Twenty Somethings

When Did You Realize That Everything Before You Now, Was A Choice, Then?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:30:00 +0000

Choosing what you want to do, and when to do it, is an act of creation

~ Peter McWilliams

And suddenly, it dawned on me, I could choose.

It's a little distressing that someone had to remind me of the miraculous phenomenon that is the ability to choose, everything and anything, 1000 times a day, but thank god they did. Because I had forgotten. Stress, life responsibilities, deadlines, alarm clocks and guilt had been working overtime to erase the knowledge that all this shit, all these things I did or didn't do, were almost always my own handiwork.

I've spent that last 24 hours repeating "I choose" in my head. "I choose to get up 10 minutes early." "I choose be pissed about the amount of snow on my car." "I choose to ruminate over this thing that is in the past and therefore impossible to change." It's remarkable. All this choosing, every day, and all the ways I want to transfer blame for this thing I, and I alone, do.

There are beings -- many, many people -- who are unable to take part in this awesome exercise because of where they live or who they are or what race / gender / religion has been bestowed upon them. The more I whisper "I choose," the more I realize how I've wasted this gift, day in and day out, because of small, mundane experiences that definitely do not include the penalty of torture or death.

Are you one of the blessed ones who's able to do all this magic choosing?

Goddamn. We're lucky.

Dance Like Everybody is Watching. With Mirrors On All Sides

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 16:30:00 +0000

“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore”
~ Andre Gide

I think it's fair to say that I cannot, cannot, dance. I can do this thing where I drink three shots of tequila and then sort of hallucinate I'm on So You Think You Can Dance, but once the liquor wears off it becomes apparent that I have just run drunken laps around the bar with my hands in the air like a maniac. I love the idea of dancing - I watch all the shows, entertain fantasies about quitting life and spending 8 hours a day learning how to crump - but at 28 years old, I realize I'll probably always be relegated to the tequila squat and thrust.

This doesn't mean, however, I won't spend 2 hours a week attempting to reverse fate.

Because recently? I've started taking a dance class. A friend teaches this class - otherwise I would have never, in a trillion years, set foot into a room surrounded by mirrors - and what started as a one time experience has turned into a weekly lesson in embarrassment management.

Not only are there mirrors on every single wall, there are actual dancers in this class. Like, people who shake their ass in their sleep and do ball-changes in the shower. They wear Flashdance-esque shirts and are always turning left when I'm going right. They see something once and repeat it like they choreographed it themselves. They add flair.

And me? I'm in the back. In the corner. Staring at the person in front of me and desperately trying to figure out how to fucking pivot in the right direction. I'm stepping on my own feet. Blowing my hair out of my eyes and trying to sexily walk toward the front mirror without bursting into howls of laughter. I mean, I can be sexy, but when you add specific steps to specific hip-shakes, I think, for the most part, I am the opposite of that.

So most of the time I'm messing up my right and my left and avoiding crushing someone else's toes, but every once in a while, once every blue moon over Buffalo, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and am surprised: I am actually not sucking.

As soon as this information reaches my brain I start sucking again, but that glimmer, that millisecond of understanding that I actually could learn how to do this, changes the way my cells and blood and even spirit cycle around in my body.

Just a moment of realizing you could possibly do this one thing that seems so out of your reach unlocks the possibility that all other things that seemed out of reach might also be possible.

It's a fleeting moment, a moment that usually disappears the minute I fuck up again, but its echo is powerful enough to stay with me for the rest of the night - and bring my back to the class, week after uncoordinated week.

What I Am - And Successfully Mastering The Fine Art of Staying The Eff Away From Pie

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 14:00:00 +0000

I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught

~ Winston Churchill

When I'm feeling less than spectacular, I tend to engage in an activity where I tell myself all the things I'm not. Not successful. Not a super athlete. Not rich. Not in a relationship...I'm good at it. Someone should give me a medal. Or at least one of those vague Dollar Store trophies where the gold guy is just sort of standing around and which can be used for anything from being awesome at bowling to having the most team spirit.

This activity serves a purpose: to make me feel even worse about myself and keep me from changing anything about my life that would make it better.

I've been here before. It happens a lot in the winter - I came out of the womb wanting sunshine and warmth and hot guys without shirts (I was a special baby, obviously), and I can always count on a double dose of it during quiet career spells - when my hopes and dreams seem to bounce off empty white walls.

Because I've already lived through this bullshit, multiple times, I've decided to stop bitching and take a step froward. I'm tired of feeling like my life is a victim of my current state of mind, or my current city, or my current bank account. Instead of all these I'm Nots, there are I Ams:

I Am a screenwriter. No, Michael Bay has not produced anything of mine and I don't routinely polish my oscar with tender rag strokes, but those things simply don't have any barrings on the truth. At 28, with minimal health care, a small amount of savings and two degrees that are now literally collecting dust, if I could have chosen another passion, I would have. I tried to force myself to love math, psychology, politics...anything that would save me from the life I seemed destined for - but nothing took. Especially not math. Sadly.

I Am athletic. As a chubby, bashful kid constantly attached to a pair of bifocal glasses, I don't think I ever imagined classifying myself this way. But people grow up, buy a pair of glasses that fit their damn face and learn to push themselves. My biggest fear has always been doing agility drills in front of other people because don't we all remember the hell that was high school gym class? Jesus. But in the past year I've muscled up, learned how to do push-ups, and even started taking classes at the gym that are pure agility drills. I still wouldn't classify myself as an athlete (don't you have to have branded spandex for that?), and there are times when trying to keep up with the true marathon women amp up the possibility of barfing to an exceptionally high level, but slowly watching my body transform has been one of the proudest achievements of my 20's.

I Am sensitive. I think I've been running from this one for years, but it's easier just to admit it. If you're in a bad mood, unsettled, stressed, hiding something - I know. If you think you're fooling me, you're not. If you get angry in my general direction, I hate it, and think about it for days afterward. If you break my heart, I'll never forget, no matter how much I try. I feel pain at a weirdly intense level and am easily exhausted by crowds. The mistreatment of kids or animals sends me into a Hulk-like rage. I like solitude, and my skin really isn't that thick. I've tried to hide all these things at one point or another with some lame act that includes running and slamming doors when I might cry in front of other people, but enough is enough. It's not like I'm growing out of it any time soon. Might as well make a shirt and wear it.

When I start living in a world where I Am and stop idling in I'm Not, I take more chances, get up and do more things, talk myself out of pie binges and Snapped (a show about women freaking out and killing people) marathons. External situations don't always change, but my determination quotient goes up -- and determination can be a powerful thing.

I may wake up with a familiar boredom and still feel slightly unfulfilled tomorrow, but at least I'm fighting it.

And staying the fuck away from pie.

She Wanted to Run to Bali, But Instead, She Set Her Jaw and Stayed

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 20:48:00 +0000

“Supposing you have tried and failed again and again. You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing that we call "Failure" is not the falling down, but the staying down”
~ Mary Pickford

I'm currently seeing the world in a bright shade of dull.

As much as I believe we make our own mood, our own happiness, I'm fully aware that sometimes life just...goes. There doesn't seem to be anything to really look forward to. Waking up every morning, staring at the ceiling, wondering what would happen if you just quit your job and took off to Bali or Barbados or, at the very least, the Bahamas.

While plans for the future remain bubbly, the Here and Now is kind of suffocating. And when this happens, every single time this happens, I get sensitive. I daydream, I meditate for more than 45 minutes at a time, I look over my shoulder and I most certainly listen.

I tune in to other people, hoping to glean something from our interaction that will point me in the right direction, or at least point to what I'm doing wrong. It's like my cells get bigger, my already sensitive sensitivity increases and every little word, every breeze, every sad dog commercial (why are those things so long?!) hit me at my core, forcing me to feel, pause, ask: what's going on here? Is this where I'm supposed to be? What is this all about, anyway?

Conflict - if and when it arises, sits on my chest even harder during these uninspired days. It sinks a little farther under my skin because there's no But-It'll-All-Get-Better-Soon! protective covering. In other words, I ruminate like a champ.

The other day at work I did a slightly stupid thing. One of those underpaid and overworked decisions that isn't a super big deal in the real world, but when you're dealing with people who make millions of dollars a year, suddenly it's kind of like you firebombed the building. So I made one of those and got a lashing from someone I had considered a friend. I hate being yelled at, castrated in front of other people (my pride is the biggest part of my body), and when you add in the element of someone you like kicking your ass, it just sucks. It sucked all day, in fact. Into the evening.

At a certain point my rational mind had had enough, so I sat down with my shivering, sensitive self and worked shit out. What I realized, huddled in a sweatshirt pulled down over my feet, was that I actually didn't care as much as I thought I did. I was feeling the memory, not the real sensation, of caring about this person's random freak-out. Holy hell, I thought. Has the day really come when other people's shit isn't absorbed straight through my pores and into my heart?

It had.

Even in my ultra-delicate state, the fact glowed a neon red: I was over it.

Because I had never expected to not feel such a thing in my lifetime, the realization took a little time to settle, but once it did, I was more relieved than when I realized my parents had given up their quest to scan all the "chubby stage" pictures from my childhood and post them on Facebook.

I don't know when the inspiration will come back, when I'll figure out how to release the pause button on my life, but at least I know that even during these dim moments, these weeks that feel so automatic pilot and repetitive, progress can be made. Progress can always be made, I think. Even when life doesn't seem to be going anywhere, our minds soak up and our bodies process and our subconscious learns. We can ignore it, of course. But what's the point in that?

...And, wouldn't you know, a day after this particular person who freaked their shit, they sent me an email of Michelle Bachman going after a corn dog like she was about to give the best blow job she had ever given. Enemies don't send each other photos of crazy politicians about to perform oral sex on a slab of meat - that's a friend's job.

"I'm going to have nightmares," I typed. "You asked for it," they typed back.

And I guess I did.

2011 Wasn't So Bad, Kind Of Like Under-Cooked Broccoli, Which is Good For You, If Not A Little Difficult To Actually Swallow

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000

“Courage allows the successful woman to fail

and learn powerful lessons

from the failure

so that in the end

she didn't fail at all”
~ Maya Angelou

As I was cleaning my room this morning (dusting my countless shelves and getting severely freaked out at the amount of dirt I live with on a daily basis) I came across a list of things I wanted 2011 to bring. Ha ha ha.

The end of 2010 had me making big wishes. I wanted some payback from the shitty 365 days I felt I had just experienced. I deserved this and that, and certainly wasn't about to spend the entirety of 2011 alone. So I made this list of desires, rolled it up into a little scroll, tied it with string, and set it in a box with incense and "magic" stones and a bunch of other shit I had been convinced to buy at some point in order to change my life. When I unrolled it this morning, the childishness of some of those wishes struck me.

If life is a progression toward knowledge, than a true sign you're doing it right is to cringe at certain things you were sure of in the past. I cringe a lot at my past incarnations - probably more than I should (every other month I desperately want to erase 75% of this blog), but it was strange to be holding a piece of green paper that was only a year old and already feeling like it was an ancient relic.

A lot changed this year, but most of it was inaudible. Like a silent tsunami, it quietly but forcefully cleared away stuff I thought I needed, thought I wanted, and clung to just for the hell of it. It wasn't exactly fun at all times -- picking yourself apart and then putting yourself together, if only for a brief moment in your current timeline - is painful shit. It's lonely. It's exhausting. And the examination process can be relentless.

There were no men to distract me. Literally. Never have I had a year so bereft of the hot, male species. If you would have told my 25-year-old self I would soon experience a year where men ceased to take up large portions of my brain, I would have probably melted into a pile of disbelieving tears. But it was actually fine. Especially because what I had been yearning for for years can't truly come from another person anyway. I have no idea how long this aloneness will continue, but I can't say I'm scared. Loneliness doesn't last.

There were no giant career success to distract me either. I got farther than ever before in some ways, but alas, the major wins and signed contracts were not handed to me. Instead, I watched them slip between my fingers, shook off what simply couldn't be changed and only stress-ate half a box of chocolate fudge cookies. I wanted to quit writing just once or twice. A lack of sore losing sobs and chocolate overdoses is a marked improvement for someone who used to take every "no" like a personal punch in the face.

It sounds boring, 2011. Quiet and plodding a little bit repetitive. It was, in certain ways, but 2011 was also a game changer. I'll never be the same, my thinking will be forever altered, and I've found a way to love a body and a mind that have plagued me since I was old enough to know I was born imperfect.

I don't think I'll be making any wishes for 2012 (except for the one I make every night involving Ryan Gosling and a hot tub), because most wishes are wastes of time. They're unfilled desires, paper-thin and pointless. What I will do, however, is live as fully and as capably and as gratefully as I can - without gripping the outcome in a chokehold.

I will be deliberate in the new year.

Loving, open, determined, spirited and ready.

I will not hope for a good 2012 -- I will be part of the process of creating it.

How about you?

Happy Holidays From 1997! A Seasonal Video Blog Including Josh Groban + Male Strippers

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000

"Well, there are lots of great treats this time of year - Zucchini Bread, Fruitcake.. but the thing that I most like to bring out this time of year are my Balls"
~ Pete Schweddy

The holidays have been written about, and written about, and written about.

So my bosom buddy Maria and I decided we would discuss -- as in, jump on iChat one Friday night when the rest of the world was fist pumping and doing shots of marshmallow-flavored Vodka (because it unfortunately exists) -- the holidays; perhaps chatting about our favorite Christmas carols or our favorite holiday films or maybe even a show and tell of some of the best gifts we've ever received.

And then I drank one (one!) beer and Maria got drunk through osmosis.
And we ended up with what you're about to watch.

{Note: something is definitely wrong with my Internet connection. So wrong that my screen frequently makes it look as though I'm wearing wax make-up that is slowly melting all over my face. We debated about putting this video up for mass consumption, because of how shitty the quality was, and I guess we drank another beer and decided the sheen of 1997 dial-up made it even...funnier? Weirder? Sadder?)

Someday we'll fix the quality

and / or get our own VH1 show.

(ps: our lip syncing was so much better in real time than it looks here.
We can lip sync like Milli Vanlli: so good you'll give us a recording contract)

All I Want For Christmas Is A Successful Career, A Hot Husband & Doughnuts That Won't Make Me Fat

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000

“That's the thing with magic. You've got to know it's still here, all around us, or it just stays invisible for you”
~ Charles de Lint

The best thing about being a kid at Christmas (besides the obvious gift gluttony), was sitting next to our nonsensically decorated tree, listening to my mom's Christmas records -- I swear to you we had a record player in the late 80s -- and building lincoln log houses underneath the twinkling lights and amid the fresh scent of pine needles. It was like being in another universe - one where only good things and good smells and good cheer existed.

(This is before we transitioned to a fake tree because my Dad was so goddamned sick! of the real thing falling over and almost crushing our cat and shattering tiny ornaments into so many pieces that dangerously small shards of glass speckled our living room for days.)

As a big believer in magic, Christmas seemed like the absolute best time for wishes to come true - espescially for 8-year-old girls who were already so full of Catholic guilt that the worst thing they had done in recent memory was sneak a gingerbread cookie before dinner. I mean, Santa came out at Christmas. A huge old man who delivered presents all over the world in one single night. If that wasn't fucking magic, nothing was.

December still has its magic moments, but obviously, 20 years later, some of the sparkle has leaked out. It's just how life goes; you grow up, realize Santa's handwriting is an exact replica of your mom's, panic because you hardly have enough money to buy gifts, and ready yourself for the bombardment of questions regarding your dating / baby status for five consecutive days. Even with the added benefit of spiking your eggnog with as much rum as you want, there's nothing joyous about realizing how much shit you're being served by Big Businesses who just want you to BUY giant TVs and giant diamonds while millions of people all over the earth can hardly afford 2 meals a day.

Despite the stressful, sugary consumer coating, I still enjoy the spirit of Christmas. It's just...sometimes I wonder how many more single, not-quite-doing-the-job-I-want holidays are going to go by. Obviously I'd like this to be the last one, but there's only so much control a girl's got - sometimes she just has to defer to Santa. Or little baby Jesus. Or Hallmark. Or Halliburton. ...Or whoever really controls this holiday.

Sometimes she just has to make a wish on magic that may or may not still exist.

For now, I guess I'll just be grateful for other joys: like parents who still secretly put presents out on Christmas morning, five dollar buckets of 100 tiny candy canes, and an excuse to wear an exorbitant amount of sequins for a month.

What do you want this year?

And what do you already have?

Just Another Chance For My Life To Completely Change - Or Not

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 14:00:00 +0000

“Do not lose hold of your dreams or aspirations. For if you do, you may still exist but you have ceased to live”
~ Henry David Thoreau

When you've still yet to have your break

- the moment Hollywood realizes you've been knocking at their door for like 5 years, in the rain, without an umbrella, and finally lets you in -

You learn that concentrating too hard on contests, or a producer getting back to you, or an agent deciding they like your work enough to not use it as a napkin during taco Wednesday, will make you insane. If you focus on these things, your brain will begin to melt through your nose, and when bad news comes, you will have to be forcibly removed from the wine bottle and an incoherent weekend marathon of Law and Order: SVU.

Of course, waiting and hoping is all part of the game, just like rewriting and (ugh disgusting) shmoozing, but if you make the subjective decision part of this art too big of a focus, you will yank your hair out trying to write what you think other people want. And we all know how that turns out: fucking awful.

But. Okay. But - every once in a while? I pay attention. Maybe I count down the days until a specific production company emails me back, or cross out the months until a big contest announces its finalists, because these situations are different than the rest. These situations? Could literally turn my life around and my dreams into a tangible job.

In a few weeks, I'll find out if I'm part of the 2012 Screenwriting Lab at Sundance, a week-long summit in January where writers and directors and other important people actually look you in the face and say, "hey, let me help you turn this script of yours into actually something."

There are only two rounds of decisions. I made it past the first round. I got the email and flipped my shit and screamed into the phone at my Dad and poured myself a victory whiskey sour and maybe (but I can't verify) listened to a Britney Spears song 15 times in a row. And then I tried to forget about it. But of course you don't forget about something with the word Sundance in it. And so now I know that I have about 15 days before my life changes - or it doesn't.

I don't need to write about what would happen to my voice and my blood pressure and my world if I actually won. Whatever. We all know the answers to that. But if I don't win? I mean, life will go on. I'll probably be sad for a little while, only because I've been a bridesmaid so many times I could literally string my Almosts and Maybes across the state of Colorado, but then I'll get over it. I have to. Even if I want to quit writing for a day, or a week, after the announcement, I can't actually quit. Twelve years of hard work would gurgle down the drain. And my identity would be much vaguer, and my life would be emptier.

I'm good at preparing for What Will Probably Happen (as opposed to What I Want To Happen), and so I've already got a plan of how I'll pick myself after I have a heart-stopping moment of complete and utter life despair. These moments are familiar. They pass. Because they have to. Or else I buy a one-way ticket to Barbados and no one ever hears from me again.

But, god, what if by some magical, Ryan Gosling moment of beauty, I can finally realize what it feels like to not need the Emergency Despair Repair kit?

I'd probably just throw up.

Right then and there. Immediately.

Just open my mouth up and barf, all saucer-eyed and confused, like a baby.

And it will be awesome.

Thanksgiving + Hot Dudes = Naked Thanksgiving 2011 (a Video Blog)

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 04:00:00 +0000

I don't always like to do what other people are doing.

Which is why this Thanksgiving, I'm not talking about turkey or being bloated.

Instead, we'll be discussing hot men.

"Is there anything that could improve a holiday dedicated to food?" I asked my good friend Maria a few nights back while we were both Facebook chatting and drinking wine. "There is one thing," she typed. "WHAT?!" I couldn't imagine. "Hot Dudes. Naked. Eating Thanksgiving dinner with you."

The image stunned me. She was right.

When I told her that we would be dedicating my second video blog to this very thing, she suggested that we drink wine first, because wine always makes one feel funnier. Does it actually make one funnier? I guess you'll be the judge of that.

One word of caution: apparently, Maria and I tolerate our alcohol very differently. She gets quiet, and her voice gets all sexy. I get loud and odd. You may want to adjust your computer's volume accordingly. No, really. Turn me down. Save your ears.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

I Will Never Wear My Underwear LIke Her, And It's Okay

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Who knows what started it:

Maybe I ate too many carbs at lunch. Maybe my stomach is angry that I keep sucking it in every time that hot computer guy walks by. Maybe I no longer have any idea whether I'm a normal weight or not because in one store I'm a size 2 and in the next I can barely squish my ass into a size 6. Or maybe I've read one too many articles about celebrities giving in to some pre-determined falsity of beauty.

Whatever the case, I am pissed.

I'm so fucking angry that day in and day out, I think about my body image. I hate that somewhere inside my mind there's a secret trapdoor that houses all sorts of thoughts about attaining a type of thinness which will never be comfortably possible for me. I can't stand that my immediate reaction to Victoria Secret commercials is envy, and then my second is shame. Shame? That I don't have the proportions a naturally tall and thin woman who admittedly has to starve herself anyway has? I might as well envy a Unicorn. Or a diamond ring. Or a diamond Unicorn. Or something else as equally beautiful and equally as impossible for me to ever be.

We all know it's a lie, talk about how it's a lie, create entire movements based on how it's a lie, and yet, most of us, somewhere deep down, kind of actually believe the lie. Even as we shout from the rooftops about the lie, we take notes on how to follow it.

I dream about a day when I'm secure enough in my opinions, thankful enough to my body, that I no longer secretly believe in complete bullshit. Maybe it will come with age, or with certain accomplishments, or a marriage to my soulmate Mr. Ryan So-Hot-He'll-Burn-Your-Face Gosling - but honestly, that moment can't come soon enough.

Asking the entire country to change its opinions isn't what I'm talking about. That sort of things takes decades, and I don't have that kind of time. I want the person I see in the mirror every morning to change her mind. In the end, she's the only one who matters.

Someday I'm going to be old, and then later I'll die, and the idea that I've wasted literal years of my life worrying about a young, healthy body and how it could be (impossibly) better makes me super annoyed at myself. I want to be healthy and strong but being those things isn't the same as being a supermodel. I will never be a supermodel. Never. Not in this life. They say never say never but I think in this case, never is the healthiest word I could utter to myself.

There are things in this life I can and want to change.

And then there are things which will never budge.

Which makes the most sense to worry about?

(Note: I will gladly accept free Victoria Secret underwear and bras for mentioning them in this blog. I enjoy sparkles, lace and the type adorned with priceless jewels)

Is It Just Me, Or Do Those Lions and Tigers Over There Look Super Hungry?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 01:16:00 +0000

“It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways."
~ the Buddha

Desire is a tricky word. It sounds nice, but in actuality, it sucks. Even the Buddha thinks it sucks. In fact, desire is one of his main detractors from a beautiful life. You can't desire and also live peacefully.

That means most of us are never going to reach enlightenment - especially in the US.
Desire is all we do here. Desire for more. Desire for other. For anything, really, that what we don't currently have.

I am supremely guilty of desire. I probably spend about 10% of my day wanting shit. A relationship, more money, fame, a house on the beach, a dog, to not look fat in photographs, the ability to stop my face from turning a weird shade of red when exercising...most of my thoughts gravitate toward the stuff I don't or could never have. It's pure masochism. And it's so weird, because I can shut it down - I just choose not to.

Sure, society doesn't make it easy ("you've been single for 18 months? What's wrong with you? ...No, really, you should get that checked out"), but ultimately, I can choose what to feel and what not to feel. I can refuse to feel like a loser when I walk around town on a Friday afternoon, dodging couple after couple, or watching one more I'm Engaged!!!! photo explosion happen on Facebook. I can refuse to feel untalented as studio after studio requests to read my work and then greets me with silence. I can sit in front of a mirror in pink underwear with hearts (is there any other kind?) and NOT feel like I could lose 10 pounds. I could do all of this. But most of the time, I let myself take the easy way out. Self-hatred is so much more familiar than empowerment.

I think a lot of people are here these days. Self-hatred, self-annoyance, feeling worthless or broke or fat or lame...so many of us in our late 20's and early 30's are questioning our lives in a way that only late 20-somethings and early 30-somethings stuck in a stagnant economy can, and what we're coming up with, isn't pretty.

Desire will fuck you up, especially when coupled with self-hate. Those two bitches are mean by themselves, but get them together, and you've got happiness Armageddon.

What gives me comfort though, and why I write when I feel at my most loserish, is that this fight isn't just between me and my individual flaws. We're all here. We're all facing the lion of Desire and the tiger of Self-Hate in a Colosseum together, kind of like that Russel Crowe movie where Russell Crowe was a Roman slave and not yet out of shape and into throwing phones. We can help each other. Through whatever medium works, through whatever actions are available to us. We might as well. Because we're all here together, and nobody's getting out without a lion bite or two.

I write because I want to do my part in helping other people out of the Colosseum. It makes sense to me and feels important. So even when I want to grab my laptop in both hands and smash it over my own head, or cry in an ugly pile of tears and sweat and 2 week old pajamas, I still keep at it. Because what the hell else am I going to do? Give up?

And when you write about your own lion fights, or talk to me about them, or do an angry dance in your room alone while screaming your rage out to Justin Bieber, it does immeasurable good. Because then I know I'm not alone, and I can stop wishing to be tall and thin and a millionaire, at least for a little while, because there are other people just like me out there and they're still alive, still finding ways to be happy - all without a mansion with a completely useless elevator or Brad Pitt as a husband.

I have this feeling that my family thinks I've turned into some kind of spiritual preacher - and they roll their eyes when I get on my soapbox and jab my fork in their direction, but it's only because I'm so passionate I could pass out over this: we. are. all. in. it. together -- so therefore, we. can. all. fight. as. one.

The unhealthy Desires and Self-Hates that glare at you at night - let them out of their cages.

Right now.

I promise to stand next to you.

...especially if you happen to be holding a candy bar.

Low-Fi Halloween Hijinks and also Stripper Shoes - Video Blog #1

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 02:12:00 +0000

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

My most memorable Halloweens were the Halloweens

spent in New York City in my mid-20's.

They're memorable because I can't remember them.

My roommate and partner in these remarkably crazy nights, Ms. Maria, is still a friend (which is saying a lot, considering our apartment was the size of most people's garages and got so little sunlight I would have to check the weather online before I could get dressed), and one hell of a funny lady. I've been hemming and hawing over the idea of a video blog for some time, and since I have such a hard time listening to myself talk (my voice is so loud and abrasive to my own ears), I decided that featuring her in my very first video extravaganza would be exactly what the drunk slutty doctor ordered.

Please note:

* The quality is shit. My internet connection is from 1998

* That loud buzzing noise in the background of the entire video is actually the sound my computer makes all the time.

* I'm not sure if what you're about to watch is actually entertaining.

"Hey Girl, Your Loneliness Makes Me Cry A Crystal Tear of Hotness"

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 02:35:00 +0000

“I think it's more interesting to see people who don't feel appropriately. I relate to that, because sometimes I don't feel anything at all for things I'm supposed to, and other times I feel too much. It's not always like it is in the movies.”

~Ryan Gosling

"Anyone special in your life?"

It's a familiar gauntlet, one that, no matter how many times I prepare myself, always makes me feel like an idiot as I stumble, trip and land on an answer that's as lame as it is brief.

"Not Really."

AKA, no.

I can tell the next question they want to ask. They pause for a second and then jump to a proactive spin on the situation, letting it die out of respect, but I know it's on the tip of their tongue anyway:

Why?

Fuck me if I have any idea.

It's obvious why some people on this earth are still single. Sociopaths, drama queens, bitter baggage-carriers that want to hate you before the first kiss - I mean, it makes sense why these people can't find a date. And yet - most of them still do. Even death row inmates land hot girlfriends. Throughout history, serial killer after serial killer has found themselves a partner. These are people who literally butcher other people. And they're still out on Friday night. While I'm watching Dateline, at home, pouring honey bourbon into my tea.

Most days I don't feel bad for being single. I don't feel weird that I'm attracted to about .3% of the men I see on a daily basis (Ryan Gosling, this does not pertain to you. I've seriously loved you for a decade). I'm not worried that casual dating makes me cringe or even that I watch Dateline on Friday nights (how else would I know about all these serial killers with girlfriends?). But then someone asks me a question -- "dating anyone?" "When are you going to get back out there?" -- and most of my confidence cracks, threatening to shatter open.

I don't have answers.

At this point, I know what I want, what I won't settle for and how many years I've got before I start wearing curlers in my hair everywhere I go and pray to a shrine of some washed up actor who was hot when I was a nubile young thing (Ryan Gosling?). A relationship does not make or break a life, but when you've been without something beautiful for so long, you start to forget that you have emotions besides frustration after you spill mushroom soup on your beige pants.

It'll happen when I least expect it, they say.

But just in case it never does (and there are days when that certainly feels like the truth),

I think I'll get back in the habit of cutting out every picture of Ryan Gosling I come across.

You know,

for my shrine.

Grieving The Old and Breathing In The New - World Mental Health Day

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 13:00:00 +0000

[When I'm not eating chips with guacamole or fighting with my newest screenplay, I'm working for PsychCentral.com, one of the most comprehensive mental health sites on the web.

It's a pretty amazing place, and I have learned bucketfuls of information since starting with them.

Mental Health isn't always a comfortable topic, but it's an essential one. That's why PsychCentral, in partnership with numerous other sites and blogs is participating in World Mental Health Day, today, October 10th.

And since I've never met a party I didn't like - I've decided to join in.]

The I in illness is isolation,

and the crucial letters in wellness are we.
~ Anonymous

I've been reading a book that makes me sob almost daily (although I try to sob quietly, considering my roommate is just a wall away). It's a Buddhist perspective on death and dying, and while I'm blessed to not be dealing directly with death at the moment, I can feel parts of me shriveling up and disappearing just the same.

It's all part of trend that started about a year ago, when lots of definites and for sures began to crumble and crack all around me. It sounds scary, saying it that way, and it was (it still is), but the funny thing is that the less certain my life has become, the healthier and happier I've felt.

And maybe that's why I find myself sobbing every time I read this damn book, I'm grieving all the things I was never able to feel when I was simply surviving.

Growing up, I had a lot of rules set in place. Rules about who my family members were, who I was, what my future would look like, how the world worked, how spirituality happened...I spent a lot of time building these rules, and then more time repairing them, whenever something tried to break them down. As an anxiety-prone, sensitive child, rules were essential to my existence. The more rules I had, the easier the day was. Whenever life felt overwhelming, I would just retreat back to the things I knew to be true, and found solace in their concreteness. It didn't matter that some of these rules didn't particularly serve me ("I will never be beautiful, so...", "I'm just not athletic..."), they were rules and they were unshakable and they were safe.

And then, seemingly overnight (I mean like really overnight), my rules stopped feeling safe and started feeling suffocating.

As I unravel old beliefs, dismantle old conventions and let go of childish security blankets, both fear and happiness are beginning to rush in with a force I'm not accustomed to. Daily life is bright, even when it feels flat, because I'm operating from a conscious place, a questioning place, a place that wants to see the world without a blurry prescription based on a smothering set of self-imposed laws.

I still worry. I often feel lonely and confused and wish with all my heart someone had a manual already drawn up for this – but now that I'm here, there's just no going back. Opening myself up to the possibility that I am more than previously imagined, that most of the world is more than previously imagined, has given me a type of air in my lungs I wish everyone could breathe.

We're taught that life's easier when we swim downstream. When we abide by conventional wisdom and let other people do the thinking for us. And it is.

But it certainly isn't as beautiful.

I Could Have Spent That $65 on Something So Much More Awesome...

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 04:03:00 +0000

"Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your won presence rather than of the absence of others. Because solitude is an achievement"

~Alice Koller

I tried. I ignored the way I really felt and just dived in. Everyone seemed so happy that I was finally doing something proactive my relationship life that I couldn't back out. So I held my breath and tried to find something about online dating that didn't set my teeth on edge. Be positive, I ordered myself. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just be a normal person and go on a few dates for godsake.

But apparently I can't operate like a normal person, because it was impossible.

Even though I've been relationship-less for a little over year, I never had a complex about it. The thoughts and judgements would creep in every once in a while, but it wasn't anything that really brought me down. As soon as I signed on to that stupid little homescreen, through, wondering who had messaged or winked or replied back, my DATING LIFE (or LACK THEREOF) turned into caps and became all encompassing.

It was awful. You may think I'm being overly dramatic and there's always the possibility that you're right, but I really would characterize it as awful. The split-second decisions based purely on looks, the attempts at emailed conversation with someone you know nothing about, the sinking feeling when someone you thought was foxy doesn't reply back...it's kind of like if junior high and Photoshop got together and kicked you in the face.

No one likes rejection. But it wasn't just rejection - it was the atmosphere of forced interaction based purely on a fear of being alone.

I'm not afraid to be alone. Even if it's not my preferred state, I'm not afraid of going to bed with a pillow to hug instead of man - but I swear to god, these last two months on that stupid fucking site made me more scared to wake up by myself than I've ever been in my entire life. I started to buy into the bullshit that I had to scramble to couple myself up, and with every typed interaction that didn't go my way, I became more and more frustrated with my looks, my opinions, my sense of humor...because surely all these things were the reasons the guys I wanted were running for the hills.

There are some people who will find the loves of their lives online, but I can clearly say, without an ounce of hesitation, that I will never be one of them.

I really have no idea how I'll bump into my next relationship. And I don't know how long it will take until it happens. The trick will be maintaining a calm demeanor until that day (or night). The trick will be deflecting other people's worry that I've been alone too long. The trick will be not feeling inadequate as more and more friends get married. The trick will be resisting the urge to see myself as either coupled or alone - and instead focusing on the obvious truth that in the scope of things, it doesn't really matter.

It's Just Drinks - Why Are You In The Fetal Position?

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 04:01:00 +0000

“Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.”

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day we were supposed to meet, I realized I was miserable.

It was more than just the fact that it was going to be a first meeting between two people who had only said hi online two weeks earlier (although that was awkward enough), it was the thought of putting myself out there and possibly being disappointed. Again.

I think it's fair to say that love has proven to be an unruly creature in my life. My brushes with it have not been without wounds that go all the way to the bone. Just a year ago I was involved in something that was the antitheses of what I want Love to look like, and the fallout was rough. It took 13 months to recognize where I had gone wrong, again, and what I had allowed to shake my internal self, again. Again and again. Maybe that was the last time I would ever drown in a cheap imitation of what I truly want (I think it was), but it didn't help my belief in the real thing.

While I operate from an open-hearted, happy place, there's a part of me that's always suspicious. A part that's deeply analytical about an emotion that's supposedly undefinable. As the hours ticked away and our meeting got closer, I could feel that part start to kick and scream.

I don't want to do this. I'd rather be alone, honestly. Let's just stay here; quiet and collected with a freshly made bed and a life lived on solo time. Let's tell him we're sick.

My depressed state got so intense that I had to go for a drive in the mountains. I tried, over and over again, to understand why my heart pushed against the idea of literally just getting drinks. And all it kept saying is that it didn't want to be let down one more time. It had found, in these 13 months of solitude, a beautiful quiet that it didn't want disrupted.

In the end I met him for drinks (or drink, since more than one usually means I'll try to turn my shirt inside out in front of large crowds of people) - and it was completely and utterly fine. Fun, even. As I do my best to practice non-attachment, I can't say what will come of it, but even if I never hear from him again, or it doesn't work out, and "disappointment" tries to flutter over everything, I won't let my heart accept it as a negative.

Because scars are just ugly marks unless we learn from them. And if I've learned anything from this crazy ride I can't remember ever buying a ticket for, it's that every choice I make around Love, is my choice to make. My self-worth is not connected to someone else, whether it's a phone call that never comes or 10 years of a beautiful relationship, and no one can make me feel anything I don't first give myself the okay to feel.

Of course I want that awesome relationship.

But I've also got to live in the here and now, where it doesn't currently exist, and still find peace.

I hope it comes for me soon.

But until then, I'll keep pestering my heart

to tip-toe out into the wild,

unruly,

unpredictable,

world.

I Don't Want Them To See Me And Say, 'There's The Cat Lady Who Knows All The Strippers' Names'

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 22:43:00 +0000

“Save a boyfriend for a rainy day - and another, in case it doesn't rain”

~ Mae West

I have not dated for a year.

A little over a year, in fact.

This would be super depressing if it wasn't half-expected and also half my fault.

It's expected because it's a pattern of mine: Long-term relationship <--> Long-term aloneness <--> Long-term relationship...it's just the way things have worked out, for better or worse. Years ago I would sometimes fill that long-term aloneness with situations I like to call "things" because they do not warrant a name any more specific than that, but since I'm not into "things" anymore, I've really been alone.

And it's kind of my fault because casual dating makes me want to vomit. And then maybe stab myself with glass so I can go to the hospital instead of on a casual date. Because why spend time with someone unless you really like them and want it to go somewhere? I don't like spending time with people I'm not interested in, and I really don't like people I'm not interested in spending money on me. It feels like I'm stealing. I might as well reach into their pocket and grab their wallet while they're not looking.

This is probably an intense way of looking at it, but, I mean, hey.
I'm intense.

So after realizing that sitting around and waiting for a hot doctor or hot CEO or hot millionaire who saves the world to materialize in the middle of the street while I'm driving to work probably wasn't going to happen, I decided to cover my eyes, take a breath, and sign on to an online dating site.

I know.

Believe me.

BUT. As un-lonely and independent as I am, it's not like I want to be 80 years old, covered in cat fur, proudly telling anyone who will listen how I've been to Chippendales like 14989 times because I don't have to worry about a jealous husband. I mean, I'd like to meet someone awesome. And they don't grow on trees. And so I just decided. And am doing my best to not be negative or all sarcastic every time someone asks.

It's kind of like I'm standing on top of a hill, waving a magenta flag, telling the Universe that I'm ready. However we meet, I'm ready to meet.

Especially because I don't even like cats that much.

When She Was Good, She Was Very, Very Good. But When She Was Bad, She Was Horrid

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 21:11:00 +0000

“A little more persistence, a little more effort, and what seemed hopeless failure may turn to glorious success"

~ Elbert Hubbard

When I win a contest,

or place well in a contest,

or someone with clout is interested in my work,

I feel good.

I'm certain I'm doing the right thing with my life. If tell people I'm a writer, if they ask. I daydream about typing up an award-winning script in an adorable beach bungalow, my cherry red Mustang parked in the driveway (I realize that is a cheezy car choice. But I still want it). All is right with the world and I'm enthused about whatever new project my brain has pushed into my consciousness.

But when I lose a contest,

or don't even place,

or someone with clout forgets about me,

I feel awful.

I beat myself up for wasting a third of my life on something that isn't even real. I try to avoid telling people what I do. I feverishly click through Craigslist and Mediabistro and a bunch of other jobs sites, trying to find another full time career. I start to have nightmares about not having enough money and growing old without ever accomplishing anything of merit. The last thing I want to do is work on something new.

You'd think, by this point in my life, I wouldn't be so ruled by outside judgments.

Ha ha. Of course I'm still ruled by outside judgments.

The only way I'd be free of them is if I lived in a vacuum, or a cave where my only friends were bats and stalagmites.

The truth of the matter is - I have no idea if I'll be successful or not. I want to be. And I think that intense want is the thing that pushes me back up after I sink to the ground in defeat, but at this point, desire and the fleeting joy of creating is all I've got. I don't have guarantees either way, just moments of happiness and despair, positive career benchmarks and embarrassing rejections. Maybe learning to stay afloat on the nauseating ocean gets easier as you get older - or maybe it's the opposite.

"You'll know when it's time to move on," my Mom once told me. "Either it'll happen or you'll be able to walk away and still be happy."

That sounds good.

Either way, I hope she's right.

They Do Not Serve Pineapple Drinks Here. But The Washing Machine is Great

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 02:35:00 +0000

“A vacation is a sunburn at premium prices”

~ Hal Chadwicke

When I visit my parents,

it's like I get on an amusement park ride that I don't have to pay for

that consists mostly of working washing machines, a never-empty refrigerator, surround sound
and expensive shampoo.

To some people, this ride might seem boring. Not to me. I love this ride. This ride is awesome. This ride is my version of a vacation. This ride is my only vacation. So I soak up every air-conditioned, 19847 channeled minute.

Old friends, familiar roads, rambling farms...these are things I fall in love with each and every time I come back here. I don't love them enough to stay, obviously, but certainly enough to deal with two layovers and billions of screaming babies and a week of humidity.

As much as I wish I had the money to watch a hot cabana boy bring me a pineapple-flavored drink as I sit on a deck chair on some white sandy beach, going home is still pretty great. It's like a reboot. A What's-Important reboot. And sometimes I need that.

But I could do without the frizzy hair.

The Economy VS Melted Cat Poop

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 03:54:00 +0000

“If you ever catch on fire, try to avoid seeing yourself in the mirror, because I bet that's what REALLY throws you into a panic"

~ Jack Handy

I like the save my panic button for certain situations:

Fighting a lion in a Greek amphitheater with nothing but my bare fists

Being chased through the woods by aliens

A chipmunk karate chopping through the window screen and chewing my copious amount of in-room Christmas lights until they catch fire one night and burn the entire building down...

Big things, you know?
Life altering, all-consuming things.

One thing I will not panic about is the stock market. Another thing is the economy. Not unless it's obvious and unavoidable the sky is falling. Until then - I reserve my freak outs for when the cat my roommate is cat-sitting decides to take a giant shit on my laundry basket and allow it to marinate there for an entire workday.

...Yup.

So now I wonder, would happen if everyone in the US did the same - reeled their heavy breathing and stress eating in - and refused to let others tell them when they should go nuts? What if we all just collectively said fuck it, went about our business, and kept pushing toward a better day, regardless of what the news or experts or analysts said? What if we didn't snatch our money to our chests like Gollum and instead continued to buy things we could afford?

I know we're all Recession-shy. Believe me. I think I make less than $28,000 a year but I'm too afraid to actually check. I buy most of my clothes from Target or second hand stores. I price check everything. Blah blah blah. The reality is, I'm still middle class. And because I'm one of the lucky ones who isn't facing certain financial ruin at this very minute, it's my duty to ignore most of what those shrieking idiots are saying and refuse to open up my door to fear.

Because, very much like sexy Louisianian vampires, fear has to ask to be let in.

Maybe you want to join me. Maybe you don't. But if you can, I think maybe you should. I think you should make you own decisions. Check your own moral compass. Ignore the agenda of others. Educate yourself. And then decide when it's time to get out the emergency peanut butter cups and wine - and when it's not.

Because when the day arrives that you find melted cat shit all over your laundry

you will need all the panic energy

your body possesses.

Not A Career For The Rational - Or Easily Homicidal

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 03:13:00 +0000

“This is the highest wisdom that I own; freedom and life are earned by those alone who conquer them each day anew”

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

If I told you:

I could place among the Top 10 Finalists in one National Screenwriting competition

then enter the same competition the next year with a different script,

and not even place at all,

while simultaneously being a Quarter Finalist in the Nicholls Screenwriting Fellowship

(1 of approximately 350 scripts out of 6700 to get through)

What would you say?

In all reality, there's really nothing to say. At least nothing I haven't already said to myself, over either a stiff drink or in a fit of tears. Screenwriting, like a lot of art, is subjective as fuck. It just is. It'll never change. The sun will set, the wind will whistle through the trees, and some dumb idiot will give the go ahead to Final Destination 5 or The Fast and Furious 6940 and they will both make money while a multitude of challenging, unique scripts gather dust underneath people's couches.

Good movies are made every day.
But so are bad movies.

The one connecting tissue is dollar signs. Or perceived dollar signs. Which may or may not deliver.

Perhaps the reason I've been able to stop myself from yanking out all my hair and slamming my bald head into a wall is that I have learned to not let this career choice define me. I have other interests, other things that fill me with happiness, a semi-grounded sense of self and a keen eye for certain undeniable facts of life. The business of Screenwriting, of Hollywood, is always going to be odd and just a little bit unbelievable. Persistence, luck and connections are always going to be the way in, and talent will forever be susceptible to someone else's judgment.

At a certain point, I have to be okay with what I've knowingly tangled myself up in.
I don't have to bow down to it, but I do have to accept the rules of the game.

Screenwriting is a big part of my life,

but it's not everything.

And so I'm teaching myself to laugh and shake my head, instead of punch a wall and nurse a desire to kill. It's not always easy, but no one's died yet, so I guess I'm getting somewhere.

The Girl Who's Always Tired Is Tired Of Apologizing

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 22:07:00 +0000

“Sleep is the best meditation”

~ Dalai Lama

Surprisingly, I don't always enjoy all parts of me.

There are compartments to my personality I sometimes want to duck and cover from - but of course that's impossible. While I can certainly fix habits that need some maintenance or work really hard to rewire my thoughts, there are a few things that are just rooted in my being, that make me who I am - imperfect and quirky.

One of these things is my inability to stay up late.

Oh sure, I can force it. I can drink shitloads of caffeine before going out, take another kind of stimulate, or sleep all afternoon, but if you catch me on an average day, I like waking up early and going to bed by ten. I'm aware, in a lot of people's eyes, that this makes me some kind of half-lame nerd, but considering I used to shoot awake at dawn as an infant, I'm pretty sure this behavior is ingrained.

I've caught a ton of flack for my early ways, espescially by friends who want to play past midnight. I can't tell you how many times I've been teased about falling asleep on someone's couch while the drama goes down in another room, or how many nights I've walked home alone from the bars because everyone else wants to do another shot. In New York, someone even coined a term: "Jess-ing out" - which either means leaving early, falling asleep at home before the group even makes it to the first bar, or choosing a night relaxing instead of raging.

God how I hated that term.

It made me feel like a kid who loses his glasses on the monkey bars and then can't get down: awkward and laughable.

In the past, I would really flip whenever someone teased me about my pre-midnight curfew. I'd get all riled up and shout something sarcastic in their face and then force myself to brave the bar for another two hours. I'll show you, I'd think, ordering a second or third vodka soda. I'm cool. So shut the fuck up.

But now, just days away from turning 28, I've given up the fight.

Mostly because, well, I'm too tired to continue the charade.

The truth, the absolute, God-honest reality is that yes, unless I'm really stimulated by my environment, if it's any later than 11pm, I'd rather be sleeping. A major reason for this is probably because ever since I was 14 I've been taking medication for an auto-immune disease that can really wreak havoc on my energy levels, but ultimately, it's all about the awesome factor: if what I'm doing isn't adding to the beauty of my life, I see no reason to continue.

I can run around until 3 in the morning with the best of them if there's a super hot guy involved or really great friends doing something equally as great, but if it's just a loud bar full of drunk people trying to hook up - count me out. I'm tired of that scene. I'll join in every once in a while, but if I'm not feeling it, I'm outta there. I don't care about the drink specials or the guy who might not have a girlfriend in the corner. If it's not making my life more awesome, there's no need to stay.

I'll be 28 years old on Wednesday.

I think it's time to stop apologizing for something that just is.

So if it's a Friday night, and they're wondering why they haven't heard from me, it's very possible I've washed off all my make-up, made myself a mug of tea, and climbed into bed.

Happily.

[Unless there's a hot male stripper there. In that case - I'm just late. Save me a seat]

Knowledge: The Thinking Girl's Patriotism

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 03:18:00 +0000

“Knowledge is of no value unless you put it into practice.”

~ Anton Chekhov

I used to tell people I wasn't political.

Everyone's always yelling and lying, I'd say whenever the conversation came up. I'm educated enough to understand the issues, but that's it. Count me out for the rest of it.

And then, like a lot of things in my life - one day, it all changed.

No, I didn't start dating a hot, young Congressman. I didn't even start sexting one. I just got sick and tired of being confused. I got fed up with soundbite politics, the kind of shit that passes for news these days, full of smirks and snark. If you're smirking while you're delivering the news, you're not delivering the news. You're delivering facts drowned in opinion.

And look, sometimes that opinion is hilarious and I agree with it, but handing over my blind trust to someone, even if they seem cool, is dangerous. That's when people get talked into things. Like weird tasting Kool-Aid.

Republican, Democrat...it doesn't matter to me. Even though I'm obviously liberal (you don't grow up in a feminist household loving rainbows and glitter and unicorns without also falling in love with a few gay men and realizing your reproductive rights are no one's business but your own), I no longer just take their word for it - whoever they are. I research on my own time. I follow the trail. And then I decide, for myself, exactly what the fuck is going on.

And really, isn't this what everyone should be doing? Instead of backing into a corner, claiming we're "not political" so as not to get into a screaming match with Aunt Martha over Thanksgiving dinner, why not just educate ourselves to the point where we don't have to scream? When we know enough to have an educated discussion, or at least to understand emotional bias when we see it, it's far less likely that we'll end up hucking a turkey leg across the table.*

It's a work in progress.

I probably know about 3% of what there is to know - but slowly, I'm unraveling the unnecessarily
complicated world of men in suits.

Uncovering a faint whiff of the truth,

is how I honor my country,

and how I choose to fight back against dickhead idiots

who continuously put personal gain

before the greater good.

[*Okay, let's be honest. Some people's political jargon is so warped that a turkey leg is the nicest thing we want to throw. When dealing with these individuals, I recommend taping your mouth shut, but leaving a small straw-sized hole into which you can suck up copious amounts of wine.]

I Will Not Barf - Instead, I Will Change

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 20:08:00 +0000

“There is no comparison between that which is lost by not succeeding and that lost by not trying.”

~Francis Bacon, Sr.

Sometimes we receive information that makes us want to barf.

The information can be awful, difficult, or maybe just too intense to process, and as our minds desperately try to understand what we've just read, or heard, or saw, our stomach decides to take control: would you like me to solve this problem by vomiting, brain? It'll only take a second. Honest.

For some reason, our stomach thinks this is just a primo solution.

I had one of these moments today. I'm fine, everyone's fine, it was more a I-Didn't-Need-to-Know-But-Now-I-Can't-Unknow-It type of thing; information that made me feel less than stellar about my own accomplishments and current life standing. Worst of all, it ricocheted into my eyes while I was at work, so any and all plans of having a quick little meltdown were completely squashed. Instead, I just went about my business, shakily picking up the phone, nervously filing the mail, attempting to make small talk without suddenly losing my shit.

After breathing my way back into some form of clearer thinking, I realized what caused the initial stomach turning: I'm not content with where I'm at, and it makes me feel awful about myself.

I want more. I want to feel like I'm making a difference in this world. I enjoy my jobs now, but I can't help thinking I'm supposed to be doing something else. Screenwriting is part of that something else – but there's more. Supporting the creativity of children; specifically the shy, the disadvantaged, the unique, has been a desire for a while. I've done bits and pieces of it, but I want to expand. Does that mean teaching creative writing at a school? Starting my own program? Finding a way to travel around and share it with as many kids as possible?

I don't know. Mostly, I don't know because I want to write movies that show up in big theaters just as much as I want to dedicate my life to serving kids; so where do I put my concentration? Can I do both? Equally? The role of the traditional teacher isn't necessarily for me; so then what does that mean?

When I see or hear of others living their dream and getting recognition for it, I can't help but become a sad sort of envious. It takes an enormous amount of will power to sweep that feeling from my skin, and even then, there are still tiny particles, floating in and out of my consciousness, for days afterward.

So what really made my stomach ask my brain if it could to unload breakfast onto my desk? Not the actual unsavory information I experienced, but how I saw myself in relation to it.

I want to shift my life. I want to change things. Majorly. I want to feel success between my fingers and joy on my way to work. And because I'm not currently there, I feel like I'm cheating myself. I'm letting the 12-year-old idealistic girl who wears sparkly pink unicorn shirts and dreams of making a big difference down. And worst of all? My competitive, perfectionistic streak knows I'm vulnerable, and is taking full advantage. Choruses of: you are lame lalalala have been circling my head for weeks.

Comparing ourselves to others will never work - but it won't stop until I find at least a whisper of what I'm looking for.

...and / or chocolate cake with my name on it.

Exploding Sparklers and the Kind Of Freedom I Struggle With

noreply@blogger.com (JUST ME) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 23:12:00 +0000

“I know but one freedom and that is the freedom of the mind.”

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Is it ever possible gain

Independence

from negativity?

There are certain questions I'd like to sit down across from the Buddha and ask him (maybe over a glass of wine? or better yet, celestial wine, which is sure to beat the $3 Whole Foods Cabernet we currently have in the fridge) - and this whole negativity struggle is one of them.

How do I stop judging people I can't stand? How do I wring utter distaste from my heart? Why can't I seem to let certain shitty deeds of yesterday go?

I'd like to think I'm a nice person; a being doing her best to live an awakened and conscious life, a girl who has a hard time killing spiders, even as they dangle dangerously over her bed, someone who rarely says things she can't take back... And still. There doesn't seem to be enough room in my heart to share loving kindness with people I deem douchebag assholes.

Sometimes these people are individuals who seem to have no emotional intelligence, or are stubbornly uneducated, or just plain rude. People who are basically considered lame across the board. But then there are the people who have personally hurt me - and these people are the hardest - because they may be fine to the rest of the world, but in my mind, they're just full of awfulness. Or at least 2/3rds full.

As I understand myself more, I realize what I will not tolerate. And as I start to tolerate less crap and disrespect, I find myself frustrated at a greater level. The carousel of my memory takes me back to all the stupid things I knowingly let happen, and it becomes significantly difficult not to want to kick a wall in anger at everyone involved in past wounds (myself included).

The Buddha would probably tell me to let the anger go,
but at this point, all I can do is notice it and maybe take it down to a simmer.

Would I eventually like to set off some fireworks in celebration of finally defeating my heavy, oily, rancid anger? Of course. But in all honestly, that's probably never going to happen - especially when you consider my lifelong ineptness with pyrotechnics: at 5 years old I accidentally threw a sparkler into my brother's face and just missed scalding him for life, and just last weekend I almost set the tree above our grill aflame.

I'm not sure I'll ever defeat my negativity, but at this point in my development, I can at least notice it and make it into something concrete enough to hold. Then I can look at it and decide if I'm capable of offering love, or at the very least compassion, to the thing or the person that birthed it. And sometimes I can. But all those times that I can't...I don't try to deny it - I allow it to live for as long as it needs to, knowing all the while that emotion is very rarely reality.

So this holiday weekend, while overly confident people all over the US almost set their houses on fire with illegal dynamite, I'll acknowledge my personal fight for freedom and celebrate the process.

...And make sure I'm waving my sparkler far away in the corner,

lest my clumsiness cause another innocent victim

to experience a face full of metallic fuel.