Monday, April 14, 2014

fuck writing

I apologize for not meeting my self-imposed Monday deadline last week, and for almost missing it again this week but seriously I'M NOT GONNA REARRANGE MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE FOR YOU, just stop!!! And by "rearrange my entire fucking life" I of course mean stop watching HboGo for four straight hours a night.

As much as I would love to say that I was working on other pieces or on vacation or neatly arranging huge stacks of money into several slightly smaller stacks of money (or even just busy doing anything for that matter) the truth is I was just in one of my ruts. Which was actually the entire point of setting a deadline for myself, to just write something, anything, no matter how shitty or lazy or uninspired I may be feeling. To put it in simple terms, for you simple folk, and because I just really love using WordPaint, this is what my creative process looks like.


So, moderate to severe social anxiety dips into hopelessness/worthlessness/feelings of inadequacy, finally peaking at delusions of grandeur, quickly dipping to even lower than the previous low; repeat. And the entire time I'm noticing everything, wondering how many pairs of shoes that guy sitting across from me had to try on before he finally decided on the ones he's wearing, and creating scenarios that allow me to offer effortlessly witty retorts to people who will be endlessly impressed by me and are definitely checking me out as I walk away but in a hot way, not in like a street harassment-creeper way.

Being this way kind of sucks.

While I'm glad I have writing to tap into creatively, I think sometimes (all the time) the expectations I place upon myself are so much harsher and more demanding and impossible to meet than anything anyone else might be expecting of me. Because in reality I don't think many people expect much, it's just this thing happens, and I think it's just human nature, but still, this thing happens where people seem to like what I have to say, and sometimes they say nice things to and about me, and I JUST WANT MORE!!!!! I become this insatiable mosquito, except like a literary mosquito, and I just want more and more and please just like me I WILL SAY ANYTHING TO MAKE YOU LAUGH. Which then makes me question who I'm writing for, why I write, whether or not I'm a real writer, whether or not I should go back on my meds, and I bet Ray Bradbury wouldn't give a fuck about some Twitter followers, etc...

So when I can't find these things I want to say, or even worse, I have TEN MILLION BILLION things going through my fucking head all day but I just can't figure out how to turn them into words that make sense on paper, I feel empty in my stomach, and violent in my chest, like

I'm going to fucking explode. 

But I just sit still in my bedroom, with a pencil and paper and a computer and I stare and I stare and I stare, and I'm embarrassed that I even try.

But I still try. Because that's what we do.

And then I watch this and I cry and feel better.



Sunday, March 30, 2014

Thanks for the Shitty Genes


Hey you guys, guess what!

i can't fucking hear you

That's right! And if you're the type of person to be like "what?" and then smile all smug after someone tells you they don't hear well, you are a cock, and I hope you have not yet procreated (it's just not funny.) My hearing is BAD, an affliction plaguing almost all of my dad's side of the family, which actually makes sense as I'm sure it's just some deeply evolved genetic trait, the result of generations of West Virginia hillbillies avoiding mumbly small talk with other West Virginia hillbillies. The only person my relatives probably dealt with was some insane Baptist preacher, and if there's anything I remember about being forced to attend Sunday school every Easter of my childhood, it's that that dude was loud as all fuck. Definitely had no problem hearing him, not that I was listening.

baptist preacher
I really hope no one sees this, especially Jesus. 
It makes it really hard to be a less awkward, less socially anxious person than I already am, having to strain and focus on what everyone is saying, all the time. The fact that I have to focus on people's mouths, attempting to predict the sound as I watch teeth, tongue and lips form words, EVERY FUCKING WORD, definitely makes people just meeting me for the first few times noticeably uncomfortable, and then I can't stop being obsessed with the idea that everyone knows that psychopaths don't make eye contact, yet when I attempt to make eye contact in an attempt to assure them (me) that I am in fact, not criminally insane, I miss a word and get really flustered and just end up smiling and nodding like...well, like some kind of fucking psychopath, I guess. It's either that or they just assume I'm a mega-bitch who is way too cool and important to be bothered with the likes of them, which always blows me away because I'm just thinking you have no idea how many times in a row I watched that Black Eyed Peas video where they all flash mob Oprah. 


Dude, when I watch this video I'm like "I CAN FUCKING DO ANYTHING!!" mazel tov! 

I can't even begin to tell you (not literally, of course, I'VE ALREADY BEGUN, it's too late!!) how many time's I've been through this:

me: What's that?

person: (says words)

me: Um...I'm sorry, what?

person: (repeats words)

me: ...(twists head, nervous laughter) What?

person: (says word slowly and loudly, like what happens when you attempt to communicate with someone who doesn't speak your language, and then you feel wicked racist)

me: Oh (laughs), yeah! (silently praying you didn't just ask me a question)

It sucks so bad. It's so uncomfortable, not just for me, but everyone involved. I actually had a former client just walk away from me immediately following a similar encounter, just left me standing alone in her giant, marble foyer, feeling like the biggest piece of shit on Earth.

If we're in a large space we may as well be in a fucking cavern as the sound just immediately gets carried into the farthest corner of the room, leaving me with no other option but to run the fuck out of there, ASAP. If you're not facing me you might as well just start eating an entire bag of marshmallows because I ain't pickin up nothin back here. If we're at the movies and you feel the need to whisper something to me, let's please just play charades because at least this way one of us will be laughing at some point. If we're at a live show, or an ambulance blasting its sirens drives by, or we walk by a guy jack hammering concrete, or we have to be in any way discreet, or you're just a low-talker, JUST FUCKING TEXT ME, I promise I'm funnier on paper anyway.

In order to hear you we basically need to be in an otherwise silent room, 3 inches apart, with the lights on. Oh no, wait, there was that one time...

This one time I was fooling around with this guy I met at a bar, which is someplace I used to go to a lot when I still drank. So we were in his bed and getting really into it and I was like fuck me fuck me, and he kept saying something (but not fucking me) and I just assumed he was making some type of moany sex noises or saying some degrading shit that men sometimes say to women when they're getting ready to fuck them that I actually really enjoy so I was like, whatever. But it just kept going on for what felt like ten million years, which in wasted sex time was probably actually 45 seconds, and so finally I was like what is the fucking deal and he was like "I'm not gonna fuck you, I'm a virgin", and I was like WHUUUUUUUUUUUUUT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!! and he was like "yeah I told you like, three times."

And that's what happens when you can't hear.

Monday, March 17, 2014

Some More Things I Don't Really Understand


1. Ghosts. My roommate was convinced there was a ghost living in her bedroom. I don't even know where to begin on this one. First off, why are you hanging around a bedroom in Queens, ghost? Can't you be anywhere, like deep space or doing a food tour of Vietnamese street-cart food, what are you doing here? Was your life in this 2 bedroom apartment in this working class neighborhood so beyond anything you could have dreamed that you must insist on staying here? Do you miss the dull but throbbing bass of the neighbors shitty Reggaeton reverberating through the walls that much? Another thing, what's with you ghosts that are standing around giving people directions? I always read about supernatural experiences that people have had that will often end in "and when I told the guy at the desk that the groundskeeper at the gate told us where to go, he just replied "...but we haven't had a groundskeeper in 50 years..." ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? I don't even give people directions now and I'm alive AND I have an iPhone so you know that shit is easy as all hell, what are you doing pointing people to every far corner of a botanical garden on Staten Island, you are the lamest EVER! Finally, why is turning on the lights ghost repellent? I mean, I do it too, but if some paranormal force unbounded by the confines of a physical form is occupying your personal space, is the light bulb you paid too much for at Duane Reade really going to send it the message to stop fucking around? That Ghostbusters movie would have been like, 2 seconds long.

2. Female Reproductive Parts. I am so, so sorry, but I honestly don't know what anything other than the clit is, and the mons pubis, but only because mons pubis sounds like Olympus Mons, which sounds like a comic book villain and I think it's funny to think of someone possibly covered entirely in pubes, terrorizing some pussy-ass superhero like Superman or some shit. I just call the whole thing "vagina", which seems to be working for me. I feel really badly about this.

3. Apparently I'm Getting Smaller? I've gone through some (fairly) big changes in the past six or so months, and it's very natural for the human body to undergo change in the face of stress. While I'm forever grateful that I didn't end up caving and succumbing to the post-breakup head shave, my stress has managed to manifest itself in my body, more specifically, my weight. Being that my 5'3" body is the size of a fourth graders', and my bones are not actually bones but rather (unsalted) pretzel sticks, I tend to lose weight when stressed, and please PLEASE don't say something stupid right now-we all have body image issues and this is a big one for me, being shaped like a 13 year old boy is not a good look on anyone, not even a 13 year old boy, so just don't. Ahh, god dammit, I really want to go on and on about that body issues thing but that's another post all together FOCUS KRISSY, back to the smallness! But yeah, my boobs are gone, my ass is gone, and the other day the wind blew me into a pole like a fucking piece of litter, I got trapped in telephone lines with a bunch of stray bodega bags and had to issue an outgoing "RESCUE ME beep-beep-beep boop-boop-boop beep-beep-beep-beep" (<--- morse code) rescue-my-puny-ass, Tweet in order to be saved. Also, am I making the telephone lines thing up, are those still a thing? The wind did actually knock me into a pole but was it a telephone pole, like from the past? Anyhoodles, I don't get this smallness bullshit, my boobs now rest in my one and a half sizes too big bra like fucking mousetrap bait or something, this totally sucks! The worst part is that somehow my face and belly have managed to retain their natural roundness, because apparently my body thinks it's stranded in the Alps and has defaulted into survival mode, so now I just look like a snowman, minus the big beautiful snowman ass on the bottom.

snowman in the alps
I guess I could maybe not wear a top hat during this difficult time. 
4. Women Who Can Orgasm In Their Sleep. And I don't mean like "oooh, girl, I'm so good I can cum in my sleep" (snap!), I mean actual orgasming in their underpants while adrift somewhere within subconscious slumber. I've spoken with two women in the past few months who have admitted to being able to reach orgasm in their sleep. I have nowhere else to go on this one, this entire phenomenon just amazes me so much that I just immediately start craving Starbursts for some reason. Fuck, I cannot spend any more time thinking about it as I'm about 4 episodes from finishing the entire series of Curb Your Enthusiasm and I really want to have accomplished something this weekend.

5. Things Men Find Attractive. Obviously, physical attraction is what usually...attracts (uhhh, god, use a thesaurus) people to a potential partner. When you're telling a single friend about another single friend you may know, the game changes a bit and you have to offer other, secondary, "things in common" type information, because you're gonna need more than just "has blue eyes" if you actually want to get these two in a room together (although "has English accent" is typically enough for me, I'll fuck a guy just for the accent, and while I wish I could say I haven't already done that, I can't. On a directly related note, accented language is not a good indicator of dick-giving abilities--learned that one the hard way, literally.) Most women offer insights indicative of a man's character traits, such as "he volunteers at an animal shelter!" or "he's really good with kids!", suggesting that this guy is caring and friendly. Most of the men I know consider things like "I've seen her do shots with no chaser" and "she drives a stick" to be sexy, confirming my theory that men really will fuck anyone, which has probably worked out in my favor considering I am the least good-at-acting-sexy person I've ever met in my life.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

The Story of Montreal

Brain Montreal: OK we've somehow made it here from France by covered wagon, it's been like 70 million days, this HAS to be it!

Mrs. Brian Montreal: I don't know hun, it's still all green and, if I may mention one glaringly obvious oversight-there is no ocean here. 

covered wagon

Brian Montreal: Well it's warm as hell, and I am the man so this is California. It's just...it's California. 

Mrs. Brian Montreal: OK... (not OK)

One Week Later

Brian Montreal: See, what'd I tell ya honey, we're in fucking paradise! 

Mrs. Brian Montreal: Yeah...it's...that's a bit of a stretch, but it's nice. It is June though, can't wait to see how nice it is in six months, eh Brian?

Brian Montreal: (nervous laughter) Hey, is that a moose?! Is that two moose?! What's the plural for "moose"? Is it mice? No wait, duh...(nervous laughter)

6 months later(December)

Brain Montreal: But we just got everything unpacked!!

Mrs. Brian Montreal: I fucking knew this would happen. Well we got this in the mail today. Fuck. 

from San Diego

**I have nothing against Montreal, I've never even been there, I just had a conversation today that inspired this post. 

***Fucking Canada though, amiright? 

Monday, March 3, 2014

Cart Coffee

I had a completely different blog post planned but to be honest, I think it kind of sucks. I'm trying to post regularly (every Monday), yet always wait until 11:30 pm on Sunday to even start thinking about what I'm going to write, so when it doesn't end up being as amazingly hilarious as I always intend for it to be, I get really stressed out and hate myself for being such a piece of shit.

I had a terrible week, and here's why.

Last week I was pet sitting in Manhattan and the apartment I was staying in did not have a coffee maker, which would a yield devastating outcome. The first day I felt incredibly emotional and threatened by any and all passers-by on the street. I didn't have to give up coffee all together, I just had to go out and buy it, but I'm not used to having to walk into an establishment to order coffee BEFORE I'VE HAD ANY COFFEE, and my day always felt off because apparently I'd passed the point when its physical properties would work on my body, like when you stay up a little later after having taken Tylenol PM and then the buzz wears off you're like "oh fuck, that was the medicine, now I can't sleep at all..."

I actually have a very efficient system.

1. Set up coffee maker before bed.
2. Set alarm 45 minutes early.
3. Snooze through first "warning" alarm.
4. Wake up for second "prep" alarm ---> walk to kitchen ---> push button on coffee maker.
5. Go back to sleep for 15 minutes.
6. Wake up to third "for real" alarm, groggily set another "I'm serious" alarm for 15 minutes later to make up for interrupted sleep resulting from previous 5 steps.
7. Wake up to fresh, delicious coffee.

IT'S SO EASY!

Although equipped with many other amenities, the apartment I was staying in did not afford me this luxury. It was a cold, hard week. Then it got worse when I remembered I had an appointment with my gynecologist. At 9:00. IN THE MORNING! Ughhhh noooooooooo!!!!!

Since being somewhere at 9 is about 3 hours before I usually have to be anywhere on any given day, I woke up late (not surprised.) I had no choice but to grab a coffee from the donut cart right outside of her building. Let me begin by saying, this "coffee" is no coffee, there's no possible way it can be coffee as IT DOESN'T WORK! It doesn't do any of the things coffee is supposed to do, other than smell like coffee, kind of. I think what it actually is is coffee scented hummingbird food, just syrupy sugar water, heated to just a few degrees above warmish. It's placebo coffee. I quickly realized the error of my ways upon paying for said "coffee". It cost 75 cents. Seventy-five cents. Three quarters. Seven dimes and a nickel. COINS. I could have probably thrown him a shekel or a pence or some other value of currency that no longer exists and still gotten change back. 75 cents?! In NYC?! I think it costs more to use a pay phone. (I was going to make a list of things that cost more than 75 cents but quickly realized I would have to include every single thing that costs money on that list.)

Needless to say, it fucked me up for the rest of the day. Going to the gynecologist on no coffee is...exactly as horrible as it sounds. So many personal questions that I do not know the answer to, and also there's that whole "sticking things in my vagina that aren't a penis or even just a dildo, I guess", that really kind of made it not super fun. Even worse, no amount of coffee would work for me for the rest of the day, resulting in a total physical and emotional shutdown. I couldn't even eat, I tried to eat a buttered bagel but it felt the way it feels when you're coming down off acid and you know your body needs to ingest something other than cigarettes, but with each bite I could feel my entire nervous system working, and it became like some sort of existential crisis that left me pondering our temporal experience amidst this infinite continuum of space and time; a montage of children being birthed by candle light, and that time lapse video of rotting strawberries, then realizing that the moon gets to witness everything that's ever happened since the beginning of time OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M SO INSIGNIFICANT BUT I THINK I HAVE BUTTER AND POPPY SEEDS ON MY FACE, THOUGH, I hope no one is looking at me right now.

So basically, I just fucking love coffee so fucking much, and yes I would marry it if I could, smartass, and then we'd see who's laughing when my coffee husband dies and I inherit all the coffee in the world THE WORRRRRRLD!!!!!!!!

Monday, February 24, 2014

That Gandhi Quote


I'm sure many of you are familiar with the famous Gandhi phrase "Be the change you wish to see in the world." If you're on Facebook you've probably seen that girl from high school who's really into yoga now post a meme of it, and if you've ever been to rehab you've likely seen a poster with a picture of a sunset, adorned with the phrase in cursive. What many of you don't know, however, is how that very phrase eventually tore the Gandhi family apart. I already know this because I'm wicked smart, so allow me to impart this tiny bit of wisdom upon you.

So when Gandhi was a little kid, he used to be crazy fucking wise beyond his years, almost to the point of like, "oh my God, shut the FUCK UP." It was cute when he said it all winsome and sprightly during diaper changing time, but eventually, anytime anyone would mention changing anything, from changing a tire (not now, dammit!) to changing the channel, in Gandhi would chime with his favorite phrase.


Basically, no one could get anything done around this kid.

Gandhi was not an only child. His older brother, Randy, was often overlooked as "the quiet one", though many people just said that to excuse the fact that Randy was a complete idiot. Being older, it was often assumed that Randy would gently guide his younger brother, offering practical lessons obtained through additional years of life experience, but when your little brother is a political revolutionary, hearing things like "if you wanna drink all night, you're gonna have to barf, you need to make room, it's just like, a fact..." typically went unappreciated.


Despite his somewhat obnoxious habit of stating his favorite phrase at every chance, as Gandhi grew older he ended up being pretty cool. He was super laid-back, strong in his convictions yet never violent, and, although a strict vegetarian, was never "all preachy about it." And don't think Randy didn't notice, oh boy did Randy ever notice, but being his quiet self, and also being his idiot self, he stood by a silent observer, always stewing in his resentment.

"I'll be the change you wish to see IN YOUR FACE...when I punch your face. Fucking stupid Gandhi", Randy would think to himself, idiotically.

He hated that "be the change you wish to see in the world" quote so fucking much.

Years went by and Randy continued to play second fiddle to his cocky (in Randy's opinion) younger brother. He couldn't do anything without hearing about how awesome Gandhi was. He was becoming anxious to make a name for himself.

But what would Randy do?

What did Randy have to offer?

What was the change that Randy wished to see in the world?

(If Randy heard me say that he would totally flip shit.)

And that's when it hit him. Literally. As if right out of a cartoon or possibly some ridiculous blog post that not many people are reading, Randy got hit with a stickball stick just as the hitter swung back, losing his grip, sending it flying straight into Randy's face. His nose was badly broken, but unbeknownst to him, his life was just beginning.

The break required major reconstructive surgery, and Randy's face was changed forever.

(can you feel where this is going?)

Incredibly motivated by the positive reactions of his classmates, peers, and parents, Randy decided to devote his life to plastic surgery, and became a cosmetic surgeon, which wouldn't have torn the family apart, had it not been for this:


Fucking Randy.

Monday, February 17, 2014

My First Love

It might have been the Valentine's Day that I spent 8 hours watching Millionaire Matchmaker (not exaggerating, EIGHT HOURS. If I had a real job that's how long I would have spent working. I would have been federally required to take two 15 minute, and one 30 minute lunch break in the time I spent sitting around, eating Chipotle and watching this show), or it might have been that his birthday was last week, always reminding me of our short amount of time spent together. I usually try to refrain from mentioning the names of people I've dated, mostly because I'm worried that it could be construed as 1. exploitation, or 2. obscene amounts of shit-talking, but I felt like I had to share this story. I have to share it because it is one of the more beautiful things to ever happen in my life, and as I sit here and recount the details that made it true, I kind of still can't believe that it actually happened to me.

When I was 15, I felt really badly about myself. My mother and I did not get along at all (to put it mildly) and because of that there was A LOT of tension and screaming and smacking and crying at home. I was a mixed-race kid in a predominantly white town, terribly socially awkward, and easily the least attractive of the few girl friends I did have. I had always had crushes on boys growing up, but by this point I had actually kind of given up on ever being with anyone (15! I was fucking 15!!) based on my experiences (read: nothing. I had zero experience with boys other than smoking bongs and playing Bond with a few good dudes that I still consider my friends to this day.) But I mean, no romantic shit happening, at all. Not even kissing, not even holding hands, not even on the playground in 2nd grade.

So I had this friend named Mike, and he had this older brother named Harry, and Harry was basically the coolest motherfucker on the planet of my high school. Black hair, blue eyes, raspy voice. Mountain Dew, Newports, and a ZERO board he rode everywhere; so pretty much, 15 year old girl fantasy come to fruition. And of course I crushed on him like some of my other friends crushed on him, but I never really thought anything of it as I was convinced I had been rendered invisible to the opposite sex.

Then one day something happened, and it changed my life in a lot of ways.

I remember going out to the "movies" (smoking weed...somewhere? Behind a mall or some other such suburban-something?) and coming home pretty late, around midnight. My mom mentioned that someone had called, a boy, and that he said his name was Harry. The fact that my mom sometimes has a hard time understanding English, compounded with the fact that I was baked out of my fucking mind, left me confused and...just really confused. I didn't actually know this kid, we had never spoken before that point. So I did what people did in the 90's when they needed information, I consulted the phone book (it's a book with ALL THE PHONE NUMBERS OF EVERYONE!!! BRILLIANT!!), and right there in the C's; the number to his parent's home. I'm not sure what compelled me to call him back, at midnight, this essential stranger, but it's one of the few times in my life where "fuck it" actually worked out in my favor. But back to the original point: this kid just called me because he felt like calling me! The balls on this dude! Balls doesn't even sufficiently describe what it takes to accomplish something like that, putting yourself out there despite all kinds of self-conscious, self-defeating bullshit your brain convinces you will leave you humiliated, ultimately resulting in you shutting the fuck up about everything and never really taking a chance on anything. God dammit! When I look back on this I'm naturally thinking "Well, he was 15, you can take chances like that when you're 15..." but why does it have to stop there?! Being 15 and having nothing to lose is, in an emotional context, no different than being 32 and having nothing to lose (in an emotional context. I'm well aware I don't have the freedom to say "fuck you" and run away from a world of burned bridges, anymore.) I feel like I could look back on any year prior to the year I'm in now and be like "I should have done that when I was that age." DAMN.

Anyhow, we talked for almost four hours on the phone that night. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but we immediately realized that our shared love for Drew Barrymore and The Adventure's of Pete and Pete was enough to render our 15 year old hearts compatible, and, for the first time in my life, I got to experience what love feels like.

I was young, and so, so happy, and didn't feel like a disgusting alien for the first time in my life, and it was fucking awesome.

Harry introduced me to punk rock. He made me a Descendents tape, introduced me to every Dead Kennedys record ever created, and made out with me to an Iron Maiden cassette he had stolen from Coconut Records (how fucking cool is this kid?!) We stole joints from my step mom and smoked them on my back porch late at night. We stole booze from wherever booze was located and got shitfaced and vomited out of passenger windows. He would steal his parents Suburban and drive, illegally, to sneak into my room, and my God it seems like a lot of our time spent together involved stealing and being sneaky about shit but I promise you it was (slightly) more wholesome than that.

It lasted 6 months. Or maybe 4. When you're 15, it doesn't really matter, it feels like it couldn't possibly end. I never realized until now that, although I spent so much of my younger years waiting impatiently to get older and move the fuck out of my hometown, that I have never really been able to more enjoy living in the moment than I did when I was 15 and in love for the first time. A lot of people have someone they've set as their "Standard", comparing everyone else they date to that one person, but Harry was honestly incomparable. When you're 15 and you live at home, and don't have a job or bills, and can get away with pairing corduroys AND a tube top, you're essentially living in fantasy land, and when you get to share some time with someone awesome who wants to make out with you, that's pretty much impossible to beat. He was funny, and beautiful, and he had a giant trampoline. And he liked me, and made me feel likable for the first time.

When I think of our time spent together I think of perfectly untouched, just fallen snow.

He was my first kiss, my first love, and my first heartbreak. I totally identify with you, Justin Bieber song that was famous before I knew who the fuck Justin Bieber was. Except I would totally be the Ludacris part.

                (I saw Bridget Everett cover it at Joe's Pub a few years ago. Way better.)

We had a falling out over our break-up, then reconciled almost 6 years later, somewhat keeping in touch, yet each of us just a little too fucked up to create any real friendship at that point.

He left the way many of my friends have: tragically, and far too soon. While it makes me sad, I know that there were many other people who knew him better than I did in the later years of his life, and it pains me to think how much they must miss him, because I know that someone like that was one in a million, and I know how hard it is to keep living without those special people we meet along the way.

So thank you, Harry, for everything. You are missed.