Saturday, May 3, 2014
Inspire me...
Sittin' Indian style on the stained couch on a Saturday night. Belly full of bacon and peanut butter and somehow I feel nothing. Not even outrage at the lack of outrage at the use of 'Indian style.' The dull pangs of what may be depression or a pelvic infection are really making it difficult to dig in and find that spark to write the next great masterpiece. I use 'masterpiece' very loosely. Like so loose, I really mean 'spelled almost completely correctly.' The setting is perfect to let it all hang out, and yet I 'm rushing to finish this blog post because We Are the Millers is coming on HBO. Jennifer Aniston trumps life.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Little bit of junk in the...
As much as I'd like to blame the polar vortex and poor lighting for my recent and quite epic outbreak of cellulite...I really think the daily Big Mac's and Heath Bar's are gonna have to take some blame here.
I haven't strolled naked past the full length mirror in months. I ain't stupid, I know what kinda pale, floppy mess has been brewin' under these Old Navy sweatpants.
But I sure made that mistake today.
Once I got past the 4 stages of grief; outrage, self-loathing, laughter, an urgent need to pee - I took my dimpled ass to the gym. Which leads me to following questions:
Where was everyone? Isn't this the time of year that everybody's making life changes with their resolutions?
Where did all that back fat come from? I could feel it bounce during my one-minute sprint bursts on the treadmill.
And thirdly - Why the fuck am I talking about this?
I haven't strolled naked past the full length mirror in months. I ain't stupid, I know what kinda pale, floppy mess has been brewin' under these Old Navy sweatpants.
But I sure made that mistake today.
Once I got past the 4 stages of grief; outrage, self-loathing, laughter, an urgent need to pee - I took my dimpled ass to the gym. Which leads me to following questions:
Where was everyone? Isn't this the time of year that everybody's making life changes with their resolutions?
Where did all that back fat come from? I could feel it bounce during my one-minute sprint bursts on the treadmill.
And thirdly - Why the fuck am I talking about this?
Friday, January 17, 2014
I'm mad as hell...
Not really mad at all. 2014 is following through with it's promise not to be as shitty as 2013.
Yes, I'm a frazzled mess with female adult acne and spent the morning watching The Joy Luck Club and googling on-air suicides. But, dammit, I feel good.
Yes, I'm a frazzled mess with female adult acne and spent the morning watching The Joy Luck Club and googling on-air suicides. But, dammit, I feel good.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Because winter...
A dear friend of mine sent me a text with the would-be words on her tombstone - 'Because winter.'
I think that honestly sums up 90% of the hunched over walks and sighs. The other 10% has me convinced I should be medicated. Vitamin D3 ain't doing much except keeping me in a constant state of 'Why did I? When was that? OMG, I totally did that.'
I'm an action fucking Bronson when it comes to taking risks. Most of which are terrible ideas and blow up in my face. But the pangs of guilt and self-criticism far out way the possibility of a catastrophic fire.
I've come to learn that this quality can be intimidating. And not in a 'sexy, she's so crazy, what a breath of fresh air' kind of way. But more in a 'she's unstable and not young enough to pull this off' kind of way.
My paranoia may be calling the shots here, but go fuck yourself.
When the snow melts and the ice begins to water my soul, maybe I'll wear my good bra and use kindness in kind.
I think that honestly sums up 90% of the hunched over walks and sighs. The other 10% has me convinced I should be medicated. Vitamin D3 ain't doing much except keeping me in a constant state of 'Why did I? When was that? OMG, I totally did that.'
I'm an action fucking Bronson when it comes to taking risks. Most of which are terrible ideas and blow up in my face. But the pangs of guilt and self-criticism far out way the possibility of a catastrophic fire.
I've come to learn that this quality can be intimidating. And not in a 'sexy, she's so crazy, what a breath of fresh air' kind of way. But more in a 'she's unstable and not young enough to pull this off' kind of way.
My paranoia may be calling the shots here, but go fuck yourself.
When the snow melts and the ice begins to water my soul, maybe I'll wear my good bra and use kindness in kind.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
The perks of the wallow...
Getting out of bed. Getting in a hot bath. Getting back in bed.
This is my routine about three days a week. An outsider looking in may see total laziness, or maybe total sadness...they would also see old mascara holding my eyes closed and a dusty nightstand littered with near empty chapsticks.
The reality is...I'm quite happy to wallow. It's my time alone to be comfortable and shut out the world. Which can be quite loud and angry the other four days of the week. There are days that I can't ball myself small enough under the covers and some tears may soak the pillow case that I'm not even sure is close to clean.
But out of that, I laugh at myself - I can be quite funny sometimes.
I even relish in the fact that no one cares where I am or what I'm doing during that time. I'm not needed.
And not being needed is as just as much of a fucking rush as being needed is. And I will get on my soap box here and tell the world (all zero of you reading this) that it's okay to be on an island of you for a few hours. The world can wait because you will be there when it's time. The world belongs to you...and day naps are better than the sex I'm not having.
This is my routine about three days a week. An outsider looking in may see total laziness, or maybe total sadness...they would also see old mascara holding my eyes closed and a dusty nightstand littered with near empty chapsticks.
The reality is...I'm quite happy to wallow. It's my time alone to be comfortable and shut out the world. Which can be quite loud and angry the other four days of the week. There are days that I can't ball myself small enough under the covers and some tears may soak the pillow case that I'm not even sure is close to clean.
But out of that, I laugh at myself - I can be quite funny sometimes.
I even relish in the fact that no one cares where I am or what I'm doing during that time. I'm not needed.
And not being needed is as just as much of a fucking rush as being needed is. And I will get on my soap box here and tell the world (all zero of you reading this) that it's okay to be on an island of you for a few hours. The world can wait because you will be there when it's time. The world belongs to you...and day naps are better than the sex I'm not having.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
The walk into battle...
Nothing can beat the feeling of walking arm and arm with your fellow soldiers, sounds of the battle drum perpetuating the rhythm of your heart. Adrenaline flows through your every vein as you march in time to enemy lines. ~I'm totally speaking metaphorically here. Ain't no fucking way I'm going into a real battle, I've got alabaster skin.~ But...then you get to those enemy lines, your own heartbeat drowns out the sound of the drum and you look to either side and realize you are totally and utterly alone- you laugh to yourself and say 'well shit, this is not how I saw this playing out.'
And you wince in self-deprivation as you take each bullet. And you find a sense of peace as the metal pierces your skin.
I'm pretty sure that taking an actual bullet packs more of a sting, but you see where I'm going with this.
Do we give up when standing alone or do we keep fighting? Is the line drawn at the enemies feet?
I find myself playing out this scenario and answering these questions on a daily basis. The details vary, but the message is always the same - 'You FIGHT!' There is no peace in piercing metal. I can't even handle period cramps. Self-deprivation is a bigger killer than SARS. And if you stand your ground as if you're 10,000 men (or women, no discrimination here) you will win.
Victory.
And then you'll find your peace. Which I imagine is a lot like Tom Hanks at the end of 'Castaway.' At a crossroads with a full tank of gas and a future you can make your own. And you can't go fucking wrong with Tom Hanks.
And you wince in self-deprivation as you take each bullet. And you find a sense of peace as the metal pierces your skin.
I'm pretty sure that taking an actual bullet packs more of a sting, but you see where I'm going with this.
Do we give up when standing alone or do we keep fighting? Is the line drawn at the enemies feet?
I find myself playing out this scenario and answering these questions on a daily basis. The details vary, but the message is always the same - 'You FIGHT!' There is no peace in piercing metal. I can't even handle period cramps. Self-deprivation is a bigger killer than SARS. And if you stand your ground as if you're 10,000 men (or women, no discrimination here) you will win.
Victory.
And then you'll find your peace. Which I imagine is a lot like Tom Hanks at the end of 'Castaway.' At a crossroads with a full tank of gas and a future you can make your own. And you can't go fucking wrong with Tom Hanks.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
As the grapes turn...
Nothing like realizing halfway into a giant bottle of $16 wine...that your chance on price is gonna make for a very ugly 24 hours. 'Who needs $2,000 wine!? This is a steal!' These words will haunt me.
Details are fuzzy. I'm okay with that.
I think.
I'm becoming terrible at hiding the crazy. A lifelong profession that has come up from behind me in a not so comfortable place. I've avoided alcohol and people a lot lately. Because that's where freak flags fly. The part of me that also justifies a mouthful of Skittles and cigarettes thinks that this is how God wants me to be seen. The part of me that doesn't forget my nighttime anti-wrinkle cream and sets the alarm thinks otherwise. I just really hope the part of me that works out and always wears sexy underwear wins this battle. But I really love Skittles.
I'll recalibrate and may surface in a dark corner...drinking a wine from a wood shelf...out of a wine glass.
Oh yeah, I can't drink wine - 13 hour hangover.
I'll be ready for keg stands by next weekend.
Details are fuzzy. I'm okay with that.
I think.
I'm becoming terrible at hiding the crazy. A lifelong profession that has come up from behind me in a not so comfortable place. I've avoided alcohol and people a lot lately. Because that's where freak flags fly. The part of me that also justifies a mouthful of Skittles and cigarettes thinks that this is how God wants me to be seen. The part of me that doesn't forget my nighttime anti-wrinkle cream and sets the alarm thinks otherwise. I just really hope the part of me that works out and always wears sexy underwear wins this battle. But I really love Skittles.
I'll recalibrate and may surface in a dark corner...drinking a wine from a wood shelf...out of a wine glass.
Oh yeah, I can't drink wine - 13 hour hangover.
I'll be ready for keg stands by next weekend.
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