I’m A Melting Clock

I can’t wake up today.

Everything is blurry and sort of happening and I think I’m at work right now, but I might still be in bed, dreaming all this. Although, I’m pretty sure I’ve interacted with people because none of them have been Ryan Gossling. Yet.


Even with Georgie (my car) stalling on me TWO times this morning and the THREE cups of coffee I’ve downed, I should be awake. I should be on my game, ready to face slam this Monday into next month but I got dropped in the first five seconds after Batman’s alarm went off. I’m out cold, too dead to crawl out of the ring and back into bed. And I’m not even there yet. I’m here, at work, trying to play the part of the normal functioning employee and not the grotesque slug I’ve morphed into.

I’m in a conscious coma.

It’s not like I went to bed later than usual last night. I stayed up for Game of Thrones (woohoo!) but my body is just mush; a glob of mash potatoes when I’m normally a fry. How am I going to make it through the rest of the day? It’s Monday, yeah I get it. But everything is stretching and dripping and in an extensive existence of just YYYAAAWWWNNN.

I’m a melting clock.

And this is what I think about: on days like today, when I walk around to get the blood flowing, so I can remain semi-awake and not face-plant on my desk from this conscious coma syndrome, I worry today will be wasted. Not because I’m a less than stellar employee (they should know that by now) but because I’m worried I won’t have the energy to write. Or do something productive when I get home. I’m worried I’ll take a nap. WORRIED OVER A NAP. People are starving and half naked and shacked up in igloos and third world shacks and I’m worried I’ll take a nap. That I won’t have the energy to start on the third draft which I need to do because I’m too damn responsible and already reached out to my editor. I’ll be sending my manuscript to her in a month. A MONTH. There’s no time for naps. No time for melting clocks and three cups of coffee and car stalls. There’s only time for writing and rewriting and more editing and another run through. Oh and working on my website (which should be ready here soon!) and writing this blog and spending time with Batman and eating cereal and Lean Cuisines and watching Game of Thrones.

And writing.

But I’m a melting clock today.

There’s no real reason for this post except that I wrote it to stay awake. And that I’m scared of taking naps. And that I’m too responsible for my own good. And that I have a caffeine addiction which MAY be catching up to me now. And to call out Georgie on also falling asleep today.

One of us has to be the adult, here.


I woke up with one word in my head: gossamer.

Gossamer: a fine, filmy cobweb seen on grass or bushes or floating in the air in calm weather; an extremely delicate variety of gauze, used especially for veils; fine spider silk.

There are a few details I remember from my dream last night before Batman’s wonderful screeching alarm alerted us to the new day: I was in a fitting room wearing a very pretty ivory gown that swooshed when I walked over pinkish-peach carpet. There was an old-time automobile repair shop next door with a man in overalls and a red fire truck and a dark purple sunset over the town. And the word gossamer.

I have the weirdest dreams. At times they mean absolutely nothing — just gargled information that seeps past the conscious and burrows deep into my brain like indigestion, only to rise again with no real purpose. But sometimes dreams hold the secret; wisdom I try to grasp in my subconscious knowing that when I wake, the answer will slip from my head and I’ll spend the entire day trying to remember the epiphany I wanted so much not to forget because it was the answer. The answer to what? To it all. To everything.

And I lost it.

But I have gossamer. It was blinding neon silver, a symphony of one note, both the beginning and the end and it was crucial that I remember. Gossamer. And for those of you who think that all dreams mean nothing, just the messed up version of your brain regurgitating crumbly bits of your life — I feel bad for you. You’re lost in this reality and you need to wake up. See the other side for a change, inhale the magic around you. Nothing is coincidence. Nothing is random.

It’s all connected.

Even as I’m sitting here writing this (should be working… but when inspiration strikes…) wanting to know what gossamer really means, Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine comes on Pandora. That means nothing to you but it’s like a shot of adrenaline to my curious mind. Because the cover album for this song is the very image that inspired a certain character’s wardrobe I described as “like the silky strands of a spider’s web.” AS I’m writing about gossamer.

You’re watching me, aren’t you universe? But what are you trying to tell me?

What is it?

The Magic of Being a Kid

It was super tough for me to grow up.

I think a lot of kids wanted to be adults so they didn’t have to listen to their parents and so they could drive cars and eat candy for dinner and never have to clean their room. These things all sounded amazing to me too, but I’m talking about the young-kid to older-kid phase. When you had to stop playing with your toys and start interacting with others, because that’s when they ruined things like telling you there was no Santa Claus and making you believe that whatever you thought was wrong and that you played pretend incorrectly. I don’t know. Maybe I was just friends with assholes.

I just remember feeling ripped apart when I was younger. Being forced to leave this land of ultimate make-believe to join the cruel reality where other people had opinions and rules and knowing I’d never be as free as I was when I could play alone with Barbies in my closet. Does that sound wrong? Or strange? It probably does because most people like being around others, right? And I do too, but I’m also really good at enjoying solitude. It’s like, one of my favorite places. Like now, Batman’s out of town for the weekend and I’m all by myself. And even though I miss looking up from typing to see him yelling at the TV because whatever video game he’s playing is glitching or not obeying his controller commands (I don’t know—he gets very hulkish when he plays his X-Box One) I’m still enjoying the quiet. I miss him, but this isn’t terrible either. This little space in the world is mine. All mine. And I may not be in my closet turning shelves into mountains and Barbies into heroines of great adventures, but I can still tap into that ultimate freedom I had to give up when they put me on the playground and told me to play nice. I’m not sure if any of this makes sense. It probably doesn’t.

My good friend Seattle introduced me to a new blog, Hyperbole and a Half, last week. She’s also the one who told me about The Hunger Games and The Bloggess so I know I can trust her when she recommends something. So I’ve been pouring over this blog on every break and lunchtime that comes available to me. And a lot of her entries reference her childhood and how she rationalized different things that happened. So it got me thinking about my own childhood. How did I enjoy it? DID I enjoy it? Parts of it, yes. Parts of it sucked. Like the transitioning from “oh she’s just a kid, let her enjoy it” to “you’re not a kid anymore. Grow up.” That part really sucked.

I like being an adult—I do. I can eat cereal for dinner and leave my nail polish on the coffee table as long as I damn well please. I can have four glasses of wine and stay up as late as I want and call in sick when I’m really just writing. I can procrastinate doing my laundry and lie in bed all day and see a movie on a Tuesday night if I feel like it. I can make my own life decisions. All these things make me an adult, right? Well good, I’m here. I’ve made it. But sometimes—every once in a while—I miss that early part of childhood, before responsibility falls and your age is an excuse to tell the world to fuck off because you still believe in the tooth fairy and under-the-bed monsters and giant rabbits that deliver eggs every April. It’s that time when anything can exist and it does because the world hasn’t polluted you with reality yet.

You know what I’m talking about. And once that wonderful bubbled illusion pops, you’re never the same. You’re forever locked out of the gate with everyone else, only to stare longingly at how happy you were, wondering how you lived in such blissful ignorance. And the rest of the world meanders away but you can’t go. You just want back in. You want to be reinserted so you stand there gripping the gate rods, knowing that the longer you’re on the outside, the further back in your memory it’ll recede. And you’re afraid you might not remember what it was like.

You’ll forget the magic of being a kid.

Do you remember this place? Remember when the candle went out and the florescent light went on? Was it hard for you? Or did it come naturally, because you always wanted to play with the other kids rather than sit alone in your closet with tubs full of Barbies that were just characters waiting to have their adventures unfold? It was difficult for me.

What about you?

We All Look the Same as Skeletons

I started taking selfies of myself and was too grossed out.

Why do people do this?

All my selfies were HORRIBLE. HORRIBLE I tell you! I looked psychotic and creepy and even the ones where I thought, well, I could try for sexy, it was just… wrong. Like Woody Allen marrying his adopted daughter wrong. Gross. Unclean.


I don’t know what this generation’s obsession is with themselves. And everyone else. And before you start pointing the finger at the fact I was joining in on the selfie-crazy, hate to break it to you. I wasn’t. I was checking my teeth with the camera and recoiled. It was too close up. Major focus on my blemishes and the discolored chipped tooth I never got corrected. Money, you know? Oh well, I think of it as one of those wonderful imperfections WE ALL HAVE. Doesn’t mean it has to be pretty. Or right up in my face when I’m taking a picture. Shit. How long do people have to spend getting the right angle so they can hide their double chins and find the good side where their acne doesn’t show? And do they take them off to photo shop to be turned into someone completely different? Someone unrealistic because I’ve seen some of these selfies out there and good God you’re all liars.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a disgusting person. I’d like to think I’m not. But you may disagree in which case go fuck off. I’m no Quasimodo but even if I was, who cares? It’s just skin and fat and muscle. We all look the same as skeletons anyway. But I get it; I’m no supermodel. I’m an average, realistic human being who is slightly overweight with a bad tooth and cheeks that turn red way too often. Sometimes I take good pictures. Sometimes I wince. That’s life.

But I don’t need to take a picture of myself when I think I look hot. Who is this really for—me or you? I know you’re feeling good getting ready for the night out on the town and you want to capture the moment of confidence before you head out and make memories you probably won’t remember. That’s awesome—great. But why take it in the bathroom? WHY? Seeing your toilet and bathroom quiz book doesn’t add to your sexiness. Sure you may be sporting a six pack or a nice pair of biceps but come on, dude. Now I’m thinking about how often you clean and what kind of quizzes you like taking when you need a break.

I’m not focused on you, because you’re too focused on you. Like everyone seems to be. When did this selfie phase start? I remember hearing it (not too long ago) when Batman came home and told me. Since he works at a high school, he brings me updates on what’s trending nowadays and the new words our youth will soon turn into common place language. I couldn’t believe “ratchet” the first time he told me. COULD NOT BELIEVE IT. I just kept saying it over and over and over, waiting for it to sink in and wondering how we went from, “yes madam, would you care for another cup of tea?” to “damn, dat girl ratchet.”


And then “twerking.”

There’s a term for that now? I thought it was called grinding. Like, booty dancing. I’m so confused. And lost. And confused. And then he tells me about this thing where people take photos of themselves and it’s become this HUGE thing and they post them all over the place and I just don’t get it.

I know, I know, I’m way late to all this and *super* uncool for thinking selfies are dumb. I might as well be eighty, right? It’s not because I’m self conscious or have low self esteem or am too afraid to show the world how sexy I can be at the right angle and light. I just don’t get the need for it. If we’re out and you want a picture, grab it. I’ll try not to look retarded but sometimes I blink mid snap and it’s the best I can do. And yeah, I might want a pic of me and Batman when we actually leave the apartment to go socialize with the world. To like, prove we’re not complete hermits. But that’s usually it. No selfies. No show-you-my-bathroom shots or look, I found the perfect angle to hide everything I don’t want the world to see.

Because I can’t really do that. I end up grossing myself out and wondering how Batman gets in so close to kiss me.

God bless him.

Want to see one of my gross selfies? Here you go:

Look at my freak tooth. LOOK AT IT.

Look at my freak tooth. LOOK AT IT.

At least there’s no toilet in the background.

The Little Things

So everyone talks to me all day long. Which is fine, because I totally dig conversations… except when I don’t and I just want a minute to be in my own head. It’s fun and quiet and nobody judges me because I have coffee stains on my sweater and…okay…maybe I don’t exactly match. I get moments of quiet when I walk from the filling room to my desk in the open space I share with three other people. But then I see them and because one person makes eye contact with another, dialogue inevitably follows. So the only moments of quiet are in the walks to the bathroom (which I sometimes don’t need to use but say I do so I can walk around and think) and when I head to the filing room and back. And also in the filing room but then someone spots me and they’re bored and don’t want to work so they figure a five or ten minute conversation won’t hurt. And it doesn’t. Like is said, I totally dig conversations.

But sometimes I want to say to them, “don’t you know you’re interrupting my genius right now?” Because they are. Because they pop their head right into my thought bubble when I’ve just come up with the perfect line that I couldn’t place last night and now I have to run and find a piece of paper or a sticky note to write it down before I forget it. But they won’t let me leave because they have to tell me about the funniest thing their dog did last night and I’m trying to listen but really I’m just repeating the line over and over in my head so I don’t lose it. It’s not their fault. They don’t realize I’m conducting my orchestra. It’s ongoing with a million intermissions like stoplights and cell phones and people wanting to talk about the cute things their pets do, but as soon as they walk away and I’m in that glorious solitude again, the music starts up and I’m the Maestro, waving my little stick thingy, constantly conducting.

So, yeah. Quiet is really important to me. That’s why I like walks. To the filing room, to the bathroom… to my car in the dirt lot. And especially to Lonnie’s, this *amazing* deli sandwich shop I treat myself to every Friday. It’s two blocks down from my office which means two blocks of pure silence where I can think and process and review and listen to the music in my head. And then, I get to eat the most amazing combination of foods in a single sandwich that I found at the top of the menu the first day I wandered in. For real. First thing listed. There was no point reading the rest of the menu because I’d found the winner.

Welcome, folks, to the Sunny Bird:

Close up

Turkey, cream-cheese, sprouts, sunflower seeds, honey French dressing and on homemade bread.

This sandwich is Awesome-sauce-Amazeballs-Totes-McGoates great.

It’s not the most flattering picture of me but… well, that’s what I look like. Deal with it

It’s not the most flattering picture of me but… well, that’s what I look like. Deal with it

Normally this is a solo adventure for me. Obviously yesterday was different because I’m not so amazing that I can take a picture of myself eating. It would be cool if I could but alas, Batman took the Bat-mobile and met me for lunch so you can thank him for his capturing this moment of true pleasure. You guys have no idea how good this sandwich is. It’s fucking delicious.

But it’s little things like a really good sandwich or a quiet walk to the bathroom that make my day. That’s sad, isn’t it? Well it shouldn’t be. Because life is made up of a whole bunch of little things that are really, really great.

Like I remember driving to high school one time with coffee (yes, I drank coffee even then. I’ve always drank coffee. Probably why I’m a hobbit) and I must’ve hit a bump or something and the caffeinated liquid flew from it’s container like a brown tidal wave of terribleness and I was wearing white. FML. This was going to suck.

…but it didn’t. Because the wave of coffee landed DIRECTLY on my seatbelt and my seatbelt alone, slimly missing my white shirt and saving me a scream from the anger and scorching heat.


Screw the seatbelt—I was saved. And it’s little things like this make life so awesome. You might think, “but you still spilled it. You still ruined your seat belt.” Okay Debbie Downer, way to point out the negatives in a totally awesome moment here. Because these shitty little things are going to happen all day long every day and it’s up to YOU to find the silver lining. Like not spilling coffee on your white blouse and having the most amazing sandwich after a peaceful two block walk when it’s been a fucking stressful Friday. Or getting that line of dialogue you needed even if someone’s preventing you from writing it down. Because you still have it and that rocks. Things are going to happen—people are going to distract you. That’s life. But it’s always better with a really good sandwich a belt of protection.

Writers, just make sure you carry paper and pen with you EVERYWHERE. That’s what I do.


So I work this sort of corporate job where I drive an hour to downtown and park in a dirt lot that’s at least a ten minute walk from my office. I don’t mind the walk, except when it’s raining, but the smell of the exhaust and the busy bustle of the cars is comforting. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I originate from a real city and it’s encoded in my DNA or something. I don’t know. I like being in a city. I can pretend I’m in New York or London or somewhere with tall buildings that you can see when you fly over. Somewhere that people go to leave behind their small towns to try their hand at their passion and make it big. And I’m not there. I’m in my fake city. But driving the hour commute to work isn’t terrible because I can listen to music and get a solid moment to think and dream and write, all while downing my travel mug filled with the coffee I made before I left. I really don’t mind the drive, don’t terribly mind the work—not yet—and the hours could always be worse. The thing that never changes though, the thought that I can’t get out of my mind everyday is the one I use to reinforce my faith in being a writer.

I am nothing like you people.

I’m not. I’m nothing like all the high-end business execs in their Men’s Warehouse suits and Anny Taylor dresses. I wear grayish-navy pants that are too long and too big with a blouse I got on the clearance rack and a sweater that has loose strings and holes near the arm pit. My hair is swept up in a lopsided bun and if I left myself enough time, I might have some concealer on. Maybe a brush of mascara. The inside of my shoes are breaking and they have stains from the last time I wore them outside in the grass. My nails are rarely painted, but mostly chewed and I’m pretty sure I have deodorant remnants on me.

I’m a ragdoll.

I’m the opposite of every high heel walking over the expensive marble that gives the younger generation something to aim for. And I trudge behind them thinking I am nothing like you.

It used to bother me, back when I thought I’d turn into the girl I’d seen portrayed in Disney movies and on television. One day I’d magically wake up and bam! I’d be Kafka’s metamorphosis of the butterfly instead of the weird insect I’ve been the entire time. But I never woke up to find wings. Just the same old limbs that were short and pale and awkward. And it took me a while to realize I was never going to get wings. I was never going to change and be like the others. I wasn’t Minnie Mouse. I was Goofy’s retarded niece. And there’s no poster girl for that.

It doesn’t bother me anymore. In fact, I embrace it. Maybe not the sweater holes or shoe stains, but every flaw on me proves I have no place being among the white-collared clean and polished people. That’s important to them and I totally give them credit. I would love to put myself together and look like an actual adult… but it’s not me. I’m not an adult. I’m a sixteen year old kid with twelve extra years of practice. And my hair will always be a lopsided bun and stains will inevitably find their way onto my clearance rack clothes. But that’s what Goofy’s retarded niece wears. So I’m set.

Honestly, I think if I looked like the rest, it wouldn’t be a constant reminder that I’m different. That one day I won’t be sitting in a cubicle or strutting around the office, but hopefully, giving book tours because I’ve actually made it. And how many artists do you see all shiny and new? Who gives a fuck about appearance when you have a masterpiece to create or even the theory of relativity to unleash? Don’t get me wrong—I bathe regularly and you read what I wrote about deodorant stains—I use it. I just don’t blend into the adult working class… and I think that’s a good thing.

I am nothing like you people.

I say it every day on my walk from my car to the elevator, following behind Banana Republic ads and Gap commercials. And me—I’m the ragdoll working to pay my bills.

You have no idea, I think, no idea who I am.

But you will someday.

Waiting for someday... and the elevator

Waiting for someday… and the elevator

Ragdollin' since Pre K

Ragdollin’ since Pre K

I Never Wanted to be a Golden Corral

The bugs are still on me.

It’s got to be a thing right? Scratching, looking down and finding absolutely NOTHING on your arm. It’s probably a tick. I’ve got enough of them so this is probably number twenty seven. But even if it is, TECHNICALLY there ARE bugs crawling on us right now. I heard that somewhere. In science class or anatomy or biology, or maybe I saw it on T.V. Or maybe Batman told me. I can’t remember. But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re there… crawling on us—AHH! Those little miniscule bastards are gorging themselves like obese people at a free buffet. I never wanted to be a Golden Corral. And here I am, giving myself up for the price of nothing while my body is slowly devoured.

I feel used.

Here’s a thought:

If the world was one giant person… that would make us the bugs. No, I’m not on anything, just my third or fifth glass of wine. But it makes sense, right? We could be the Earth’s little bastards, soaking up the land and sea for our selfish feasting needs. Total Men in Black locker reference, when Earth was just part of a galaxy in a marble. It could happen. It could be happening right now. It explains tidal waves and earthquakes and other unknown issues. Unless you want to be a geology jerk about it and claim it has to do with plate tectonic shifting or whatever it is I didn’t pay attention to in class. But you probably don’t think that because I doubt a bunch of geology jerks even read this blog. And if you’re one of the others that think the mermaids are somehow responsible for all the earth’s natural disasters, then I TOTALLY agree with you. Because mermaids exist. Not leprechauns, not Big Foot, not even Santa Clause (spoiler alert!) but mermaids ARE real. Like a hundred percent singing in the ocean, swimming around Atlantis, mother fucking real.

I don’t understand why people don’t believe this. Isn’t the earth covered by seventy five percent water? And haven’t we only explored like, a handful of it? I may not be great at math here, but doesn’t that leave… several more handfuls? And what’s there? Shit we haven’t discovered yet, that’s what. Or shit we have discovered, made a Disney movie about and then mocked those who actually believe it. That’s right—I’m talking to you geology jerks. And logical people.

It’s not going to be the robots that take over. It’s going to be the army of merpeople sweeping along the shores, stabbing us with their tritons to feed their hoards of hungry young because according to math again, there’s three quarters more of them then there are of us. It’s going to suck big time when we become the sushi of the planet. Raw human.Yum.

It’s not like I’m waiting for this war to happen. You should never wait for inevitability. That’s just dumb. Things are going to happen whether you want them to or not. No point wasting your life in the mean time. I’m just saying it’s the most obvious apocalypse. Now, I’m a Walking Dead girl myself, but the Zombies are not our final threat. It’s too obvious. It’s too arrogant. It might be aliens, but why are they taking their time in attacking? If they were going to do it, wouldn’t they have done it by now? Unless they’re those stupid aliens from Signs where they’re taken down by a glass of water… why haven’t they come yet? And if they have (which is totally a possibility) then why haven’t they attacked? I don’t buy the whole hostile alien take over thing. Of course now that I said that, I just jinxed the entire human race. My bad.

I’m telling you, mermaids are it. They’re the threat no one’s looking at. Smart human-fish hybrids. I’m calling it now. Can I make a bet with someone? Or have my great-great granddaughter cash in on this when her whole life goes to underwater shit? Yeah, I really don’t want to be human sushi. I basically don’t want to feed another living thing with my body. Bugs… merpeople…sorry cannibals, you’re out too. But then my thoughts go back to Mufasa’s circle of life lesson about our bodies becoming the grass and the antelope eating the grass and the whole recycling procedure. I have no problem donating my body for food post life—I just have a problem with it when I’m alive.

So that also leaves out vampires.

Especially vampires. Even the hot ones that make me want to be immortal which I would NEVER want to do because I’ve already chosen my death age and once I make a goal it’s hard to deter from it. 77. That’s my death age—if I’m able to decide. If not, then anytime is fine I guess but as long as there’s a cap, I think I’m good. Immortality doesn’t suit me. It’s actually quite terrifying. So every time someone says in that really annoying voice, “you know it’s not good/healthy/smart that you’re…” I just smile, nod and say YEP! Don’t plan on living forever. No one seems to understand this. I DON’T WANT TO BE IMMORTAL. So BACK OFF vamps. I’m not even here for a little appetizer-action. Except maybe Eric from True Blood… he might possess the only set of fangs I’d let near me for a little suckage. And it’s more for the lust involved, not the snacking. Except, why would he want to snack on me? I’ve got an average neck that the bugs have apparently been feasting on and I’m pretty sure I might start giggling if Eric got too close. Total turn off, I know. So picking me would be like choosing trail mix over a bag of Oreos. And who chooses trail mix? NOT ERIC.

Damn. Now I’m kind of depressed.

But still being fed upon.

Oh…life. You make no sense.

Traitor to My Generation

Why is it that when our devices go down, we think it’s the end of the world? Because it is, right? GOD FORBID we’re not able to download an App or access our video games or stream our favorite music. Or do whatever else it is we do, because online devices have now become our way of life. Our forefathers would be proud.

… Wouldn’t they?

As Cher admits at the begining of Clueless, “I don’t want to be a traitor to my generation or anything…” but I’m not a techie. Is that even the right word? I wouldn’t know because I’m not really in the scope of things happening in today’s social media market. I’m more hanging onto the late 90’s or early 2000’s technology wave. Maybe because that’s the last time I really gave a shit. I care—I do—about like, survival. I do just enough to get by and most times it’s not even enough. My mother knows more about today’s happening trends then her 28 year old daughter.

Doesn’t that tell you something?

I remember when she asked me if I knew what Twitter was a few years ago and I was like, “uh, sounds like something stupid.” I don’t tweet. Not that she does either, but it seems like EVERYONE does. Everyone accept me (and her). For real—I’m glad I can use email. And like, set the clock on the microwave. That’s about it. I had to have Batman show me how to turn on the television and access HBO (because we have it now. Score!) Everything else I’m lost. Completely, utterly lost, like a cavewoman-walking-around-Best Buy-looking-for-the-wheel lost. This is so not my generation.

I always thought I was born in the wrong decade. I figured I was supposed to born around the thirties or forties and something in the cosmos got mixed up, like I showed up late and got deferred to the eighties. I don’t know… there’s just something magical about the thirties and forties. To me, at least. And no, NOT because of their AMAZING fashions (although that has a pinch to do with it), but because the music is also simply FANTABULOUS, and I always really enjoy movies and books set during that time. So clearly that means I belong there, right? I really think it would have been awesome… except for the whole war thing. That would’ve sucked. Put a huge damper on it, actually. Okay, so maybe the thirties or forties weren’t the decades for me—I don’t know. I can’t imagine that going back any further in history would’ve been better. From a female standpoint, at least. The whole voting and equal opportunity thing. And shaving. And women needs. Like, I don’t think I could survive before Tampax pearl. Sorry, but it’s the truth. Ladies, you understand.

I guess every decade, every era, has its own issues. Things it could improve on. I’m not saying technology is ours per say, because apparently it’s the BEST thing. I agree. I’m fully excited to get light by switching on a simple switch. It totally rocks. Especially when it’s the middle of the night and I have to pee. Go Edison. But I’m talking about the over-technology. The please stop staring at your phone and look at my face. It’s right here. Or please drop your God-d*** phone and drive, you fucker! The whole world is happening RIGHT OUT HERE, past your nose and all you’re concerned with is hash-tagging and telling the world what you ate for breakfast. I know that sounds hypocritical because I’m blogging and currently focusing on a screen myself, which I just preached I hate. But this is my online journal sort of thing. If you comment, that’s awesome! I hope you do, really. But this blog is actually more for me than you. Sorry. It’s like my thought bubble exploded and splattered all over this word doc, which is really the sanest way a thought bubble could explode. It’s either that or the ten minute conversation with me rambling on about evil spiders and adorable puppies and how ninjallamas really do exist, like Platform 9 3/4 quarters. You choose. Although both would be awesome for you. 😉 A real win-win.

PLUS this blog is therapeutic. It’s one of the only things that I use this computer for (currently I’m on Batman’s, but the reason for that is an ENTIRELY different story.) I pretty much only use my computer for Microsoft Word. Honest to God. Every once in a while I’ll pull up a game of minesweeper, or if I’m feeling super frisky, Majong. But basically it’s Word. And the web. That’s it. And on the web? I’m one of those boring people who only use it to pay bills, watch some clips on Youtube and check the weather. That’s what I do with my devices. NOTHING. And I’m happy. I’ve never played Angry Birds or Words with Friends (although I hear it’s fun and I’d love it) or even tweeted. I should care, shouldn’t I? Maybe I’m just too lazy to care. That’s probably it. I’m too lazy to be so busy and in my phone’s face all the time. I don’t know. I like staring out the window and daydreaming.

And I’m really good at it.


Batman and I don’t like when people sit on the same side of the booth.

There, I said it.

We call them same-side-sitters and we can’t stand it. Look, I understand if you’re waiting for another couple to join you or even one other person—you want to leave that side open because it’s their side. I get it. Batman and I have waited a few good minutes sitting side by side for Mrs. Whatever and her husband to join us for a meal at Applebees. It happens. Sure I’m uncomfortable and have to fight the urge to stand up and declare that although it looks like it, we are NOT same-side-sitters, but I get over it. Because it’s only a few minutes and deep in my heart I know that if we weren’t about to be joined by another couple or person, I would occupy the seat across from the caped crusader, so we could look each other face to face, as it should be.

I don’t get why two people have to share the same booth. I really don’t. I mean, wouldn’t your neck hurt after turning it (or keeping it turned) to talk to the person you’re with? It’s like meal first and chiropractors second. Why? I get there’s an intimacy of being RIGHT next to that person but you can be just as close with your own personal space. And, without having to injure your neck.

My first boyfriend was a same-side-sitter. I should’ve known then. I should’ve known it wouldn’t have worked out but I was in teenage love and more importantly, distracted with the free meal. I mean, when I slid into the booth and he came scooting in next to me, I thought… well this is odd. There’s a whole bench across from us and now I’ll have to spend the entirety of my meal turning to look at him when all I would have to do is look up, like normal people do in conversations. Was this how it worked in all relationships? THANK GOD NO.

When Batman and I were still testing the waters to this very strange ocean we’ve found ourselves, I remember meeting up at Logans or Longhorn or some place that served cow and really delicious buttery rolls. I arrived first because I needed to know the truth. Was he, like the first boyfriend, a same-side-sitter? I wasn’t going to doom the relationship over it but it was definitely a key point—a character trait I needed to know before we waded any further. And when Batman did show up, he slid right into the opposite side of the booth and I let out a deep sigh of relief. He noticed and asked what it was about.

Me: You passed the test.
Him: What test?
Me: You didn’t sit on the same side of the booth with me.
Him: Who does that?

You’d be surprised. It’s not terribly often that we see this occasion out in public, but it does exist and every time we spot them—the same-side-sitters—we dive into the inevitable discussion of how it just doesn’t make any sense. It all goes back to the neck pain and the, to be honest, ridiculousness of it all. THERE’S AN OPEN UNSUSED BENCH. CLAIM IT! Maybe I just like my space… or don’t like Batman, I don’t know. I am claustrophobic so that may have something to do with it, but is the rest of the world also frightened of enclosed spaces? Is that why they elect to sit across from one another rather than right on top? I think not.

I want to ask them. The same-side-sitters. Not to be rude or antagonistic, but just because I’m curious. Why, WHY must you sit together? You realize if you were on a boat, you would topple it. There’s something extremely unbalanced about your seat decisions and it drives me crazy. I wouldn’t verbally say all this as it would exist in my thought bubble alone, but I am curious to know the reason behind the bizarre seating choice. Does it boil down to intimacy? Are they secretly stealing silver wear and biscuits to be shoved in a bag between them? Maybe hiding a stain or a strange elephant arm? Is one deaf? I NEED TO KNOW.

For the two or three of you out there who read this, any thoughts? Are you a same-side-sitter? There will be no judgment, as I am merely curious to this awkward and super uncomfortable phenomenon. Any explanations/insight would be wonderful.

For the rest of you… what weirod’s, right?

I Took Them for a Reason

I take tons of pictures—either I’m playing around with my phone or I happen to have it out and see something amazing, something I simply *must* capture. Most are taken with the intention of putting them up here and… yeah… guess I failed that one. I think about three pictures have made it onto this blog and lame, I know. What can I say? I get distracted easily. Oh yeah, I’m also super lazy. But Sir Carlton made it up. And the major award was posted last time…so… some points are rewarded right? No? Okay, well… going forward, it’s on. Like Donkey Kong, bitch. Pictures are going up! I could just resolve to do this in the future, but, as I took a butt load of them to share with you-my invisible audience-I still want you to see. I’m doing a camera spring cleaning and besides, I took them for a reason.

They’re awesome.

This I think is just fucking gorgeous. Yes, Batman gave me these flowers when they were very much alive. I snapped a couple photos of them too but after they’d passed through Hospice and still sat on the dining room table, I went crazy with the camera. I’m not sure why, but they seemed pretty in their gravely appearance. It’s very Jack and Sally of me, but I think that’s a compliment. So thank you. Batman couldn’t understand why I was getting so excited by my four week old flowers (could’ve been longer…) but how could I not? Look at them. They’re beautiful. They’re like…those bitchy flowers from Alice in Wonderland, except not terrible at all. I’m sure they’re actually very nice and speak in fine British accents when we’re not around, passing each other fancy mustard and whatever. They certainly wouldn’t push me and shoot water or whatever they did to Alice. Batman would never get me flowers like that. It’s just rude.

These I took at my mother’s. It’s very inspired by all the art classes I took in high school and never really paid attention to because I was too busy starting at the cute boy in class. You know, priorities. But, I did pay attention in photography, because it was something I actually enjoyed. Well… I paid attention a majority of the time. And apparently, it was when we learned about lines and shapes. Because I really excelled at that in kindergarten. And colors. As you will see, I have a thing for colors. They just really rock. Ever read The Giver? I think the scariest thing about that book is that their entire world consists of black and white and shades of grey (but no Christen Grey!) God, what a drab world. So yeah, colors are amazing. And lines and shapes and I also like plants, as you can tell from these first three pictures. I can’t take all the credit because my mom has an amazing garden of crazy fauna and I went nuts snapping pictures one day in November. So voilla! Professional plant photographer here I come!

This spectacular picture is what I see every day on my drive home because I’m always stopped at the same stop light. This ever happen to anyone? I’m a street away from my apartments and I never catch it on the green. But, the good thing is that I take a look to my left and see… this. I guess you could say there’s nothing special there but that’s what makes you WRONG. Look at it, you butthead. With the sun setting and the trees and grass absorbing all those beautiful rays… it’s picturesque. Hence the picture. I use to hate being stopped a street from my apartment but now I look forward to it. Honest to God. Sometimes when I’m stuck at work and just waiting for that five o’clock to roll around, I think about what the evening will bring. Batman will be prepping something for dinner…I’ll watch about an hour of TV and then write until about 9:30 or later. But before all that, on my way home, I get to see this. You might think it’s silly or stupid or not worth remembering, but everyday I’m stopped and I get to gaze out to the serene scene, a calm settles over me. And I’m the world’s most impatient person. But I don’t mind waiting. Not at this stoplight anymore. Not when I get to look out and see this. It reminds me how much beauty really exists in the world. We just have to open our eyes and see it.

This… I love this. I took him on the wall of a bathroom in a funky restaurant in Downtown Disney. My friend Seattle was doing her business and as I had no business of my own, I waited by the sinks. And found him. My awkward frog. My queasy Kermit. That face. I LOVE that face. I think I just stood there, starring at him, desperately wishing I knew what was behind that expression. Bad fly? Painful wart? I just kept starring at him, most creepily, like I was deciphering the secret of Mona Lisa’s smile. Because that’s what he is to me—my amphibian Mona List. I still don’t know. What do you think is behind that expression? Go on, I DARE you to answer.

Ah yes, this I took on a bad day, when I was feeling most morose. It was after a pretty terrible week and on the car ride home from Chili’s (when I’d accidently knocked my entire plate of food on myself), Batman was trying to comfort me. But I was sad. Depressed. Nothing would make me feel better. And then I looked out the window and saw this miserable chap. “That’s how I feel,” I told Batman. Me and the palm just starred at each other, identifying with one another on the grey day we shared. And before Batman drove us away, I took a quick snap of him—my melancholy partner. Ever have days when you just feel like him? Yeah, you do. We all do. At least we can hide it. But he has to put it out there for the world to see. Sucks to be a dejected palm tree.

This was taken on New Year’s day. It was rainy, as you can see, but I love rainy days. I love everything about them. The grey-white sky, the scent of wet earth, the sound of water hitting the ground or, in some cases, a backyard lake. It’s relaxing and, for me, the best days to write. And I did. I got a good amount done on the first, finally working on the edits of my second book which I’d put off for a long while. But I kept getting distracted. With the wonderful grey day outside. I’d write a little, stop and turn around to see this. Yeah, I was getting artsy with the camera angle but I wanted to get all those droplets. It was wet and beautiful and the perfect day to start the New Year. It’s got to be a good sign—right?

So, there you go. Those were just a handful of ALL the pictures I’ve snapped on my phone. I shall continue on, because that is who I am, what I do, but I will try my hardest to post them up as I take them. But of course, my laziness may overrule me again. Who knows? It’s a New Year.

Let’s see what happens…