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.