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, say...one 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)
"...GIVE ME THE KEYS TO YOUR APARTMENT, I'LL WALK YOUR PUPPY!!!"

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.). 



Thursday, July 24, 2014

so this happened today




young man seated across from me on M train this morning: (blows kiss)

me: "Ugh...are you for real?"

him: (shrugs)
     
       "I just wanted to see if that still works."

me: "Does it ever work?"

him: "...no."
     
       "Did it work a little bit?"

me: "NO."

him: "Well, what does work?"

me: "I don't know? 'Hi' seems like a reasonable place to start."

him: "But everyone says hi."

me: "Actually, no one says hi. When men try to get a woman's attention they usually end up doing some ridiculous bullshit that just makes everyone uncomfortable."

him: "Well, you didn't look like the type of person who wants people to say hi to her."

me: "But I look like the type that wants kisses blown at her while reading on the train into work?"

him: (shrugs)

So today I learned that:

1. Men really are that fucking stupid.

2. I knew my hair looked cute today, gurl!

3. When you don't have a reason for doing something and someone calls you out on it, you can just be like






Tuesday, July 8, 2014

yeah, we just sit around and talk about our periods


I want to move out of NYC. 
I should move to Nashville. 
If I move to Nashville I'll definitely have to get a car. 
OK, so start saving up for a car...I really need to stop buying lunches in Manhattan, I spend so much money on that shit!
I'll have to find an apartment. 
I hope it's easy to find apartments that take dogs down there. 
Oh fuck, I need to get a job. 
Go on Craigslist and find a job. 
Wait, you need to clean up your LinkedIn profile and then the jobs will come to you!!
No one gives a shit about you. 
OK, so job, apartment, car--I can do this!
God I fucking hate my life. 
Does my Metrocard expire today?  

^^^^^^ all this shit happened in my head along the 10 minute walk my dog and I took before work today. 

When I get PMS absolutely NOTHING makes any fucking sense. At all. It is not uncommon to find me stealing my clients wifi to watch Bruce Springsteen videos on my phone while eating peanut butter straight from the jar when I should be working. PMS Krissy makes so little sense that her idea of bringing lunch to work this morning apparently began and ended at "carry a jar of peanut butter around in your purse." Think I'm exaggerating? 

I'm pretty sure "crunch time" is exactly what God is thinking when he looks down and realizes that this is where 32 years worth of life decisions has lead me.

The thing about PMS and me is that at least I can kind of see it coming, most of the time. I used to just act like a completely insane asshole for an entire week, then realize two weeks later that it was totally hormonal and have to apologize to everyone in my life. Just because I'm aware of it doesn't make it any easier to deal with though. I have come up with a declaration of sorts to help guide me through this difficult time. 

1. I will not quit my job. My first impulse to rid myself of all the terrible feelings that happen this week is always to quit my job and move the fuck outta town. I get really REALLY excited to start my new life and my thoughts begin picketing around in my brain. 

WHAT DO WE WANT?! 
TO MOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE, I DON'T REALLY HAVE A PREFERENCE, AS LONG AS IT'S WARM! BUT NOT FLORIDA!

But I quickly lose steam upon realizing I'll have to call all of my utility companies to cancel my services. 

WHEN DO WE WANT IT?!
...AH FUCK IT, I'LL JUST GO TO WORK. 

2. I will not shave my head. I'm not sure why "make drastic change to appearance that you WILL immediately regret" is always the go-to move for women facing a hormonal hijacking and/or ending of relationships, but this always always always seems like the best fucking idea I've ever had in my entire life, every single time. I don't do it because I know I'll just end up looking like my brother, not that there's anything wrong with my brother, but I am really small and a not-penis-having woman, so I don't really see it working for me.

3. NO TEXTING. I will not, under any circumstances, text the guy I've been talking to in an attempt to have even a remotely personal conversation about feelings or emotions or anything beyond "how was your day?", because despite my best intentions, that text will end up going from the slightly insane "I just think we have a really great connection and I think you're beautiful and I'm willing to be vulnerable again if you think you might be willing to give this a chance and...(etc..)" to the criminally insane "FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT, I'M NOT GONNA SUBJECT MYSELF TO YOUR FUCKING GAMES WHY DID YOU EVEN SAY HI TO ME IN THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE?!?!!!!" to the pathetic "I am so sorry dude, I am like, wicked PMSing right now, and I know you've only met me once and this probably seems kind of crazy but I'm not usually like this so just keep asking me questions that I can text you perfectly clever and witty responses to." Journal that shit or whatever you gotta do, but step away from the phone and just say no. 

It helps to know that I'm not (totally) insane, it's just my body being a dickface and trying to make me do things I will feel bad about in four short days. Having to operate in the world while having PMS is like that scene in A Nightmare on Elm Street where Nancy finally overcomes Freddy upon realizing that it's all a dream (even though it's totally not, because motherfuckers need sequels, duh!). But that's what it's like all week, constantly having to stand up to the little Freddy Krueger inside my vagina that wants to do terrible things to me and kill all my friends and my family and my dad is John Saxon, too. 

(for the purpose of these doodles PMS Freddy Krueger will be played by Pennywise the Clown, because Pennywise just makes way crazier faces and it looks funnier)


PMS: Why, hey there Georgie...I see you're on the internet, why don't you come down here a while? There's all kind of internets down here...

ME: Oh well I don't know mister, it's pretty late and I'm already feeling a little crazy...


PMS: Aww, come on Georgie, don't you wanna look at his Facebook photos? I can show you how to look at all the likes. Don't you wanna know who the fuck all these girls are?!

ME: Let go, you're...hurting...meeee...

PMS: And then we can go look at their pages, and figure how their lives are better than yours! And maybe you can see if he liked any of their photos,OR MAYBE YOU'LL SEE A PHOTO OF HIM LOVING ONE OF THEM!!!!!!

ME: NO! No mister, I don't wanna!!

PMS: Oh come on Georgie, it's only 1:15, it's not that late. You know you're all wound up on brownie flavored ice cream anyway, just give it a little peek. After we can look into applying to volunteer programs overseas that you'll only be interested in after having learned that your friend from 6th grade is doing an internship in Japan. 

ME: Get away from me, you're evil I tell ya, evil!!!!


ahaha but how hilarious is this drawing of me "running" though? I look like I'm doing the deepest lunge ever. 

I need to get a real job. 

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

what do you see when you see me?


When I was younger I used to dress in a way that outwardly represented my interests; at first sight you could pretty easily determine what music I was into, what my friends were probably like, what brand of shitty 40's I was stealing from the gas station-you could look at any part of me and tell that I was into punk rock. Either that, or you could pretty easily determine that you really wanted to yell things like "Halloween's in October, FAG!" from the open window of your passing 1992 Ford Probe.



Even if these assumptions were based solely on whatever limited stereotypes you may have had, you were pretty easily able to label me something or another (just don't label me late for dinn-ahh fuck that doesn't work at all, fuck!) These days I don't dress that way so much. I actually paid for my clothes (look ma, no slight of hands!) and they fit me, my hair isn't blue or red or green or pink, even though that seems to be really in style now among even the lamest of lame-o's, from Bedford Avenue to Park Avenue. Maybe I do still write on my shirts with Sharpie but there aren't green, OxyContin time-release coating stains on the bottoms of said shirts anymore, and I always wonder what people think of me now that they're able to make their own assumptions. What do you see? What judgements do you make based on what little information I'm providing you with my nondescript indicators of character? Which compartment do you stuff me in when my face registers in your brain and all of the 10 billion life experiences that color your perception flood your frontal lobes and deem me (________)? Can you see anything? Does any part of me show any part of you some vaguely recognizable trait, jarring a memory once vivid, now buried? Are you really looking? Can you tell, as you enter the train car, within that second of shared eye contact, just before immediately shifting your gaze to an empty seat, can you tell as I sit here that I am so full of love and want and preciousness; that I'm a real human person that could sink my nails in my skin and tear open my chest slowly, over phone calls and coffee, let you in to stretch your legs a bit, knock a few things around, take all the parts you'd like to use up while I consume you and hurt you and even let you hurt me back? Can you see that I'm on fire?

Who do you think I am?

OK, probably not that last part (note to self, stop writing by 2am at absolute latest), but still, I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and obviously who I am isn't determined by the Operation Ivy t-shirt I may or may not be wearing, but you know what I mean; I've certainly judged people based on way less (yeah, way to look over your receipt, asshole.) Lately I've been making a concentrated effort to expand my meditation practice, and something I was reading led me to an exercise on judgement. It asked that I try looking at people just for what they are-just another person-without judging them based on what they look like, what they're wearing, how they walk so fucking slow in front of you and yeah, the subway stairs-probably not the most considerate place to TEACH YOUR FUCKING BABY HOW TO WALK! That being said, not judging people is absolutely fucking impossible. I tried being grateful. I tried "seeing myself in others". I tried not to think about the fact that you're wearing a leather cabbie hat like that guy from AC/DC, and how much AC/DC sucks, and how this guy I dated a long time ago used to listen to AC/DC, and how much he sucks. Just doesn't work. Some people are too stupid not to judge. I was going to write this big long (hilarious) tirade about the types of people I judge and why, but I realized I've already done that on this blog at least once, proving yet again what a big angry bitch I am. I will say this though, realizing how harshly I judge those around me made me realize how hard I am on myself. How can I allow myself to fuck up, and make mistakes, and laugh whole-heartedly, and wear velvet leggings when I'm judging those around me for doing those same exact things? I don't give myself a chance to truly experience life when the fear of being judged prevents me from trying anything other than what I already know. I've heard that when we judge others we're really just witnessing some embarrassing, uncomfortable part of ourselves reflected back. Do I detest loud, attention-seeking groups of drunk girls because I used to be loud, attention-seeking and drunk myself? Yup. Perhaps the happy couples I find myself hate-watching through a cloud of ill wishes merely represent what I, myself, someday hope to have? One hundie percentie, my friends. "Come at me Bro" shirt-guy? Eh, maybe some people are just tools, but see, you're finally getting it you fucking idiot! When we begin to try accepting others at face value, meaning when we make an honest attempt to allow other people to be other people, everyone just doing their best to be humans sharing time and space with other, just doing their best, humans, and dispel the story we've created about them then we become better people than them, and what do better people get to do? Really, really judge the living shit out of everyone, and be right this time! Huzzah!!! I've solved life!!!





Monday, June 9, 2014

WEWANTFOOTBALL (new skit!!)


BIG NEWS you guys! My ship has finally come in, I'M GETTING MARRIED!!!

I know what you're thinking, and yeah, I guess we haven't known each other for all that long, but that half a city block I could feel him staring at me left me with enough time to know for sure-he's most definitely "the one"  !!!!

I didn't get a very good look at him, as I was being super shy, and taking every desperate measure possible to avoid any and all eye contact, but he smelled pretty drunk, probably on account of being so nervous about asking me for my name five times, and then my hand in marriage, before finally sending me off with an affectionate "fuuuuuck you!" (what did you think I was gonna say, no?! You're so crazy, boo, this is so "us".)

Springtime in New York really can be so romantic.

swoon

This skit was written with all those loving men in mind that just want us to smile, girl! That just wanna know where we're going, girl! That just wanna know if we got a man, girl! But who would never fuck with our ugly asses 'cause they have a girlfriend too, they just wanna use our number as friends, GIRL!

Written by myself and Anna Halpern, and starring us, along with Jodi Carrothers (of Laughing Buddha Comedy), and Josh Carrothers (of Earworms). Shot by Ian Burnley (of the Staten Island...Burnleys...?)

Seriously though, you look good, what's your name?



and also, "tease nuts" is my favorite thing about this.


Sunday, May 25, 2014

Happy Anniversary

Last Monday, May 19, marked four--long, hard, insane, tear-filled, banging my head against the wall, cutting my own skin with a knife, expansive, loving, caring, laughter-filled, long, deep breaths, OH MY GOD THE UNIVERSE IS SO BIG, heartbreaking, painful, memory-laden, resentful, remorseful, esteem-building, accepting, comedy writing, friend making, trust-giving, trust-earning, the hard times hurt so fucking bad but those times I sit and smile alone, or even better, sit with friends who love and value me remind me how grateful I am to be alive and allowed to feel all the blessings and curses sentience has to offer--years free from the use of drugs and alcohol.

And all that shit up there (^^) kind of cycles over and over, all the fucking time.

Since I've been clean I've learned a few things, including (but not limited to):

1. I do not hate women, I was afraid of being rejected by them and so defensively surrounded myself with men, and acted like a major asshole to most women. That sucks.

2. When you tell people you don't drink they will still offer to buy you shots. Shots are just tiny drinks, people! No worries, just a weird thing.

3. I don't actually need heroin to survive! I will not "explode". What a novel idea!

4. Furthermore, I don't need to act on most of the impulses that drive me to sabotage myself and the potentially rewarding situations that spring up all around me; I don't have to call you when I know it's gonna make me feel worse, I don't "just have to fuck you right now" when I know it's gonna make me feel worse, I don't have to run away from my problems when I know they will still be there, leaving with me the unshakable knowledge that by ignoring them I will, indeed, feel worse. I can pause. (I mean, I still do act on those impulses sometimes, but sometimes I actually don't, and that's monumental progress for me)

5. Exercise feels good. At one point I weighed 87 pounds. I survived on one banana and a chocolate milk a day. I didn't get my period for 4-5 months at a time. I had open abscesses all over my body that wouldn't heal because my body couldn't support itself by regenerating new tissue. My body works today. I treat it well and it returns the favor. Thank you, body! I don't know how you didn't die all those times!

6. I look to control my partners because I actually seek the love and comfort my mother wasn't capable of providing me when I was a child and needed it most. Heavy shit. Sorry ex-boyfriends.

7. People can be forgiving. I can be forgiving too. I am learning. Sorry ex-boyfriends.

8. I am one sensitive motherfucker. Please handle with care. I'll try my best to do the same.

9. Thank fucking god for my friends.

10. THANK FUCKING GOD FOR MY FRIENDS. I could not do this alone. I've tried, and it feels like shit, and doesn't even work. (i love you so much)

Of all the things I've learned over these years, the one thing that probably keeps me open to continuing this way of life was something I actually just realized today. The past two days have been an emotional cluster-fuck, up and down and blahblahblah over and over and fucking over, and as soon as I realize I'm right here, right now, in this place, right here IN THIS MOMENT I think about how bad I'll be feeling when this moment is over, at which point the moment is over, and back to breath one (practice, folks-I'm practicing.) But I was feeling all fucked up to begin with, then had to take the bus uptown, which I quickly abandoned as of course I was seconds away from peeing my pants mere minutes after having just peed in an actual toilet, find bathroom, now running late so have to take the 6. Uptown. AT RUSH HOUR, and of course get wedged between two "I have no real control or power over any other area of my life and so will exert my force in the form of spreading my legs into the widest V possible, taking up well over the amount of area anyone could ever need to sit comfortably" guys, then weaved in and out and around 10 million people to get to my last client of the day, at which point I WAS READY TO PUNCH ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING FUCKERS ON THE STREET RIGHT IN THEIR STUPID FUCKING FACES. Basically, the whole thing sucked balls. And I know I've mentioned this before but not like "balls" balls (sex is fun!)--I mean, it would be like if you had to somehow suck on other balls, or basketballs! Yes, it sucked basketballs-way too big to fit in any mouth, and probably really rough on the tongue with those rubber grip dots or whatever the fuck they're called. Grippies? Are they grippies? Whatever.


My brain felt overwhelmed and I found myself searching, like how a drug addict searches for that one thing that will make this feeling stop, that will quiet the loud voice in my head, and take all this pain and discomfort away. In that moment I realized I don't have anything that works like that anymore, there's nothing in my life that will provide me with enough instant gratification to be worth the terrible feeling I'll be left with when it's over, in addition to the feelings that drove me to it in the first place. Drugs aren't an option for me anymore. Sex would feel good but I'm not really a "just have sex with anyone" type person (no judgements, believe me, I so wish I could just have sex with someone and not begin to fall in love with them almost immediately). I don't have a partner that I can selfishly and unfairly demand to "fix me" right now. I can't "retail therapy" my way out of stuff because I'm already making financial amends so I don't have any money to blow, and no business in their right mind will give my irresponsible ass a credit card so I can't even regret something later or anything. I'm not gonna hurt myself. I don't want to hurt anyone else. It's kind of crazy but I actually have an inkling of insight today that reminds me that every time I turn to one of these things, every time I use drugs or a man or anger to cover up whatever uncomfortable shit I'm feeling, I WILL FEEL SO MUCH WORSE. Maybe not immediately, but that shit will be felt one way or another, and dealing with unresolved feelings 1, 2, 25 years after the fact, is so so so so so much more painful than just riding out the pain for a few days/weeks/months. Unless I keep running, but you know something, I'm pretty fucking tired of running. My knees and my heart and my brain and that tiny child-voice inside me that yearns to be comforted and loved are all exhausted and they need a fucking break.

Right now I am hurting. I am experiencing profound inner change and that shit is painful. My insides feel empty and my skin feels like an exposed nerve. BUT THAT SHIT WILL PASS. That shit WILL pass. I feel the feelings right now, and I hate the way they feel for a while, but they will not last forever, and I will feel better feelings slowly, and eventually feel like a human person again.

I've lived my entire life with the fear-based understanding that "this will last forever." When things were great the voice in my head sounded like "it's gonna be like this forever!!! You're gonna be 22 forever!!! The OxyContin and red wine cocktails will last foreverrrrrr!!!!!!" and when things were shitty it was always "oh my god, it's gonna be like this foreverrrrrr!!!!!! You're fucked. Your life is fucked. You should kill yourself."

I never believed the one thing that is absolutely certain in this life:

change is inevitable. Whether or not I choose to fight it or surrender to it is up to me. Things change if I just let them, and in reality they still will even if I don't, but it hurts a lot less if I stop trying to control it, and just hold on until the days get better again.

Because they will. For real dude, they will. And knowing that is the only thing that keeps me from returning to a life of being broke and dope sick and smoking pieces of carpet because I think there may be crack on it and hopeless and suicidal and self-hating and praying for an early death.

My life is so different from what it once was, and I'm so indescribably grateful for that.

Happy Anniversary, guurl. (me) I luuuh you.