this chapter has graduated to being called “Hey, Dude” and it is OUTRAGEOUS. MORE WINE.
"I get it, you’ve been this way your whole life. Ever since you started wearing Superman underwear, and then graduated to Superman boxers, and then graduated to old and ratty Superman boxers, you’ve been told stupid shit about girls that you started to believe. Between eating large amounts of cereal out of bowls that weren’t truly made for eating cereal or even harboring any kind of food at all, between high-fiving other dudes over things like “short skirts” and “people doing skateboard tricks and falling,” you’ve become somewhat of a caveman. Baby, it’s not your fault. Baby, smile for me! Why don’t you smile for me? Baby, you’re looking goooooood today!"
Rewatching the first season Orange is the New Black for some Alex Vause inspiration, drinking copious amounts of red wine, and finally writing the chapter in my book called “Dear Men.” I am holding no punches.
If anybody has, you know, any ideas of what I should say to men, you can always hit my askbox. Don’t be nice.
It’s my mothafuckin 26th birthday today, and I’ll be spending it like I did when I was 13 (wearing a choker), when I was 21 (drinking whiskey), like I do erryday (eating pizza) AND like an adult that has to sign up for shitty healthcare. I’m a little hungover because I watched Adam Sandler’s BLENDED last night, which was as horribly drunk as I suspected it would be. So it’s going okay so far.
Iffffff you wanna give me a bday gift, do me a solid and ..follow me on Instagram which is the only social media I have time for lately. Plus I love it.
All right. Off to mess up my lipstick, which is Kat Von D’s Studded Kiss in Homegirl. Celebrate with me by wearing dark lipstick tonight and convincing somebody you’re a witch.
Every time, I get down on myself. Every time I minimize the word document at 1am and think about all the things I have left to write. I toy with the music playlist, go to the bathroom, get another drink of water, distract myself. I get upset. I get frustrated. I think I couldn’t possibly do it, I think I need more time, I think I need tomorrow, I think I need to watch Broad City instead.
And then, after hours of this bullshit, I start to type. The second I start to type, I feel better. It’s the medicine I need. I feel like I can handle it. I feel as invincible as I can when I’m sober. And always, once I start typing, I start to get it done. Always.
Don’t think too much, man. Just fucking do.
The #2 lesson is that you are hardest on yourself, and the #3 lesson is that you don’t have to be as perfect as you think you should be.
How, effectively, do you get out all the words out that you want people to hear? How can you be heard? Who the fuck will listen? How can I balance all of these heavy questions with, say, jokes about cereal and the consumption of nachos and an all in all happy, productive life?
As a writer, I think about this often. But also, as a human, I think about it more.
Everybody knows there is a lot of horrible going on in the world right now, and for the first time—a sign of growing older for sure—I have had a consistent heartache about it. I have had a headache from people’s opinions about it, too. How often we spend trying to say the right thing, the angry thing, the justified thing, or the thing that lets the world know how we truly feel. Sometimes, it is awful. Most of the time it is a desperate cry to be heard.
An old friend and former coworker of mine died a couple of days ago to cancer. He was a very positive person in a way I am not. I am not a very positive person. I got frustrated cleaning dishes today. Why? I couldn’t say. I can’t say much about the balance of the world anymore, only that I know it should exist and often doesn’t.
There is a giant storm cloud in my stomach, and I used to spend all too much time trying to figure out how to make the lightning come out of it. Writing the second book is challenging. Sometimes I think my life isn’t that important to write another book about. Actually, that’s correct. My life isn’t important in the grand scheme of things, except to perhaps contribute some common thread I drop on the ground. I hope you pick them up and go “Hey, me too.”
In the meantime, I listen to Fiona Apple, to Tori Amos, to Adele, and to Miss Nicki Minaj while I spend hours trying to figure it out.
I’m still around, guys. I am turning 26 on Saturday and I am grateful to do so with pizza and whiskey and friends. I am also doing that all-too-human thing of find restrained ways to wring out my storm cloud into something that resembles my footprints. Deadline in October. I am the little engine that will.
More writing to come here, as it is always my way.