely giddy with with sleep deprivation. (Yes, I am using that as an excuse for my really bizarre behavior.)

I am still a member of that god awful dating site, even though nothing good has ever come of it. I don’t know if it is a ‘hope springs eternal’ thing or a ‘the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result’ thing.  It does lead to awesome stories sometimes.

Anyway, I got a hit from this guy on Tuesday night who seemed like he could be okay, so I started trying to talk to him. It became evident pretty early on that the guy was really not interesting and was just looking for cybersex. I blew him off.

Well, yesterday, in my strange sleep deprived euphoria, I decided to start screwing with him. I started asking him more and more inappropriate questions at an annoyingly fast rate so he was constantly getting e-mails about getting messages. I got to “Have you ever tied a woman to a bed” before he blocked me or quit the site. Either one is a win in my book.

Also, it confirms my suspicion that talking about hardcore kinky stuff early on in interactions with a potential mate is a bad idea. This is good to know if I ever decide to seriously attempt to rectify my ‘terminally single’ status.

I was also kind of amazed with the shit I got away with before he blocked me.

Second tale of winning at the internet belongs to Tina.

I posted a link to a cracked.com story about 5 Ways Modern Men are Trained to Hate Women on my Facebook page. Take a minute to go read it first. It will help you understand the awesome that is about to happen to you.

(I am about to cut and paste directly from Facebook. The spelling, punctuation, and grammar are imperfect BECAUSE IT IS EFFING Facebook. I don’t get all  Nazi unless it is unintelligible, and Tina’s rant is clearly written.)

5 Reasons Why Guys Should Stop Using Bullshit Excuses for Their Misogyny and Start Taking Responsibility for Their Own Actions: a Woman’s Response to http://www.cracked.com/article_19785_5-ways-modern-men-are-trained-to-hate-women.html

5. We Were Told That Society Owed Us a Hot Girl
A number of films are specifically sited in the article. Only one of them originated from a story written by a woman (the film used to explain the exception to the rule) and one film (The Matrix) co-written by a woman. With all of the references combined, well over 25 male writers are represented and two female writers. So, really what is being said here is that MEN are teaching MEN that “society” owes them a “hot girl”.

4. We’re Trained from Birth to See You as Decoration
Is it odd that the author’s mother or sister or aunt or grandmother are never mentioned here? I mean, “trained from birth” implies being conditioned from the earliest stages of life, all of which are likely to include female influences. I want to have a conversation with the mother who taught her son that women are only decor and should never be respected or loved for anything beyond their appearance. Once again, MEN teach MEN this.

3. We Think You’re Conspiring With Our Boners to Ruin Us
Every time I hear the “Eve” reference used to demean the status of women I want to…..lets just say it makes me very angry. But the author didn’t linger here and neither will I. Everyone already knows why this argument is stupid anyway.
But when it comes to a mans inability to control his sexual inhibitions, I have this to say. When a woman lashes out at a man (or anyone, really–we tent to be equal opportunity thrashers) because she is hormonal her statements are viewed as completely irrelevant BECAUSE she is hormonal. There is nothing she can say during this period that her male OR female counterparts will take seriously because EVERYTHING must be a result of her hormones. We are told to take hormones or other treatments that might balance us out. But men can go around masturbating everywhere they please and resenting any admonishment (that one is for you, Kathleen) because it is in their nature to do so? I think not.

#2. We Feel Like Manhood Was Stolen from Us at Some Point
This section angers me the most. What am I supposed to say– “I’m sorry you derive your masculinity from being the boss”? It doesn’t even deserve a refute.

1. We Feel Powerless
I just SWELL with empathy when white males talk about how powerless they feel. Okay, that was sarcasm, and kind of mean. I’ll try to tone it down a bit. How about this:
WELCOME TO OUR WORLD!
You feel powerless because you can’t stop thinking about boobs? If men are as mentally unstable as they are painted in this article, its really no wonder they are so threatened by us that they have resorted to government control of our reproductive system. Le sigh.

That is how Tina won the internet today.
(My friends are cooler than me, but at least I get to be a part of their awesome.)

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Mar 27

This Too Shall Pass

I am fighting strange bouts of depression right now. (I know, I know, no foreplay with that one. I went straight into the hardcore stuff.) I have been since last week. This isn’t one of those really bad periods that I have went through in the past. I just have hours in a day every few days where I feel bleak, and I want to curl into myself and disappear for a bit. I am not suicidal. I don’t know how to describe how wanting to press the pause button on feeling is different from pressing the stop button, but it is.

Yesterday evening I was going through a pretty heavy bleak spell. I was in the middle of it, and I knew I needed to ask for something to help, but I didn’t know what, or how to get it. Finally, I told my mom what was going on, and a little later, I told her I just needed her to hug me, tell me she loved me, and that I am awesome. She did, and I felt better.

I guess that was lesson one. Learn what you need and how to ask for it. It sounds simple, but I don’t think it is. I think we all have a hard time figuring out exactly what we need, and if we do know what we need, sometimes we don’t know how to ask for it. I think we want those people around us to instinctively know what we need, but that is asking too much of anyone. It is okay to need things, and it is okay to ask.

Then I was sitting here last night writing with my music really loud in my ears feeling my bleak. I let myself feel it. I didn’t try to subvert it. I just kept telling myself that this too shall pass. There is so much power in that simple knowledge. I have been here before. I know this pain and this bleakness. I have fought it, and I have won. I know that this too shall pass.

I am so thankful, with every fiber of my being, that I understand what this is. I am thankful that I can stare this in the face without shame because I know that. I know that this is something I can live through.

I remember before I understood. My heart breaks for anyone going through this who is too afraid or too ashamed to get help or try to understand. I remember trying to lock it away, afraid that if I acknowledge it, it would overwhelm me. If you know, though, what this is, you can face it and raise your chin. You can whisper to yourself that this too shall pass.

Life is a gift; the good and the bad. I know that sounds so strange coming from someone who sometimes wants to press the pause button and be blank for a moment, but even those moments I wouldn’t trade.

You earn your scars in life. Many more people have a lot more scars than I do, but these scars are mine. My scars have taught me things, like I am strong in my own way, and I am brave in my own way. They are teaching that being emotional isn’t bad. They are teaching me that there is something glorious in the fight, and that life is the fight, not something that happens when the fight is over. You live through this moment to get to the next, and even though this moment sucks, this moment is life, and that this moment has value. There is power in that.

So.

Deep Breath.

Chin Up.

Feel what I am feeling.

Whisper: this too shall pass.

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Mar 24

A Peek into My Mind

First and foremost, I give you cats what you want and what my site is becoming known for: a picture of a baby corgi.

yet another pic of a corgi puppy

This pic was linked to me by Amy T

This was from the header of a funny story about Rick Santorum.

My friends link me things with corgis and about The Hunger Games, because they know these things make me happy and my friends are awesome. Except for Chantz, who linked me an angry reviewer screaming a review about how bad The Hunger Games movie is. Chantz is an asshole. I don’t care how bad it is. I’m going to see it tomorrow DAMNIT.  Angry reviewer man is not the boss of me.

So, this morning my friend Cynthia linked me this:

Apparently, no one is the boss of Kristen Bell AND she loves The Hunger Games.

I think there are worse things to be known than corgis and The Hunger Games.

So, I have a baby shower next Saturday, and I am excited to go, but, as we all know,I have the whole social anxiety thing. I’ve been thinking it over in my head a lot so I can prepare it for myself. I realized I have a pretty awesome anxiety.

We all know I am not very good at being a real woman. I love kids, and I find cute baby stuff awesome, but I am completely clueless. Not only am I completely clueless, but I am also VERY adept at saying the wrong thing at exactly the right time.

I think terrible things like hooking up both boobs to a breast pump at the same time and seeing which one wins a race to pump the most the fastest. I even imagine an announcer calling it like a horse race. “Left breast is in the lead by a few milliliters, can right breast catch up in time?”

No woman in her right mind would find that funny or appropriate, so I know not to say those things. Well, my brain is very busy filtering things like that, I know some other, less obvious shit, will break through. I also know I develop Tourette’s syndrome the second I get into a situation that makes me uncomfortable. The more nervous I am, the more f-bombs I drop.

In my mind, I am going to walk into Angela’s baby shower and within ten minutes swear up a blue streak and make at least five uncouth comments about tits and vaginas. THIS IS WHY MY FRIENDS CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.

I am going to work on convincing myself that they knew it was a very real possibility when they invited me. Really, it is their fault that I will probably involuntarily offend everyone in the lovely, lady-like shower before the afternoon is over. They invited me. Never invite me to things unless you are willing to accept the consequences.  The bonus is that everyone will be knocked up, so there won’t be booze and the potential disaster that booze always brings.

Yep, I can handle being known for corgis and The Hunger Games

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Mar 22

Small Things

On it, Bitch

This really has nothing to to do with anything. It just makes me happy

I’m reading The Hunger Games again. I might read it a third time in a row. I don’t know.  I understand it is insane to read a book three times in a row, but that’s how I roll.

I was feeling pretty bleak today. I was feeling “crying in the shower” bleak today.

Today is the anniversary of the break-up. I don’t miss the relationship, by any means, and this year has been incredible. I have had so much growth, and I am more genuinely happy than I have ever been. (I know that is strange to say when I just admitted to crying in the shower, stop judging.) I felt stupid for even letting myself note it.

I have also been feeling frustrated with myself that nothing has been happening with my writing. I feel like I should some how have accomplished more, and time is running out.

Any writer who tells you that they don’t want to have their stuff read is either full of shit or a total nutbag. Writers write for two reason: we have things in our heads we need out, and we want people to read them. We want people to read and appreciate our stuff. If you write and have no desire to write something that people will read, then you aren’t a writer. You are someone who happens to write. Well, that but only less judgy and harsh, so let me attempt to explain.

I think of it more as someone who is really into golfing (or any other sport/hobby/craft). They love to golf. Golfing makes them feel whole, and when they golf, they feel a deep connection to their inner them. I think most people have this feeling about something. This doesn’t make them a professional golfer.

It is more than about making a living writer, which would be glorious I won’t lie, but the idea that this is something you want to use to interact with the world. I want people to read my stuff, not just to be famous, or make money, but to feeling like I am making some sort of impact. I write to put stuff out there because of this crazy belief that I can make people laugh, feel, or have some sort of impact on them.

I haven’t been feeling that lately. Objectively, I know I am a better writer than I have ever been. I am learning about who I am as a story teller. I am creating ideas at a rate I never have before, and I am looking at everything I read differently. Logically, I know I am getting better. Today, I just feel like I am banging my head on a wall and making no impact on anything, and any moment I am going to pass out with a bloody forehead.

So, today I sent Tina a text that said, “I feel really bleak today. I don’t want to blog today because I know it will come out really bleak.”

She called me back.

She told me that anyone would feel the anniversary. I felt better.

She told me she felt the same way about her photography that I do about my writing. I felt better.

We raved with each other about The Hunger Games. I felt better.

She promised me an eventual drunken night at a quiet piano bar that requires a cab ride home. She said, “Sometimes to get back into your own head, you need to go completely out of your own mind.” Simple brilliance.

I don’t know why having someone understand why I feel so bleak today made me feel less bleak. Well, I do. It is the same reason I write this blog. Sometimes we all need to know that someone else gets why we feel the way we do in order to be able to handle this business of trying to be happy and live. It is odd that sometimes you have to be sad in order to be happy, and if you avoid or ignore the unpleasant you can’t ever really feel the good.

So, my friends, fight to be happy and to be yourself. They are one in the same. If you are willing to love and accept, you will find love and acceptance, including yourself. Shit happens and you have no control over it, but you can decide how you want to handle.

Those are my lessons from this year. Well, and that drunk texting is bad. Sorry again, Tina.

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Mar 20

What I Did Last Night (Read The Hunger Games)

So instead of writing last night,  I sent out my first submission letter, which felt like a huge deal, even though it probably isn’t. I thought about my where to go next with my story. I also read The Hunger Games By Suzanne Collins. I consider it working, sorta.

I have accidentally started reviewing things on my site. It is unintentional. It started with my adventures in reading Twilight. I don’t think I would normally have written about this book, except I found myself trying to explain it on Facebook. By the way, I’ve finished the Twilight Saga. I’ve decided that I had a lot of fun making fun of the first two, but I felt mean afterwards. I didn’t like them because they were romances, heavy teenage romances. I am not exactly the audience for that. The last two had some interesting ideas, and the secondary characters played a far bigger role in the story, giving me characters to relate to. I don’t think I can be made to watch the movies though. I am just not that into pretty people.

The cover of the book The Hunger Games

The cover of the book in question.

Anyway, back to the book in question, my sister lent me this book, and I started reading it last night at about 11pm and finished it at 6am. I read it straight through, that quickly, for a few reasons.

First, it is a fairly uncomplicated read. I don’t mean that in a bad way, either. Some writers get very involved in their own worlds when they write that they have a hard time making the story accessible for those of us who don’t live there, too. I also think some writers get off on how awesome they are when they write books that require the reader to have post-it notes to keep things straight. I think it says a lot for Collins writing that she allows her readers to rush through an unfamiliar world without feeling lost. I think this is because of the strength of the main character, and we follow her bewilderment at the entire situation.

Second reason: the main character is great. Actually, I think all of the characters are great. I love that Collins is able to write first person point of view so well. First of all, first person is hard to do well. I think that is one of my main gripes about that aforementioned series is that the main character is not someone I can slip myself into (that sounds so dirty), and in the first person point of view, that character is vital. I can’t fathom Collins ability to show us how other characters feel when the main character is oblivious to them herself. I don’t know if non-writers will be as impressed as I was, but, I respect the writing immensely.

Third reason: it is a dystopian  novel. I love me a good dystopian novel. I read Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut in 10th grade and I have been hooked since. (Dystopias novels about worlds that are heavily controlled by the state under the premise of protecting the people. Some good examples are 1984, Brave New World, or Demolition Man though it is technically a movie.) Not only is it a dystopian novel, but it is a dystopian novel for GIRLS. The only other dystopian book for women  I can think of is Hand Maid’s Tale, but The Hunger Games is written for teenage girls. I can’t express how amazing it is that there is a sharp, politically relevant, gritty, smart book written for the teenage female audience. I would have killed for this when I was a teenager.

I guess I really, really dug the book. I didn’t realize how much until I started writing about it. Now, just to get my hands on the other two.

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Mar 17

Writers are whiny bitches.

My father taught me many wonderful things and filled my childhood with strange and wondrous stories that I probably can’t go into here. If we know each other in real life, ask me about the anaconda or the princess and the eunuch. (BTW, I didn’t know what a eunuch was for many of the years he told me that story, so I just pictured a professional wrestler in Aladdin pants, and I was TOTALLY wrong.) I am pretty sure he is where I developed my love of story telling.

He also taught me how to castrate a man with my bare hands and to never turn your back on someone you have shot unless you have put two rounds in their chest and one in their head. My dad is full of bad assery.

More importantly, I watched Dad work hard, every day. My dad’s purpose in life was to take care of his family and his dogs and he still does it. His work ethic was, and still is, incredible. (I see it in my sister, and it is one of the many things I respect and love about her.) In their worlds, you work. It doesn’t matter what is going on in your life, you work. Sick, hurt, depressed, it doesn’t matter, they work.

It is quite inspiring actually.

It is also something I wish I could emulate. I try, I really do, but I am a whiny bitch. I think it is a thing all freshly minted writers feel.

I have been writing my entire life, and I have been told my entire life that I need to be a writer, but until late this summer, I never considered ever actually deciding to write professionally and not do anything else. It becomes a completely different critter when you make that decision. It changes from something you do when you have time and inspiration to your job.

You might not get paid for it. Others might not understand what you do, or grasp that you are actually working, but it is just that, a job. And, in the example of my father and sister, if you have a job, you do it no matter what.

I sit down in front of my computer most nights, I would say an average of five a week, and intend to write. Some weeks I do great work. I work for 5-8 hours a night many nights in a row. When I am deep into a project, I can work for days without days off and lose all sense of time.  It is a glorious manic rush.

Other nights, though, I do everything but work. I play games, surf the interwebz, read, anything. Sometimes it is an inability to focus, or simple procrastination. Other nights I will try to work and have a hard time getting into it. The cliche about immersing yourself into the world of your story is a cliche because it is true. Writers have to inhabit whatever world they are writing at that time.

Supa man

This is how I spend many nights.

Sometimes finding that immersion is damn near impossible for me. Stress, moodiness, lack of sleep, physical discomfort can all leave me blinking at my screen. If you throw other people in the mix, it can be even more difficult. Every time you make a writer come out of their world for any amount of time, you have broken hard fought immersion and set them back. If a writer is in the middle of a manic rush period and you take them away for a significant amount of time, they are going to have to work to get it back.

This irks me to no end. My father never missed work because he “wasn’t feeling it” or “stress was killing his mojo.” I feel like I should sit down and write no matter what. Anything short of a productive night is wussing out. That isn’t how it works, though.

I am finding I am getting better at re-immersion and I can do it quicker. I don’t know if it is practice or that I am writing more interesting stuff. I think it is just on the job training. You can read all the books, take all the classes, or search the entire internet, but the only way you learn your process is by doing it. Others can offer you ideas or hints that might help, but ultimately being a writer is all on the job training, and you have to train yourself. It is kind of screwed up.

Hug the whiny bitch writers in your life. Also, maybe provide them with booze.

 

 

 

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Mar 15

Rush, Rush!

Yes, I do mean to quote that Paula Abdul song that had Keanu Reeves in the video. Or, I could mean that I messed up my shoulder a bit earlier in the week and pissed it off when I exercise, so I had to lay down to let it chill out and fell into a mini-coma. Now I have 23 minutes to craft awesome! I can do it! (Let us just not analyze the fact that I am the only person who cares that this late blog will be published before 12am cst. It matters to me, dangit.)

 

First things first: A snap shot of the search terms that lead people to my site:

 

Three things funny about that:

1) apparently my site is all about the corgis

2) Really? Take it up the butt? I think one of the few things I have never discussed is backdoor lovin’ and now I can’t even say that anymore. I think I have something about me that just screams kinky even though I never really talk about sex. (I do have standards of classy… Or, I am just terminally single and talking about it makes me sad.)

3) My favorite though is the “pictures of the fat bitch guinea pigs, please.” I get this image in my head of a sassy, chubby guinea pig telling it like it is and doing the z snap. I don’t know why this amuses me but it just does.

On another note:

I was watching a documentary of all of these cities like Paris and Berlin in the 1920’s. These cities were sexy, hopping places full of awesome before the stock market crash and that dickbag Hitler. I realized I am totally doing this writer thing all wrong.

I am kind of meek and apologetic about it, when I should really be all like “I’mma writer, and artist, I am one of the sexy, cool kids.”

Next time someone asks me what I do, I should stick out my chest, look down my nose, and drawl something pretentious sounding about my art.

I mean there are some core problems here. I can’t take myself seriously enough to be pretentious, especially not well enough to make others believe me. I don’t do drugs, and even if I didn’t think me on anything more than booze would be a terrifying thing, I wouldn’t even begin to get a hold of opium. Also, I can’t get a boyfriend, much less find enough people to fill a whole orgy. No, well I probably could, but I would have to be whole lot less picky.

So, I am not cut out to be the cool, sexy kind of writer. I am stuck doing it wrong.

I am going to to be less meek about it though. Maybe I should practice cultivating an air of mysterious, writery, pouty sex kitten. I wonder if I can find instructions on the Google.

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Mar 13

Itsa Horgi

My mood dictates that I should not be around human or attempting to communicate with them. I decided to scour the pages of Utterly Cute to bring you guys something far more a heart warming and interesting than me bitching. I found it.

Presenting a husky corgi mix or a horgi:

One day I am going to cross breed dachshunds and corgis and call them corhunds (corehounds). If you are nerdy enough you get the joke.

I will adjust my attitude and give you guys a real post on Thursday.

 

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Mar 10

Books, Boobs, and Brains

One of the fantastic things about the internet is, even though it is jam packed with douche noodles, it has a really cool community of internet creatures to balance out some of the doucheyness. Artists, writers, humorist, oddball celebrities all hang out on the internet trying to do our thing. And the surprising thing is, a lot of us believe in helping each other out. I am not as connected as I should be, mostly because of my complete lack of social and networking skills, but I am slowly building up a circle of people I follow and I hope some of them follow me.

I made two decisions early on after I made this site. The first is that I would thank Sara and Paul O’Flaherty    every chance I got for helping me start to see behind the curtain and teaching me so much about how to do this crazy interwebz thing. The second decision was to never write about a product I didn’t like for money. I understand why some people do it, and I don’t judge them for wanting to eat, but I didn’t have to do that.

Well, one of my fellow internet creatures approached me a few weeks ago about reviewing his comic book Zombie Outlaw. @Capn_Midnight (the writer of Zombie Outlaw) offered to send me free comic books in exchange for writing about them if I liked them. He got free publicity and I got free shit. I fail to see a downside. I’ve had time to read the two issues he sent me, and I actually really liked them.

First of all, these aren’t the type of comic books that take themselves too seriously. It is a funny, goofball premise that never pretends to be anything buy a funny story about a magical zombie at college. The art is cartoony but great. (I will say that the screaming feminist got annoyed that every single female had a tiny waist, huge heart shaped ass, an giganormous tits with permanently hard nipples, but then I realized it was a fucking comic book.) The female lead character is a) a red head, which I love, and b) tougher and smarter than the males.  One panel has a guy leaping through the air attacking with pencils tucked between his fingers like Wolverine’s claws.  It’s pretty fracking epic. I know some of you guys would like it, or at least want to stare at the ridiculously large bazongas. Yay, huge bazongas for everyone!

It is actually Friday night and my sleep patterns are off, so I am a sleep drunk, and I need to wake up in a few hours. Forgive the strange quality of the review. Its me, not you.

 

 

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