I’m thinking about making a YouTube channel.


I messed around with my laptop camera and boy do I have to get comfortable with seeing my face. I only catch it in the reflection and sometimes that’s even too much. No, I’m not searching for compliments here, but when you spend the majority of your life NOT seeing yourself and then you go through videos where you’re like shit, is that what other people have to look at?—it’s weighing.

The reason I’m thinking about making a YouTube channel is for additional exposure. Every author has got to have an edge or something that sets them apart. I realize a good amount of authors are on there, but maybe in addition to writing about writing, I can talk about writing and you can see just how much my eye twitches when I get overwhelmed or anxious or how chill it is when I’m actually chill (which is not a lot recently since I’m still job-hunting and that is a SOUL SUCKING experience. Especially when you’re going at it with a degree in Creative Writing which qualifies you to do shit, apparently.)

So. YouTube.

Yes, I have been told (on numerous occasions by numerous people) that I should pursue comedy or do stand up or have my own show. I’m not lying and I’m not being arrogant. These are true statements that I’ve shrugged off because I am *ridiculously* camera shy and, you know, isn’t everyone kind of funny? At least a little? (I take it back. There are some people who are the OPPOSITE of funny. I kind of feel bad for them and their boring lives. But they get to be accountants and lawyers and make bank so I don’t feel too bad.)

So… if everyone is at least a *little* funny, what makes me think someone would want to watch my channel? Especially if Joe Schmoe in the next cubicle is cracking jokes left and right?

I’m struggling here, guys. I need some advice.

…but I did put one VIDEO up. Just one. I’m not even sure I’ll keep it. That’s where you come in. Give me a Yay or a Nay (or money. I’ll also take money) so I know what to do.

  <—– me looking sexy sans makeup

Lastly: thank you to those who headed over to my Patreon page. You guys ROCK! After this post, I’m working on one for over there—anything besides looking for more jobs. Enough of my soul has been sucked out today. Time to get creative again.

Dibs for Dying First

I’ve claimed it. Over Batman. I don’t care when you go—well, I do, because you’re awesome—but in this relationship, the one involving the caped crusader and I, I’ve called dibs. I don’t want to be left behind with the ostriches and the castle-mansion mortgage and of course, Fartswell.

It wouldn’t be the same.

Walk the Line was on.

It’s inevitable that every time we catch some segment of the film, Batman and I will turn to each other and claim the right to die first. This probably seems odd as this is a love story, but Johnny Cash passed three months after June Carter. THREE MONTHS. If that’s not dying of a broken heart, I don’t know what is. And who wants to be left with that? A broken heart? Hence the dibs. I die first and you must accept the suckage of living without my awesomeness. I think that’s fair. Oh! And if this is *true* love between us, I’ve explained to Batman that he MUST hold my body in his shaking arms with a waterfall of tears, like Snape did with Lily. That’s how I’ll know it’s real.

Come on, who wasn’t crying that exact moment? Even if you hated Snape the entire time and really did think he killed Dumbledore (what—have you no faith in people?) his absolute love of Lily was too much not to get choked up over. I’m serious—EVERY time I watch that scene, I cry. EVERY TIME. Sometimes, when I’m too lazy to get up and put the movie on, I’ll YouTube that part and just start crying over my laptop. Batman looks at me like he’s not sure if he should pretend he doesn’t see me, or grab me a full glass of wine. Before he does either, I sniffle, turn the screen to him and yell, “You better love me this much! I want you to shake my body when I’m dead!” at which point he goes back to playing XBOX and pretending he has less of a weirdo for a girlfriend.

But I’m serious. Dibs for dying first, bitch. That’s my motto. Sure he can marry some skank after I’m gone, but will she compare to me? That’s most likely a no, unless he marries up like Emma Stone. She’s probably the only exception. But anyone else and it just won’t be as much fun for him. Which makes me think maybe he should go first, so he’ll never have to know true pain. But I want my body shook, damnit! I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Besides, he’ll hear about it for eternity in the afterlife if he doesn’t, and I just don’t have the energy for that. Hence the reminders. I think this is an awesome act on my part to prevent that.

So, dibs for dying first, bitch.

Anyway… in case you’re curious, here’s a picture of our neighborhood cat, Sir Carlton.

Sir Carlton

Pensive, isn’t he? Look at those white old-man whiskers. It’s like he’s staring into your soul.  I hope not, since he’s been occupying a chair on our back porch for the last few nights and I really could do without some demon-possessed neighborhood cat.  Or even a good-possessed neighborhood cat (is that a thing?) I just don’t want him turning into a death eater and dragging me off to Azkaban because that would be a terrible way to start off the holidays.

21 days until Christmas!