Monthly Archives: August 2013

I’m currently in school to be a writer, which is when people usually say, “but can one really be taught how to be a writer?” and yes, you can be, and it’s also probably where you learned to be a giant douche.

I’m halfway through a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in writing and I can say with certainty, this is what I’ve learned:

  1. Pretty much everyone is a jerk who I will stare at blankly while I think about how much I don’t like them.
  2. It’s real easy to get away with a B in these classes.

And that’s honestly about it. I’ve had the professor who liked me, and the professor who I’m pretty sure thought I was this blonde idiot or something, and another professor who I didn’t like until literally the last class. I’ve had good workshops, and I had one fucking terrible one right before my birthday and I actually thought my life was crumbling to pieces.

It’s possible that I’m just not up for this kind of stuff. I’m not a huge fan of it. It doesn’t help that I’m the sort of person that creates silent enemies. I have several of these enemies that I kind of view as the ultimate nemesis that I must conquer in the course of my life, but they probably have no idea who I am and also would not be able to recall the situation in question which solidified them in the nemesis status in which they currently reside.

Also, it really doesn’t help that every single comment in these classes sound like a weird, passive-aggressive put down. I hate “good effort!” or “great start!” but I put them on every single thing I read because what the fuck else am I going to say?

There are people who are outright cruel and mean, and you can just feel all of our egos just squishing up against each other, and I spent nearly $20 on paper for one story and then I went to class and, like, five people were absent and were like “Hey, could you please e-mail me your story?”

Yes, that will be $4, thank you.

By far, my least favorite part about workshop classes is every second of it. I feel about 10 years old when I’m in one because, more often than not, I have no idea what anyone is saying!!

My favorite, sort of weird platitude people have about writing is “you gotta know the rules before you break them.” This was something I really worked hard at pretending that I understood, but now, I can say with full confidence, that I still pretend that I know what the fuck people are talking about when they say this.

What if that same phrase applied to other things? Like driving? You gotta know the rules before you can become a super awesome stunt driver and flip over cars on the highway. Or surgery? You gotta learn how to do the heart transplant before you can juggle several of them at a time.

What if you know some of the rules? Can you only break the ones that you know? Do I have to prove that I know them?

These are all questions I will never know the answer to because I try really hard to fit in with all these people who are usually better than I am in all possible ways. Probably cause they already figured out this whole rule thing.

When I went to school, I thought I was going to be this really literary writer and go to book parties and talk about the human condition (also something that gets said every four minutes in my classes and I’m like “yep, totally know what that is”) and society and metaphors and annoying shit like that. And then I got to school and tried to do it and I was like, “wow, I actually don’t love this so much.”

And I thought it was the classes and the people and the environment, but I think I’ve pretty much realized that it’s just me. Maybe I just don’t like doing this stuff as much as I thought.

I guess I should have figured that out when all I wanted to do was write short stories from the perspective of Kanye West instead of, like, a gay teenager whose mother is dying of cancer and also has a dead dog or something.

I mean, I’m supposed to write what I know. Or am I thinking of show, don’t tell?

No, its definitely the first one. I think.

And all I really know is that people are lying when they say they don’t like anything Britney Spears has done since 2007 because her greatest album is her 2007 album and I’ll stand by that until my dying day or unless she makes a better album than Blackout and Britney, but that’s pretty much impossible I think, but if anyone can top the legendary Britney Spears, it’s Britney Spears.

Yeah, blah blah blah, Flannery O’Connor once said, “Anyone who has survived childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.”

But what if you’re some kind of weird woman-child, immature adult-like, person who can legally vote for the leader of the free world but not drink alcohol? Have I survived childhood?

I don’t think I really survived it, more like got shoved and pushed into adulthood somehow while also not actually getting to be an adult.

I feel like an idiot about 99% of the time I have to write something serious, so I quit.

I’m quitting everyone! You can quit too! You don’t have to feel obligated to always create things that are super serious and meaningful! Write about dumb things!!

I’m just putting that out there, because I feel like a lot of people who are like me fall into this trap and confuse “serious subject material” with “good.” And that doesn’t have to be true.

Here’s to independence from the pretentious liberal arts writing scene!

Just kidding I’ll go back to feeling inadequate in about four minutes after I publish this.


Alright I have to be real with y’all.

My head’s not really been in the game because life has pretty much sucked lately.

It doesn’t help that summer’s ending, and even though that means I’m going back to school and back to the city and back to my girlfriend and my friends, it also means that something is ending, which is rough considering I’m a highly emotional person.

You know that dick that’s always, like, “I GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE IMMEDIATELY” in pretty much every single teen movie ever? That’s me. That’s pretty much who I model my complete personality on. So the last four months (the VERY LAST four months) in my hometown have been rough.

I associate college with FREEDOM and LIFE and LIBERTY and the PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. Well, not so much those last two, but I do have the liberty to continue pursuing a sexual relationship with my girlfriend which makes me pretty happy, so by the transitive property of lesbian sex, college is dictated by the US Constitution…? I don’t really know where I was going with that.

See, this is what I’m talking about guys. I’m totally off my blogging game. A month ago, that would have been a solid statement.

So I’m that douche in teen coming of age films, but I’m also that other douche who’s like “Yeah, but, like, what does life mean anyway” so I’m having a bit of an existential crisis. Which for me is a pretty common thing, and it happens at least once a day, but this one involved finding my old Tamagotchi and being really sad that it’ll never live again, so it’s been pretty traumatizing.

I’m not a huge fan of change. But I also get bored easily. I want to leave but I don’t want to grow up. I want to have a cool job and be successful and begin my life, but I also feel hopeless and dejected when I actually try to get things done. I’m sick of everyone, including myself, complain about how their lives have no direction, but I also hate people who seem to have it all planned out and then, you know, follow through with those plans instead of being fully consumed with angst and whining about it on their blog.

BUT I really want this space to be a positive one, and not to contain my existential whining. Or I guess I would like it contain as little of my whining as possible. 2% existential whining, ideally.

Positivity is a really hard thing to do though. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that, but it’s hard. Forcing yourself to be positive is rough. One thing you’re supposed to do is sit in front a mirror and literally just say positive things to yourself. I have never felt like more of a dickhead than one time when I looked at myself in Photobooth (obviously way too lazy to get up and move to an actual mirror) and said shit like “You deserve happiness.”

Which is true, completely. Everyone deserves to be happy. I just feel like a moron when I look myself in the eye and say, “You are intelligent and capable.”

It’s so hard to do something that should be so easy. I’m pretty narcissistic, really, so daily affirmations should be like, “yeah duh but tell me more.” But usually it’s, like, the most painful way to kill time before Breaking Bad.

So how do you stay positive when making yourself stay positive feels awful and cheap and lame and then moping feels stupid and then you spend all afternoon staring at pictures of tattooed hot girls and then you feel even dumber than before??

Sometimes it feels like everything is useless and meaningless but then I’m like “alright well if that’s the case then why should I care what I do if none of it matters in the first place.”

So I just get stuck.

The one thing I’m definitely going to miss the most when I leave is the corner of my bedroom with two windows on either side of it. It’s been the best place. I’m sitting here writing this now, and I’ve written so much other crap here too, and read so many books sitting here. When I can’t sleep, I’ve slept on the floor in this little corner.

I know I’ll carve out little spaces like this wherever I go, but it’s sad that it means I have to leave this one behind.

Life is a scary place. It is for me, anyway. And I think life is generally kind of hard for most people. But I just don’t want to be stuck any more. And that means moving on and picking myself up and being a real person who is functioning in the society in which she lives.

So I’m going to start doing that more consistently. I don’t really know how to do it, but I’m going to do it. Somehow. With regularity. And I think part of it is physically leaving behind a place where I feel safe.

Regularly scheduled nonsense will return shortly, I just needed to talk this out with my spam comments and just get something out there. Break the ice, if you will. Re-break it, I guess.

So, positivity in the face of the coming, horrible unknown. Or possibly great unknown also.

I’m doing so well, so far.

As my quest for Internet fame continues, there’s one social media website that I have still not dared to exploit, and that is Facebook.

And that’s mostly because Facebook is awful and horrible and terrifying and I hate it. But also because sharing this on Facebook means that instead of sharing this with my friends on tumblr and twitter, I’m sharing it with other people who don’t really know me and aren’t my friends.

I’m not worried about humiliating myself though. That’s not the problem. I’m just afraid of making people feel inadequate because they can never hope or dream to have it all together like I obviously do.

Screen Shot 2013-08-06 at 6.58.20 PM

what people probably imagine when they see my name on Facebook

Who are we kidding, it’s definitely because I’m afraid of making an idiot out of myself. I have to admit sometimes I feel tres 2007 when I write on this blog because who the fuck does this anymore? Nobody that I know. But I’m just going to keep doing it because it makes me happy and yeah, that’s the point (when can we start having inside jokes?).

Facebook is just this weird little universe, and I have to admit that I’ve taken most people’s updates off my newsfeed, but then I started to follow on twitter whatever I liked on Facebook, and now my Facebook is pretty much just a worse version of my twitter because my mom is on Facebook.

Note: Do not ever joke to your mom that she should get a Facebook account. It has ruined my goddamn life. I blocked her once thinking I could just unblock her, but blocking someone unfriends them (duh) and she brings up that I unfriended her on Facebook at least three times a week. IT HAPPENED YEARS AGO. I was still in high school I think. That’s how long ago it was. Upside: I know Facebook’s privacy settings better than I know my own Social Security Number.

But Facebook has a few positives, I have to admit. As a young, feminist lesbian who currently resides with some more conservative family members, I find that it is most beneficial to express my liberal rage in the form of angry debates on misogyny. My relatives would thank these people, but it doesn’t stop me from taking it out on them at all, and recently I walked out of a taco place after screaming at my brother about my “biological tendency” to prefer higher testosterone levels.

Which is strange because I love tacos. I really shouldn’t have taken it out on them.

Facebook is one of those things that when I say I hate it, people go “ooh, so edgy” and I’m like, “I wasn’t trying to be edgy it’s a piece of shit” and then I wallow in the small self-esteem boost that I get when people like my Facebook status. It’s a painful, deadly circle. I don’t have the Facebook app because I’m above that shit, but then I constantly just go on it on Safari anyway and then I hate myself even more.

It’s not even the fact that no one has really anything interesting to say, or I hate seeing people’s vacation photos, or something like that. I don’t even know what it is. It feels like when your parents ask you, “hey, what’s up with that girl you haven’t spoken to in years?” and you’re like, “Um, I don’t know mom? I called her a slut once and now she hates me. We’re still at that point in our relationship.” That’s how I feel when I use Facebook. Like I’m weirdly being asked to make nice with my former acquaintances.

And if you’ve ever had to do a group project with someone without a Facebook account, you know why I can’t delete my profile.

I’m just looking forward to the day when I’m old enough to be on Gchat all the time and I’ll just only use Facebook to untag myself from drunk photos.

Until then, I’m going to start trying to exploit my Facebook more.

Because I think that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. And maybe it’ll make me hate myself just a little less.

FINAL REVIEW: it’s probably best to just live in a little hole in the woods and never ever social network again.

I like clothes a lot more than someone would think. But I like clothes in the sense that I like looking at them. Purchasing them and wearing those clothes is a totally other story. Mostly because I have horrible insomnia, so when I’m getting ready I’m either about to be late, or I’ve been up all night and I’m like “stripes with floral is a thing? right?” and then I put on a sweatshirt over whatever I’m wearing anyway and call it a day.

There are some times where I’m laying in bed, thinking about the next day, and I get a brilliant fashion plan and I’m like “ooh yes” and then the next day I put it on and I’m like, “damn I’m good at this shit.”

One time in high school a girl complimented my clothes and said I “took a lot of risks.” I think I was wearing this dark purple dress with a large floral print and dark green tights. She was the student aide in my Latin class and I thought she was way hot so I was like, “no big deal gurl.”

Actually I probably vomited all over myself and then got a nosebleed. The nosebleed actually happened in Latin class, fun fact. I got blood all over the floor and stuff and they had to call in the public school cleaning experts and make sure no one dared to touch my possibly HIV-ridden blood.

Speaking of HIV, when I first learned what that was (sixth grade, in a class called “Family Life”) I became CONVINCED that I had HIV. Now I didn’t get this from sharing needles or having sex, because I was an 11 year old girl who would soon become very sexually confused for a long time and because I lived in the middle of this:

Screen Shot 2013-07-31 at 1.54.31 AM

just imagine the early title sequence of Weeds

So, my theory was that my mom gave me AIDS while she was pregnant with me and that she didn’t tell me about it for some reason, and she was sneaking me all these drugs to keep me healthy this whole time.

It made a lot of sense to me back then. The symptoms flashed up on the screen and I was like, “Hey, I get sick a lot. I must have HIV.”

And my hypochondria stemmed from a lifelong problem with anxiety, which is also the cause of my insomnia, which leads up straight back to fashion.

I think my biggest problem when it comes to my own personal style is that I have too many directions I want to go in. If I could wear everything Elle Woods owns, I’d love that. She has, like, sparkly bikinis in four different colors. Also I’d love to have everything that Cher Horowitz (from the movie Clueless) wears. I fucking love matching plaid now and I’m on a mission to find it.


essentially my dream outfit complete with yellow plaid

But also, and what I am about to say to you will be a surprise possibly, but punk music played a huge part in my adolescence (I used to dye my hair dark red, but also I gave myself pink hair and purple hair and I ALMOST dyed my hair jet black a la Kathleen Hanna but thank god I chickened out) so of course I’m also obsessed with leather (fake leather though. I don’t usually care so much about animals but for some reason wearing their skin gives me the heebie-jeebies) and huge boots and studs and wearing black and things like that.

So I think sometimes I end up somewhere in the middle. Like, floral shorts with tights with a bright yellow shirt that says “fucking” across it and a leather jacket. It’s not usually very pleasing to other people.

Other notable items in my wardrobe: shiny gold leggings, the loudest pink, yellow, and green striped shirt ever, bright pink jeans, and so much fucking floral. It’s an issue.

Also I have a girlfriend who is kind of hard to please when it comes to the fashion game. I never really know what she wants from me. I mean obviously I prefer wearing no clothes around her (heyoo) but we have to go to Chipotle sometimes and mostly I end up looking like this weirdo standing next to this collared shirt and Toms combo. Whenever I ask her for fashion advice it usually goes along the lines of:

“Hey, should I get one of those necklaces that spell your name in cursive?”
“But I don’t want my name…I want to get ‘Britney’ for Britney Spears.”

She keeps me grounded.

That being said, I really love fashion blogs, which is, again, something I don’t think people would necessarily think I would like, but there are so many that I read regularly and some that have ended but I still go back and read sometimes. I would totally run a fashion blog if I could, you know, understand anything about clothes ever. And that doesn’t look likely.

Also fashion bloggers take the best Instagrams. Always. It’s a given.

So my final review on fashion? It’s great. I love it. I just wish I wasn’t an idiot about it and that I actually purchased practical items instead of getting fixated on a color or a pattern (right now I’m just literally buying everything that is pink or has a pug on it). Maybe I’ll learn, but then I think about this amazing pair of jeans I had when I was a kid with this gorgeous flower embroidery on the left leg and then I realize that I’m going to look like a floral smoothie threw up on me for the rest of my life.

And I’m mostly okay with that.