Author Archives: Danny McCarthy

Humor, Life, Love & Romance

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I TRY TO BE HIP

In the Splash Zone.

“Okay, so take a candid photo of me looking away, but I want to be laughing, and I want to look thin,” I say, punching the emphasis on the last clause, hoping to impress the very dire nature of having a Thinstagram (making that happen?) onto JR, who is not exactly up to the onerous task but is the only person who is sitting across from me, thus giving him the ability to angle the camera in a flattering way.

In the swampy air of the bar, sitting on a reclaimed church pew and in a $10 Uniqlo shirt, I swivel towards Loren, because in this “candid” photo, she’s the one I’m “laughing” with. Sweaty fingers curl around the sweating glass, and as I turn and dive into the first “pose”, the cup slips out of my fingers. The G&T contents douse my left leg but most goes directly into Loren’s crotch as the cup bounces off her thighs and rolls into the nether regions of the Brooklyn bar floor.

JR was kind enough to capture my immediate shock and mortification, so here is that photo.

IMG_1548

Source: Danny McCarthy

After mopping up the church pew and Loren’s vagina, we sat back down and listened to a sixty-five-year-old man backed up by a black woman in Casual Friday realness and a drummer in a Los Pollos Hermanos t-shirt and wedding ring.

Source: Danny McCarthy// Immediately after.
Source: Danny McCarthy// Mopping up the shame.

Do you remember in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows when Aberforth Dumbledore was introduced and you were like “Oh wow, there’s someone who’s an even bigger old hippie than Albus Dumbledore?” This lead singer was the Aberforth to Bernie Sanders’s Albus.

Thirty minutes previous.

Sandwiched between Loren and JR and heavily aware that I’m blocking Cool Black Girl in Red Braids and Snapback from seeing the band we came to see, I’m staring at Hot Lead Singer. He’s lean in the way that all indie singers are, with large capable hands and artistic veins tracing up his smooth forearms. He croons into the microphone, the bulb of which nuzzles his hooked nose. The way he sings feels authentic enough, but it’s like watching a TV show of what an indie band should look like. The low, gravelly voice, the scrunched eyes, the intensity. The overlarge Hawaiian shirt open over a sharp-clavicled chest and clashing printed shorts.

As the sweat pools in my lower back, I realize that this could be my future. Dark, swampy Brooklyn bars, JR and Loren, making eye contact with cute boys in polo shirts. Sweating glasses of amoretto sours and clinking bottles of Blue Moon. The wreathing aroma of someone’s last blunt, the ember of which is probably scattered on the front stoop. For the first time, after the initial awkwardness fades, this feels like it could become something grounded in our reality.

IMG_1566

Source: Danny McCarthy// Be honest, is this an Instagram or a THINstagram??

I’m graduating in less than a year. In less than a year, I’ll have to be figuring out my plan for the next few months. If I stay in New York, manage to get a job, and eventually scrape enough money together to move out, I could make this—standing in bars, listening to alt bands, black tees and light-wash denim, gin and tonics splashing onto my shoes—into a life.

Back at Splashgate.

But this is what I get for trying to be a hip Brooklynite: drinkless and sitting next to someone whose vagina is wet because of me (yes, I hear it too. It’s a hilarious joke, but focus on Splashgate).

And when I think I’m all cool and hip, I remember that I ate a Frosty in the car on the way over, and that I still can’t properly pronounce “February.” And these are things—I’m imagining—real adults can do. Not the Frosty part; everyone loves a good fucking Frosty.

Trying to plan for the future feels a little premature when I still feel like such a kid. I mean, all around me, people are growing up, but I think it’s a mark of still being in school—and in that school mindset—that I see myself as a kid. I work with seven-year-olds, and really, their frame of mind is not that different than mine. I have a slighter firmer grasp on economics and a better appreciation for logic, but other than that, we’re the same.

*****

Anywayanywayanyway, this post has been sitting in my “Minimized” folder for almost a week, and I didn’t plan ahead for a blog today—spoiler, I write them ahead of time—so I figured I would just publish this one. Also I’m gonna do a quickie bonus post either today or some other time, of an article I thought was funny, but a little sparse. Kind of like a bald comedian—eyoooooo.

Source: Danny McCarthy// The photo after Splashgate.
Source: Danny McCarthy// This cackle is fake as fuck.

Literally what was I talking about?

BYE.

Standard
Humor, Inspirational, Life

HOW TO TRICK PEOPLE INTO THINKING YOU’RE MORE ATTRACTIVE THAN YOU REALLY ARE

I’ve been spending a lot of time with my friends JR and Loren recently—not their real names, to protect anonymity, because since I’m a celebrity, my security detail thinks they’re at risk for my crazed fans (Stars: They’re Just Like You). We’re all very smart dumb people—meaning we talk about smart things, but we’re dumb as fuck so it doesn’t go very far—but we were actually talking a lot about buying the right size clothes for your body.

And that got me thinking about what actually makes a person attractive because someone—probably me, I’m astute like that—said that when someone wears clothes well (fit-wise), they can basically pull off anything. Like, I can’t wear mesh because I’m not confident, but EJ Johnson—son of Magic Johnson and kween of Rich Kids of Beverly Hills—can wear all mesh and it looks completely normal because he’s so confident. Also his skin is smooth as molasses; it’s insane. That’s not the point though.

So because I attempt to convince everyone in my life that I’m hot—by saying things like “I’m too pretty to be this smart” or “It’s hard because this hot” or “I’m hot. Say it and I’ll let you go back to your family. Say I’m hot.”—I thought I would share that knowledge that I, as a smart dumb person, have gathered like our hunter-gatherer ancestors. Also, side bar, why is it that when our ancestors traveled without roots around, looking for food, they’re “hunter-gatherers” and when I do it, I’m “trespassing in a McDonald’s after hours”? It’s simply situational.

What if the entire list was just “Do cocaine and get super skinny” and then I just pressed the “h” key for ninety lines? Is that quality content?

How To: Convince People You’re Hotter Than You Actually Are 

1). Move really fast: They can’t make out your features if you’re blurry. If you get motion sickness—guilty—then you can wear a large Sia-style black-and-white wig.

2). Haircut: I search for a haircut that will suit my egghead with the same fervor I can only imagine a mother looking for her child in a mega-Costco has: we know what we want, we just can’t find it. I like to say that I look like a thumb, but I look a little less like a thumb when I have a good haircut. Also, when getting a haircut, it’s important to be vocal to your hairstylist. I’ve left Supercuts plenty of times looking rekt because I was too much of a mouse to tell the hairdresser to chill out.

Also side bar: A “trim” to my bangs does not mean “cut enough off where I can’t sweep them to the side and they just hang there like bats.” I cannot stress this enough.

3). Be rich: If you pay people enough money, you can make them say anything. Examples: psychics and Bethenny Frankel’s assistants.

4). Correct sizes: After years of squeezing myself into a certain waist size—which I will not disclose online—I realized that not breathing wasn’t fun and also when you wear too-small pants, it pushes your love handles up and while push-up bras are great for boobs, the same sentiment does not extend towards love handles. So I decided to actually go up in my pant size, and I was really surprised at how much better it made me feel. I’ll never not have body issues, but after a brief anxiety-spiral, I convinced myself that going up one size does not mean that I am a mammoth beast. It actually made me look better.

I went through a phase where I thought that if I wore small shirts, I would look muscular. That’s not true; it just looked like I fell into a coma from the ages of twelve to eighteen and hadn’t changed my clothes yet. Now I fall into the camp of buying larges because I like things loose, but sometimes I’ll spring for a well-cut medium if I’ve been really regular and my stomach is flat. Is that too much information?

5). Confidence: People are gullible, so you can pretty much do whatever you want if you’re confident enough. I’m extremely gullible and pretty malleable, so if someone suggests that someone else is attractive, I get Inception-ed into believing it. I know someone who, without confidence and hair gel, would look like a Big Bang Theory extra, but as he is now, I would pour pig’s blood over myself if he asked. God he’s so hot. You know when medium-looking people manage to get really hot people? Sometimes it’s a Mail Order thing, but sometimes it’s just that their confidence is through the roof. Or the hot people are interested in “personality” which is a very ugly-person thing to be into, so I don’t think that’s it.

Convincing people you’re actually more attractive than you are is a lot like The Secret. It’s a lot of positive reinforcement, book clubs, paper cuts, direct eye contact and pure, unadulterated aggression.

Here’s a free tip to close out the blog. One way to make people think you’re more attractive than you actually are is to actually downplay your real level of attraction. Some ways to do this are to pretend to be “shy”—like how post-makeover Mia Thermopolis still had the personality of pre-makeover Mia Thermopolis—or to write blog posts like “How To Convince People You’re More Attractive Than You Actually Are” in vain attempts to get people to reach out and say things like, “Why did you write this? How can a 10 convince people they’re an 11/10? That scale doesn’t exist!!!!!!!!!!!”

68fdd6f5-42ef-4842-88df-67c5d4942fd81

Source: Moviefone // I don’t want to be rude but how relevant is Moviefone still?

But that seems so desperate, so who would ever do something like that?

Standard
Humor, Life, pop culture

WHAT’S HAPPENING RN: I’M A ROLE MODEL BUT I REALLY SHOULDN’T BE

Written after I just contributed to my friend’s blog so I’m ridING HIGH AND FEELING GOOD.  

Read the article I wrote for The Odyssey Online responding to Donald Trump’s claims that he will protect the LGBTQ community here!

In the past week, I have been extremely social. I went to a bar on Wednesday, I went to a party on Friday, and I hung out with two of my best friends on Saturday. Part of me is exhilarated with the contact of people who are not seven years old, and part of me is so over-exerted that I want to hang upside down like a bat and fall asleep forever.

It was a fun change of pace to hang out with different people in different settings, and it only made me mildly misanthropic. Sometimes even I think me using big words is just a ploy for attention. Like, I have used the word “fastidious” in common conversation probably thrice in the last week. Omg, fuck—I cannot stop myself.

After contributing to another blog, I’ve realized that a lot of my blog posts have been rather repetitious and I want to try to branch out again. Remember when I was super into television reviews? How fun was that! I never thought I would say this, but I’m—almost—tired of writing about myself. Scary thought. I would suggest that it’s merely I’m becoming less narcissistic, but we all know that that’s not the case. I spent twenty minutes staring at myself in the mirror to decide which t-shirt I looked better in—black, white, or gray. I chose black. I look so hot in black. But I also look so hot in white. You see my dilemma.

Anywayanywayanyway.

Before I stop being so self-centered/writing about myself so much, I want to dish about Things That Are Happening RN/Have Been Happening In My Life.

Things That Are Happening RN:

1). First and foremost, I was called a role model a few days ago, and I have never been high-key more insulted: Let’s dress the scene (not an expression, but I’m going with it). I’m at a party, and someone who is a mere two years younger than me called me their “role model.” Now, I understand that I am model-thin and model-tall. I also understand that I am capable of “rolling with the homies.” However, these two things do not a role model make. I have role models, but who are decades older than me and are accomplished. This is not a back-door brag, or an attempt to linger in my own praises—you guys know that I’m more than comfortable in talking about myself and my maaaany accomplishments.

But for someone who is TWO YEARS YOUNGER than me to call me their role model makes me feel A) unsexy, B) old, and C) OLD AS FUCK. I mean, I suppose on one end I am flattered that someone thinks I’m worthy of that, but on the other hand I’M NOT A THOUSAND YEARS OLD. I’m a mere child. I’m twelve. Granted, he was completely sloshed when emphatically telling me this, but I’M NOT A ROLE MODEL. I’M JUST A REGULAR MODEL. This experience has traumatized me, and I have regressed even futher into my antics so that NO. ONE. EVER. CALLS. ME. A. ROLE MODEL. EVER. AGAIN.

Mark my words, I will act so horribly that no one will ever look up to me ever again. Maybe if I got arrested, he would change his opinion. I’m too good for my own good.

2). I joined a private Facebook group that is a fanclub for a Real Housewives franchise breakdown podcast: Since apparently people think I’m basically forty, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. I have been listening to Bitch Sesh for a few months, which I highly highly highly recommend for anyone who watches any Real Housewives series. The co-hosts, Casey Wilson (of Happy Endings fame) and Danielle Schneider (who created The Hotwives of Atlanta on Hulu), are UCB alums and are fucking AMAZING. Anyway, I love them so much that I decided to look up the fan-created Facebook page, “Bitch Sesh by Alene Two” (inside joke), and saw that it was a private group. Before I asked to join, I looked through the people who have already joined, and I s2g I’m not lying when I say it was all middle-aged ladies and middle-aged (for a gay dude) gays.

I was mentioning this to someone the other day, but I can’t wait to be middle-aged. At this point, I’m kinda not into wanting kids, so by forty I want to be pleasantly plump, married to someone hot, a successful writer, and wear ex.clu.sive.ly silk kaftans. And being a part of this Bitch Sesh fanpage makes me feel a modicum closer to my eventual goal.

And the irony is not lost on me that I have joined a fan club for a fan club for the Real Housewives. Remember when I used to be so political? THIS IS BETTER.

3). Kim Kardashian and Taylor Swift: Hilariously, my gym was playing “Bad Blood” off 1989—which is the. Most. Loaded. Song.—and so I—hilariously—tweeted this joke and it was immediately favorited (did you know that “Favorited” is not a recognized word in Microsoft??? Microsoft Word is so not millennial-friendly) by the Twitter account “Zesty Kim K News”—it was not favorited by any Taylor Swift accounts. However, I know that I will literally end friendships if I keep talking about the Taylor-Kim drama, so I’ll try to tone it down.

4). A co-worker’s mother called me “very good-looking” (HER WORDS NOT MINE): This is just a brag. It made me feel very good about myself. Further proof that moms love me. It should be noted that this mother saw me in the morning, before I was subjected to multiple hours in the sun, covered in sweat and sunscreen. Once I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror after the workday (before a shower) and I was horrified at how meth-addict-y I look after so much physical work. Further proof that I should only do jobs inside with AC.

5). I’ve been going on Pinterest more: There are absolutely no male-oriented (but not entirely, because gender isn’t a binary anyway) fashion/style blogs that interest me, but Pinterest has some photos that are more in my wheelhouse. My style is trending towards “sexy science nerd” meets “dad on vacation” meets “timid Seattle grunge”, and that’s not a hot search topic. If anyone has any good Tumblrs that seem like they might encompass some of my style needs, feel free to drop me a line.

I really don’t have more things to talk about. I’m still getting out of that depression slump, but it’s actually getting towards the end. I’m not really upset about that, because I understand that that’s just my body’s natural cycles. Totally understandable (only what a depressed person could say about their depression).

I’m in a weird place romantically because I’m like 99% the Boy I unfollowed on social media unfollowed me back (“unfollowed” is also not a recognized word—Microsoft why r u being so social media-phobic???), which I shouldn’t care about because I unfollowed him first but I’m crazy. I’ll deal. And there are approximately 1.5 viable options of boyz at my work, so THAT’S GREAT. NOT SAD AT ALL.

I’m trying to find new music. I’m veeery into podcasts, but there are times (especially when I’m at the gym) where I can’t power-sprint to two friends dishing about politics, so I need to listen to my Spotify. I am obsessed with the “Discover Weekly” playlists, because sometimes they are incredibly on-trend with me. Sometimes they pick songs that I would describe as only appropriate for a gay caricature or someone without ears. I’ve rediscovered Grace Potter and am listening to her latest album. Not bad.

In other music news, check out this song my best friend—HE’S A DJ, I’M HIP—just put together. It has “Me Too” in it (I don’t know dj lingo, so I’m just using cooking lingo) and a dash of “beats” (get it, like “beets”??) in there too. Totally delicious, and I’m so proud.

P.S. One of my coworkers/friends claimed “Hot Sauce” as her Wunderkindof pseudonym. I should mention that all the previous monikers were entirely jokes, and not meant to represent my coworkers. This coworker decided to make the joke hers and DEVOUR THAT NAME. Love you, Hot Sauce.

Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter and Instagram. Here are some funny jokes I’ve made on Twitter recently. My Instagram is not very funny.

 

Standard
Humor, pop culture

TAYLORGATE: KIM KARDASHIAN IS THE INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST OF OUR GENERATION

Written after a nearly 13-hour workday. So tired I didn’t even consider writing “werkday.” That’s a lie. I thought about it.  

S/o to my coworker/friend/workout buddy Melanie (I’m too tired to think of a real pseudonym) for our extended work day. Also s/o to my other coworkers Lazy-Eye, Thinks She’s Pretty, Mittens, Tonya Harding, Voldemort, Real Housewives, Hot Sauce, and Rumplestiltskin. You guys are awful, but also hot?? I can’t figure it out.

I eventually want to address more serious topics, but the thought of exercising my brain in that direction is too much rn, so we’re going to move onto something that LIGHTS MY FIRE.

So much has gone since 2009 that I can’t even begin to recap it, but I’ll try to do my best. 2009 VMAs, Taylor Swift wins Best Music Video or whatever, over “Single Ladies.” Kanye storms the stage and says Bey deserved the award—true. Taylor gains massive popularity—kind of rightfully. Kanye is totally besmirched in the press—kind of rightfully. Both stars continue on their way, making a tentative peace the same way two rival prides of lions make a tenuous alliance.

All is relatively calm until Kanye releases “Famous” off the album The Life of Pablo. The lines “I think me and Taylor might still have sex; why? I made that bitch famous” strike a fire in Taylor, and she says in a later speech not to pay any mind to people who will try to “undercut and make claims to your fame.” V relatable.

giphy4

Source: People // GIVE US THE FACTS, KIM.

Kanye lashes back and says that Taylor knew and gave consent for the lyrics. Kim K concurs. Taylor basically calls Kim a brainwashed Stepford wife. Kim K says, “Rlly bitch?? We got video, hunty.” Taylor shits her pants but does not back down. The ruckus simmers. Recently, Calvin Harris and Tay broke up, then Calvin badmouthed Taylor (called her boring, again—kind of rightfully) and Taylor leaked that she wrote Harris’ summer Rihanna anthem “This is What You Came For.” Tbh I could take or leave the song. But that’s neither here nor there.

People are calling Taylor a snake, and Kim K—in time for the airing of the KUWTK episode that deals with the “Famous” drama—decides to pull out her fucking Sherlock Holmes cape and SnapChats the entire video that shows Kanye on the phone with a very-on-board Taylor Swift, thus apparently proving that Taylor was a tay-liar, and her high-waisted jorts were v much on fire. Kim showed the world the other side of Tay, and thus proved that she is more influential than Woodward and Bernstein combined. Kim makes Watergate like a middle school rumor mill. Bow down.

Taylor says the part she has an issue with was the “I made that bitch famous,” which she claims Kanye never cleared with her. But from what I glean from TayTay, I doubt that she was fine with “I think I could have sex with Taylor Swift” and not fine with “I made that bitch famous.” Seems like you’re upset about the wrong apart, Tay.

After this—a scene that makes Cersei Lannister blowing up King’s Landing with wildfire look like a FUCKING PLAYGROUND FIGHT—Selena Gomez decides to stop trying to revive her career and tweet on Taylor’s behalf. “Let’s use our platform for real issues,” she said. EXCEPT she has never tweeted about Alton Sterling, or Philando Castile, or any Black Lives Matter movement, or anything of that ilk. She tweeted about Orlando. But when t comes to defending a white woman, suddenly everyone wants to focus on “real issues.” Chloe Grace Moretz concurred with Selena Goawaymez, but she’s tweeted more about shoes than she has about social issues. Khloe got involved and tweeted an unfortunate picture of a girl she thought was Chloe, but it wasn’t. A for effort, Khlo, but no dice.

Part of me thinks this is a conspiracy concocted by Kim K and Tay—the witches of Macbeth—but that seems very extreme, given the excessive vitriol being lashed at Taylor. I think this because it’s very unlike Kim, who keeps everything in her queendom neat and ordered, to go off script like that and show something as messy as unveiling Tayliar Snake. Also, there is the whole “Search” aspect of the Taylor Swift note, which suggests that it was previously written and recalled for the occasion.

I would like to take a line from the Taylor Swift Instagram note. “I would very much like to be excluded from this narrative, one I never asked to be a part of, since 2009.” Most of me thinks that this proves that Taylor Swift is just like everyone in the entertainment industry—largely concerned with projecting their own narrative. Which is fine, dude, but own up to it. Don’t try to destroy other people to protect your own image. Taylor Swift has included herself in that narrative, making herself the victim of Kanye West. She chose to indulge in that dialogue, to make herself a character in that storyline. She is the one who wrote a song about it, who kept bringing it up, who allowed it to buoy her. Don’t throw stones at the glass house you just walked out of. Don’t burn bridges that you might need to cross over again.

Taylor has made bank off of being the victim, playing off the racism in America that allows us to come to the defense of a white woman who is the “victim” of a black man, even when that black man has  done nothing wrong. He wrote a lyric about her? And what has she made her career off of if not writing about other people? Kanye West is not perfect, but stop pretending Taykor is. And this is not a dig at her relationships, or an attempt at slut-shaming. That should not be important to the conversation. What is important is that Taylor Swift is a pop powerhouse and media mogul. She is every bit as powerful as Kanye. She is not the underdog any longer.

And shockingly, I found myself agreeing with Selenirrelevant Gomez—celebrities, use your fucking platforms for something actually constructive. I was grateful for this welcome distraction from issues such as the Dallas shootings, or the Baton Rouge shootings, or the mistreatment of Leslie Jones, or the still prevalent restrictions of abortion—WHICH IS LEGAL—or the still discussion of same-sex marriage, or the fact that Trump made Mike Pence—who LEGALIZED queer discrimination in Indiana—as his VP. Sometimes we need something dumb to give us a breather, and to make us realize what is really important.

We need to care more about social justice issues than social media. I think that the Tayliar situation reflects a lot of how our society thinks, but we need to focus on issues that require real, dynamic change. I’m a complete pop cultural anthropologist/junkie/apologist, but even I understand that this debacle is PENNIES compared to what else is going on. I wish the people I see in my life and on social media who are as fired up about taking sides in the Kan-Tay-Kim fight would be as passionate about other issues. No tea, no shade, but we need to pour our influence towards real change.

And lastly, remember that Beyoncé’s sheer greatness created a feud between two of the most powerful alphas in the entertainment industry. She did this by accident. Imagine what havoc Queen Bey could cause on purpose.

The moral of this article is: Buy “Lemonade” on iTunes. You don’t want to know what might happen if you don’t.

Standard
Life, Rambles

I’M NOT AN ADULT, LET ME DRINK MY CAPRISUN IN PEACE

Written immediately after watching a BuzzFeed video that included a “confidence and style coach” who had put his dreads up into tiny Miley Cyrus/Princess Leia buns, so know that that has deeply affected me and all that I will be doing for the rest of the day.

SOS ADDENDUM: After I went to sleep, #KimExposedTaylorParty happened and I didn’t have time to comment. Now I’m writing this on my way to work. I WILL BE devoting an entire post to this but my workplace doesn’t recognize “Pop Culture Hangover Mental Health Days” despite my lobbying, so I can’t rn. Long story short, Kim released a video via Snapchar proving that Kanye discussed the lyrics to “Famous” with Taylor Swift, who had said previously that the lyrics were a surprise to her. THIS IS MY WATERGATE.

I feel like I’ve spent the last four days just repeating “Writing is the only thing I’m good at” to people. Which, I mean, is basically true. I can’t do math, or science; I have yet to grab the concept of “stocks” (so you buy them, and then what?? You just keep them?); and I lack the patience to learn any other sort of trade. If I weren’t good at writing, then I would be Darwinned out of existence.

I think that if I didn’t have a blind self-adoration and narrow focus about my writing, then I might be deterred to being a little bit more realistic and proactive. As it is now, I just pretend that me having no job and writing with my laptop on my chest and my chin doubling is me “struggling” for my “art.” Also I get to refer to myself as a “creative” which omg is the literary equivalent of saying that you’re “studying kabbalah”.

It’s weird, because I’m being influenced on two fronts. On the personal peer front (the PPF) I’m being bombarded with friends and acquaintances with internships and (what’s another word like “internship” but not? Apprenticeship??) and omg even this girl who I hate/don’t know has her Twitter picture as something obnoxious like “I Won An Award”—I only hate her because she refused to follow me back on Twitter and now Twitter reminds me of that fact constantly by putting her in my “People You Should Follow” bracket; I also hate her because she’s one of those “ugh, over it” people—and people like that can suck an egg.

But on the other side, I’m being heavily buoyed by podcasts and Internet people and writers who are already successful and doing their thing. And usually that would make me want to body-check someone or roll out of a moving car, but for some reason I actually find it very inspiring. These are people who just grabbed what they wanted and decided to do it. And that makes me feel a little less like a loser; and it makes me feel more like “Hey, I could do this; other people did this and aren’t dying on the streets.” My greatest fear is dying on the streets/living with my parents forever. I Rihfuse to do it.

People put intense pressure on themselves and—more unfairly—on others to have things together at a young age. Things aren’t the way they used to be (to be fair, I’m only, like, twelve and a half, so I don’t know how things “used to be”). But here’s a general rule of thumb: if I’m not old enough to drink (legally)*, you shouldn’t be allowed to ask me what my plans are for the rest of my life. Let me drink my CapriSun in peace, you mutant.

*And when I turn 21, the rule will become “If I’m not old enough to rent a car (25), don’t ask me about my life plans.” This will keep updating until A) I figure out my life, or B) I die in a sample sale being half-Nelsoned by an Olsen twin. At this point, I’m open to anything.

Any successful creative will tell you that they probably didn’t know what they were doing at twenty, either. If they did know, then stone them as witches. And you’ll never hear anything from unsuccessful creatives because the Applebee’s where they work doesn’t have good cell reception. Applebee’s or bust.

Takes an eight-hour break whilst writing post.  

I don’t really know how to end this article. In the past eight hours, I have eaten an entire personal pizza, cold brew coffee and an ice cream cone, and somehow the mass-consumption of food has not elucidated any life answers. But I have realized that in order to maintain sanity, I need to eschew successful peers in my life. B’s only, B+ and above need not apply.

I think the weird/frustrating thing is that I do have goals—write a book, be funny, not die on the streets, have enough money to live on, write cool commentary—but I don’t know what is the best way to achieve those goals. Again, I really cannot stress how much I do not want to die on the streets/live with my parents forever. I could just wing, I guess. I don’t really have the easy-going nature to wing it, or the good skin to weather that kind of fiscal stress.

In other news, I have a crush on a boy who doesn’t get a lot of Instagram likes, and I have to admit that I briefly considered whether or not that was a dealbreaker for me; I saw two guys at the gym and had a brief internal debate as to whether they were dating or related; also I was able to lift a wooden pallet over my head (I s2g I almost blacked out though).

I coerced/encouraged/thinspired my coworkers to read my blog and those leeches immediately asked if I could write a post about them. I told them that I don’t write blogs about people in my life (complete lie, omg such a lie), but really I just think I’m prettier/more interesting/I’m not romantically into them, so what’s the point of writing a blog post if not a thinly veiled attempt at flirting?? If you, coworkers, actually read this, then maybe I will. (I won’t).

Also I took an Instagram (@dnnymccrthy) today (Sunday) and I looked so tan in it that I was filled with white-hot rage and an insatiable desire to actually look that tan all the time. also I need to start teeth-smiling in photos because I don’t do it (it’s a sign of aggression in the animal kingdom and that’s the rule I live by) but when I don’t do it, if the angle isn’t exactly right, I end up looking like a mental patient. I mean, I essentially am a mental patient, but I sure as fuck don’t want to look like one.

Standard
Humor, Mental Health

SELF-CARE: SOME TIPS, TRICKS, AND WHY IT’S IMPORTANT

Written after eating Talenti coffee gelato and trying not to hate myself. 

See that right there, that “trying not to hate myself” was a great act of self-care. I’m already off to a fantastic start. Go you, me!

Monday I wrote about my anxiety-ridden weekend, so I thought it would be nice to write something medium-positive to take the sting out of pouring my emotions out for the homies. It was either this or go in the complete opposite creative direction to make you forget completely that I can ever be a sensitive human/sentient robot.

So I was doing my daily ritual of light incense, meditation and cleaning out my “YouTube Watch Later” playlist, which at some points is longer than my list of friends (short list of friends or long list of to-be-watched videos? You be the judge), and I watched a video of Tyler Oakley’s called “Five Easy Ways To Self-Care” or something like that—idk I’ll put it below, don’t make me look it up rn—and that triggered/inspired/thinspired me to do something similar, but a little more…me.


A lot of times when I see self-care things, they’re by “nice” people and all of the suggestions are helpful but not very appropriate for someone who spends as much time praying that “vibing” people with negative thoughts will make their lives worse.

See I also just watched the season two premiere of Difficult People, which if you’re not watching, you should be, and if you are watching, stop taking my thing, and that’s much more me—a couple of 7/10s running around, being mean/funny to people. For a lot of people like me—hot but mean—we can’t really identify with traditionally “nice” people. So here is the self-care guide you need if you’re a little bit of a dick and a lot of a mess.

Obviously there are the obvious things—obvi duh—like exercise (because exercise releases endorphins, endorphins make people happy, and happy people don’t kill their husbands, duh!), drinking lots of water and eating healthily, and getting plenty of sleep. But you didn’t come here for a regular self-care guide—you came here for the Naomi Campbell of self-care guides (dangerous, beautiful, unpredictable).

1). Scream so loud: This is actually (semi)therapist approved. I once had a therapist who suggested that, as a way to get out my deep-seated anger, I get into my car and scream. Loudly. For as long as I could. When I, repressed as I am, finally did it, I was amazed at how good I felt. The primal and visceral reaction of screaming out loud, or into a pillow, or silent-screaming, is shockingly effective. It releases tension, it untwists the anger coils in your chest, and it’s so flagrantly weird that you have to laugh. At least, that’s what it makes me do. Alternatively, you could fake-laugh-scream at something, which always makes me actual laugh. Because I can find nothing real-funny until I find it ironic-funny. I’m a millennial.

2). Throw out your scale (or if it’s expensive just don’t use it): Seriously, if it’s money, just put it out of sight. I’m on a budget too. When I was at school, I didn’t have a scale and it actually really improved my mood. I know this because when I got home for the summer and discovered our fancy digital scale, I became obsessed with weighing myself. A lot of the anxiety-driven part of my depression manifests in body obsession and that translates to needing to know how much I weigh at any point. So I decided to stop weighing myself again and just let myself live. And it really helps. Numerical weight is such a scam anyway; a number can’t tell me how I feel about myself, or how the weight carries itself. I can be at my heaviest, but if I feel good, then that number is irrelevant.

A lot of self-care is cutting out unnecessary stress and stressors in your life, and trying not to give a shit about your weight—within reason—just seems like a no-brainer.

3). Pep talk: I don’t know how most people think, but I don’t think in words as much as I do in images and visceral emotions. Like, I don’t think, “Oh I’m nervous about work.” I feel it much more deeply and see it play out before me. And because of that, I don’t really have any sort of internal dialogue with myself. So when I’m feeling like I need to self-care, I’ll have a pep talk for myself, out loud in the mirror. In his video, Tyler actually said to treat yourself like your best friend, and that means to be nice to yourself and to lift yourself up. Alternately, I constantly sing out loud to myself. I’m not a good singer, but I do it when I walk, or do dishes, or fold laundry. Singing is a good, very healing thing to do. Emote, bitches.

4). Unfollow unhealthy social media accounts: I talked about this a little in my last post, but I can’t stress enough what a difference it has made. I’m not just talking about unfollowing boyz who you think are out of your league but are actually too emotionally withdrawn to like you; this totally works for cleaning out your social media followings. Unfriend that person you haven’t seen in forever; don’t force yourself to click through the Snap story of a colleague from four years ago who you only follow in the faint hopes of a shirtless moment. A lot of self-care is surrounding yourself with positivity and people you love; ditch the acquaintances.

 5). Watch videos of people falling: Funny as shit.

There are other, simpler things—good music, time spent outdoors, snuggling with cute animals. Then are other, more extensive things—a good therapist, self-reflection, journaling. It all depends on what you need. Also always remember to try to look on the positive…is the most annoying thing that anyone can ever say to anyone, but it’s honestly true. Even if you don’t have depression, it’s so easy to be stuck in the rut of negativity; taking active steps to appreciate things around you—nice eyebrows, the sunlight effusing a green leaf, old people holding hands—can change the roadways of your brain and rewire you for a happier outlook. Idk if that’s true; I read that somewhere.

If all else fails, start small. Smile. Take deep breaths. Close your eyes and just sit. And then read through all of my blog and tell me how smart, but how humble, and how funny, but how unintimidating, I am. Also someone sponsor me!!! Give me that $$$ so I don’t have to write “60 Ways To Get Your Sexy Back” listicles for the rest of my life!

Also I’ve been frequently changing up my header image to convince myself that I have some semblance of control over my life. What do you think??

Screen Shot 2016-07-13 at 10.41.30 PM.png

Source: Danny McCarthy via The Wunderkindof

Standard
Life, Mental Health, Rambles

RUNNING AND SPILLING THAT ANXIE-TEA

Written on a Sunday evening, laptop on chest. 

I’ve had one of those weekends where I realize everything that’s ever been wrong/will be wrong/is wrong with my life. And I think it’s something only a rising college senior could experience, the compounded emotions of living life in your childhood home while simultaneously expected to grapple with the upcoming reality of post-graduate world. So that’s fun.

But actually that’s just me being hyperbolic because I realized that this weekend, and possibly the last week, I’ve been in the middle of a depressive slump. Being medicated while depressed is a weird thing because mentally you assume that the little blue pills you swallow every morning—I can swallow dry, tell your friends—will cure you. But really, they just help you manage the depression. I, and probably a lot of other depressed people, then operate under the assumption that we’re “better” or “normal.” This is confusing because when you go into depressive slumps, which is natural for anyone and extremely natural for someone with depression, you almost don’t realize what’s happening until you’re already chest-deep in emotion.

And the “you” in this situation is “me.” Or “I”?

I used to have these wild mood swings where for two weeks, I would be deeply depressed, then I wouldn’t be, and that joy would elevate into this kind of superior fervor because I wasn’t depressed at the moment, and then it would gradually swing back. Medication restricted that vast pendulum swing, and so my moods travel back into the regular range. And on one hand, that’s awesome because blah blah blah we get why that’s awesome. But on the other hand, I A) became addicted to the feelings of high and almost reveled in the lows, and B) was able to realize when I was in a slump because it was so obvious.

When you have a regular human range of emotions, mixed with the (wrong) belief that you’re cured of depression, those slumps can really sneak up on you, and BOI did they sneak up on me.

One way to realize that you’re in a slump is that things begin to resonate harder with you. Before I was on medication, I described it as if I were a well. Anything could happen and it would ping down into my well and reverberate deeply inside. When you’re on medication, the well seems shallower, so the things don’t vibrate as deeply or for as long. But in this slump, a lot of little things—the usual bunch of body image, boy weirdness, friend weirdness and job anxiety—compounded and suddenly became so overwhelming that I did something I never do anymore.

I ran outside.

Basically from ages fourteen to eighteen, I was constantly running. After I got into college, I dropped that like a hot stone and recently I’ve picked it up slightly in the form of highly regulated, 12-minute sprints on the treadmill. I hate going on runs. But I was so amped up and anxious and I had no car to go to the gym to burn away my emotions that I just started running in my neighborhood. I only ran three miles—okay ran/walked/stood and tweeted three miles—and it really helped to cleanse me.

I power-sprinted to Meghan Trainor, I walked to Matt Nathanson, and I boiled down some concrete things I could do. A lot of what’s been stressing me out has its claws in social media, and I took some action to alleviate some of that anxiety. One of it was unfollowing someone because following them only confuses me romantically and indulges my tendency to fixate and obsess. And even though I still meander over to them in my mind, I don’t have that digital bee-sting when I scroll past their stuff. And so that’s something that I could do to make myself feel better and did.

I think a lot of dealing with your emotions, whether or not you suffer from depression, is about taking distance. When I was in the full flush of all these emotions, I had to step back, recognize the slump for what it was, and realize that that was enhancing my anxiety. Not that these things wouldn’t have stressed me out on a good day, but they wouldn’t have made me as emotional. And having space from the things that are causing you to be stressed also allows you to evaluate them. Like, I’m an obsessive person sometimes, so I’ve been fixating on this one person and thinking that I like them when really maybe I do like them but I’m also looking for someone to fixate on and someone to rationalize current other emotions. Sounds complicated, right?

giphy

Source: Pajiba/Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, the show I’m currently watching. V good, v good.

I’m rambling, but I wanted to write it out and idk get this thought out there? I reached out to people when I was feeling really spiral-y—Marco, Nina—and having their friendship and listening ears really helped me out. So I think putting stuff like this out there, that being medicated doesn’t mean cured and that’s not a bad thing, and it’s okay to get overemotional and stressed and anxious, validates a lot of feelings I think we all have. And that’s important—the validation of our feelings.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. I wrote an article responding to the Dallas shooting on The Odyssey Online, so if it’s up by the time this gets published, I’ll link it HERE (DON’T FORGET DANNY). I don’t want it to look like I’m ignoring last week’s events.

I LOVE YOU GUYS. Even you. Yes, you! I like that top. Most people would’ve be that brave to pull off something like that. No that’s not shade. OMG IT’S NOT SHA—

Byeee!

Standard
Life, pop culture, Rambles, Things I Like

THINGS THAT ARE HAPPENING RN: KATY PERRY, THE COLOR PURPLE (NOT THE MOVIE), TIE-DYE AND DOGGIES

Time for another round of I’m Out of Ideas For This Week and On A Time Crisis! Oh wait, it’s called what? Really? That’s a bit of a sloppy name. Who thought of that? I did? Ugh, whatever. Nevermind, it’s time for Things That Are Happening RN!!

1). BLAHG: I’m obsessed with making header images for my blog. I spent a good hour just goofing around, finding the perfect font that says “Sexy, but approachable” mixed with “Never f*cking talk to me.” And I think I really found it. S.T.U.N.N.I.N.G. I also made a matching banner for my Twitter, which some people might consider a low point but I consider it more of a stepping stone to madness. Which I guess isn’t…better.

2). Katy Perry: Katy Perry made a perfume that’s called “Mad Love,” which is supposedly related to her “Mad Potion” perfume. HOWEVER “Mad love” is actually a Taylor Swift song lyric, as in “Baby now we got bad blood, you know we used to be mad love” (or idk; I don’t know the lyrics by heart). This is SHADE CITY because “Bad Blood” is allegedly about Katy Perry and how she stole dancers from Taylor’s tour and they both fought over John Mayer. A) You can’t steal dancers; they’re people. The last time someone stole a person, it resulted in SLAVERY. B) Why are we fighting over John Mayer? Just find a charismatic homeless person—same effect.

3). Taylor Swift: was dating Calvin Harris—now dating Tom Hiddleston. I realized that when T-Swizzle doesn’t have any new music for me to consume, I really find her very annoying. I don’t think that anyone can deny that she’s a musical powerhouse, but it also serves the alternative purpose of distracting me from her kind of awful personality. But Swiftie 4 life.

4). Bathing suits: I bought swimsuits from Old Navy yesterday. SALEEEEE. But there’s no more vulnerable of a moment than when you’re trying on a bathing suit under the harsh fluorescent lights of your local Old Navy. It really tests the strength of your character, and my character has the solidity of cheesecake.

5). COLOR: I’m really into lime-green and goldenrod-yellow lately. Usually these are some of my least favorite colors—omg I also forgot; I used purple in one of my Wunderkindof banner mockups (for when we’ve moved out of the summer themes) and I HATE purple. What is getting into me??

6). FASHUN: Do you ever buy one article of clothing and suddenly envision an entire capsule collection of your new style? I bought a tie-dye sweatshirt online the other day and it sent me on a science-nerd/grunchy hippie/clean grunge/second-hottest-kid-in-space-camp journey, for which I’m currently living. It’s really amazing what a piece of clothing can do for you.

7). DOG BLANKY: My sister put a picture of our dog onto a blanket and it’s massive and the best thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

8). OITNB: I’m two episodes in but I’m already exhausted. I wish no one else liked it because now I feel like I’m forced to watch it so that I can be a part of the cultural zeitgeist.

I could go on but I love stopping lists at the number 8 because it reaaaaaaaally (I almost forgot the second “L” and then realized, “What the fuck does it matter? I used like seven “A”s) undercuts any sort of expectation you might’ve had for me. And I’m nothing if not excellent at circumventing the expectations heaped upon me.

I werked out my arms today and instead of feeling “buff y ripped” I just feel tired.

Standard
Humor, Life, Rambles

RIPPED UNDERWEAR AND THE UNCOMFORTABLY BREEZY DERRIERE

Today I was at the gym and I full-on ripped my underwear. Like SpongeBob SquarePants-style. Like Contact-rip in the space/time continuum-style.

Let me set the scene. The place: Planet Fitness. The muscle group: legs and abs. The perpetrator: a pair of navy-blue boxers from GAP. The victim: me, and my butt.

I walked into the gym and went to the back section where the weights/douchebags are and grabbed a dumbbell. I managed to finish one exercise—lunges, because I want that tush—when I readjust my stance and frame my feet to begin squats.

Literally, I square off my feet and dip into the first squat when my underwear busts open like a jack-in-the-box with an audible pop! noise. I have headphones in and I’m listening to a podcast, but the force of the tear is so visceral that it startles me. I get out of the squat and turn slowly, praying feverishly that the tear was my boxers and not my shorts. My butt rounds the corner and I can see that, for now, the tear has been restricted to my underwear.

With a new, uncomfortably breezy derriere, I try to finish at least the first set of squats, but after four quick dips, it’s becoming abundantly clear that unless I want to do a strip-tease for the elderly and housewives who are with me at Planet Fitness on a Monday at 11 a.m., I should move on to something else.

tumblr_mwlia5tnO11r32spfo1_500.gif

Source: Bust.com/ From my FAVORITE (FAVOURITE??) podcast Throwing Shade

There are certain pivotal moments in a person’s life. The first time they fall in love (with a person/inanimate object/food). The first time they drive a car (successfully—which for me was not the first time as “drive a car”). The first time they shit on the side of a mountain while on a six-mile hike (Done and done). And the first time that their butt proves to be too much for inferior underwear and rips in a public place.

With this newest life-marker, I realized several things. One, that clothing is nothing more than a consumerist façade. Two, that clothing is nothing more than a consumerist façade and without that consumer façade, you feel super-duper nakey. Three, that even though no one can tell that you just ripped your underwear from taint-to-waistband, you’ll walk around for the next half hour being extremely paranoid that everyone totally can.

I also had the intense internal debate of whether or not I should leave the gym that moment and properly deal with my shame. Here’s how that situation went down.

***

ME (leggy auburn millennial with 6/10 skin and an ass that won’t quit): (does single squat and causes a seismic rip that will affect ecosystems for years to come)

SHAME: You need to get out of here, quick.

ME: What?

SHAME: You just ripped your underwear, you freak. You’re basically streaking rn.

ME: No but I just got here. I need to werk out my body.

SHAME: Just say “work.” Don’t add the “e.” it’s juvenile.

ME: I didn’t add the “e.”

SHAME: Yes you did. Sharon, can you go back in the transcript?

SHARON (court stenographer): “I need to werk out my body.”

SHAME (rightfully vindicated): No “e”, huh? You’re disgusting.

ME (shamed for the “e”): I drove all the way over here.

SHAME: Why are you doing this to us? Your underwear is ripped; this isn’t a gay 1990s porno. This is To Catch A Predator. Why are you Jim Henson-ing yourself?

ME: The creator of the Muppets?

SHAME: Who?

ME: Jim Henson, the creator of the Muppets.

SHAME: Who am I thinking of then? Sharon, who am I thinking of?

SHARON (Googles it but she’s on a BlackBerry, so it takes forever): Chris Hansen?

SHAME: Chris Hansen, yes. You’re Chris Hansen-ing yourself.

ME: I can’t take you seriously if you can’t tell apart Chris Hansen and Jim Henson. We’re done here.

tumblr_n9y42dtab81r32spfo8_400

Source: Rebloggy

Fin.

Fun fact: there is a “Jim Hansen” who is a professor at Columbia University, researcher in climatology and a climate activist for mitigating the effects of global warming. Well, I guess it’s more of a “fact” than a “fun fact.”

There’s not a grosser, more awkwardly slutty feeling than working out with ripped underwear. I imagine that there are people who completely get off on stuff like that, but I’m as pure and virginal as the driven snow and I just dealt with greater-than-normal swampass.

In other news, I just finished watching the penultimate episode of Game of Thrones. I almost thought about doing a recap, but GoT is literally so confusing that I have no idea what’s happening/what has happened/who anyone is, so it would be a lot of me going, “And then Red Beard guy, omg what is his name, bite the throat of that other guy—is he new or should I have known who he is?—and Jon Snow basically got a deep-tissue charcoal scrub, but instead of charcoal it was mud and the blood of his enemies.” Wait, that sounds fun. Not the mud and blood part, but the recap. Regardless, it’s not happening. But I’ve been watching that, and reading. A. ton.

You know you’ve become a complete lost cause when you’re staying up late requesting books from your library. I’ve fallen so far.

Standard
Humor, LGBTQ, Love & Romance

IT WASN’T HARD TO TELL I WAS GAY, I PLAYED WITH POLLY POCKETS

I don’t know if it’s the fact that my love life is as barren and devoid of life as Antarctica (which means “no bears” because “arktos” is “bear” in Greek and “a” or “ant” means “without”—it’s called the alpha privative—and which coincidentally is probably a good example of why I’m without love; because I love Greek etymology and the cool kids who had sex in high school probably only like cigarettes and nothing) or if it’s the rampant repression in my family, but the last time my mom and I talked about a relationship of mine, I was freshly fourteen.

She was driving me across town to hang out with my cool friends and the route took us past a huge cemetery. While driving past the cemetery, my mom asked me if I was going to give my girlfriend—yes, that’s not a misspelling—the bag I had bought for her—I just accidentally typed out “him” because my body is rejecting the notion of heterosexuality on base instinct, it seems—while we were in London over the summer. It was my first European excursion and I had spent some of my meager allowance on a tote bag—in a sensible ecru emblazed with red and blue ‘LON-DON’—for the love of my life. Unfortunately before I could give her the tote bag, she broke up with me via AIM. I might be dating myself with that reference.

6af0b52bf507795720e1ba4d70b37b89

A few months passed, and my mom was driving me to a casual hang with my now ex-girlfriend and our mutual friends. I can’t remember the details—selective blackout—and the friendships soon dissolved after that as I realized I was wildly and deeply swimming in the dude pond. “What happened?” My mom asked, concerned that her heterosexual son had ended his first heterosexual relationship, heterosexually.

Years later while heading back up to school, I was walking along the bridge that spanned the wide expanse of train rails when I saw her sitting on the floor, long legs curled underneath and looking flawless without makeup, with her new boyfriend, who I can’t remember—again, blacked out—but I’m pretty sure was the live-action inspiration for Prince Eric. Glad she’s happy. I walked past with my head angled the other way because the only thing worse than confronting your old girlfriend that you’re gay is confronting your girlfriend with her hot new boyfriend that you’re gay.

I was talking to some old (ish) friends the other day and I was relating the tale of dating my first (who am I kidding? Only) girlfriend. “I remember being twelve and dating her and being uncomfortable. I brushed it off as thinking that I was a “free spirit” and couldn’t be tied down in a relationship,” I said, pausing before adding, “That was a lie; turns out I was just very, very gay.” Wait for laughter. Be emotionally fulfilled by others’ external laughter noises.

During the conversation of the tote bag—custody arrangements were later made in the best interest of the tote—I was fourteen and for the next year, I steadfastly ignored the rising feeling that lingered underneath layers and layers of Irish repression and fear. I became permanently tense and headaches plagued me from the sheer effort of keeping the lid on my homosexual (porcelain, gilded) box. Finally, at fifteen, in the shower, I realized I was exhausted. “Fine, I’m gay,” I’m sure I said, face directly in the showerhead so that the gurgle of water blanketed my voice. And instantly, some of the tension let out and I unspooled from my sharp wire coil.

Something I learnt after I came out was that, apparently, everyone already knew and was dying to tell me. “I always could tell,” said one well-meaning, slightly condescending person after another. I played with Barbies until I was eight, wore a cape for a year when I was five, and routinely claimed that Prince Eric was my husband. Excuse me if I don’t doff my cap for your super-sleuthing and Holmesian detective work. If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. There’s nothing more disappointing to a theatrical gay that’s having potentially the biggest moment of his life than to find out that everyone already knows his big, juicy secret.

There’s also nothing more useless. In my Film Theory and Criticism class this past spring, we were reading incredibly dense theory by Slavoj Zizek, who I hate with a fiery, unrepentant passion, and someone asked a question about a particularly dense passage. My professor laughed and said, “Oh that’s so confusing. I have no idea what he’s talking about. That’s not really what I wanted you to focus on.”

The students looked at each other before the girl who asked the question raised her hand again and ventured, “What were we supposed to focus on?”

If I actually did the readings for that class, I’m sure I would’ve been as upset as the other students when they found out that instead of struggling through the theory for hours, they could’ve just focused on select passages. That sucks, guys; you totally have my sympathy.

See, that is some information that would’ve been handy before the fact. That would’ve made a difference. You telling me three years after I came out that you’ve “always known” and telling some charming story about me, I don’t know, making dresses for my Polly Pockets—which is a real thing that I did—is decidedly not helpful for me, neither before nor after the fact. Please keep the fact that you figured out my sexuality when I was four to yourself. It’s not needed. Thanks, but no thanks. The whole practice, the “Of course I knew!” routine, is largely demeaning and unfair to all queer people, who have struggled to come to terms with their identities for years.

In an effort to avoid the whole rigmarole of sitting down, finding the words and coming out to people, I’ve instead usually opted for the secondary route of loudly proclaiming which guys—celebrity, make-believe, or otherwise—I think are hot. It’s a method that has proven relatively successful for me, unless the person I’m talking around is deaf or one of those people who think that wrestling isn’t gay or that guy who says, “What’s better than this: Guys being dudes” in that video. Those people are deliberately obtuse. Also I don’t know the word for “gay” in American Sign Language. I could improve, but I don’t think that would end in any other way but a lawsuit.

“We just didn’t work out,” I sighed to my mom vaguely at her question and went back to staring pensively out the window at the passing blurs of cemeteries, thinking about wrestling.

Standard