Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Things That Rock About Christmas

I woke up this morning sick once again, probably from the infection I apparently have that I should have apparently known about from the interesting colored phlegm I've been coughing up every morning for the past two weeks. SO. I opted out of drawing and instead decided to lay on the floor. I threw some stock google image photos up here, but I'm sorry to deny you my amazing art. My lack of dedication is probably why I am not internet famous yet. Oh well.


Ok, now that I have complained about everyone's favorite consumer based holiday a bunch, it is my chance to redeem myself. Let's pretend three spirits visited me overnight and I had some radical, life changing visions of my past, the present, and the future. Not that I don't think about that crap, like every night, minus the ghosts. I wish ghosts came to me every night. That'd be baller.

Really though. There are some pretty okay things about this holiday, so I will go over them for you now, because maybe it will put us all in a better mood.

Things That Rock About Christmas 

1. Having two parents who really care about you. And they are forced to show it.

For all I complain, I have parents who take very good care of me and even though they are starting to contemplate whether or not they spoiled me too much while raising me now that they have to introduce me as the girl who "couldn't handle California," they pretty much have no choice not to love me on Christmas. So ha. (Hint: they did).

2. Free stuff!

I am such a cheapskate. I decided to start training without excessive grip aids in pole awhile ago. I told everyone that "I don't want to be so reliant on them." But the truth is, I don't want to have to pay $15 a month for a tiny bottle of dry hands. That's way too much for my pocketbook. I only have two pairs of pole shorts that I have to clean every week because I don't want to have to shell out $20 more even though I could desperately use some, especially now that I've worn out my favorite pair so much they are loose in certain moves and I'm pretty from the right angle people can get a good look at my hoo-ha. Christmas is that one time I year I can just get stuff, no questions asked, from other people.

And yes, I do ask for dry hands. And I usually get it.

3. Foooooood.

Even though I hate gaining weight, I really, really like to eat. Like. A lot. Food is the best thing ever next to pole dancing and probably pooping and sleeping and sex. Actually maybe not sex. And sleeping and eating are kind of a toss up. Christmas is abound with extra food, much of it free. Most of it is rich, flavorful, and jam packed with sugar. Mmm my favorite!

4. Extra naps.

Speaking of how awesome sleeping is, Christmas is a great time to catch up on napping. In the day leading up to it, you live a life where you routinely wake up, eat some breakfast, sit on the couch, fall back asleep. Maybe you wake up again in an hour, you eat some crap, you walk around the house until you resolve there is nothing better to do than sit down on the couch again, where you fall right back asleep until dinner time. It's heavenly.

5. Movie time extravaganza

Tons of good movies come out around Christmas time, either vying for a spot at the Oscars or for $60 from the family wallet that is trying to do something that will force everyone to spend time together and a movie just happens to be a convenient way to do that without actually having to listen to one another complain (too much). Those of us who actually enjoy movies that are not just boobs-cars-guns-and-explosions like most of the summer blockbusters feature really get a kick out of this time of the year at the theaters.

6. Drinking! (Free drinking!)

That's not water, by the way.
Ah yes. What else to do during your family bonding time than to drink? A lot. Bring on the bottles of wine that someone else paid for. Always pour another. Get drunk without anyone noticing... Or do they? Who knows? Who cares! It's the best! You get to forget for small moments at a time how alone you are in the world and how depressing life truly is and how annoying this holiday is! Weeeeeee!

Don't forget about all the warm drinks as well. I especially like when you walk into a coffee shop and some rich person has paid for the next ten coffees to make them feel better for hoarding the world's wealth.

7. Socks

I like wool socks with stupid stripes on them, and so does Christmas. We have this one thing in common and that is how we bond.

8. Twinkling lights.

Oooooh pretty.

I dunno. I guess I'm weak for pretty things.

9. Putting life on pause

While it is annoying to have to put your life on hold, you can also think of it as putting your life on pause. This is a much better spin on the whole thing, as you finally get to take a break from all the normal hectic chaos that is your life and dive into the hectic chaos that is Christmas life. We all need a little change of scenery now and then. Doing so lets us take the time to consider our normal lives so that when we come back to them, we can try to do a little bit better at them. At least for a few days when we forget all our self evaluation and really just want a fucking nap again.

10. Candlelight during Christmas Eve service

I live my life year round pretty much as a heathen damned to go to hell. Christmas is the one time I can really be guilted into going to church and I really only do it then not because I love the service's similarity to a bad community concert at the old folks home or the sub-par organ playing or even the sermons about Baby Jesus that I totally do-not! space out during. I really only like it for the end, when everyone lights candles and sings silent night. I'm not one of those candle-crazy people that have a bajillion scented candles at home and light them all the time for no reason, but maybe I should, because they really are quite calming and beautiful. This kind of goes with the twinkling lights thing, I suppose. Hey, I'm only human.

11. Excuses, excuses, excuses

Christmas is the greatest excuse you can come up with in December. It works for pretty much everything.
"I shouldn't spend so much, but hey, it's Christmas!"
"I shouldn't eat so much, but hey, it's Christmas!"
"I shouldn't be so bitter, but hey, it's Christmas!"
"I should work harder, but hey, it's Christmas!"
"I should be more creative and come up with better blog posts, but hey, it's Christmas!"

12. Christmas Christmas Christmas.


I couldn't come up with anything else but I felt like I should do twelve so it could be even with the things that suck about Christmas and I didn't sound too much like a scrooge. So…christmaschristmaschristmas. Christmas,  Christmas Christmas Christmas? Christmas! Christmas.

Merry Christmas everybody.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

The Things That Suck About Christmas

Ah the holidays. A wonderful topic with which I can use to cop out on writing yet another blog about my low self esteem with.

Yes, dear readers, today I shall not talk about what I hate about myself, but rather, what I hate about Christmas instead. Everyone raves about this holiday yet I'd like to take a moment, sit back, and appreciate what it is really all about: suckiness.

So without further ado, here is

The Things That Suck About Christmas
Sexless and Cynical Style

1. Having to buy gifts for people. 

It's one thing to buy gifts for kids, who, let's face it, are the only people who are really into this holiday anyway. But to try and figure out what another adult who is perfectly capable of supplying themselves with everything they need might actually not buy for themselves that isn't over your classy budget of $20 for each and every person you have a shred of care for in your life? Some people might think this is a fun game where if you win you get to see their face light up in ecstasy as they open their gift, but I do not. It's mostly just a game of obligation that I feel doomed to lose. And I literally pay the price. 

2. Having to react happily when you open gifts.

This is my best "happy smile grateful" face.
I hate when people watch me open gifts from them, because I get incredibly self conscious that they are probably waiting for the "face lighting up" action described above. It's not that I don't appreciate being given gifts, but seeing as I genuinely smile in with  delight about 3 times a year, I worry that I will always disappoint in my performance. Still, I know I have to try to do my best. "Wow. Thank you. It's great," I  hear myself say, sounding like a bad infomercial actor. Every time. 

3. Those people who need to get all the decorations "just right." 


One thing I learned while working on a stop motion animated film and in the art world in general is that I am not a "detail oriented person." I like to phrase this to potential employers as "I'm someone who can look at the big picture of things really well," but yea, no, I won't spend four hours trying to arrange the sprinkles on a gingerbread house to look like genuine icicles hanging off the edge of the roof. Watching people trim a tree or hang lights in perfectionist vain drives me nuts. Just throw those things up there so we can go inside and drink some vodka infused eggnog already. 

4. Forced family togetherness. 

I think this needs little explanation. We all love our families. But there comes a time in everyones life when you know you only came to the party because it would make other people happy. Sitting in a matching sweater and smiling for the camera on Christmas Day is definitely one of those times. 

5. Extra long to-do lists.

As if life weren't busy enough, Christmas adds about one thousand usually unnecessary items to do lists. These often also cost additional money. And stress. Just when you thought you were on vacation…

6. Gaining five pounds. 

WHY. WHY is it necessary to make a BAJILLION cookies and put out plate of chocolate on the counter. It's not even feigning being a delectable especially special one of a kind delight. It's just chocolate. Plain and simple. There to make you unhealthy. AND I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL. 

I've gained five pounds for the past 3 christmases in a row. I always have to work extra hard to get rid of it after. It's completely self induced and completely unnecessary. I hate it. But I CAN'T SAY NO. 

7. Putting life on hold. 

Everything has to pause for a week minimum while you make pilgrimage to see family and run around doing hundred of errands and spending all that time in front of a dead tree eating oranges out of socks. 

This holiday makes no sense when you really think about it. 

8. Generally, it is cold as fuck outside. 

Depending on where you live. Here in South Carolina it is surprisingly balmy and warm, actually. Unfortunately, it has done nothing but rain for the past two days. The point is, December never has nice weather. Which only takes away from the "fun." 

9. Receiving more stuff to add to your already too large collection of stuff.

This is what I have to come home to daily and I'm expect to live my life in there somewhere. I don't need more! 
After I've dragged all my crap across the country several times, in and out of dorm rooms and cheap college apartments, I've realized that I have way too much stuff. And every year, people try to give me more stuff. I appreciate when people try to be thoughtful and go off the designated list I send out to my family every year of things I actually do need and haven't caved in to buying for myself yet (usually workout gear), but it usually just means more stuff for me to lug around that I never even thought about previously in my life but I can't get rid of because they were so nice and thoughtful to give it to me. I'm at the point where everything I buy is carefully purchased and contemplated. Like for example, often I wonder, "Should I finally buy a pasta strainer?" The answer is no. No, I can just use the pan lid or a fork or a spatula just fine. One less thing to carry around, saves eight bucks. LIFE EFFICIENT-ed. I don't need all this sacrifice undone. 

10. The holiday not being as exciting as it was when you were a kid. 

When I was a kid, I'd get STOKED for Christmas. I'd set up a camp at the banister on the second floor of my house days in advance with a blanket, stuffed animals, books, and possibly even snacks so that on Christmas morning, I could camp out and wait just to come downstairs. You know, because I needed to be ten feet closer to the stairs than my bedroom was. But seriously, it was the best day of the year next to my birthday and I could hardly stand it. Now? Now I fall asleep on Christmas Eve and think "I guess that thing is tomorrow." and the only reason I know this is because someone just made me eat a big meal and go to church. Also note the already having too much stuff thing. 

11. Feeling guilty for not being able to be in two places at once. 

I'm not going to lie. I started disliking Christmas when my parents got divorced. Sitting through the rituals twice every year, particularly when I became and teenager and family things stopped being "cool" or fun and I started hating the world and all that, really took a drain on my affections for the holiday. It was like it made me dislike Christmas twice as fast a normal teenager should. By now I can get over it, for the most part, and sit with at least sparing the look of complete hatred on my face. But I still can't help but feel guilty that every year one of my parents is without their children on Christmas. As much as I love each of them, I can't put myself in two places at once and it always breaks my heart, even if we both know I'd be a pretty drab in the Christmas cheer department. I know they still want me there. It's so difficult when you have two parents tugging on each of your arms and you love them both. 

12. Feeling guilty for writing a blog titled "Things that Suck About Christmas" when your mom comes into the room and says she was getting so excited about having her children here for Christmas and oh by the way, you are kind of ruining it by being so blah and not super chatty with her new boyfriend. 


I'm really bad at the family thing, aren't I? 

So, weird story. Suspenders McGee lent me a couple of books when I forced the Hyperbole and Half book, Watchmen, and season 1 of Community into his hands (all of which, unfortunately, he didn't seem very impressed with, except maybe Watchmen which I am pretty sure he still hasn't touched because I have been eyeing it sit under his coffee table for two months). One of them was this book about an retired old woman who really only wanted one thing for Christmas and that was for her whole family to be together one last time before her husband died because he was basically losing it. I've spent the past week devouring the novel. The book was fantastic. Great writing. I really ate it up. It was, unfortunately, also really, really depressing and made me super sad and moody when I read it. Part of the reason I got through it so fast was simply so I get could done feeling that way. But in the end the mom gets what she wants and everyone comes (briefly) for Christmas and it turns out to be kind of shit, but oh well, right? 

As soon as I'm done reading it my mom comes in while I'm working on this blog and starts talking to me about how much I am sucking at family Christmas (in the nicest way possible, of course) and so on and so forth. Then she asks what I am writing so I show her and it is obviously very upsetting. So now I feel bad, especially after feeling so sorry for the characters in my book. I'm no better than them, which is probably why it upsets me so much. 

Anyway, I promise to make up for it. Even though Christmas really is one of my least favorite holidays to put up with, there are good things about it that even I find I enjoy. There are two sides to this story, so please refrain for your criticisms that I am selfish, ungrateful little child as you stick around for tomorrow, in which I shall write

The Things That Rock About Christmas... 

Monday, December 23, 2013

the Reclamation of Winning, The Failure Of.

I'd just like to note that I wrote this in a weird state and then drew the pictures in an even weirder state of which was the result of a weirdly bad mood of which I am still in of which I like to say of which. 

The few of you who actually care about seeing my blog regularly updated may have noticed it has been about three weeks since I last wrote anything.

Where have you been???

They cry out in the agony of a world without Sexless and Cynical blogs, a world none would ever voluntarily choose to live in.

But fear not. For I vow to update three days in a row to make up for this.

I do not know if you realize the weight of what I have just said. So I will type it again, this time in italics, so you understand.

Three days in a row.

And now in bold.

Three days in a row.

And now in all caps.


And now in all three.


(I'm mostly doing this to make sure I commit to my promise.)

(But I'm not promising amazing pictures. That is the compromise. OK?)

This is a big deal because writing anything for me generally takes hours of time and lots of painstaking effort (but not this time! Wee!). This is because I want to fool people into believing I actually know things about writing, when in fact I am just pretending.

If anyone were to ask me what the most important thing about writing was, I would reply, "To write, you must start by making words that make sentences. Once you do that, you are writing. Viola.”

From there I am clueless.

So where have I been, anyway, that is so much more important than the sacred world of Blog-dom? Well, considering I earn zero dollars, have a very small investment of followers, and get no direct physical pleasure (aka endorphins or drunkenness) from this blog, there are a lot of things that take a higher priority (like beer or wine, for example). Not that I don't love this little blog. I've just been stumped on mind blowing and motivating inspiration lately.

I was in five aerial performances in one weekend at the beginning of December, to start. Then I caught the flu backstage and had to trudge through finals whilst barely being able to sit up in bed without getting a headache and wanting to pass out. Then I got mildly healthy enough to go bask in the glory of being not sick and also being 21 and spending a whole Sunday doing nothing but laying in bed with another person, eating queso, and watching Netflix. A good use of being in good health, surely. 

I know Millenials like to assert that we really aren't lazy and actually are hardworking and that the economy is just working against us. But sometimes we really are just lazy. I probably could have spent that Sunday/Monday doing work to make up for the days I didn't come do any with the flu and the days I would miss while on vacation. But then there is this nagging little voice in my head that keeps saying “You're only young [and super sexy] once!”

It also says “Oooh pleasures. Indulge yourself! Come on, you don't really deserve it, but take it anyway just because you can.”

Sigh. I am weak.

The peoples of the depression era would scorn my name.

I can feel the weakness all over me these days. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I really need to do something about it. I haven't been training like the crazy, depressed person seeking solace in meditative movement and sweat that I was during the summer, so my physical fitness has been in decline. Seeing as that is the easiest thing to fix, I've decided to start tackling that.

I am however, several thousand miles away from home, and thus, my regular studios of attendance. Which makes training a little tricky.

I decided to go back to the place I swore that I would never return to. I decided to go to the gym.


That's right. After my little trauma acouple of years ago, I have barely set foot in a gym again, besides my Winter Break Smorgashboard last winter, but that was so full of old people that it didn't really count. This time I attended a big box gym named after a specific alloy which I will not repeat, so as to not incriminate on their all around okay reputation.

I went in using my mother's card, and I was so terrified someone, probably in a tailored suit and dark glasses, would stop me in my tracks and ask to see proof that I was, in fact, my mother, which I was not, that I decided I would do my very best to pretend like I totally belonged there. That meant no stopping to look around and wonder where I should go. I just waltzed right in there like I owned the place and hung a right.

Let the world lead you, they say. Be easy going. Enjoy where the tide takes you. 

That wasn't really what I had in mind of letting the universe decide my fate. 

I was met by an endless sea of bizarre machines in this non-specific alloy gym. Seriously, endless. There were mirrors on every wall so that it looked as if there were double the amount they really were. I was terrified it would end up like the mirror fun houses I used to go in as a kid at the carnival and smack into the walls because I couldn't discern the real from the reflection. I kept my arms out in front of me as I walked. Just in case.

I didn't know what any of the machines did. I still don't, even after watching other people awkwardly move their bodies around on them all that time. I jumped on a treadmill because I actually know what a treadmill is supposed to do so I could survey the room. After a few minutes my eyes determined that the thing way over there was a pull-up bar, and I know how to use a pull-up bar. So I went there.

Unfortunately, much to my chagrin, I could not do one full pull-up. Which is shameful because by the end of the summer I could do several in a row. But if you don't use it you lose it. So I just looked like an idiot. I spent a good deal of time trying to invert with solidity and grace but failed. For some reason I just can't invert between my arms from a dead hang. I don't know what's wrong with me. It's been this way for months and nothing has changed. I know that one day everything will change, but not if I don't keep trying. And guess what? I haven't been trying.

So I did more negative training and tried not to make eye contact with the guy doing multiple sets of 10 pull-ups in a row across from me without batting an eyelash. I tried to see if I could condition my single leg hangs or attempt some meathooks to no prevail, as the dumb weight lifting machinery attached to the bar got in the way and mainly just made me look like an idiot getting tangled while upside down for no apparent reason. 

I left with my tail between my legs. I'm really not that strong at all, compared to many other pole dancers and aerialists, and I've been hiding behind being “dance-y” and having a decent amount of flexibility. I hate when people tell me that I am good, or that I am strong. I feel like such a phony. 

Also everyone gave me funny looks and I just don't like that.

I tried working out at my mom's house, but then this just happened.

So I decided to go back to the gym. This time I went left instead of right and discovered “The Sanctuary,” which I thought might be some kind of spa or possibly a secret cult meeting room, but it actually is an all women's section of the gym where there aren't dudes to look at you funny as you fail at pull-ups.

Unfortunately there are no pull up bars in this section of the gym. %$#@*%# sexist gym nuts. Although there was one squat rack, where I could awkwardly try to remember how to properly perform a squat at a low weight bar in peace. I was thankful for that. My quads were sore the next day so I assume I did something right. 

So it was back to the coed section of the gym, where my weakness was on display for a bunch of strangers.

And this is why I hate gyms.

And why I hate inverts and how they elude me and my seemingly malformed hips which will not, no matter how much I train my core, go over my head.

One day I will look back and laugh at this, wondering how such a simple thing could ever be such a struggle, such as the way I laugh about jades and cupids currently. But for now I am just going to mash my keyboard angrily and wish the weakness away with all my might.


Exclamation point.  

Tuesday, December 3, 2013


Here I am, putting off homework to write a blog again, and yet somehow I'm STILL overdue on my blog deadline. Excuse me if there are no drawings to bless this beautiful post. It was wait an extra week to make the drawings or post this now.

What has put me so behind, you ask? Well, besides the fact that I have a job and I am training for a second one, that I am a part of an aerial student company putting on a 4 performance-run show this weekend (even IF I barely get off the ground for 20 seconds, but that's a rant for another day), I have also been writing a novel for the past 30 days.

It's this thing. This thing called National Novel Writing Month--or NaNoWriMo for cool kids-- and instead of being an obligatory title month like National Donut Month where you don't do anything to celebrate, you actually have to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days to participate. (Although you should eat donuts on National Donut Month because you'd be a fool not to.) That's about 1600 words a day, for those of you struggling with the math. It's really not that much writing, if you are focused.

Ha. Focused.

I've done it for the past 7 years and completed the goal 5 times. That's right. I've written a handful of novels before, so if you thought my AMAZING writing skills were just pulled out of my ass, well...they were. I've just been pulling them out of my ass for a pretty long time, which gives me the appearance of a master puller-of-writing-out-of-my-ass…er.

That's definitely a new one I need to put on my resume.  

This year I won, by some miracle. Now I have shiny new draft of a novel about a boy in the future who meets a toaster head robot to show for it. It's all about their search for toast and the meaning of life in an oddly chipper utopian/utilitarian future. It is for 8 year olds before you get all judge-y. Every time I give that pitch to people they give me this "what the fuck" look, but I promise, it's actually really great. 

Well, it will be. Right now it is a steaming pile of shit. I learned something very important during this round of noveling--something I learned, I'd like to point out, BEFORE my mother made this metaphor to me, which is eerie in a really weird way-- and it is that writing is kind of like diarrhea. It is painful and a little embarrassing while it happens. When it is done you have this awful, smelly pile of shit that you've created, but you can't help but feel better now that it is out.

I talk about poop surprisingly a lot for a 21 year old, but I cannot help but stress that it is because it is the perfect metaphor for everything. Seriously guys, I am starting to think poop is the answer to life.

Eat pasta vegetables, take lots of naps, poop big poops, be happy.

It's my new mantra. 

This novel was definitely a piece of big ol' shit. Everyone keeps asking to read the draft. Even though I enjoy input, there is no frickin' way I'm going to let anyone see this. There are a million things wrong with it that I am already aware of. Giant plot holes. Plants (literally) that never payoff. Random characters that appear once and never come back even though they make themselves seem really important. I had a rebellion-inciting advanced robot that was ready to kill for the cause who tried to convince the main character to join her side and...then she was gone. Bam. Just like that.

 But now that all my first draft writing is done, I'm glad I finally got it out. The story began in my fiction writing class last spring and I put it off for months all summer long. And now it is out there. Complete. And I can go roll around in and rearrange my shit to perfection, taking out old shit and putting new shit in there....Ok. So it isn't the perfect metaphor. 

Along the way, I also experienced and learned a few other things. 

One day, you remember a word, a perfect, brilliant word for what you want to say! It is so exciting.  "Oh yea! Abrupt. Abrupt is such a good word." But then can't stop using it. Suddenly everything does things abruptly, as opposed to suddenly, because 'suddenly' is so ten pages ago. Abrupt takes over your life and eats your soul and there is no escape and your novel is crap and you are a talentless hack. 

You could almost say it happens…abruptly

You start to have other doubts like "Maybe I should have decided who these characters were or where they came from before writing them in so abruptly…" But then the clock is ticking and who really cares if things make sense? Not publishers or readers, that is for sure. 

Then you discover weird little things in your research, like the fact that the word "tater tot" is trademarked. No, tater tots are not a kind of food. Just a brand. Those scrumptious things we eat so lovingly are really only called potato bits or whatever. Mind blowing, right? This noveling thing is completely changing how you view the universe! So abruptly! 

You learn other things about words. For example, "misunderestimate" is not a word. It will never be a word, despite the fact that you have tried to type it at least three separate times in your story. 

One day you name a character "Mr. Yeezus" because you are bored and can't think of anything better and just need to move on. It makes you giggle. Giggling at yourself is the only way to keep writing, you've discovered. Who knows if it makes your work good. Who cares? 

You start writing sentences that are so generic and awful they make your head want to explode. 

"He flashed a toothy grin." 


Then you end up writing sentences that are so weird and inappropriate, you start to wonder if there might be something psychologically wrong with you. 

"But instead of shooting Todd or whipping out a knife and stabbing Todd or eating Todd's eyeballs out with sharp, pointed teeth…"
(Did I mention this is a kids book?)
There definitely, is, by the way. Something psychologically wrong with you. You were yelling at your computer screen for something you wrote. If you have to project on your poor, hardworking computer like that, well, you might consider couples therapy. 
And now you are talking about yourself in the second person to an internet full of strangers. 
So now I am here, finished but still writing and only a little bit delusional, partly because I spent the last 5 hours staring at a screen trying to research christianity and the necessary integration of animation and music simultaneously listening to Business Time by Flight of the Conchords and Charlie Chaplin music on a continuous repeat without getting up. But I finished it. I DID IT. I WROTE A THING. NOW I'M DONE. 
Well. I'm not. But for now. 

I only put all five winner banners on there because I am just the tiniest bit proud. 

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Dear Diary, I Think I Might Not Be Cool

I'm sitting here, restless but exhausted. I have serious winter-time Colorado lizard skin, but I half heartedly want to do some pole stuff in "just a few minutes, I mean it" so I keep resisting my desperate need to whip the cap off my moisturizer, pour it all over myself, and sigh in deep satisfaction like it was some kind of performance art. I need to write words for NaNoWriMo as I have been behind since day one but I keep clicking the "play next episode" button on Netflix. I'm just three episodes from finishing the 6th season of How I Met Your Mother, after all. I only started re-watching it at the beginning of the month and I am making great progress. On top of all that, I am thinking about how I need to write a blog entry for the week, do some pole instructor training homework, and be a better person at life, but I've got nothing to say, I'm lazy, and I'm lazy.


A couple of weeks ago Tinted Wall told me he read my blog about our climbing trip.

"I try not to read your blog." He said after he mentioned it.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because you write it like a diary."

Oh honey. If I wrote this like I write in my diary, no one would be friends with me.

I also don't need to write most of this stuff in my diary. Diaries are places for working shit out. This is a place to learn how to deal with that shit. But since I am lacking inspiration to write something actually clever[ish] right now, let's experiment for a moment, shall we?

Back to the not reading my blog thing.

People get so weird about reading this thing. They will say things to me like, "I was reading your blog. I hope that is ok." Or "I'm sorry if this is weird, but I read your blog."

Uh. Guys. I don't put it on the internet because I don't want people to read it. I'm not standing over all these words and hissing at everyone who walks by "BACK OFF. THESE ARE MY DEEPEST INNERMOST FEELINGS. DON'T TOUCH THEM. DON'T EVEN LOOK AT THEM."

On the other hand….

Earlier this week, the personal organizer and fellow poler my boss hired [that makes me look really irresponsible and lazy in comparison] said to me while she was being productive and I was sitting there watching, "It's so funny, I read your blog, so I already know what is going on in your life!"

I was really hungover-- like super hungover-- at this point in the morning afternoon. So instead of laughing I just smiled a bit.

Because the truth is…Well, I write stuff because I don't know how to express myself in words out loud to people. At the same time, I still hold back a lot on here. Because being vulnerable to strangers is hard. In the little Meri-universe I live in, basically everyone is a stranger.

Do you ever have those moments where you look in the mirror after taking a really good, life-changing poop, and suddenly realize that everyone, nay, everything else in the world, only sees you in that way, just like how you look in the mirror at that exact moment? All they know about your little universe is what you choose to tell them. They will never know anything else, they'll never know the inside of your head and you will never know anything but. It is like you are trapped in there and can't let yourself out. I have that experience basically every day and it freaks me out equally each time. And yes, I know what you are thinking. I do have a life changing poop basically every day.

The real point you should focus on here though is that I feel incredibly separate and alone from absolutely everything around me, all the time. It is like I am constantly at an arms distance from all the people around me.

It's all about me, people. I'll tell you the secret of life changing poops another time.

I know this whole alienation thing is generally my fault. My boss recently described my main facial expression as "that inscrutable face that would be murder to play poker against" (except that I don't know how to play poker, I am lacking in balls, and don't like taking risks, but don't tell her that in case we ever play poker sometime). I've had countless teachers make fun of me for never changing emotions. People sometimes walk up to me randomly and ask if everything is ok, why am I so upset, and do I want to talk? My roommates used to confess that they were afraid of me because they never knew what was going on in my head since my face never changed. They couldn't tell if I was angry at them or normal or what.

I was only angry like, 50% of the time. Geez guys.

I don't know how to change this not being able to communicate thing besides posting stuff on this blog. Why can't people just learn how to read my mind already?

Those mirror moments I have really freak me out also because I've been having horrible acne lately and feeling very self conscious and insecure about it. Every time I look at myself, I think about how I'm 21 years old, why is my face morphing into this horrible pubescent monster? I JUST WANT THAT PART OF MY LIFE TO BE GONE FOREVER.

I feel lame for only being able to express things on a blog, though. Speaking of insecurity.

I try to do things like force myself to send a dirty text every now and then to Tinted Wall, you know, baby steps towards saying normal people things like "I like you," but then I chicken out every time. Or how I wrote that blog about how I was going to make solid friendships this year. I haven't seen any of my old friends in over a month, I haven't made many new ones, and every social event I go to I'm only like, half into it and feel the need to leave early. Becaaaaaaause. Of my insecurity. I keep having these panic attacks that I am not cool enough.

Remember how I said I was hungover the other day?

I went to this bar with Tinted Wall. He literally called it "Bar Bar," and it was just like the french elephant except less french and elephant-like and with more alcohol and Lord of the Rings pinball. I got super-de-duper! drunk. It was a Sunday night, because I am just so responsible that I go out drinking on a Sunday night, so the bar was empty and the 'spirits' of the few people there were high with how not crowded and annoying bars tend to be. People just kept handing me shots, the bartender kept refilling my beer glass while my back was turned.  I don't know. I guess I knocked over a few drinks and pissed off the bartender, who seemed pretty friendly to me, but then again I don't remember a lot of things that night. Like all these pictures and this one video I took that I found on my phone literally five days later.

It started off with taking pictures of the bathroom. This was apparently really cool and I absolutely had to take this picture. There were many others with me making stupids faces that I didn't really feel like sharing. I wonder why. 
This is not the first time I have taken pictures of bar bathrooms in Denver, oddly enough. 
So of course I needed to take two. 

This is my favorite. It really solidifies my memories of the evening. 

I posted this one the exact way I took it, like a true artist.

Note several things about this video. First that I don't remember any of this actually happening. Second that I laugh like a douche and it embarrasses me to watch/listen to this. Third that those people/strangers ordering drinks ordered some for me too, so me being totally drunk-lame was all THEIR fault. Just sayin'. 

Tinted Wall said we were about to get beaten up on the walk home, which is why we had to leave.
That may have been an exaggeration.
I may have fallen over while standing still on the sidewalk.
There are certain things in life we can just never be sure of.

Except that I woke up with leaves in my hair so I am pretty sure I did. All I really remember is that once he told me that the bartender was mad at us, at me, I started melting on the inside.

I'm not cool. 

And I can't do crazy handstands with Marlo Fisken. 

And I have shitty acne that won't go away. 

Probably because I can't stop touching it. 

Where is my life going?

It may have been the drunkenness speaking, but it isn't like I don't really feel that way 100% of the time.

It's funny because I always used to wonder how people who were regularly having sex with the same person could ever feel upset about life. I mean, guys, you are having sex. On a regular basis and everything. That is the dream! What is there to worry about beyond that? I guess when you are sexless your other concerns in life kind of become overshadowed. It is kind of like when you are starving on a desert island. You aren't really thinking "Oh my god, do people think I am lame because I can't handle my drunken-like starvation stupor? Will they still want to hang out with me? Am I still invited to the beach party???" You are usually thinking "HOLY SHIT I NEED TO EAT SOON OR I WILL DIE LIKE ACTUALLY DIE OH MY GOD I AM SO HUNGRY." Except in first world countries it is with sex. I guess.

I really can't decide which is worse.

Nina, my pole-business-organizer-hero, told me at a party the other week, "You have a way of writing about your life [on your blog] that makes it seem much more boring than it really is."

And I always thought I over-sensationalized things. Hm.

I tried really hard to do that here today. Make things seem more boring than they really are, I mean. My melodrama is about a million times more intense in my head and even though this is an "experimental diary" blog, I'm still insecure and want you to think I'm cool.

...This is a vicious circle, isn't it?

Dammit I bet if this acne would finally go away I would feel about 1000% better about myself right now. 

Monday, November 18, 2013

The 7 Men of Art School

As I am beginning to wrap up my seventh semester of school at my third art school yet, I am also beginning to reflect back on some of the experiences I have had during the journey so far, which may or may not be coming to an end soon (but it probably is). Namely, I have been thinking about the kinds of people I have met.

Actually... this is a lie. I first wrote the draft for this post about a year and a half ago. It was originally about just the men of my California art school, but I just now decided to revisit and revise it to include all men of art school. But only in lieu of life changes!

I don't mean for any of this to sound prejudiced, sexist, or stereotyped. I can honestly say I have met multiple people like all of these folks during my time in art school and while there are always people who don't fit into the mold, you can probably expect most of your male classmates in art school to fit into one of these categories. All pictorial representations are based on conglomerates of people I have encountered.

So, without any further ado, I present to you...

 The 7 Men of Art School 

#1 Mr. Gauged Ears

Particularly popular in the Colorado region, these types populate much of the illustration and fine arts programs. I personally am not sure why this look is so popular among artists. Maybe it helps them hear their art better? Are they good for holding paintbrushes? Maybe they like to take their earrings out and use their limp, noodle-y cartilage to make abstract art. Who knows. They typically also sport a multitude of tattoos to go along with their really fucked up ears. These make them look kind of sexy until you notice one of their tattoos is an LA Lakers logo inked straight onto the front of their forearm. Yea buddy, you won't regret that one when they lose the playoffs next season. 

If this hasn't happened yet, I dibs this idea. 

#2 Mr. Going Back to School

This one catches me by surprise every time. By his calm stature and out of fashion North Face sweatshirt, you can't tell if he is one of your fathers co-workers, your classmate, or both. He likes to make references to his wife and/or children, which frankly just bums you out. Because people who go to art school are obviously people who don't like to think about the realities of the future. No one wants to be reminded that one day they'll most likely have to give up art for a practical job in order to provide for their family. Lame. Anyway, Mr. Going Back to School sits out on all the "fun" extracurriculars most of the time (if you can call it that) and he is either really unskilled at art and you have no idea what he is doing here OR he is the best artist you've ever seen and you hate him. 

The reason this picture is so bad is because photoshop crashed right after I originally drew it and then I yelled at a Jewish Rabbi on my screen and collapsed in a heap for 20 minutes before I came back to redraw it. 
#3 Mr. Teacher
I'd be lying if I said that the male teachers didn't make up a significant portion of the male interaction you get in art school. I would also be lying if I said I never had a wild, hot crush on one of my teachers. Because let me tell you, some of them are really cute. Oh boy...My english comp teacher freshman year...Woo! He was quite the looker. You can bet I blushed when he introduced me as his "star student" his girlfriend. Ugh. Figures.

Hey, there aren't a lot of options in art school, ok? He was only like, 30. Geez.

The rest are super old (aka 40s and up) and kind of curmudgeon-y, but almost all of them have really good advice and offer decent guidance through the messed up art school world. Some of my favorite teachers have been men! Can you believe it? 

#4 Mr. Tiny Asian Guy

Really, I am not being racist here. There is just something about art school man. Canada had a staggering Asian population and there were tiny asian guys aplenty there, at least three or four in my regular class group of 25. I even dated one of them. Fortunately I don't have any other rash generalizations about tiny asian guy other than the fact that, I dunno, he is asian? Sometimes he is actually from Asia and sometimes he was born in North America. I sat next to one in a history class once and he talked to himself in a really stilted-accent the whole time and drove me crazy. That is about all I have to say about that because if I try to go on any further I will just come off looking really racist. I promise though, if you go to art school, you will meet at least a few.

#5 Mr. Socially Awkward

Oh boy do these run rampant in animation programs everywhere! Sometimes they are really sweet, kind-hearted people that you could kill you with niceness and/or total boringness. And sometimes they are just really, really weird and repel other humans like hairdryers repel cats. Mr. Socially Awkward is always my most and least favorite at the same time. He is so fascinating and awkward. Bless these folk. They are what makes art school so colorful and so uncomfortable. I'd also rope in most of the geeks into this category. I don't think being a geek gets its own section in art school, because it is basically a requirement to be a geek in art school. 

#6 Mr. Gay

You cannot forget our favorite art student. Sometimes Mr. Gay is so flamingly gay that he could not shriek it any louder in your ears, probably because he already is. We get it, you like Prada and dicks, ok? Sometimes Mr. Gay is a little more subtle and has you constantly wondering "is he?" and whether or not you are crushing on the wood. (Barking up the wrong tree...get it!??) Again, there aren't a lot of generalizations here and sure, there are gay people in other colleges of the world, but I am just saying. Go to art school, meet gay boys. It happens. 

#7 Mr. Guy

I am making this category for all the rest. Sometimes, there are people you meet that just don't have any weird little niche on the social spectrum. They are just...guys. Nice guys, usually. So. darn. Nice. He is quiet and polite and he never does or says anything ridiculous or rude or mildly entertaining. He is like a phenomenon of normal-ness. This is the kind of guy you know you should marry and buy a golden retriever and have two lovely children with and name them Megan and Trevor. But you don't actually want to because it would be about as exciting as marrying drywall. If drywall had a job and brought in no more than 60 grand a year.

So, if you were ever wondering--as you surely were-- "Meri, how come you never met and/or dated a really cool, hot artist guys in college? Aren't creative people like, totally sexy?"

Well, first of all, yes, in theory, they are. Second, art college is made up of at least 66% women, oftentimes more. Most of my classes would have three or four men tops. Third, this list is why. Creative people are weird and more importantly, mentally and emotionally unavailable, as a lot of them are pretty much married to their art already. Unless you are ready to jump into their weird little art world where who the fuck knows what goes on, possibly freaky sex stuff with cartoon characters, they are not going to pay you much attention. I can't say that I am the person who likes to go into weird little art worlds. They're kind of scary. I still have some really traumatizing memories in regards to King Candy of Wreck It Ralph from some close brushes with weird little art worlds. Let's not talk about it.

And not to mention the fact that at least 80% of the guys I've met in art school are also unavailable in the traditional sense of the word as well. I guess most women just beat me to the punch?


They can have all the King Candy three-ways they want. I'll pass.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Rebel with a F**king Stupid Cause

I have kind of turned the whole badass thing on its head these days. I am actually becoming a stereotypical, rebellious badass.

This is what I look like lately, if you haven't seen me in awhile:

First off, I left my school awhile back, as you probably know. And with the way things have been and all the stress dreams I have where it is declared it is time for me to go back to California and I subsequently burst into tears, it looks like I may not be going back. I don't even know if I'm going to stay in art school anymore. I'm looking into transferring to community college, that is how well things are going right now. I once was considering Ivy League schools and here I am not even really wanting to enroll in a community college, I dislike school so much.

My future is so bright.

I went from the typical, mainstream straight shot through education I always thought was my destiny to  wondering what the fuck is going on constantly. By choice. A weird, panic-driven choice.

What a rebel.

Secondly, I'd like to point out I'm dating a guy who kind of has a mohawk. My family is aghast.

I recently got some minimum wage jobs, just to quit them two months later. I'm sticking it to the man. It's not that I am too much of a baby to deal with working in the service industry or anything.

The other day, I ditched class. Just because I felt like it. Wild, I know.

Well.. that and I also wanted to throw more money at my girl/pole-crush, Marlo Fisken, and take her improv workshop after doing her $900 instructor certification all weekend.

I'm only like, completely in love with her. I'm so shy around her that it's like I am in middle school all over again. 

Did I mention I am broke?

I also got some much needed time on the hoop during my school ditching time.

Yea. I ditch school to workout.

In other news, 

...I may or may not be in huge trouble in Canada?

I don't really want to elaborate on this. But it could be really, really bad. Because of this, I am just going to avoid the problem and hope it goes away. Only lame, responsible people would deal with their problems.

Not me man.

I'm not equipped for that kind of thing. Hell yea.

To add on to my possible criminal charges, I got my second parking ticket in the past two months last Wednesday. I rebelliously parked in a spot on a street sweeping day. I'm going to pay the $100 price just to prove a point.

A point about how I don't want to get arrested.


I'm sure it's coming, considering this downward spiral I've been going in. The next thing you know I'll be getting belligerently drunk and try to break in to the zoo and go frolicking in the pachyderm house because it has always been my dream to swim with the dolphins.

When I get arrested for it, the joke will be on them. Pachyderms are actually way cooler than dolphins.

See, the thing about my identity crisis is that part of "my thing" is that I have always been totally responsible and well behaved. I'm a semi-rich white girl who has always gotten everything she asked for. (Except for that horse I wanted so badly from ages six through ten, which I still resent.) I've always appreciated getting everything I want and at the same time feel extremely guilty my life has been so easy. I should have tried harder to make it worse. I should have given away all my things, gotten a terminal disease, renounced my parents, not learned how to read, etc etc. But I have always tried to make up for it by trying to be the most hard working and well-deserving person I could be. Until now.


Because I don't know anymore.

I'd like to call it an on-going nervous breakdown, but I'm not sure I am quite worthy of that title yet. I wish. Then I could go to a crazy house and people would stop expecting me to do things and I might be able to return to functionality.

Hopefully it's just a phase. If it isn't, maybe I'll just end up living on the street as a bum when my family finally gets tired of me slacking on my responsibilities and stops supporting me, as they surely will. I mean, I'm never home for dinner anymore, so I'm already walking the line.

Part of me loves breaking out of my box and is excited about all the possibilities for my life. Part of me hates it and it going through major anxiety and every few hours my insides turn to this:

During this time, my vision goes blurry and my heart starts racing and I just do my best to forget about the fact that I am screwing my life up and try really, really hard not to have a panic attack in front of everyone.

On top of everything, there is this postcard from my dentist reminding me it's been over a year since my last teeth cleaning that has been sitting on my desk for a month. It has got this stupid cute, smiling dog that mocks me every day, serving as a reminder of what a failure I'm becoming. I can't do so much as schedule a teeth cleaning. I've even got insurance that covers it. What an ungrateful loser I've become. An ungrateful loser with dirty teeth and plaque build up. I'll admit it: I don't even floss.

I don't deserve that insurance coverage. I haven't earned it.

Dammit you stupid happy dog. Stop mocking me! STOP!

On the bright side at least I'm not pregnant yet? There was a brief moment where I thought I might be, but then I wasn't. So at least the universe gave me that.


So now, just to make up for me being totally unaccomplished, here is a little something full of pretentiously large words to make me feel cool: 

I must find sophorosyne beyond vorfreude. Every time I think about my potential and numinous future, I know I must overcome my current koyaanisqatsi. 

I am full of fernweh. I just want to be nemophilist sometimes and enjoy the sillage of nature, relishing in my life erlebnisse. I know I can contribute to the world in the name of meliorism, even if it is just through ostranenie. Somehow, I will be a smultronstalle. Let's move beyond this mamihlapinatapai and experience rasasvada. Let's admit to acatalepsy, even if it means we'll be overcome by weltanschauung. Sometimes I feel as if I am drowning in hiraeth, but I know if I can be a nefelibata, I can live in firgun with someone else. Let me go on a metanoia now, a dérive. I can feel the orenda, the need to leave sehnsucht behind. From now on, my life will be gezellig and simple, with tsundoku, cafuné, and happiness. So be it. 

Who's the dumb one now?


"Just a reminder!" my ass. You're trying to make me feel bad. I just know it. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.