Sunday, November 23, 2014

The Other Night...

I hear we all have something like, 100 dreams in a night. We don't remember most of them. I hardly remember any of them. The ones I do remember typically involve me trying to murder someone with an unconventional weapon (mango seed), or are an obvious reflection of my deeply rooted fear of abandonment (my boyfriend doesn't know who I am.) 

The rest of the time my dreams are just unbelievably boring. 

The other night I had a dream that I was in the shower. I looked down and noticed that my toenails were painted pink. 

But I didn't remember doing that. 

I was equal parts surprised/relieved upon noticing this, as earlier that evening I realized that I really needed to paint my toenails. 

So that's a fucking relief. 

The other night I had a dream that I was shopping for a winter hat. 

But I didn't see one that I liked.

So I didn't buy one.

(I still don't have a winter hat)

The other night I had a dream that I was headed home from work, and remembered I needed hand soap for my kitchen. 

So I stopped at a store.

It all seemed really expensive for soap.

I thought to myself, "I can probably get it cheaper if I go back to Queens..." 

The other night I had a dream where I was, once again, in the shower. 

I started shampooing my hair. 

Right as I started lathering up I realized I had already shampooed and conditioned my hair.

So I had to do everything all over again.

It's not easy being a creative genius, you guys. It never stops.
There are just like, so many layers to me...

Thursday, November 13, 2014

happy ending (the penis kind)

My back is fucked. The first year I walked dogs I carried this heavy-ass backpack around all day and now my upper back is just busted. I've tried everything everyone always insists on suggesting: chiropractor, accupuncture, yoga, strength training, hot tub, YOU NAME IT, I've tried it, especially when it comes to massage. There are somewhere around fifty million (educated guess) massage places operating in the city I call home, and I've tried...a bunch of them (<---anti-climactic). Some are fancy places with heated oils infused with flowers, others are one large room containing several makeshift rooms constructed of towels hanging from clothespins (some of the best I've ever been to follow this model). The massage tactic is my favorite to implement as it is instantly gratifying, and I don't have to do any work. Also, cheap. And lollipops (or at least those fruity Thai mints). The last time I went in for a massage, however, may very well have been the last time I'll go in for a massage...EVER!

No, not really. I will totally go back. Because the only thing that seems to offer any amount of improvement with the back situation has been to do push-ups daily, and if there's anything I'm not willing to do, it's anything "daily". I just can't pull enough discipline together to make it happen. During my last experience with massage, I remembered a very important detail to consider when you willingly enter an establishment with the understanding that a complete stranger is going to be rubbing his or her bare hands all over your naked body:

i am ticklish as fuck. 

And I know this about myself. Every time I mention how ticklish I am to anyone they inevitably go "oh, you're ticklish, does this tic...," and before they can even get the words out of their stupid mouths I'm already there with an "I WILL FUCKING PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE IF YOU TOUCH ME." I HATE being tickled so much. It's so uncomfortable for me I swear it almost hurts, and I have definitely had third parties run into the room to see if everything was OK upon hearing me scream as if I were being actually physically assaulted. Why do I subject myself to 60 minutes of torture knowing what I know about myself? I guess because it feels good...? I mean, most of the time. Usually.

What should have been a relaxing hour at the end of a long week would end up being one of the more intense tests of willpower since "stop laughing at my grandfather's funeral." My brother kept saying his phone was dead, at which point we both started death metal vocalizing the word "dead" repeatedly, until one of us realized we were at a fucking funeral with a literal dead person in the room, and I just could not keep it together, SORRY I'M NOT SOME HUMORLESS ROBOT, GRANDMA. But the last time I went in the masseuse I was paired with had apparently just come from bench pressing hundreds of pounds with the tips of her fingers and my poor, poor achy-breaky body was forced to endure the most intense physical suffering I have ever paid anyone hard earned cash money to inflict upon me (<--- over-climactic.) The first few minutes were calm and relaxing, the weight of her hands firmly pushing into my tense back muscles from over the soft layer of a recently-warmed towel. Everything from gonna fold this towel back and oil your body up like I'm marinading chicken was a rapid decline into uncontrollable fits of hysterical laughter. And if there's one thing tiny Asian ladies hate more than anything, it is undoubtedly the sound of someone enjoying themself (just ask my mom.) She seemed equal parts confused and offended, while also remaining apologetic, yet determined.

The following is an account of my witnessing this woman experience all five stages of grief, as based on the Kubler-Ross model, while attempting to give me a 60 minute full body massage.

1. Denial. The first time I laughed she stopped for a moment, saying nothing, only to revisit the same spot (my side, under the armpit) REPEATEDLY. If insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, this lady was batshit fucking crazy because homegirl either could not, or would not, accept the reality that was my ticklish body.

2. Anger. This is where it got intense. I think she thought if she could just massage me hard and fast enough I could mind over matter that shit into a remotely enjoyable experience, and you better believe I did everything in my limited power to do just that, but it just ended up being a lot of teeth-gritting and fist-clenching and just like UNGHHH UGHHHHHH!! attempting to think about awful "sad things" on my end. So basically, me face-down trying my damndest not to enjoy anything about being alive in the world at that moment.

When she could feel me sweating through the gallons of oil she rubbed into my body she had no choice but to resign to stage three,

3. Bargaining. She attempted to reach the same spot from the other side of the table. Laughter. She stood near my head, then toward my feet, more laughter. She climbed onto my back, kneading her knuckles into my back. Dying of laughter. Elbows. OK, at this point I am fucking crying, like the first time you eat mushrooms-levels of laughing so hard I'm crying, all the while yelling "I'M SORRY!!!" every 2-4 seconds. She tried, no shit, upward of a dozen different positions and tactics, to no avail. As painful as this experience was, both physically and emotionally (for both of us), I feel like a more ambitious person now or something just following this lady's example...

(I would like to mention that throughout all of this there is an Asian-sounding string instrument Muzak version of that Take My Breath Away song playing ON REPEAT)

(this isn't the song, but it was the only one I could find and frankly, too good to provide the comedic value I was hoping for)

4. Depression. This is the part where she quite literally throws in the towel, like she covered me up with a steaming towel and proceeds to rub her hands in tiny circles on my back, between my shoulder blades, as if she were attempting to burp a small child, for 15 minutes. Previously mentioned song plays almost three times.

5. Acceptance! Finally! Actually what happened here was our time was up. The buzzer went off and we both silently shared a "thank fucking god", and she leaves me alone to contemplate my existence under a now lukewarm, damp towel, naked.

bew bew bew bew bewwww (song begins, again.)

So basically, my back still hurts a lot.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Lotion smells good, and good things are...good.

Occasionally for work I get to stay in other people’s homes for a few days. I immediately go for the lotion. I love using other people’s lotion. Something about covering myself in sweet-smelling moisturizer, bearing wrappers and labels different from those I find myself looking at on a daily basis is very romantic and exciting to me. I’m in a beautiful loft in Soho, it's Friday night, and the lotion is what I’m excited about. Send me your 20% off Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons, I ain't too proud to use them shits.

I just really love staying in different places. It's all fantasy.

Everything feels cleaner and nicer and just generally better when it’s not mine. I feel like a grown up. It makes me want to brush AND floss every night. I fold my pants. I eat oranges. I mean I don’t just buy oranges, I actually eat them, and somehow even manage to peel them like how an adult would, in a way that doesn’t result in a pile of tiny orange peel-chips, and the white part of the rind trapped under my nails for the next two days.

fucking WHAT

Somehow, during my short stays in these beautiful places, I always seems to attempt to assume at least some aspect of the tenants personality. I wear my hair a little different, My stride changes. My posture improves. And somehow things just seem to become effortless when I'm not in my apartment; like blankets, for example. I can arrange a "throw" and it resembles something thrown, an uncomplicated afterthought. It rests. It drapes. For some reason, in my apartment, it simply becomes a wrinkled ball of fabric that I will curse for 15-20 minutes on end as I attempt to manipulate it into something you might see in a Crate and Barrel catalog featuring a fireplace and maybe someone's glasses on a table.

The most recent time I stayed overnight for a client, I noticed that I straight up attempted to assume the fucking identity of the woman in whose home I was sleeping (I mean, not like, stole her social security number or anything, I just...well, you'll see. Hang on, I'm gonna tell you about it right here -->). I took a photo of her dog in my lap and I noticed my smile almost exactly resembled the smiles she wears in all of her photos. NOT MY SMILE. I never smile like this. What the fuck?! Stephen Dorff is doing e-cig commericals? This is why I can’t have television, of all the things that having the tv on is not ideal for, writing is probably right up there at the top of the list, but if tv is there I will have that shit on 24 hours a day. I don’t even know what I’m watching (<– LIE! LIE! I’m watching a reality show about Amish people. It’s called Breaking Amish, and I’m not even gonna pretend I don’t totally know that). So but yeah, shapeshifting. I can recognize myself doing this in many aspects of my life. I do it a lot with phrases, language, handwriting, clothing, joke delivery, ANY FUCKING THING. If you do something a certain way, and I like the way it looks, wears or sounds, you best believe I will be secretly practicing on friends of mine you do not know, until it becomes my own.

I ain't too proud to admit that, either.

How does everyone just know how to be? How do you just know how to smile and you’re like “this is my smile, I’m totally secure and comfortable with it, I don’t even have to obsess over how my face may be looking completely insane and contorted right now”? Do most people not analyze every single thing about themselves under a fucking microscope? HOW DOES EVERYONE JUST DO STUFF?!

I'm not sure how everyone else seems to have gotten some sort of manual for life that I apparently missed out on (my guess? I overslept. That's why I miss out on most things.) I don't know what makes some people secure enough to be functional people in the actual world. I do understand why I am not one of these people, why even involuntary human reflexes send me into an existential spiral of self-defeat: it's because deep down, I believe I am worth less than everyone else. Don't get me wrong, at this point in the game, after all the therapy and other work I do with the thing I'm not supposed to talk about, that belief is pretty WAY deep down. But it's still there. Sometimes I can be like "oh yeah, BULLSHIT! Fucking asshole brain." But other times it is almost crippling, keeping me from trying anything different because I don't believe that I deserve to feel or experience anything other than lethargic, at best, And even other other times, it comes out in a way that's much more vague and insidious, subconsciously suggesting that if I maybe just tilt my head back and raise my closed mouth up to the left side that maybe, maybe then I can trick everyone into thinking that I'm not some fucking monster who's afraid of you and what you think of me.

I'm not positive where this antagonistic neurosis comes from (*cough-soundsalotlikemymom'svoice-cough*) but an unfortunate mix of races and body types resulting in a pile of toothpicks with a giant obsession-prone head that insists upon making my life miserable, certainly don't help.

So it's taken me a few years of hard work to attempt to un-hear the mean voice monologue that plays in my head all day, or at least, to come to terms with the idea that the mean voice is a full of shit liar who is a dick and should really just go fuck herself. I don't believe I'm a giant piece of shit today, and I even have reasons, TOTALLY SERIOUS REASONS.

proof that I am worthy:

-owns lots of sequins clothing (my 8 year old self would be really proud)
-Kardashian hair (when i wear it down. and actually brush it)

yes, you have. a bunch.
-discovered this really great juice at the Polish grocery in my neighborhood. it's only like, $1.50 for a huge thing of it. yeah, guys...(buffs nails on shirt)
-decent eyebrows
-pays rent on time
-can totally send you links to appropriate astrology guy forecast, depending upon what ails you
-doesn't cheat on people
-usually calls my mom back (within a couple of days)
-ummm...good at amateur dream analysis?

So you see Self, you clueless asshole, there are plenty of likable things about you, each one as worthy as the next. And plus, now that you have this all written up, if you ever need to create an online dating profile you can just copy and paste this shit.

-working knowledge of Micorsoft Office Suite


Wednesday, September 17, 2014


I cannot complete anything on time. I could have an entire month to make a 1000 word deadline and I will always, always, ALWAYS wait until the night before it's due to even begin considering what I'm going to write about. In fact, I do exactly that, every month, when it's time to produce content for the paper I write for.

me: "I just want to be able to write and collaborate with funny people that interest and intrigue me!"

editor:"Come write for me, 1000 words a month, topic flexible!" (read: writer's dream job)

me: "OK!"
      (sits at computer)
       ", I'll do it later."

WHY DO I DO THIS?! How do I turn enjoyable things into the most stressful 7 hours of my month, every month! Well, I'll show you how!

1. deconstruct bookshelves, dust. proceed to thoroughly clean entire apartment, even the parts underneath furniture that I would never ordinarily clean until it's time for me to move out (only applicable when collection of security deposit seems a realistic possibility).


2. go in the bathroom. look out the window. then just look at a bunch of other shit. 


3. consult YouTube makeup tutorial to achieve dramatic evening look, including full hair, which i never do, ever, even when i do have somewhere to be in the evening.


4. finally leave bathroom 1-3 hours later to fuck with dogs for an additional 1-5 hours. i typically just end up crawling all over them until they become irritated enough to go hide in my roommate's room for most of the rest of the day.


when i have a really pressing deadline, full head-to-toe body ensemble is not uncommon.

all of above peppered with ten thousand Facebook checks, Japanese cooking shows on YouTube, and attempts at getting "pumped up" with guys in heels dancing to Beyonce medley, which just ends up looking like me watching that video of those guys in heels dancing to that Beyonce medley over and over until my battery runs out.


Monday, September 1, 2014

that gratitude tag

I was recently tagged in one of those "what are you grateful for?" things on Facebook. I don't usually do things like that because I'm too busy being cooler than everyone, skipping school and smoking cigs in my leather jacket, but gratitude is actually something that has been coming up quite a bit in my life lately and I thought eh, what the hell. It's good to share good things sometimes. Also, I wanted to upload a video today but didn't feel like doing any of the parts after "film video" so, yeah...I'm grateful that I had the idea to make this a gratitude post! One down! Hot damn! But for real though, the spiritual principle of gratitude is basically a "Krissy, shut the fuck up" smack in the face (albeit a gentle one). It completely changes my perspective when I'm trapped in self-obsession and just generally being a whiny little bitch. When I can actually remember to appreciate the things in my life that make my life worth living (i.e., healthy, functional body, or, getting to experience what life outside of the bathroom I used to spend 20 hours a day smoking crack in, feels like), it makes it really hard to spend so much time and energy being pissed that someone is taking up too much of the sidewalk (actually no, that is infuriating THERE ARE LANES! Abide them! But you know what I'm saying). So yeah, I realize I'm not totally following the rules, but...I already wrote it so there's no going back now!

I am grateful for:

1. WEEGEE SUE!!!!! Those of you that know me know that I am OBSESSED with my dog. In fact, people who have had the misfortune of simply mentioning the word "dog" in my presence are often forced to endure an 80-photo slideshow of her sleeping, yawning, or otherwise being generally adorable. But seriously, look at this proud motherfucking beast!

LOOK AT HER!!!!! What is she doing?? Just casually staring me down, mid-jazz hands, nips a-blazin'! Weegee is basically the world's tiniest, most flamboyant unicorn in this picture. She is quite unmistakably my dog: she sleeps late, hates loud noises, and becomes socially anxious in large crowds of people, an unfortunate trait I noticed immediately upon taking her to a street fair in my neighborhood, where her dog defenses for some reason trained her body to tremble violently while expelling tufts of fur into the atmosphere at an alarming rate, perhaps attempting to formulate some sort of decoy dog for passersby to point at, allowing her now hairless and even more vulnerable body to slink away unnoticed I DON'T KNOW! She's not as smart as us, you guys, she is but a lowly beast! We left immediately, which is fine because I refuse to pay $3 for 5 deep-fried Oreo's when I only want one! Those things don't keep! Anyhow, Weegee is awesome. She requires almost no maintenance, is super snuggly, and works as a natural man repeller, a fantastic aid when walking while female, because I think it's safe to say that at least several times a week most women run into this guy, regardless of the time of day, neighborhood, what you look like, or happen to be wearing (they're everywhere, it doesn't matter, it's not your fault, they're just too stupid...).

I love my Weegee Sue. She teaches me how to be a responsible human, shows me what unconditional love looks like, and sometimes falls off the bed and I just laugh and laugh and laugh. Also, this:

2. YouTube! I'm pretty sure the reason I'm late to work everyday is due to the fact that I stay up until all hours of the night searching "weekly tarot reading Capricorn 2014". I am absolutely positive that YouTube is the reason it takes me 7 hours to type 1000 words as that's exactly what happened (is happening-this post ain't written yet!) today (and every day).There are three very distinct motivators that lead me in my YouTube searches: 

-animal birthing videos
-awesome women lady blogs

I have a regular "astrology guy" that I consult on a weekly basis. Let me rephrase...I have THREE astrology guys (and five girls) that I consult on a weekly basis. They all basically say the same thing, but through these people's knowledge of the placement of the planets in relation to the sun and moon I am fully able to neglect all responsibility and intuition on my own part, allowing them to determine what kind of week I'll have, what kind of jobs to quit, when to move to an entirely different city, and when not to pick up the phone when my mom calls (never again, Saturn in Scorpio! FOOL ME ONCE!!)

I don't really feel like talking about the animal birthing videos because every time I show one to someone they immediately become disgusted and never ask me things like "so, what do you do when you're not at work?" ever again. Actually now that I think about it this has served as a pretty decent man repeller also. I should just carry around an iPad on my shoulder like how guys in the 80's would carry a boombox, but just show this all the time.

Ugh God, fuck those birds, also.

The most amount of time I spend on the 'Tube (we're like that now) is spent watching women much younger than myself make fun, witty and interesting videos about ABSOLUTELY FUCKING ANYTHING. Watch you drunkenly dye your bangs purple? Sure! Dissect the contents of your purse? HOW DID I EVER LIVE WITHOUT YOUTUBE?! One of my favorites is Anna Akana. Something about her gently guided life affirmations offers me lessons in self-parenting emotionally developmental areas my own mother was just not available to give me, such as "how to apply liquid eyeliner" and "it's OK to not be ashamed of yourself every second of every day of your life."

3. COMMUNICATION. By this I simply mean, "the ability to say what I mean to another human person". Because before it was just a shit-load of this:

Just a bunch of verbal vomiting all over whomever happened to be around me at that moment. No sense of appropriate timing, no healthy boundaries, no willingness to take personal responsibility, just me, me me, how do we change you to fix me? That shit is exhausting (and it don't even work none, neither). Not looking at people as my enemy makes a world of difference.

(also grateful for the woman who nominated me in her post. she's helping me change my life. i love her. i'm lucky.)

That's it! Life is good. Work hard, be nice.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

even more things i still don't understand

1. Men's penis aiming. (<-- is there any other kind?)
OK, I just measured my face. It is sized, in inches, 7X5. I also measured the toilet in my bathroom, the part where the stuff goes in, minus the seat. The hole. The bowl! Duh, the toilet bowl, there's an actual name for it. STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS, YOU'VE DONE IT A-GAIN!! (pun definitely intended) Anyhow that, measured in inches, is 10X8.5. So, safe to say the toilet is in all ways larger than the face of an adult human woman. So how is it that a man can manage to cum on a woman's face with near surgical precision, like not a drop in the hair or on the neck or even the sheets, yet every time I go to use a public unisex bathroom I have to engage my quads until they are Jillian Michaels-levels of on fire in order to get my ass above the seat while at the same time avoiding the moat of piss surrounding the fucking toilet?

And don't even give me any bullshit about "it was an emergency". You don't tell me about emergencies! Enough with the shiver too, I know about the shiver! Besides, it's only pissing after all...

"you know how to pee, don't you? just point your dick, and go."

2. My decision making process. 
I sometimes feel self-conscious that this blog is way too personal, like I divulge far too much sensitive information about myself (and sometimes others) and I usually spend the last 45 minutes I'm awake at night wishing I didn't post whatever crazy shit I just shared with a couple hundred people. Sighhhh.....

So, but the other day I got garlic stuck in my vagina. I thought I sensed a yeast infection coming on, and I actually had the opportunity to use my sexy parts for sex that weekend (which NEVER happens anymore, you guys) and I was like "oh no vagina, you motherfucker, JUST ACT RIGHT!" I knew I wouldn't have time to get to a doctor, and the over the counter stuff takes days to remedy the situation, so I consulted the trusty internet for homeopathic alternatives in comforting my vaginal malady ("M'lady." *tips hat toward vagina). Several results came up suggesting I, for lack of a better term, shove some garlic up in thurr, and being the uninsured, sex-obsessed, underachiever that I am, it took me about, second of contemplation before I found myself in the kitchen. My roommate brilliantly suggested I tie some string around it for easy retrieval "like how a tampon works", and other than my unshakable pizza cravings (mucous membrane, look it up), I didn't notice anything weird, and my symptoms were gone by the next morning. The following evening I was much less motivated-it was late, I was tired, and I justified why I didn't need to tie the garlic bulb with string this time with memories of smuggling several bottles of Xanax across the Mexican border in my helpfully secretive vagina suitcase.

"It'll be fine" I said.

The next morning, it was not fine. I won't get crazy into it, but long story short, I ended up on my back, using the tub as a gynecological table, my entire hand all the way in there, in a sweaty panic, 45 minutes late for work. I just kept pushing the clove further and further up, until it finally became lost in some secret compartment on the other side of my persons! That shit was gone, dude, it's like a mystery in there!!! (not actually mysterious at all, and I know I always talk about how I don't know shit about female reproductive parts, but will someone for real get me an anatomy textbook for my birthday already? Or at least text me a link to a WebMD page? No actually, I'll Google it myself, keep sending me money and balloons) I thought to Google "garlic lost in vag", and wouldn't you know, several results appeared for me to refer to, the most helpful being that I squat over the toilet and bear it out, which worked! So basically, I have experienced the miracle of birth, albeit an herb rather than an actual human person.

3. High heels. 
I’m not entirely sure what comes over me, but every so often I feel the need to buy some heels. I actually own several pairs, and each time I buy a new one I feel really hopeful and excited for about one hour, then immediately regret my impulsive purchase and question why I ever bought the damn things in the first place. Actually I know exactly why I buy heels, it’s because I have comically small, size 5 feet, so whenever I find a cute pair that fit me I take it as a sign that the Universe needs me in heels. This act of divine intervention has lead me to own several pairs of heels, all perfectly fitting and super adorable and NEVER WORN OUTSIDE OF MY APARTMENT (sometimes I get to feeling all Betty Draper and experiment with wearing my heels while I wash the dishes. It feels less “chores-y” and more “can I get you anything else, Mr. Pwees-i-dennt…?) So the last time I succumbed to my desire, I buy these heels and change into them before heading to the train on my way home from work and I immediately EAT SHIT all over the sidewalk, busting my knee while my face slammed into a gate guarding one of those ubiquitous check cashing places. That somehow wasn't the end of it though, as I continued to fall after I was already down, until I was lying on the ground, body contorted as if someone had put me out like a cigarette. The rest of my walk to the train was spent in my head "left, right, left, right, walking, walking, engage core, left, right...", and that's the story of how I often still wish I were born a man.

4. My "It's Log!" tattoo. 
I've gotten some pretty terrible tattoos in my day, some now covered, others now limited to the eyes of the guy who's doing me (or anyone at the beach I guess...damn! I didn't think about that, it's on my back, I always forget about it.) And to be clear, I actually don't hate this tattoo, I love Ren and Stimpy, I love the Log skit, but seriously dude? Tattooed? On your body forever? You are a grown woman, you work for yourself! I can't be certain, but chances are having this tattoo may be doing you a disservice when meeting a potential new client.

"What's that?"
"Oh, it's Log!"
"What's on it?"
"It's a marching band hat, it's marching band leader log!"

(blank stare)

5. Ferguson, Missouri. 
I actually had a really hard time writing this post as it feels even more juvenile and insignificant in light of what's going on in Missouri. I never really feel like I have the right to make political statements as I always feel unqualified to share my opinions, but I can say this: I feel angry. To witness such a blatant abuse of power, even from as far away as the safety of the internet allows me to remain, makes me really fucking pissed, and I feel stupid making jokes at a time like this. This is, however, all I really know how to do. If I was better at this I would make better jokes about cops and race and media and authority, but my brain just isn't wired like that. I'm sorry. I hope you laughed a little. And I hope as soon as you're done laughing you go right back to being pissed the fuck off and do what you can in your own way of doing things.

Because this is not OK.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Half Asian? More like half-agin’ AHAHAHA ehhh, jeez

I’m not sure how or when this happened, but somewhere along the way I got older than everyone. 

And I realize that when I look back and think on that statement when I’m 52 or 42 or even 33, I’ll probably be like “shut the fuck UP!!”, but as someone who used to be the youngest girl in the room, this is a devastating realization.

I was sitting in Union Square the other day waiting for a friend, who was late, as my friends usually are, but then again I’m often late myself so I can’t really get too upset about it (but I still totally do.) ANYWAY, there was this cute young girl with short green hair and a faded Fugazi shirt just effortlessly charming two or three idiot young dudes who 50% wanna fuck this chick and 50% just wanna go back home to smoke bongs and play Tony Hawk (←what?! fucking dated-ass Tony Hawk reference...), and I just remember thinking, “wait…I’m…I was…I used to be that girl…”, and away I was carried, tumbling downward into yet another endless spiral of what is commonly referred to as an existential crisis. 

i couldn't even begin to attempt to draw an anatomically correct representation of myself as WordPaint doesn't make a brush thick enough to capture the stacked-ness of my fucking huge dick. motherfuckers. 

I eventually snapped out of it and continued to sit in silence, eyes now affixed on the circle of Hare Krishnas who I just realized I am closer to in age than the sociological experiment that is “young people fraternizing” before me. If they let me get a word in edge-wise I would have more to talk about with them than my own peers, and nice try honey, but those kids are not your peers. Can’t accept that? Well why don’t you try making one WKRP in Cincinatti reference and just see what happens.

When I think of me, I still see the same 18 year old face I can always remember, although recent findings leave me to consider that everyone else actually sees me as “lady on the train.” I don’t even register as a sexual object to men of a certain age anymore, and by ‘men of a certain age’ I mean ‘16 year old boys’, which, at the risk of sounding like a sexually predatory embarrassment to my friends and family, THAT SUCKS!!! What the fuck?! Ever since I was old enough to want to do other people, the sound of skateboard wheels meeting concrete worked like a mating call, you have my rapt attention fellas, except now I look up toward that very familiar sound to witness a roaming horde of FUCKING CHILDREN! I mean these kids look physically small and everything! When did this happen? How am I the older person all of a sudden? When did I start obtaining all these old-people traits that include, but aren't limited to: 
  1. Audible sighing. I mean really loud, just “uhhhhhhhhh”, for no reason other than say, arriving at a cross walk, or sitting. 
  2. Refusal to attend live shows when I don’t think sitting may be a realistic possibility.
  3. Confusion surrounding the concept of “the cloud”. 
Because for as grown up as I apparently look, I still begin sentences with “because”, and cannot seem to grasp such adult concepts as: 
  1. Bringing lunch. I tried this earlier in the week. I ate all of my food within an hour of leaving my apartment.
  2. Owning a box of tissues. Toilet paper can be found in the place you can always find toilet paper. And it's the same fucking thing.
  3. Storing of important papers. They have to be somewhere, but...(shrugs) 

When I really think about it though, I wouldn't go back. Actually that is complete bullshit, I would go back in five seconds, but I have to say this and pretend I believe it or I'll end up one "alright, alright..." away from becoming this motherfucker: 

Really though, I was such a total shit-show of a mess until about…like, two weeks ago. Like, right now at this moment I feel good, but that’s subject to change at a Facebook’s notice. Generally though, I’m ten million times happier, healthier, more productive and more self-assured now than I’ve ever been before. I’m still insecure, but not as insecure. I still get jealous and catty, but not as jealous and catty. I feel like I look better-my body is stronger now, and I almost kind of have boobs, sort of (…no). Aging is actually treating me much better than I expected. All the fear that surrounded me as I headed toward 30 disappeared as soon as I actually turned 30 and realized I'm pretty much entirely the same, and maybe age really is just a number, in which case what was up with those 16 year old boys from earlier, though...

Perhaps the toughest part is reconnecting with old friends. Sometimes so much time passes that entire relationships and somewhat major life events get lost in recall; things that consume our entire being at the time become little more than a "and then this happened", and that let's catch up! conversation becomes a daunting recollection, with usually only the best and worst stuff making the cut.

So I'm not young anymore, but I'm not really old yet either, which kind of sucks as I've now fallen into that age bracket where acting like a totally inappropriate asshole will make you appear as just that, an asshole. People are no longer saying "damn kids" and have yet to refer to me as a "dumb old bitch", so I'm now left to look like a complete idiot as I collect my feeble paychecks for six months to pay for an out of contract iPhone with my community college-associated debit card instead of filling those two cavities from a million years ago, or pay my taxes (IRS, if you're reading this...that was a joke...*uses last of money on said debit card to purchase trench coat and glasses/mustache combo, leaves NYC for Mexico, never to be seen again.).