Saturday, March 9, 2013

new blog, new blog, and also that time there was a new blog

Well hey there, sunshine!

Head on over to The Brazen Bible. It's like this site, only more bible-y and less pretend-y. (That totally makes sense...right?)

Just let it happen.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

fur coats, reminders, and my personal version of fact vs. fiction

Fiction: You can "simply decide" to "be happy".
Fact: You can make conscious choices to be a better version of yourself, but these changes will take time.
While you can decide to change elements of your thinking, (trying to focus on the positive, mentally letting go of things, etc.) it's just not possible to sit down in front of a mirror, look yourself square in the eye, and declare that FROM THIS MOMENT ON, you will be unwaveringly and completely happy. First off, no one is 100% happy 100% of the time. Secondly, while your brain is pretty effing awesome, there is no switch to automatically control emotions. Immediate happiness isn't a thing, guys, and expecting magical results and not receiving them will only make you sad...which, in case you didn't know, is sort of the polar opposite of happy. You can't expect yourself to become an entirely new person overnight. You're not the inside of a junky house; you can't just slap on some paint, clean the windows, gut the basement, and be instantly perfect. Cut yourself some slack, gorgeous.
Fiction: You have to wait for a sign to start doing something you love.
Fact: If you know you love something enough to want to do it, THAT IS YOUR SIGN.
Whole-heartedly wanting to do something is all the proof from God/the Universe/your mother that you ever need. I know I've talked about this idea of doing exactly what you want to do simply because you want to do it, but I'll repeat myself until I'm blue in the face. YOU BEING YOU is the only reason necessary to kick life in the nards. Or cut all your hair off. Or switch careers. Or flirt shamelessly with the sexy barista at the coffee shop you go to that's cuter than Starbucks, but doesn't have chai quite as good.
Fiction: Love is never having to say you're sorry.
Fact: What? I just. What? I'm pretty sure love is caring enough about the other person and how they feel to apologize when you're a jerk.
And we're all jerks, sometime or other. If I cancel on friends, (or my loverrrr in the night-times), I do appreciate a certain level of understanding because they like me, but that doesn't mean I don't offer a genuine sorry. Just because someone loves you inside and out doesn't mean you can stop doing things considered basic courtesies that demonstrate how much you respect them as people. Love isn't a free pass to be an asshole unapologetically to the people you care about. If anything, the L-word grants you permission to step outside your comfort zone and do just a little bit more to remind those around you just how absolutely exceptional they are.
Fiction: I only update every Sunday so I can yell, "SUNDAY FUNDAY," from the top of every proverbial rooftop that has ever existed ever and also wear my pajamas all the live-long day.
Which is usually Sundays. But I'm moving this weekend (hooray!), so here's my self-promised weekly rambling a few days early. Thursday Fursday? Do people still wear furs? Would I feel okay wearing a fur? Would I feel okay even wearing a fake fur? HOW DID THIS TURN INTO AN ANIMAL CRUELTY POST?!

Friday, February 22, 2013

mudbloods, cake, & how to be the very best bad guy

I know this is going to come as a HUGE shock, you guys, but I watch a lot of movies and/or Netflix. I have a deep, deep love for pop culture, but the thing that annoys me most is the constant need to remove all responsibility from the main character. By delegating negative traits to everyone except the "protagonist," it allows the lead to sparkle majestically on a glittery pedestal of untarnished awesomeness, excusing all questionable behavior because everyone else has more questionable behavior. Questionabler behavior? Sucks more.  Because eeeeeveryone else sucks more.
It's okay for Jessica Day to cheat on her boyfriend because he checks his phone in bed. It's okay for Katniss to kill everyone, because they're not as caring as she is, and it's always an act of self-defense. It's okay for Hermione to punch Malfoy because he called her a Mudblood. (Also, it's worth noting that I feel totally dirty writing that word.)
See also: It's okay to eat cake for dinner because you've had a bad day. It's okay to quit work because your boss is a jerk. It's okay to take a spontaneous trip to see an out-of-state friend because things have been just so stressful.
Sound familiar?
Why do we feel the need to justify our actions by focusing on the bad?
I know for me, it's always so much easier to legitimize the choices I make, or even how I feel, by placing the entirety of the responsibility on an outside source. Honestly, I feel stupid chalking up a bad day to the simple fact that I MIGHT BE HAVING A BAD DAY. Instead, I'm having a bad day because someone cut me off, then flipped me the bird. Or because I got yelled at during work for something that wasn't actually my fault. Or because I had to get up too early. Sometimes, my mood and decisions are a direct reflection of my environment, (if I throw up, I'm going to call in sick, etc), but sometimes I find myself scraping the bottom of the barrel for reasons to do what I do and feel how I feel.
In stories, there's always such a clear "good guy" and "bad guy," but what happens when your coworkers are great, yet your job doesn't inspire you to be more kickass than you were yesterday? Or your spouse is wonderful, but just not the right sort of wonderful for you, and you want to end things? Or you get thrown into an arena and have to kill everyone in order to win tons of fancy bread for your family forever and ever but everyone's sort of nice and equally scared? (Flashbacks to my 16th birthday party, by the way.)
Life and I and you and we are not dichotomies, as modern culture would have us believe. The world just doesn't function that way. Instead, we perpetually reside in these gorgeously morphing blobs of information, options, and circumstances where opposites overlap, and sometimes have tea, and frequently throw robot dance parties together. 
So please, for the LOVE OF PETE, let's be "bad". Please, let's frolic through those gray areas and make the choices we want to make simply because we want to make them. If we need an excuse to go after the life we want, let the excuse be that we deserve it. Our justification for being us is that there's no other way to be, is there?
We don't have to be the victims in our lives to be empowered. We are not in distress, and we do not need saving. We are, however, uniquely powerful forces of nature. And we have the right, just by being the pure, undiluted, unadulterated people that we are, to make any decision we damn well want to.
Except doing intravenous drugs or getting face tats. That shit crosses a line.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

huffy muppets, makeovers, and a reminder of how wonderful you are

Personality is a terrifying thing. Too little, and you'll disappear into the porous woodwork of people who laugh at exactly the right volume or have the perfect haircuts or can walk around without looking like a huffy muppet. Too much, and you're the vulgar one. The outspoken one. The one who maybe drinks a little too much or makes that one joke that toes a line.

I have, and never will be, a balanced person. I go through phases of obsession, with foods, (CLEMENTIIIIIIIIIIINES!) clothes, (a magenta blazer I recently bought) and TV shows (I'm looking at you, Doctor Who). When something becomes my favorite, I think it's my favorite thing of all time...until I find my next favorite. I'm not very graceful, but as the boyf says, I'm built for durability. I like to think this means I'm like a super-industrial, stylish piece of Ikea furniture, but also I just want to have bedhead and wear the huge t-shirts with dogs faces on them forever and ever.

I'm not the best at meeting new people. I'm perpetually worried that I'll cross a political line, offend someone with my many words for vagina, (that's what happens when you write erotica), or be the annoying one.  After awhile, I stopped being myself not only in public, but in private, too.

That internalization of worry and insecurity literally manifested on the outside. My hair grew out to a length that made it fall flat and faded to a weird mousy brown. I wouldn't wear eyeliner because it made my eyes look too big. I kept my shoulders slumped and I struggled to make eye contact.

But then it sort of dawned on me that the only thing worse than being all of yourself is being absolutely none of yourself. Because at the end of the day, I'm a force to be reckoned with. We all are.

I've yet to meet someone who doesn't say something off-color that's both wildly hilarious and strangely moving. We are all so powerfully flawed and gorgeously messy, and those little divots and splotches on our personalities (and bodies) are what makes grabbing drinks around a piano bar, or reading blogs, or talking to the woman behind you at Target so incredibly fulfilling.

So often, I find myself censoring a comment/tweet/blog post/text/joke because it's TOO me, and I know I'm not alone in this. WHAT ARE WE SO SCARED OF? Forging connections? Going from anonymous to noticed? After all, noticed means people will talk, and not everything they say will always be nice.

But ultimately, all we can do, each and every one of us who are TOO [insert adjective], is to live in the way that sets our eyes alight with excitement, and love, and hilarity.

Wedging myself into the little gray boxes of anonymity was so fucking exhausting, you guys, and it's nice to be out and breathing. All I can say is I'm ready to adventure.

Come with me?

Sunday, February 3, 2013

target, claymore scotch ale, and a toy that demands blowies

I'm no stranger to the toy aisle at Target. I make it a routine goal to stop in, if only to feel sad that the Barbies of my youth didn't come predisposed to be an African American president or female astronaut. But about two months ago, I discovered this little gem:

Sliver: The (drunk, verbally-abusive, & vaguely misogynistic) T-Rex
Lezbehonest. He had buttons to push. He was out on display. And he was ready for action. After poking at him for a bit, I was torn between feelings of near-hysteric amusement, disbelief, and adoration. Sliver was an asshole; an asshole who was going to get the best home ever.

After visiting him weekly over the course of a few months, one fateful day I signed the adoption papers/swiped my Target Red Card, and the little fellur was finally mine. I could bask in his rude, condescending, and often threatening catch phrases in the comfort of my own home, scrolling through pages of pages of Amazon reviews and enjoying my new favorite refreshing beverage.

I'd like to think Sliver and I have developed a strong dominant/submissive bond during our time together. We've even made a movie together, as seen below.

I'm so enamored with my new King that I did what any other abused, mistreated mistress would do, and Googled what others were saying about my beloved.


Lezbehonest. He played with you.

All T-Rexes were douchebags. Duh.

Here's a few media pieces used to advertise Sliver, just so you can get a feel for his universal appeal.


Is it just me, or does this kid look motherloving terrified of catching the misogyny?
Sliver really is too good to be true. Self esteem too high? Significant other treats you too well? Need your own new worst friend? This toy can be yours for the low, low price of $15.99.

Friday, January 25, 2013

llamas, braininade (brain marinade?)​, and an outfit any kei$ha would envy

I grew up being super into performance theater. In one of my improv classes, we were told to alwaysALWAYS say yes to the love. The bottom line is that in a scene, and, yes keeps momentum going, allowing stories to feed and grow as the people progress.
"What are you doing?"
"Shaving a llama."
"Where did you find a llama on Valentine's Day?"
Yes, you have a llama, and...?
Similarly, it was taught that saying no is an immediate shut-off valve for progression.
"What are you doing?"
"Shaving a llama."
"No, you're not."
This makes sense on a very fundamental level, and I'm not just talking about improv.
As long as I can remember, I've always been so particular about what and who I allow into my world, making automatic pro-and-con lists on nearby bits of paper to calculate everything from whether or not I should move across the country to what I'll have for lunch.
Scribbling frantically in fits of unwarranted panic, the worries and excitement would spill together in a blend of undiluted fear and excuses. The slips of paper, scratched nearly to death with over-thinking, would get put in a pile. Some lists would be duplicates. Some would be assigned point values in order to supply concrete, quantitative data for my racing and unpredictable emotions.
Often, the outcome was a resounding NO! NO WAY. NO HOW. NO. MOTHERFUCKING. THANK YOU.
I couldn't because I was too scared of what might happen.
I couldn't because I was too scared of how I might feel.
I couldn't because I was too scared of mights.
I couldn't because I was too scared.
Saying no to conversation, opportunities, advice, and adventure had been keeping my very conflicted and very busy brain locked up in the confines of my skull, marinating in the isolated crazies and steeping in uncertainty. My yes, and's were getting slashed to bits before they even had time for tea.
And then, slowly, I began easing the solid NO!'s out of the way. I had to push at first. But eventually I peeked my toe out, (driving to places I'd never been), then a foot, (going to the aquarium), and a leg, (designing and publishing my first-ever professional website).
To avoid a huge long list of terrible body metaphors, let's just say that in the last three months, I've seen more of people I wanted to see more of. I've written recklessly and am nearly finished with the rough copy of my third book. I went to a mixer for creatives where I mingled in a room full of talented people, knowing almost no one, and kindling the start of what would become a very passionate love affair with Leopold Bros gin.
And most recently, I've registered for an [un]conference in Vegas. I'll fly alone to a city I haven't seen since I was seven to be greeted by strangers, all with powerful stories and contagious personalities. I'll wear clothes I never thought I'd own, hug people I never thought I'd meet, and embark on one of my greatest adventures to date.
There's something so liberating about cranking on those say-yes-to-the-love floodgates, about throwing those doors open wide and letting myself experience the pure exhilarating terror that comes with consciously welcoming newness into my very routined brain. So, I'm a woman with a BA in poetry kicking ass in finance. I'm changing every day. And in May, I'm going to go make 75 best friends in Vegas wearing a skirt that has disco in the name.
Um. YES! And?

Sunday, January 20, 2013

pinterest, killing curses, and my 400 square-foot living space

Let's be real for a second. I love Pinterest. I get about 47.7% of my craft ideas from there, (y'know, roughly speaking), and quite frankly, I love the idea of being able to organize the whole internetz.

But if I had a nickel for each time someone has posted something with the caption, "I'll be glad I pinned this!" or "Brilliant!" I WOULD HAVE SO MANY NICKELS, YOU GUYS.

786 ways to throw up in a donkey stomach!

I'll be glad I pinned this!

Turn old toilet paper rolls into older-looking toilet paper rolls!

Brilliant! I need more of those!

Learn to whistle with your butthole!

I'll be so glad I pinned this!

Pin THIS! (This is where I'd gesture offensively towards the male genitalia I don't have. Just sayin'.)

In other news, I did refinish/refurnish ALL THE THINGS in my apartment yesterday. This sounds like a death-defying feat, but actually I live in a cupboard. Under the stairs. Also, I'm Harry Potter.


*(Disclaimer: for whatever reason, I just want to end every single blog post with fondly and declaratively calling you all bitches. I'm working on it.

** (Double disclaimer: "declaritavely" apparently isn't a word. Well, I do declare: the fuck?)