The Crazy Pants Girl and Online Dating

Has anyone noticed I start off almost every blog post by either apologizing for not writing enough and/or letting everyone know that I fell off the happy wagon? I am starting to think I've never actually been on the happy wagon. At least not long enough to blog about it. The real question is how deep does the pit of depression actually go? Or is it just some kind of complex labyrinth with new tunnels to discover every week? Perhaps if I keep blogging about it enough we will one day find out.

It drives around every now and then just so I can remember what it looks like

So where did we leave off last time? Oh right, being severely unhappy in my life. What else is new?

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My Mom came to visit me recently. It was very nice to have someone to hang out with and make me feel like I am actually a human being instead of just a shadow that lurks around in art school. We did some talking--or rather, she did some talking, since I seem to have the inability to actually express meaningful feelings out loud. I have this lovely syndrome where I constantly wish that I had someone to talk to about things with, and then when people actually ask me about them all I can do is just shrug and try my best not to burst into emotional sobbing and embarrass myself. Anyway, my Mom likes to give me a lot of advice, because she is my mom and has a bunch of life experience and somehow manages to almost always be right. Her advice often changes depending on what is going on in her own life, however, so it usually keeps things interesting. The first time she broke up with her last boyfriend for example, she kept telling me all a woman needs in life is good friends, a good dog, and a good [sex] toy. Now that she recently has started dating a man that treats her very gentlemanly, she has been advising me in all sorts of new ways, such as that she thinks everyone should be madly in love at least once in their life and maybe I should try online dating.

I thought both of these things sounded ridiculous. First of all, the inner sexless and cynical beast that I have worked so hard to cultivate in the past few years screams at me that being "in love" is by far the most foolish and painful thing you could ever do and not worth my time. It would just get in the way of the rest of my life. The good news is that since I am so young, cynical, and anti-social, I do not have to worry about that sort of thing happening to me any time soon. Second, as far as online dating goes... do I look 40 years old and divorced?!? It sounded preposterous. Sure, I'd like to meet new people to go out with I guess, I could always use a free meal, but let's be honest here. The only people at my age using online dating sites to meet others are probably just on there because they have serious issues. I am talking major deal-breakers here. Like bad breath, being unemployed, serial killing... that kind of stuff. Not only do I not want to have to deal with those sorts of people, but I also didn't want to be considered one of them.

After my Mom gave me these tidbits of advice (among many, many others), and left to go back to the East Coast, I was left contemplative. And bored. Very, very bored. Not having a job or 18 units of course work will do that to you. Or any friends, for that matter. I lumbered around my new house for a couple of days, biding my time by doing absolutely nothing productive. One morning I sat on my porch and stabbed a grapefruit rind with a fork for an hour. I inevitably started to get curious about who really was doing online dating at my age and eventually, much to my own chagrin, started a profile on an online dating site that I had heard of. But only on one of the free ones, because there was no way I was gonna pay for that shit.

The productive times of an unemployed adult. I'm definitely ready for the dating world.

I uploaded a couple of decent looking photos of me, trying to have a nice balance between me looking like, y'know, a girl, and me doing crazy aerial and pole stuff, since those are the only kinds of pictures I take of myself anymore. I did my best to write the most sarcastic profile information possible, including my username, which I won't divulge here, but let's just say it is a real ice breaker and involves mention of aquatic animal feces. I answered some of the questions they use to match people which don't really work, because no one ever has an accurate self perception, and then I sat back and let 'er rip, Beyblades style.

Just a few tidbits from my profile. 

The first match that appeared on my profile had the username "DrugSexMachine." This is when I knew I was in for a good time on the site. Among others that came up were "SensualCoyote," "p1easingu," and "hubbahubba420." (I am sad to say none of these men contacted me.) After clicking through various profiles where almost every guy described themselves as "easy-going, laid back, down to earth, love to have fun, blah blah blah, the same vague, meaningless descriptors over and over again," I realized that the site had this fantastic function where it showed men every time I visited their profile. It is seriously great because it lets everyone know how often they are being rejected. As much as I just love making people feel like they aren't wanted, I decided to be a little bit more selective with what I was clicking on. I also didn't need to attract any more attention, what with my own profile having gained over 100 visitors in the first few hours.

I received over 50 messages from various men in the area within the first 24 hours. Not gonna lie, with all the additional profile views included, it was a little flattering. Just a little. I like attention. I can't deny that. But mostly it was just overwhelming. I am not really used to having men throw themselves at me. It wasn't up until this past year or so that I was pretty much invisible to the male species and even still it usually takes guys awhile after meeting me to realize that I have, like, y'know, a vagina or whatever. There was a lot to filter through. Luckily, I had nothing better to do. (See: grapefruit on the porch morning)

Since I have spent so much of my life on the internet, maybe 80% of it happily talking to strangers, it was really hard for me not to respond to every single message. That's just what I do, man. But the whole of idea that most of these men really actually wanted to meet me,  probably have sex with me, and/or possibly brutally murder me made it a little bit easier to have a process of elimination. After awhile it was pretty easy to axe out any username with a number in it (uncreative much?), profiles of guys where they say they like writing poetry (seriously, there are way too many guys out there that say this. It disturbs me), or any guy who had nothing interesting to say in his message to me. I got A LOT of "Hello. You are beautiful/cute/gorgeous and seem really interesting to talk to. I like how honest you seem in your profile. I'd like to get to know you. What adventures have you been on lately? Here is a question related to something you said you liked in your profile (most frequently Arrested Development). Here is a witty joke about how you say you are a red head but you dye your hair. How is you week/weekend going? Other lame question that really doesn't tell me anything about who you are beyond a surface level?" I also got some other nuggets of joy messages which I will now share below, because they were so amazing and appealing.  I definitely wanted to reply to all of these guys, but alas, I had to be pretty choosy.

Yep. This right there. 

Tip for you ladies: If he can't use Google, while already on the internet no less, he isn't worth the time

I am not sure exactly if he was referring to writing and animation or something else with the question, but I like to think it was more of litmus test to see what my confidence/aggression level was like. Good thing I am one of the most passive people ever and completely ignored him. I am sure that said a lot about me. 

I REALLY wanted to respond to this guy just to see what he was referring to. But I was also afraid of what the answer would be. 

No I don't fucking go to AI, I clearly have too much self respect for that. 

I bet you would!  You'd probably love to be anybody's booty call, in fact. That makes me feel extra special. 

I just like picturing a man saying this to me and then picturing myself slapping him. 

Does anyone else know what this means?

At least he got the "you're" part right. 

If this was meant to be ironic, it failed. 

Oh my god he figured it out. Someone get him a gold star. 

As much as I commend this guy for trying to stand out, I think he got started off on the wrong foot. 

This was far and away the best message I have received. I steered far clear of that one, as tempting as the offer was. 

Despite having to turn down all these incredible men, I did start a couple of conversations with a few others that showed potential. So far, the most interesting ones have been where there are no questions at all and mostly just random conversations about pancakes, otter pops, and senior citizens dancing. Unfortunately, those haven't gone anywhere. There have been a few other mildly interesting conversations, although if dudes just keep bringing up random questions I think I am going to go insane. Can we just talk like normal people? Are you really asking me what kind of tea I like? Why the fuck do you care? I have yet to go on a date yet, though. I am still a little afraid. Mostly of the awkwardness. I feel like it would be really awkward.

Meanwhile, as I mentioned in my last entry, I have been talking to a few guys back at home here and there. There has been one in particular where the amount of flirting has been almost too much to handle. Seriously, if I, of all people, am actually conscious that what I am doing is flirting, you know it's gotta be pretty hardcore. I liked this guy quite a bit awhile ago, so much to the point that one time after a couple of drinks I bit him on the neck because I thought he smelled so good. That is all I really remember about that. It makes me wonder if I am some kind of vampire. Maybe I am going around biting people and have amnesia about it! Oh god! I would feel really bad about that if it were the case. It is a little concerning. ANYWAY. When last summer ended and we parted ways, I got really upset about it and stared at my ceiling for a few days while I listened to the same Bon Iver song over and over again. I thought I would never see him again, so I got all girly and upset. Sue me. So when we started talking once more I got all these strange, fuzzy warm feelings in my stomach that I hadn't been forgotten (as I assumed I would be) and would actually smile when I saw new texts on my phone, as opposed to frowning and putting on my battle-gear when I looked at the messages I was getting online. The fuzzy-warm-smiling thing was was so out of place for me, it was almost as concerning as the vampire theory. Almost. 

"Oh Bon Iver, only you can understand my tortured teenager vampire soul" (who is actually 20 years old)

Shortly after starting an online dating profile, I came back to visit home for a few days. This launched me into a whole other world of questioning everything about my life, thinking about my options, what the hell am I going to do with myself, the easy choice versus the right choice and if they could ever be the same thing, and so on. Most of that is for another day, I think. In regards to what I am writing about now, I saw the guy. I saw him almost every day I was in town, which was really nice. We hung out and talked like normal people, which was also nice. We had what I like to refer to as "the severe sexual tension sunglasses moment," where one day he playfully stole my sunglasses and after girl-fighting for them, I put them back on and my hair got caught in the frame. He reached out and brushed it out of my face in a seriously hardcore movie rom-com style way-- It was like in Zombieland when Jesse Einsenberg said all he wanted to do was push a girl's hair behind her ear except I was the girl and I didn't know that was all I wanted until right that very moment. I thought I was going to explode if he didn't kiss me right then. He didn't kiss me right then. It was broad daylight in the middle of the street when we were both technically at work, after all. But I also fortunately did not explode. So at least there was that. I got what I wanted a few days later though, plus a lot more. That was really, really nice. 

Yes, exactly a year after the last time I debunked my sexless title, I did it again. Except this time it was actually good and with the most attractive man I have ever been with. So yea, worth it. I even farted in front of him beforehand, and it still happened by some miracle! Go me! Probably because I was pole dancing while I farted so the two cancelled each other out. At least I didn't queef. I'm not sure pole dancing weighs out queefing, although it happens a surprising amount while doing floor work. I always try to laugh it off in front of people and tell them I am just "airing out the batcave," but no one ever even cracks a smile. I think queefing just makes people mega-uncomfortable.... Just sayin'. THE POINT IS! The universe actually worked in my favor for a small moment. My body even did other embarrassing things that I won't write about on here because they are just that embarrassing. You know that means they were really bad. And yet, I still got what I wanted. I don't know why some greater force finally decided to throw me a bone, but it was much appreciated. 

The problem was that I kind of actually like this guy. You must understand a few things. I don't like a lot of guys. And even when I do, I don't get positive reinforcement from them. Seriously. Every time I meet some new guy that I am pretty into I say to myself or some random friend. "I really like this one. No really, I want him, like actually want him. For me. I am really gonna go for it this time. I just have to." And then I usually get rejected in a really awkward way. Usually by way of me asking him to hang out and repeatedly being turned down and then me looking like an idiot for awhile. Wee.

My experience with men, dating, and even hooking up has been pretty sub-par for the average woman my age, I think. Even though I try really hard not to be a slut, the majority of the guys I've been with in the past, I've barely known. (Although that doesn't count for much; I haven't been with that many guys.) The last boyfriend I had got on all sorts of nerves. I only really dated him because he was there (note: lesson learned). I only ever dated one guy that I genuinely liked, and that ended over 4 years ago. (God I feel old now.) Really, at this point, I am accustomed to men my age swinging one of two ways: They either want to have sex with me, wang, bang, and get the hell of out of there OR they want to get married to me right away so I can replace their mother and take care of them and all their emotional issues, cook them food, have their babies, pat them on the head, etc etc. Since this particular guy was not groveling at my feet and not declaring an undying love for me after knowing me for 5 minutes, experience has only taught me to assume the other option. Which I really hope isn't true, but at the same time I am hundreds of miles away. What can I do about it either way? Not much. 

Me. Right now. Every day.

Nevertheless, I am starting to feel like a crazy pants girl. It is one thing to get all sad about a guy you like who never wanted you back, but another thing to get all sad because you went into something knowing there was no commitment made and no real way for things to work out, but you did it anyway. It's not fair for me to expect ALL of the things I want to come true. But I am still sad and that still makes me feel crazy pants. I look at all the guys trying to chat me up on this stupid dating site, and now this stupid dating/hook-up app called Tinder that my friends showed me, and I just don't want any of them. I have no interest in seeing anyone else, EVEN if there is a free meal involved. I know right? That is kind of scary. Who the hell am I these days?!? Although I think I am mostly feeling crazy pants because I spent my last night in town with him and then my hair smelled like him for the rest of the day and I couldn't help but keep smelling it. It was just in there IN MY FACE all day, ok?? And note the really awesome man smell that turned me into a vampire previously from above. I don't know! I was tired! What can I say?!? Please don't hate on the crazy pants girl. The smell did eventually fade and I did eventually take a shower though, so I can't be that crazy pants, right? 

With all these smells and feelings and shit I don't know what to do. I thrive off my sexlessness and cynicism. And now it's all gone. Dashed! Ruined! Hopeless! I tried the things my mother said to do and look what it got me. A lot of uncomfortable messages that pale in comparison to real life thingy-majiggers that only make more trouble for me. UGH. I don't want to be a crazy pants girl. I don't want to feel things! Feeling things is hard! Especially with a guy that feels 20,000 leagues out of my own. Ok, maybe not quite that many. I have more confidence in myself than that. It just made a good pun. But still. You get my point. This is not my ideal situation, and I can't seem to do anything about it except for whine about it on the internet. Which is what I am doing. And you can't stop me. So deal with it. Or don't. I don't care. 

But at the same time, there is a tiny, secret part of me that is getting this sick little thrill out of it, like my heart has actually been craving passion or something. Dammit, heart. You're a twisted little fuck; Did you know that? Fuck you and how you like things like eye contact and holding hands and shit. Go home, you are drunk. On sappiness. It's like, sappier than maple syrup, yo. If you got pulled over by the cops you'd be sky high on your BSC or Blood Sap Content test. I am only trying to look out for you, ok? Just GTFO before you cause any more problems, got it? You know what they say. It's all fun and games until someone becomes emotionally damaged. 

No more driving for you, heart.

OK I AM DONE WHINING NOW, AT LEAST ABOUT THAT AND I AM GOING TO MOVE ON TO NEW PROBLEMS TO WHINE ABOUT THAT ARE LESS MAN RELATED SO I FEEL A LITTLE BIT MORE EMPOWERED. GO ME AND TRYING TO MOVE FEMINISM FORWARD ANOTHER STEP.

The end. 

Oh except for this:

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Congratulations to me for actually drawing something UNRELATED to school for the first time in, oh, like a year. That is one of the fun things art school has done to me. It's made me hate art. I should be so glad for chasing my dream, right? 

I see a new whiny blog entry on the horizon. But first. Something fun. Stay tuned. 

I Got Eaten by the Drama Monster

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday I learned how to stop my period by sheer power of will. It's a Christmas miracle! 

--Oh wait, wrong blog.

Ahem.

So I gotta start this out with a big fat "oops." I let my blog die just a little bit. Myself, too, for that matter. I don't have an excuse. If I cared more, I'd write more. Sure, I have a lot of other stuff to focus on (A LOT of other stuff), but the truth is I just don't love you anymore, Frank. It's not you, it's me. Wait. Who is Frank, you ask? Are you seeing someone else behind my back and getting us confused? Probably. I don't have time to sort out who is who. There are just these people... And they are just there... So I just go with it! I'm not a whore, I swear, I simply have a lot of love to give, please don't be angry!

Ok, I'm sorry, my weirdness just flared up. It keeps doing that lately. I've lost my mind just the tiniest bit in the past few weeks. No, I'm being serious here. I've lost my mind. My vision gets funky for no reason at random moments, like I am sleepy even though I'm not. I think about what it would be like to have a violent snap in public and understand why people do. And I can't feel time anymore. It's really freaky. I am constantly forgetting what age I am. I close my eyes and I can feel myself existing as a 7 year old child, as myself now, and as a middle aged adult and the whole spectrum. It's kind of cool but not so much because I never know what day it is anymore. They are all the same. It's a little problematic. But only a little. Because I stopped caring awhile ago. I'm not quite sure as to how this all happened, but I have some pretty good ideas as to why.

I don't know how to put this into "funny words," so I'll just be upfront. I've had a bit of a nervous breakdown recently. I've been bursting into tears randomly every day for the past three or four weeks. My body feels like an empty shell, I have no motivation to do anything, I stare at walls for hours at a time, I have given up trying to be an energetic, entertaining person or trying to talk to anyone at all. My cynicism is through the roof, the other day I ate an entire box of mac n' cheese, and for the first time 9 years I almost didn't make honor roll. Gasp. I know. I managed to pull it together and somehow got a bunch of grades I probably didn't deserve only because teachers seem to like me because I always show up to class so that helps. The point is: I've become really depressed. Pretty legitimately. I let myself get eaten by the drama monster. I write to you now from the belly of the beast.

Um, remember last August when I wrote this really long, personal blog about how depressed I was? Yea well, ok, in case you didn't --which is likely the case because it was ten-hundred miles long-- basically I was upset and that wasn't cool for a badass to be. So I said I was going to get better. And maybe I did for awhile but I'm not anymore. That is the fun thing about depression. It's like cancer. It goes into remission sometimes, but you are never really fully cured. Maybe I just haven't been writing enough self-depreciating blogs to make me feel better about myself, who knows? So here I am, trying to write another and maybe make my self feel a little bit better about life. It probably won't work. But that is also what they said about Dorito tacos (not really) and the atomic bomb (also not really) and look where we are now.

Things started to go downhill a couple of weeks ago.

First, I auditioned for this GoGo gig. (Heh, alliteration). I of course did not get it, seeing as I am a pale, pear shaped red head with no actual experience dancing professionally. It was an incredibly awkward experience of dancing for just one minute (only a minute! They asked all of us to dance for only a minute! That is just warming up for me!) in a random empty night club in the middle of the afternoon with only a few people watching. I was surrounded by multiple hot chicks talking about tan lines and going to the beach. Even though I tried my hardest to put on my "hot girl" disguise, I think they could still tell I was an alien and one of us was not like the others. It was uncomfortable.

Me in my "hot girl disguise"

So of course I did not get the gig. That wasn't what upset me. I didn't expect my first audition with a company that books for events like Coachella and EDC to hire me. It was prior to that, when I found out they were holding open auditions and I had to scramble to try and get head shots and material in for the audition. I freaked out for a couple days, got my roommate to shoot some "good looking" photos of myself, which I will now gratuitously post because hell, it isn't like anyone is going to get to see them otherwise. It was a stressful prep time in general.

That made my heart all nervous and fluttery for a little while, but I got it over with and everything was fine again. Then not long after, one day out of the blue I got this email. From Blizzard Entertainment. I didn't know why I got an email from one of the biggest, most well known and successful game companies of all time until I remembered that I applied for a quest writing and design internship there awhile ago. And they actually wanted to interview me. This also made my heart and all nervous and fluttery for awhile. I was so thrown off by the fact that maybe someone actually thought I had what it took to be a professional writer and belonged in a big, successful company that I freaked out, panicked, and so on and so forth. I didn't know why they chose me. Was it because they liked my weird writing and it made me stand out? Was it because of my job experience as a quest leader? Was it because I was a girl and they need to hire more of those? Who the hell knows. I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know exactly what they would ask, but I did know what they might ask. I wrote lists and lists of potential questions and the answers I could give that would actually sound smart. I predicted they would ask about their games. I hadn't played any of their games since I was fifteen yeas old. D'oh.

So I ditched my pride and school work and started a WoW account, played through level 12 on at least three characters to get a feel for the game. I read the entire WoW world history online, as well as the complete plot synopsis for StarCraft. I jacked myself up on several espresso drinks and had the interview. It went ok. It was on the phone, so I was a little spastic. It was over in 30 minutes. They asked me about a lot of writing stuff. I was good at answering that. I dropped some Robert McKee references in there and they were impressed. They asked me about a lot of video game stuff. I was not good at answering that. At one point I said something along the lines of "I think the Zelda franchise works because people like to know what they are going to get." Of course that is true, but that is a terrible way to go about making games. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Two days passed and I got another email. A new team wanted to interview me. This team worked with Diablo III. They wanted me to complete a short writing test. I had barely ever even laid eyes on the Diablo franchise (I like video games, I really do, I swear!) but I of course took the offer anyway. I spent two days throwing out all my school work in the midst of finals in order to watch videos and play throughs and read as much game material as I could to get familiar enough with the game to write for it. When I felt I had enough information, I went at it. I wrote four times as much material as I turned in. I wanted to do the best job that I could. I did the interview around the same time. It went basically the same as the first one. I felt pretty good about it, but not great. I wanted the job, but I was afraid to want it too much, as if that would somehow prevent me from getting it. I kept waffling back and forth between "I'm totally qualified and would be amazing at this job and I am sure they know that too," and "Holy hell why would they ever even consider me?"It was not a fun few days.

One question in these interviews really confounded me though. "It seems like you are more of an artist and really involved with working on the visual side of story-telling. What made you apply for a writing internship?" Hm, good question. I ask myself this every day, except the opposite version. If I want to be a writer, what the hell am I doing in art school? I had a prepared answer for this. It is the same speech I give myself every day just to get myself out of bed and do stupid homework assignments where I have to sketch or "design" things. I hate designing things. Ugh. It is the same speech I repeat to myself every night, when I am exhausted and frustrated from doing work that I don't care about nor enjoy very much. I tried to give that speech, but I stumbled through the whole thing. I couldn't figure it out for some reason. I don't know, random interview man, I don't know!!! My life doesn't make any sense to me either!!

"I am in art school to understand the full process of film-making, animation in particular because I really enjoy the work created in that medium. I hope to one day go on to run a company of my own where I help produce and develop animated works, ranging from short web series to longer pieces after some time and hopefully even video games as well. I feel that if I experience the entire art-making process I will be better suited to work with others and guide them in their creations. I want to be the best leader I can be, after all. On top of that, writing is something I have always done, in school or not, and I can practice it on my own. I do not feel I need a degree that justifies that I know how to write, I just need to be able to write well. This is something I practice on a regular basis, so being in a school to motivate me to do the work is not as important as it is with art, where I have less drive to do it on my own." 

I say this every day. Why could I not say it then? 

It was not 12 hours after the final interview that I was informed I did not get the position. They probably didn't like all the fart jokes I wrote in the test. I also did a penis joke. They probably didn't like that either. (I was writing for The Scoundrel, ok? I thought he was supposed to be snarky!) But in all likelihood, they probably didn't feel I had enough passion for games and doubted my ability to fit in well with that aspect of the company. It's not that I don't like games, I just don't like playing them. I get angry and frustrated and turn even crankier than I normally am when I play them. It's not fun for anybody. I'd much rather watch someone else play and experience the story through that method. It's what made me so interested in story telling through games in the first place. But they never asked me about that.

Don't tell me this guy doesn't look like he could whip out a good penis joke though.

I cried when I found out about not getting the job. A lot. I cried all day. All through my classes (yea I was one of those girls that day), all the way up until I went to sleep. That isn't a very cool or badass thing to admit. But it is the truth. I was upset not only because something I desperately wanted (a real job, with real writing experience to give me real writer credentials) had been dangled in front of me and then snatched away, but because now I was not going to have the most epic summer ever. I was not going to meet hoards of awesome new people that I could be friends with, hang out with, and feel like a part of something with. All the hopes that had been rising in me of finally finding my niche in California had been dashed. And what was I stuck with? Admitting that this place and I are not exactly friends. We are more like frenemies-- like that time in 1st grade where this girl and I talked to each other at school and stuff but really hated each other so much that when the teacher wasn't looking while we were listening to a book on tape about Tarantulas at our station in the back of class, we sat there pinching each other. Each of us was trying to out-pinch the other, and we did it so hard we made each other bleed. That is me and California right now. We act nice but we don't play nice. We secretly hate each other.

That is when the depression started to creep over me again. I got admitted into a special portfolio entrance only stop motion master class being held at my school over the summer. It would require staying in California for 12 weeks to gruel away and animate puppets. It was a skill I wanted to learn for some strange reason, so I had applied knowing it was a good opportunity and that is what smart people do with good opportunities, but I didn't have faith that my uninspired school work would get me into the class. I never try very hard when drawing for class assignments, after all. Not many people ended up applying to the class however, so it did. And of course I would have been foolish to turn down the opportunity. I couldn't possibly be foolish. Smart girls aren't foolish. So here I am, stuck at school in California all summer. A place that in the past four months has made me feel altogether completely miserable. No really. When my plane landed in Orange County at the end of break last winter, I burst into tears. Nothing makes me more frustrated than living here. I actually like to sneak looks at pictures of Colorado sometimes and all these strange urges and desires well up inside of me when I look at them that make me uncomfortable. Y'know, like porn. Only with trees and rocks and mountains and stuff. Does that make me some sort of new kind of kinky?

What I truly wanted was to go home, where things are comfortable and safe and for the most part happy, at least compared to California anyway. I had a summer job waiting for me that is-- while very difficult and challenging-- rewarding and a lot of fun as well. Way better than any minimum wage retail crap I am going to find around here. I have actual friends back home that are willing to go out and do things with me, because even though I've tried here for a long time, nothing has changed. Last weekend in a last ditch effort to be a normal human being, I invited people out to an art festival with me and no one would come. They just wanted to stay home. And do art. What the actual fuck. So in the past few months I have just given up on trying to socialize at all and withdrawn completely. I try to talk to people as infrequently as I can now. I also have family in Colorado that will take care of me, a nice home with a bedroom all to myself to sleep in, and actual dates lined up. No, I kid you not, in the past few weeks, I have been flirted with and asked out by multiple (more than 2!) men, all of which live in Colorado. "Well if you were here I'd ask you out..." or "When you get here, I want to take you out." Etc, etc. Last time I was in town, the night I was leaving some cute guy I met literally said "If you lived here I would totally ask for your number." Do you know when the last time a guy hit on me like that? Never. Because shit like this doesn't happen to me. LIKE WHAT THE HELL COLORADO. Why are you doing this to me?? Why am I suddenly such a hot commodity...800 freaking miles away!?! Years of sexless and cynical and you only just keep waving it in my face. Thanks a freaking lot. Where are all the awesome cool guys in California, huh? No where to be found, because California has proven to be nothing but a steaming shit-pit of sitting in traffic and painful loneliness. The worst part is that some of these guys I actually really like, and I would seriously consider their offers. It makes me so angry, I could kick a puppy... Ok, no, not a puppy, I could never do that. Puppies are too cute. But I could kick a stuffed animal puppy. Or maybe something really hard and metal, because I am so strong and badass that I would totally just break it. And that would feel satisfying. (Maybe a robot puppy?)

...Stupid boys. They're so stupid. God how I hate them. (I have to blame them too, for some reason.)

All of this amidst the stress of finals during a full course load semester (as usual) and now the stress of this stupid new class that I guilted myself into taking (where we have 13 very opinionated and different types of people trying to put together one three minute story that they are all happy with and just talking about it makes my head hurt) has just made life...bleh. I mean, geez. Things are not going well. Did I mention my USB drive was wiped two weeks before finals? Life is just a bitch right now! My heart feels like it is being squeezed and is about to burst. I feel empty and useless and while I don't necessarily think things are totally hopeless for the rest of my life, I feel as if I am stuck in a very dark cave and I am going to be here for a long time. I am afraid I will waste away and it will completely destroy me during the next two years. Shouldn't there be an alternative? Apparently not! Apparently dark caves are good for getting jobs. Or building character. Or something. I dunno. That is what Calvin's dad would say. I keep wondering why I am in art school, why I am not in Colorado, and if I should just drop out and become a stripper. I could probably do pretty well. I already take my clothes off for money and love to dance! It'd be perfect. Except for the whole pale, pudgy belly thing. And that I don't like talking to strangers. Ugh. Ok, fine, scratch that, I couldn't be a stripper.

This picture is a metaphor for how skilled I would be if I were a stripper .

I just walk around and feel as if I don't belong here. This doesn't feel right. It never has. I've wanted it to work for so long that I think I've only made it worse. Writing about this doesn't feel like the funny or badass thing to do, but maybe that is why I AM writing about it. I don't know how to ask for help. I don't know how to express my sadness anymore. But I'm tired of asking those questions. I'm tired of feeling miserable, and part of me knows that has nothing to do with California or Colorado or where I live at all, that is just me and my problem with being able to connect with other people. I consulted with an owl outside my window one night. He confirmed it. No matter where I go, I will always feel a trace of this separation from the rest of the world. I've tried to do everything in my power to stop it. I started exercising, eating better, sleeping regularly. I've joined clubs and volunteer groups, I go to dance classes with the same girls almost every day in hopes of having a better social life! I've thrown myself into writing and doing more creative work, hoping those will distract me. I started writing this blog so i could make fun of myself and feel better. But nothing has truly conquered this drama monster. That ate me. Or that is me. I don't know anymore.

Mr. Owl, how many nights of crying yourself to sleep does it take to finally make a change in your life? 

I don't know where to turn at this point. I don't even know how to end this blog entry, because I am a little embarrassed to have written it. It's funny, you can gain so much physical strength in a relatively short amount of time if you just keep doing reps, practicing tricks, and showing up to class. But no matter how badly you want to be stronger emotionally, there is no clear path. That is surely the most difficult part of becoming a badass. I need a jedi or something to come teach me how to use and abuse my brain power. I'd start meditating, but I don't have the patience for that shit.

I'm sorry I was eaten by the drama monster. I am looking for a way out, but right now it's pretty dark. Soon I hope I can find something that will help me rip apart this beast so I can be out in the bright, beautiful sunny world again and write stupid funny things that make me an overall more important, contributing member of society, rather than just a whiny one. Ugh, god I hate myself.

Baby's First Pole Dancing Competition

I have not written here in almost 2 months. All my loyal followers-- all 2 of them-- have probably wandered off in search of other poorly updated sarcastic personal blogs. I mourn for this loss. Never the less, I had a pretty good reason to not update and that was the fact that for the past two months I have been training and preparing for my first pole dancing competition, which I competed in a few days ago.

It's a bit weird to think that when I started this blog I could do none of the things I did just last week, but it's also awesome. That is why I started this blog. To become awesome. And I did. But along the way, I have learned a lot through choreographing and training. Many new experiences were had. Many bruises occurred. Many lazy mornings of sleeping in were lost. All in the name of badassery and pole. I wish to share these with you now, partially in case you are curious or ever want to know what getting ready for a pole competition can be like and partially because I like to talk about things and stuff. (I don't have any friends, just this blog. I gotta chat somewhere.)

These bruises were only the beginning

I competed in the Pacific Pole Championships 2013, to be specific. I chose this competition the same way I chose my college: I was able to get in. PPC was an open entry contest, meaning anyone who paid the entrance fee could compete on a first come first served basis. They also had levels specific for certain skill sets, so I would not have to worry too much about competing against people who were far more skilled or stronger than me. This comforted me quite a bit and so I decided to enter, hoping the experience would be a good first exposure into the competitive pole dance world, which I hope to someday be more involved in, maybe when I can finally do some flippin' aerial inversions and handsprings. (Pun not intended, but still awesome)

When I entered I didn't know where to start. I have never been a dancer. Never taken a dance class outside of pole. Never competed in any kind of athletic competition of any sort. Haven't done any gymnastics, no ballet, none of that stuff that really helps people when they are starting out. I did tennis once in high school and was terrible at it. The only time I had taken the stage was in bit parts in middle school crafted musicals and plays during my preteen years. I was also terrible at that. I did competitions for Odyssey of the Mind when I was like, eight years old, when adults do all the hard work for you even though they are not supposed to. So yea. I cannot stress enough how unexperienced I am at dance, athletics, and competitions. I was diving head first into the deep end. But I did know one thing: I am pretty good at the whole DYI thing. I decided I would figure it all out myself. I bought two private lessons with a trusted instructor who had competed herself to help get get off the ground with choreography and a membership at a local studio that offered frequent open pole times so I could go in and work, work, work.

I was worried putting together choreography would be like composing music, a concept I have never been able to wrap my head around. Because seriously...how do people invent music? How is that even possible? I can't come up with an original 4 notes to save my life! In high school I sometimes used to try and turn my poetry into song lyrics, but they all ended up going to the same tune. It was depressing. More depressing than the actual poetry. Which says a lot. But putting together choreography wasn't actually so bad. Evidently, doing dozens of freestyles and watching hours and hours of pole videos instead of doing homework was very helpful. My instructor worked with me and we wrote down the moves I'd like to do, sectioned out different parts of the song and designated them between static pole, spin pole, and floor, and from there it just kind of happened.

After my first few times running through it all I could think about was how ridiculously hard it was. I made the amateur mistake of picking a high energy song, trying to pack a lot of tricks in, and putting my most difficult trick in at the very end. "It'll be a great grand finale!" I remember thinking in my head. This more or less translated into "It'll be a great way to kill myself!" not too long after running through it a few times. But I was determined to stick with it. I loved the song, I loved the message, and I loved my ridiculously hard "janeiro" (see below).

Yes! This! Right after 3 minutes of swinging around two 12 foot poles and the floor. Perfect.

So I got all that together and I practiced. A lot. I went in usually 3 or 4 times a week to run through it, usually early in the morning. Many times I could only get in maybe 35-45 minutes before I had to pack up and head to school. I am unfortunately not a pole instructor and don't have access to a studio whenever I want--although that is basically my dream come true right now. But I did what I could. For a long time I dreaded running through it. It was an exhausting routine and left me breathless and sweating balls every time I finished it. I would get nervous before doing it even when I was the only person in the room. However, slowly but surely the routine got a little easier every time. And slowly but surely it morphed and evolved. I filmed every run through I did and I discovered little things here and there to put into the dance, usually on accident, and sought out the things that weren't working and took them out. I got stronger. Fast. All the moves I put in my routine are basically second nature now. I almost can't dismount off the pole without doing a floor titanic anymore. Which is pretty epic.

I got super nerdy about dance after awhile. All the other disciplines I practice-- art, animation, and writing-- started to blend into what I was doing. Shape language, design, gesture, silhouette value, line of action, anticipation, timing, voice, character, show don't tell, slow in/out, arcs, staging, story structure...all of it related to my dance and how I attempted to create it. I could believe how weirdly connected it all was. I felt like a super serious legit artist and it really pumped me up.

In the time closer to the competition, a little of me was nervous, but most of me was excited. It didn't make sense. I guess I was just excited to share my capabilities and my creation with other people. I'm not going to lie to you guys, I am super proud of what I can do. Being a part of the pole world makes me feel like an elite superhero or space-fire-police-ultra-force-squad team member or something. Especially because it was not very long ago that I could not do any of it. It feels like just yesterday I could not for the life of me do a single climb or a carousel spin! I couldn't even do a standing crucifix! ...Well ok, standing crucifix is still kind of annoying, but still. I could do it if I really tried. The point is, I have overcome a lot of challenges and I was looking forward to having evidence of this.

The days started dwindling down to the big event and I was counting them as they went. It was all I could think about. Several things happened in preparation to the competition.

First, I went and took care of some physical things. I went to a chiropractor for the first time. I had bought a deal on LivingSoical awhile back, mostly for the promised massage involved. Ok, fine, I didn't really read that it was a chiropractic thing. I just read "massage...$32" and sprung on it. It was a good deal. But hey, I am sure it is good to proactive about my back anyway. Although, I did have to ask someone exactly what a chiropractor actually did and then thought, "Oh, yea, that'll probably be good for me." So I went.

The experience was weird. I mean, the massage was really nice, except for the fact that I was recovering from a cold and my face was still a snot factory, so the entire time I was face down it became increasingly difficult to breath.  After slow and steady snot build up in my nose, I got all worried about dripping snot on my massage therapist's weird toe-shoes. But I didn't. And then I got to move on to the chiropractor who offered to adjust my back. Here is how that went down:

"Ok, now I can give you a back adjustment if you like. I can do it and make the popping sound or I can do it without the popping sound, whichever you prefer." He said.
I, having never been to a chiropractor, replied, "Well, what's the difference?"
He looked at me blankly, "One makes a popping sound and the other doesn't."
Well obviously. He must've thought I was really stupid. "Yea, but do they do anything different?" I asked.
"No, the sounds just freak some people out, but I think at your age you can handle it."
"Ok, then, that sounds fine."
Then he made me get on this weird torture chair that looked like a a massage table and a dentist chair had a love child, literally bent me over his knee and made my neck and back do all sorts of noisy things. There was a point where my face was buried into his doughy stomach that I wondered if this was actually how this was supposed to go... Was I going to end up in court and have to point at a doll about what he did to me? But then he stopped and sat me back up and lectured to me about my posture when sitting and sleeping. He was so old and stern and I felt like I was being scolded by my father that it felt a little more natural (except my father is almost never that stern). I guess this really was how it was supposed to go.
Despite my back feeling really sublime, that night I could not sleep, mostly because I was trying to sleep on my back like he told me to and could not for the life of me feel relaxed in that position. The only time I ever sleep on my back is when I am having fitful, restless, nightmare filled sleep. Apparently that is good for me. I like to sleep on my stomach. He told me to never sleep on my stomach. So far I have managed to fall asleep in a proper position maybe three times since seeing him. I always wake up on my stomach though. Hey, at least it's something.
The next day I walked by my pole and casually practiced a twisted grip matrix hold for fun. Immediately my back hurt exactly how it did before and all that work came undone. See the below photo for reference of what I did to screw it all back up.

It's like this except with bent legs. Mine is almost this good except I don't have such a nice package. Oh yea and everything else about this photo

The other physical thing I took care of was my nether regions and the hair that infests said area. I had limited funds and had to choose between getting a professional wax and a professional spray tan. I watched "Toddlers and Tiaras" a couple of weeks ago and the idea of spray tanning began to freak me out. Fortunately, there was no waxing to be seen on that show (thank the lord), so I went with a wax. I also could not imagine myself being anything but pale. Pale is my identity. I didn't want to end up all orange and weird looking. I was haunted my memories of freaky orange girls I knew in high school. Besides, being pale worked with my character. I was going for the disney villain look. So yea, pale was ok.

Waxing was weird, although for your sake I won't get into too many details. The lady was British. She had an accent.
"So, is this your first brazilian?" Was one of the first things she asked me in her fancy accent when I stepped behind the curtained area.
"Uh...no." I said, terror-struck and panicked. I tried to keep it cool. "I don't think I wanted a brazilian though."
"Oh, well, what do you want?"
"Uh, just something...uh...I'm in a dance competition and I just want to make sure, y'know, nothing, er, escapes?"
"So a bikini then?"
"Uh, yea, sure, whatever works."
We made conversation from there. I am not one big for conversation. I had said literally three things to the massage therapist I had just seen earlier that day. I had been too afraid to do anything but nod at the stern chiropractor and politely thank him. But I felt like since I wasn't wearing any pants and there was only a very scant towel to cover me up one side at a time, I should do something to ease the tension in the room, even if I was the only one who felt it.
When I asked her where she was from she replied "England."
"Oh yea, right." I said. Duh.
Fortunately she saved me from looking too stupid and balanced the obvious-question-asking back out by asking me if I had a boyfriend. "Is it not obvious?" my brain said. I told her no, I hadn't met many men out in California. (Make that none). Which should have been evident with the mess I came in with.  I had never been waxed previously, although I was pleased to find it was not as painful as I thought it was going to be. The worst part was having a British lady fondle my genitals. Seriously, she just got right in there. For the second time that day I wondered if I was going to end up in court pointing at a doll. But at least it was some friendly British lady and not a 60 year old man. It felt a little less weird that way. She was making conversation, so it was normal, right? Oh wait, I was the one making most of the conversation. Hmm...

I managed to make it out unscathed, more or less. My nether regions not so much. In retrospect it would have probably been better to have seen the massage therapist after the wax lady. In any case, I felt something oddly profound that day. I felt like a true woman, like a lady. I had the hair ripped off my vagina! Only real women do that. An odd moment to feel finally grown up, but hey, we all have to have it some time or another.

Then, just the next day, two days before the competition, something else happened. I finally got the balls to take an advanced tricks class with the one and only Nadia Sharif, who had been teaching at my studio on and off, yknow, when she wasn't touring the world as a famous aerial acrobat. You must understand I basically worship this woman's dance. If you don't know who she is, go look her up on youtube. She is incredible. Her routine at the California Pole Dance Championships last fall blew my mind. I watched the video half a dozen times in a row when I first saw it. Her style has so much character and life--it always sets her apart. She doesn't just do a dance, she tells a story. And being someone who is obsessed with story telling, I am all over that. So of course I was very intimidated to take her advanced class.

Lucky for me (or not), when it came time for the class, there were only three students and we were all competing in two days. Nadia decided we were going to do a mini-competition right then and there. We were going to run through our routines and she would watch and critique them as if she were a judge (which, incidentally, she was a judge for the level 4 event, so this felt really legit). I was already pretty terrified to be there, as last week I had been leaving her flexibility class and heard her announcing to the advanced class that they were going to condition with their shoulder mounts and elbow grip ayeshas (two of my biggest nemesis moves). Also yea, the whole glorifying her thing and being a total pansy about face to face communication and all that. It was not ideal. It's basically as if Glen Keane showed up and asked for your portfolio because he wanted to critique it. Or if Adele popped in to critique your singing skills (you know she totally would just show up out of the blue). Or if Chef Ramsay was going to assess your skills at being an asshole. This was basically the best and worst pop quiz of my entire life.

You suck at being an asshole!

I went first and much to my pleasure I completed my routine pretty much to the best of my abilities. Nadia had fairly positive feedback, told me she liked my energy and presence and advised me on a couple of moves. The second time I was dripping sweat, as usual after one run through, and by the time I went to make my last pass on the static pole, I only had to mount it to realize there would be no climbing and definitely no janeiro. So I improvised what I could and felt all lame and embarrassed and that sucked. But everyone else was sweating their butts off and struggling too, so at least I wasn't the only one.

After the run-throughs and critiques were done, we got ready to leave and chatted about the competition day looming ahead of us--just two days away. I had previously been excited, but after hearing discussions about how people will try to play mind games with you and how nervous I should *not* be because everyone else was freaking out, I started wondering if I should be nervous. And then I got nervous. I was fortunate, I suppose, to have performed for my pole idol at the last minute, because I don't think anything was more nerve wracking than that. Still, I started to have my doubts. People always talk about how full of love and support the pole community usually is, but this discussion had me wondering if all that was true. I hadn't met many other competitors. Were people going to be mean? Was this going to be like middle school all over again? I admittedly don't spend time around a lot of people, and those that I do are really weird and don't fit in with any expected social norm. I never hang with normal women anymore. Vague memories of being friends with large groups of social girls floated around in my head. Hell, that was what my whole competition piece was about. Bitches. Catty, nasty bitches. I remembered all the self-esteem destruction and anger that environment created for me. I had been trying to channel it every day before practice for weeks. Suddenly I was very afraid.

And then competition day hit.

I got up early. Showered. Had a huge breakfast of eggs, toast, and a massive, double-serving protein smoothie. I took the bag I had packed the night before, loaded with anything I could have possibly needed--grips of every kind, leg warmers, sweats, a billion snacks, water, make up, hair stuff, my costume---and headed out.

Some miracle delivered me in LA in just an hour and fifteen minutes. From South Orange County. On a weekday morning. At 8am. It was madness. Since when is traffic that agreeable? Ever?? I ended up being an hour earlier than I had planned. The convention center was a ghost town. I felt very awkward and hid in the bathroom for at least 20 or 30 minutes. You know, like a cool kid. LA traffic, even when it delivers you early, still finds a way to bite you in the butt.

Finally, I felt like enough time had passed and it was close enough to the designated warm up time for me to come out. I went to the competitor room. Chairs lined the room and a shiny, new x-stage lite sat in the center. There were only two other people in the room. They were both older women and were pretty friendly. One of them was Greta Pontarelli, who I totally knew from the youtube (internet stalking for the win!) The other was some lady I'd never met, but she was nice. We chatted a bit. I felt like I had to talk, once again. My tension was too high not to, even though this time I was wearing pants.

Slowly other people started to trickle in. A group of young to middle aged women came in wearing bright, flattering dresses with fancy hair and make up (AKA any hair and make up). They were flamboyant. They were groomed. They were nothing like the art students I usually hang out with. Fear of catty women started to rise up in me. But they didn't bother me too much and none of them were in my category anyway. No mind games there.

Amy Guion, the organizer of the event and co-founder of the Pole Sport Organization, came to show us around the registration and the backstage area, where I picked up my super cool wrist band and goodie bag. She gave us the low-down on how important it was to not touch the rigging or curtains, and told us we could start using the stage for warm-up/test time. I took my time, stretched a bit, and went to feel out the poles. I was very concerned about this aspect, as the poles were 45mm is diameter. I had been practicing almost entirely on 50mm and was relatively inexperienced with the 45s. Everyone told me they were easier, but I had practiced so many times I was afraid my body was so finely tuned to the 50mm thickness that the smaller size would throw everything off. I worked all of my big tricks on the stage. They all went fine. I could rest easy. I went back to the competitor room. Now the waiting game was to start.

Super ultra legit wrist band

I was scheduled to perform at 2:45 in the afternoon, more or less. At this point, it was about 10:30 in the morning. I had some time to kill. I put on my make-up--very badly, I may add. I didn't have the funds to pay for professional make up. I had practiced doing it a couple times, but my skills at successfully applying liquid eyeliner at this point were about 50/50. That morning was not one of my good mornings. I shrugged it off. No one would be closer than 10 feet away. It didn't look that bad from 10 feet away. I kept the wise words of one of my instructors in mind. "It's not about the make-up, it's about the movement."

I watched some of the Level 1 performances. They were fun. I was impressed by the abilities of what is considered the "beginner" division. You can actually put together a pretty killer performance without inverting at all.

I floated back and forth between the stage and the competitor room. I snacked a lot. Even though I should have been very full from my gigantic breakfast I still felt starved. I stretched here and there. I was so antsy. The waiting was killing me. I talked to some other people, even though Nadia had advised us to keep to ourselves. I played on the 45mm x-stage they had in the competitor room. It was super fun, made all sorts of creaking noises, and wobbled around a lot. A girl I knew vaguely from classes told me to save my energy, but I felt like I was going to burst at the seams if I didn't keep moving. Also it was a pole and my addict brain forces me to touch it every time I see one. Another girl I had chatted to found out we were competing against each other. Things got awkward quickly as I felt like I was suddenly being sized up. I got off the pole and just kept stretching for what seemed like hours. A news crew came in and filmed me and some other people getting ready. I was super unimpressive stretching my bad leg with the torn hamstring, but at least they weren't interviewing me. Probably because my eyeliner looked like a dying dog had applied it. That goes with the disney villain look too, right?

After forever, it was finally time for my division. I stood by the entrance to the backstage, stretching like my life depended on it. I had the irrational fear that if I didn't keep stretching my muscles would go cold in an instant and I would be incapable of doing anything. I listened to my song on my iPod and kept breathing deeply. That helped a lot. I tried to channel the anger and disgust I feel towards most people I went to high school with. This is something I had been practicing for weeks before my routine in order to get in character, with mild success. Thankfully I was only second to perform, so I didn't have to wait very long. When the first girl was done, I stood attentively by the door, part jogging, part stretching, and part doing gogo moves in place as I waited for them to tabulate her scores and be ready  for me.

They called my name and I walked on stage, squinting in the bright lights and waving awkwardly. I immediately regretted that. Waving was stupid. Oh well. Move on. I got in position. The music began. My brain turned off for the next three and a half minutes and I only remember a few things:

1. The music projected really weirdly. It felt very low quality.
2. I managed to not slide out of my elbow holds on the 45s!
3. The poles were perfect condition. Grippy, dry. It was not too hot on stage.
4. I screwed up my first side climb.
5. I didn't hold my inside leg hang like Nadia told me to, but I did hold my split for a brief pause to look at the audience while traveling on the floor.
6. My janeiro was no doubt awkward with a bent leg transition, but coming out of it went reeeeally well. Super slow. Did not slam to the ground.

Besides that, nothing. I can't remember how anything else went. It was a blur. I am dying to see the video. I did an awkward little bow (dammit, I should have practiced that!) and got off stage. I basically squealed with delight, did a little victory dance, and high-fived some people. I did it! And I didn't mess up horribly! I was very proud. Nothing to be ashamed of or disappointed with. Technically, I was not perfectly on form, probably my biggest weakness, but whatever score I got would be the one I most deserved. That is what made me happy.

I watched the rest of my competitors after that. They were all of course very skilled. I had no idea how well I did. I felt happy, a rare experience in my life. I was on an adrenaline high. I was eating homemade sweet potato fries. Life was good. I waited eagerly for the scores. My performance felt solid. Maybe I'd win?? But no, everyone else was good too. I didn't care about winning. I was just happy to do it. Although it'd be super cool if I did win...

The results went up not too long later. I got third! There were only 5 people in my division, but I was still happy about it. I could not have done much better than I did, and was glad to have received some recognition for my hard work. Both the 1st and 2nd place girls were very talented, as was everyone I was competing with. Seriously, pole is tough to do no matter what, and anyone who does it should be commended for that.

I spent the rest of the day just chilling out, watching other performances, playing on Pole Sleeves. I watched Level 3 performances. They were also awesome. Greta Pontarelli performed and stole my heart. I watched in jealousy at the Choreography House. Let me discuss the Choreography House for a moment, because they really stuck out in my mind through the whole day.

They rolled in like every Russian/Chinese team in every gymnastics movie ever. They all walked in step and were total grim faced and fierce. Ok, no, just kidding. They were very smiley people. But they did have matching sports jackets. They dominated the first three rows and cheered super loud for each other and took lots of pictures during the breaks. They had 16 people competing from their studio and 10 of them walked away with medals. Seriously. They were the Chinese Olympic gymnastic team. Except they weren't chinese, they were from LA and their secret weapon was the brilliance that is Kelly Yvonne. All of their performers were amazing. I was crossed with feelings of both awe and jealousy. What I would do to be able to take classes there....to be as good as any of them...to be on the GnD cast...Perhaps one day. They weren't the only group like that there. There were lots of bigs groups from studios cheering each other on loudly. It really did feel like some big olympic event or something.

I must admit something. No one could make my performance. No one. None of my friends from school, none of my instructors, none of the other girls I pole with. The only people that were there were  the few other people I knew who were competing on the same day. I understood, of course, that friday afternoon is a very inconvenient time to make it all the way to downtown LA, especially for a low-level event that doesn't last very long. I had a lot of support from people who wished me luck and told me they were thinking of me, cheering for me from home, etc. But that did not change the fact that I was there completely alone for the while day.

Out of everything, all the training, hard work, and finicky eye liner application, this was the toughest part of competing. I do not mind training on my own, but come competition day, it would have been nice to have had a little support, someone to wait with during all that anxious time. There were so many people there with their friends, loved ones, and pole families. I felt very lost and alone. I didn't have anyone to help me put on liquid eyeliner or false eyelashes (an endeavor I quickly decided to abandon), no one to film the performance from the audience, no one to take a picture of me in my costume. I am not very good at the whole "relationships" thing with people, and most of the times I enjoy my solitary lifestyle, but that day it was very, very difficult. There were no giant cheers during my big moves, only a few obligatory claps. When I was awarded my medal, I almost missed it, because I had to walk from the back of the room where I was sitting alone, and there was no one cheering for me for the announcers to know I was actually there. After all that excitement about being able to share my creation with other people, there weren't very many people actually there to experience it. That was by far the biggest disappointment.

I am eagerly awaiting getting the professional video and photos of the performance so I can at least share it digitally with others. But next time I perform or compete (and you can bet there will be a next time), I will wring people's necks to come out and see me.

I don't think I've won an award in my whole life, so this was pretty exciting

Overall, it was a really good experience. People say competing pushes you to a new level and this is very true. It is one thing to get a new trick, it is another thing to perfect it. I fortunately did not experience too much catty-girliness during the competition, but this probably because I didn't interact with too many people. Although I wish I could have felt more "part of the team," in some ways, that is mostly just my fault for being bad at having friends. If I had to give any advice to people who want to compete it would be the following:

-Work hard. Harder than you think you need to. Practice enough to be able to do your routine in your sleep, because when you check your brain backstage before you go on, you will need this capability.
-Remain humble.
-Watch a lot of videos, including your own. Compare them. Learn from them.
-Pick a few of your most solid moves. Keep it simple. People don't need to see a lot of tricks or anything super impressive to see a good dance. They need to see a good dance.
-Bring sandals or other slip on shoes to the competition, because putting shoes on all the time is super annoying.
-Do it for love. And nothing else.

The Ultimate Fitness Smorgasbord Buffet

Ah the holidays. They sure were fun, weren't they? Everyone loves being crammed into a house with all their least favorite family members to sit around dead trees, pretending to be excited about getting things they don't need and staying up stupidly late to drink champagne and watch "Full House" reruns to bring in the New Year.

Or maybe they don't. I know the holidays are well over and done with, and I am pretty darn happy about that. I don't really like holidays. At all. But there was one benefit to the whole ordeal, and I am not referring to the endless desserts that sat out on the counter on a 24/7 basis (guess who gained a few pounds in December?) Instead I refer to the fact that you have people (AKA parents with jobs and money) around to take you to all sorts of fun new fitness classes and all the leisure time in the world to enjoy them. It's the ultimate fitness smorgasbord buffet.

Before you get all judgmental about what a fitness freak I have become, just hear me out first. I took a lot of different and new classes over the holidays when I was away from my pole and desperate to keep in shape against the hoard of chocolate being forcefully shoved down my throat (my hands made me do it, I swear!) Now I feel the need to share my experiences in these classes, so as to perhaps inform you, dearest readers, about all your exciting fitness choices out there in the big wide world. So, here goes nothing.

CLASS #1: YOGA

(Excuse me while I have a lot to say about yoga)

If only I were this cute when I did yoga

 Yoga was the first new class I took up over my winter break. My dad, a true yoga addict, has been asking me to go with him for years now. However, the thought of attending a class where I would have to sit next to my father and watch him sweat all over his mat in nothing but tiny spandex shorts has all but appealed to me. But since I was thousands of miles away from my pole, I knew I could use it. So I went.

Ok, so I admit, yoga isn't exactly a new thing for me. Part of living in one of the healthiest cities in the healthiest state in the US means that yoga is a staple. Everyone does yoga. Yoga studios are more frequent on any given block of the city than Starbucks. I have taken yoga on and off since I was a kid. "Down dog" and "sun salutation" have been a part of my vocabulary for as long as I can remember. But the truth is, I don't really like yoga. I like stretching, but I don't like yoga. Here is why.

Everything about yoga is like the deep sea fish with the little light on it's forehead that lures in the prey. You show up to this beautiful, light-filled studio where there are fancy grass-smelling soaps benefitting children in Haiti and yoga clothes that look so comfy you might die, especially when you look at the price tag (it's all freaking cotton, why is nothing under $50?). The receptionist is always a young, smiling woman who greets you kindly. And I mean always smiling. To the point where it is rather suspicious, like she has some special kool-aid or maybe cocaine in her yoga bag. But you don't think too much about it, because you are distracted by everyone walking in the door, who are also beautiful, young, and thin as rails. You peer into the room next door to see the spacious studio with it's flawless wooden floors. You think, "Yes, this is the place for me. This will transform me!! I will be a beautiful yoga student like all of them!"

So you sign the waiver, not even looking twice at the fine print that says "We retain the rights to suck your soul in the next 75 minutes" and head into the studio to put your mat down. You don't want to seem like a chicken and hide in the back, but you don't want to be right up front either. So you put your mat in the middle. However, so many people come in late and try to take spots behind you, you keep scooting up inch by inch every time someone new walks in, and the next thing you know you are right next to the teacher. When you finally can't scoot up any further for other students, you lay down, closing your eyes, enjoying the warm air, and you look forward to how relaxing the next hour or so will probably be. This is yoga, the ultimate de-stressor, so it's gotta be relaxing right?

That is when the yoga instructor comes in. She starts playing some awful music like children singing or weird trickling noises that make you need to pee. On top of that she interrupts your peaceful nap by talking. For being so into the whole "meditation" thing, yoga teachers talk a freaking lot. They sit there and sermonize about being a better person and finding your inner self and peace and not shaving your legs and blah blah blah. Will they just shut up already? You are starting to get irritated when bam! That evil deep sea fish starts to eat you and you begin actually doing yoga. Which, surprise! is actually really difficult and painful and not at all relaxing. Every pose strains you in some new way as you discover yet another position in which you are weak as a newborn and as flexible as a 90 year old man. The fact that the warm air in the room has suddenly turned into blazing heat because there are 25 other people in the room all desperately trying to look like better and more accomplished yogis than the others doesn't help. There is always someone right next to you who seems to be the instructor's little disciple, can do everything perfectly, and will smugly demonstrate for the class as needed, which is inevitable. Since they are right next to you, they can see you doing everything poorly and improperly and you are certain they are making fun of you in their head. Oh, and the yoga instructor still won't freaking shut up.

This is the average attendance of every yoga class in Boulder, CO ever. 

The class continues like this for an eternity, and just when you think you are going to suffocate and/or drown in the sweat-doused air that you have just sacrificed no less than half of your bodily fluids to, you think you can hear the instructor telling you to lay down on your mat. It's difficult to tell, with the roaring noise that signals your eminent death in your ears. Of course, you have to crane your neck around to see what everyone else is doing, since you are so far in the front. To your pleasure, you find that it is finally time to lay back and relax in the one pose you are actually capable of like you originally thought you were going to do. Except the instructor still wants to keep talking. In some cases, they will even take you on an imaginary journey. One time I was lead through a snowy forest to a log cabin where there was a blazing fire, a flannel robe, and a laz-e-boy for me to sit in. I tried really hard not to puke at the cliches at that time. I try not to pay attention to these shavasana journeys. I just attempt to tune everything out and actually meditate, which isn't hard when my whole body has just been screaming at me for over an hour.

And that is yoga class. In the locker room after you might hear people talking about how they are going to go home and whip up some organic pad thai from scratch for dinner, which will make you feel really good about the peanut butter and jelly you were looking forward to. If you are lucky, that stupid smiling bitch receptionist isn't there to mock you on the way out.

The best and the worst of yoga, depending on who you are sitting behind

CLASS #2: BARRE

The masses were just calling my name.

There is this new exercise fad sweeping the nation right now that includes doing tiny little contraction exercises while standing near a ballet bar, because for some reason that appeals to people's, "inner ballerina," even though it is really nothing like ballet. Well, I don't think I really have an inner ballerina. Ballet always kind of scared and/or bored me. I'd rather just flop around on the floor and still call myself a dancer like I do now. However, I wanted to try this trendy new class to see what it was really all about.

The brand I was experimenting with (which doesn't at all make it sound like a drug) was BarreAmped. Having never done any of the other kinds (Pure Barre, Bar Method, etc) I can't tell how different it is. But I do know a few things: 1. It is a legitimate and good workout 2. You don't actually need a barre to do the workout. You really could do almost everything standing next to a counter or with a chair or table in your own kitchen. Actually, a lot of the abdominal work I would recommend doing in easier to carry out, but still just as effective positions. Like on your back. Like a normal person. But I digress.

I know it is a good workout because it is invariably painful. Don't worry, not in the "I am doing this wrong" painful kind of way, but in the "holy crap why won't my body stop shaking" way. This is the signature of barre. When you go deep into your plie* (or really just squats), your legs will begin to shake uncontrollably. When everyone in the room starts to do this it kind of looks like an earthquake and is really entertaining, because you can pretend you are in the awful 2004 movie "Fault Line," which was really stupid and therefore funny.

The point that annoys me the most about barre is the weight-training portion of the exercises, in which you do normal resistance training type moves, but only making small movements instead of going through the whole motion. This makes any amount of weight ridiculously hard to use, so even just the 3 lb weights make you want to die. Hundreds of people's voices who have advised women to "lift heavy" because that is actually more beneficial screamed in my head at me, yet those 3-pounders were still too much. I could only think of my scientific anatomy teacher who always told us not to use pink little dumbbells and lift real weights as I struggled to hold up my pink little dumbbells and felt like a weak-ass pansy.

We're on the same boat, buddy

So barre, all in all, is a good workout, but definitely not one that makes me feel like a badass. I might still keep doing it, if I can pull the money out of my ass somewhere in the future.

CLASS #3: BODY FLOW

The remaining new classes I tried are all part of a special, branded group of classes developed by Les Mills. I have no idea who or what Les Mills is, except that they like having really silly names and weird fusions. Also their promotional material is the most shiny, hardcore, and ridiculous advertising I have seen in a long time. Please excuse me while the rest of the blog entry becomes basically one giant incidental promotion.

Even their marketing team knows what kind of women take this class. 

Body Flow is a yoga tai-chi pilates fusion class where everything is timed to predetermined music and you move through an assigned set of movements, each song focusing on a different part of the fusion and it's subsequent subsets (there are multiple yoga songs, for example, some focusing on balance while others focus on opening your hips, etc, etc). All of it is apparently timed to breath and heart rate and some fancy schnoz like that. It's kind of weird, but not too bad, really, as far as classes go. I was happy to find at least one class that didn't make me sweat out my melted inner-organs.

In this particular location, the instructor stands on a little stage and wears a microphone headset like Britney Spears and everyone in the class is at least middle aged, if not a senior citizen, so it was cool to be one of the most flexible people in the room. For the first time ever, I got to think things like "Hell yea, look at me, I can do a full wheel backbend. Who's your daddy??"It was a nice and easy class, and therefore I would definitely file it under the "booty call" section of my fitness experiences.

CLASS #4: BODY COMBAT

This ad just about sums up anything I could ever say about Body Combat

I admittedly only took this class once, on a special open house day where I took four classes back to back because I just damn well felt like it, being such a badass and all. Body Combat was the second class I took that morning, so I wasn't horribly fatigued by this point. But boy, was I after.

Do you know that "practice" level of fighter-style video games where there aren't any opponents and you can just go play with a character and figure out all their controls and combos? That is what Body Combat is. The overly angry tiny woman with tattoos and badass braids leading everyone on stage with her Britney Spears headset is so intense and the music is pumping so loud you really feel like you are a video game character, especially because you are continuously punching at nothing in the air in front of you like it is your worst enemy. Some people actually wear gloves because it is so intense.

I felt a little bit like some fraternity brother who had just watched his favorite football team score a touchdown and I was doing some testosterone-fueled victory dance, punching the air and feeling all psyched and angry. The instructor kept telling us to take it up a notch and go harder, but since I wasn't actually making contact with anything, I couldn't tell if I was actually working more or if I was just turning into more of a man in my bubble of testosterone. I did know that if I looked in front of me, I could see myself in the mirror, flailing around and messing up the choreography (this one was choreographed as well), so I tried my best to just scowl at the floor or my imaginary opponent, knowing that it was totally a matter of life and death that I fight my very best. I could not lose. No literally, I could not lose.

CLASS #5: BODY PUMP

Lifting 20 lbs and swooshy water makes everything more legit

Body pump was the third class on my crazy day of fitness frenzy, and by that point I was getting just the tiniest bit tired. However, I was fortunate enough to have an instructor who was the poster-child-monolith of every ripped, male DVD instructor ever. He was so into the workout, red faced and screaming "AND SET!" after every set was completed like the announcer to Mortal Kombat, I could see the veins popping in his forehead. I was so afraid of this man that I did my very best not to skimp on the workout.

Body Pump's gimmick is about using a bar and discs for weights to make you feel really hardcore and badass, even though you only have a few pounds on it. It is kind of silly, too, because for this particular version of the class, half the time we took the discs off and just used them as regular weights. Why we didn't just use dumbbells, I have no idea. Once again, the voices of infinite fitness wisdom past in my head screamed at me that you should "go heavy or go home!" knowing that doing squats with 15 lbs on my back wasn't really all that different than just doing squats with nothing at all and that if I really wanted to make a difference I should go downstairs into the weight room and max out doing only a few squats at all. But at least they weren't pink.

I did, in the end, get a pretty good workout from this class, and I might actually partially attribute my recently strained bicep to overdoing it in this class. I never lift. I am a shame to fitness freaks everywhere.

CLASS #6: RPM

RPM, or in other words, spin class, is one of those mythical fitness classes I had always heard about but never actually been to. I guess I always just thought it was for grown-up, professional women or something. You know, boring people. And now I can see why, because it is something that creatively is satisfying in absolutely no way whatsoever. It is really not a very stimulating class. You stare at a wall or your instructor or the back of some sweaty person in front of you while you pump your legs on a stationary bike for an hour, changing the resistance at will of your seemingly sadistic instructor.

Doesn't this sight just make you sad? It makes me sad. 

There is just something about getting on a bike and going no where that makes me sad. And I normally hate biking. I know that is a sin to my city of origin (besides being full of yoga nuts, it is basically the biking capital of the USA), but really, me and wheels have just never got along. I haven't been on a real bike in a long time. But besides not going anywhere or seeing anything interesting, being on a stationary bike wasn't that different. The seat was like any other bike, designed by some masochist somewhere who likes to cause major discomfort in genitals of men and women across the globe, so you have to try and discretely adjust your vagina while no one is looking every five minutes. Once you pump up your resistance high enough, it's just as difficult as biking up any hill. The good part was that I didn't have to worry about balancing or falling over and scraping my oh-so-beautiful face into oblivion.

Overall, it is a really difficult workout. For that reason I enjoyed it, but I totally could have used some cartoons on in the background.

The fact that the bike is stationary... Wait a minute. I think this ad is mocking me. 

So that, my friends, is what I did with my winter vacation. I also took a fair share of pole classes, ate a lot, and did some writing and stuff. Oh, and travelled all over the eastern seaboard, from Florida to New York. But no biggie. This was the important stuff. I hope you have learned something about weird, branded fitness classes now. They are weird.

I think, in the end, all these classes were nice. They worked me well, made me stronger, and all that jazz, but none of them were as much fun as swinging yourself around on a pole or slithering all over the floor like a water spider. I really just can't get enough of that... So back to the old grind it is for me! And by grind, I mean exactly what you think I mean. (Get your thoughts out of the gutter, will ya?)



*It took me a stupid amount of time to look up how to spell "plie." Definitely no inner ballerina here. 

Happy Blogiversary!

It was one year ago this day that I started this beautiful little blog here, making this my very first blogiversary! Hooray!

I am going to eat of this myself, too

I would throw a party, but I have learned the hefty lesson that no one ever comes to my parties. Also I don't have friends. Whoopee. So instead, I am just writing alone in my room. As per usual.

This blog went from an entry about becoming a badass in 90 days to the lifelong quest to be the ultimate badass I can possibly be: the super badass fitness lady. And along the way we have had many adventures, haven't we? Not only have I run in TWO (count them: two) USMC Mud Runs, in the time I since I have begun this blog I have also run an official 10k, an unofficial half marathon, taken up pole dancing, taken up aerial silks and other arial apparatuses, been trained as a GoGo dancer, taken parkour lessons, sculpted my body into a fabulously sexy beast, jumped from the world of teenager-dom to the world of the "20-somethings," had the best and most exhausting summer job ever where I got to wear silly costumes and talk in fake accents and go on lots of adventures, laid many a plans as to what the perfect man is and setting the bar just high enough so that I will never have him, had many a run in with men who range from awesome to totally douche-y and manipulative, had a healthy share of crushes, been rejected by each one, been through the 7 stages of realizing you are not going to have sex for a long time over and over again, learned a lot about writing and comedy, been shit on by the universe, and eaten A LOT of raw spinach...and many other vegetables...and oh yea cake and ice cream too, I guess...but not pasta! I haven't eaten that much pasta!

Wow, if you read all that it is almost as if I have a life. Even though I don't. Just the illusion of one. (Whoooa insane animator inside joke! Feel extra special if you get it).

But really, it's been a pretty good year here for us at Sexless and Cynical. We have managed to remain, for the most part, sexless and cynical... We still haven't decided whether or not that is a good thing, but at least we are being accurate and not falsely advertising to our consumers or anything. Not that we have any consumers, but we can't really call them fans either. They are mostly just curious Facebook friends/stalkers. (Also we decided the royal we would be really fun for a change)... The point here being that the path to becoming a badass on a level like that of the mythical Moosicorn or Batman is riddled with bumps and obstacles. Like trees that have fallen over on the trail, and you get to jump over them and feel all cool but then your pants get caught and rip a big hole in your butt and then you just feel silly. But at least we are making progress down that path, right?

We have a lot of great stuff waiting to just pop out of our fingers as we type here at Sexless and Cynical. For example, one of these days we'd really like to update the banner and layout (as much as I love the banner I put together in 5 minutes for my stupid critical reasoning class, I can probably make something a little nicer). We hope to write many, many more cynical posts about being sexless and doing exercise-y things and leveling up our badass ways. Maybe we'll even make a badass meter or something. Or maybe not because that sounds like a lot of work. And maybe you will get to hear about new things too, like new encounters with boys who are just stupid enough to keep us remaining sexless, or new adventures in the world of trying to become a professional writer, and so on and so forth. We mostly just hope we have the time to keep up with all you adoring fans, because we have a lot of schoolwork, pole dance competition prep, and personal writing schedules to keep up with. But we love you a lot, so we'll try.

So stick with us as we enter our second year of existence in this bright and beautiful internet world that is so much shinier and nicer than the abysmal real world where nothing ever goes right. And please keep reading this blog, because we don't get out and talk to people much and it validates our existence when there is traffic here. Only just a little bit though. It's not like we are in the middle of an emotional crisis or anything. We don't cry when no one reads this blog. Nope. Totally don't do that.