Category Archives: Rambles

LGBTQ, Life, Love & Romance, Rambles

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO DO WHAT YOU WANT?

No, seriously, what does it mean?

I think that there’s a difference between “doing what you want” and “getting what you want.” That’s a difference that has evaded me for a while, because when things didn’t go my way, I felt dejected. But that’s passivity, waiting for something to happen to you. But doing what you want, that’s active. That’s bold as shit.

I was listening to a podcast last night as I drifted into a sleep where I dreamt the apocalypse was occurring—weirdly, this is a scenario I dream about a lot, and in my dreams, I last a lot longer than I think I would in real life—and the podcast was taking about the idea of “manifestation.” It’s like the Secret, but a little less Wiccan and a little more realistic. No shade 2 Wicca.

But they were talking about manifestation and how setting positive, strong goals in your life sets you on a path towards making active choices and seeing those goals “manifest” in your life. You might want a boyfriend—that would be a manifest. Eh? I don’t know if I believe in manifestation, but I do believe there is something in active thinking.

Now, doing what you want comes in degrees. Totally doing what you want is something we like to call “dictatorship.” Not a good look. But doing what you want, making active and positive choices means that you’re not stalin your life. Get it? Stalin? Stalling? I’ll leave. No, you stay—I’ll go.

There are people who I hate, people who seem to have everything going right in their lives. They’re the ones standing at the podium, accepting the Pulitzer Prize, and I’m the one in the audience, making the jerkoff motion and rolling my eyes. To each their own. But maybe it’s less about the fact that they are “lucky” and I’m “unlucky”—anyone who’s ever seen me knows that I’m very lucky, genetics-wise, and intelligence-wise and humor-wise and charisma-wise, and wise-wise (v, v wise)—and more that they are making choices that direct them towards their goals.

I have goals. I have dreams—prophetic ones, but also career ones. So if I have some sort of dream, what the fuck am I doing to make them happen? If the answer is nothing—I’m not going to answer because I’m afraid of the answer—then I should kick myself. Because WHY AM I WAITING?

I was walking back to my apartment from class the other day—like Friday? Idk, I’m not a historian—and I had had a bit of a downer week. Class was stressful, and not in a “fun, running around, hectic” stress kind of way, but in a “I WANT TO SLASH YOUR TIRES” stress kind of way. But the week was over, and I was buoyed by the thought of the weekend, and I realized that life is finite and we’re all going to die, one by one, until the void swallows Earth whole like a python swallowing a wild pig in the Amazon.

Well, I didn’t think exactly that because I’m in therapy and on medication and stable, but I thought, “Why the fuck am I not doing what I want?” I’m used to mostly getting my way—when you talk as loud as I do, it’s kind of a given that people will give you what you want so that you shut up—but I’m really bad about seeking out what I want. I let things happen to me.

And for what? It’s not like great things are plopping into my lap. Everything that’s a positive in my life is something that I sought out, or something that I was passionate about. Even this grand old hooker of a blog started because I was like, “I HAVE THOUGHTS.”

For noxample (not an example, because I’m shielding the actual occurrence behind lies) I decided to bake cookies. I’ve baked cookies before, but it never really turned out great. It was always at the wrong time—too close to dinner—and it always ended up not great. I would get nauseous, or not hungry, or I wouldn’t want them. But I thought about what I wanted—I wanted cookies. So I thought, “What am I going to do to get them?” I have to be annoying and bold and bake those cookies. They might not end up the way I want, but if I don’t bake them, and I still want them, then the only person I have to blame is myself. And that’s not something I’m comfortable with—being the one to stand in my own way.

The cookies didn’t work out. Maybe I didn’t add the flour, or the sugar—idk, this is a fake example and I don’t know how to make cookie dough. And I burnt my fingers. And it sucks. But at least I fucking tried. And at least I decided to do what I want. I’ve wasted so many hours and seconds, agonizing over what to do, that the relief of making a decision—any decision—makes the blow of not having the cookies I want soften.

We should do what we want, and be okay with not getting what we want. I’m bad at it. I’m bad at manifestation, because I take every speed bump as a road block. I let the fear of burnt fingers stop me from making cookies. But even though I scalded my fingers and burnt the cookies and fucked everything up, I don’t regret it. Because I did it.

I’m getting hungry/missing Ina Garten, so I’m going to stop talking about cookies. Even though it wasn’t actually about cookies; I’m stupid, so I’m thinking about actual cookies now. Snickerdoodle. UGH.

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Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy // I’m sorry but isn’t this actually kind of a funny joke?

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Humor, Life, pop culture, Rambles, Things Happening RN, Things I Like

FALL’S HERE, IT’S QUEER, GET USED TO IT

Saturday. 

I’ve spent the day writing articles and emailing back potential new writers for my section, whilst recuperating from a tough week journalistically. But, frankly, the only thing I’ll remember from today is that I’ve spent the majority of my energy today A) thinking of puns about “autumn” and “fall” and trying to engage Shelby in a Twitter war. She’s not really taking my bait, which I think just means that not a big enough celebrity to warrant her time.

This past Thursday was the first day of fall. You probably didn’t realize, but I didn’t post that day. It wasn’t because I was out, celebrating fall or something—I don’t even know what “celebrating fall” would look like, other than taking a bath in a giant Starbucks cup a la Dita von Teese. It was because I was trying to find a wall with sheetrock thin enough for me to bash my head through. It’s been one of those weeks.

But now I’ve taken approximiately seven deep, cleansing breaths and drank alcohol, so I’m uncoiling from my “stress fetal” position.

It’s been a while since I did a season-themed post, mostly because time is a human construct and I don’t believe in a linear time concept. Everything is relative.

For the first time in literal months, I’m almost chilly. Here I am, sitting in the student union, wearing LONG PANTS and LONG SLEEVES, feeling like a g*ddamn polar bear. I’m so used to being hot—last week, I sweated through multiple outfit changes—that the idea that we could be leaving that behind—I’ll start sweating beneath layers of clothing instead—is almost too good to be true.

Also I’m using Gilmore Girls gifs (try saying that five times fast) because NOTHING says fall quite like Gilmore Girls.

To celebrate the beginning of Plant Death Season and the upcoming Communing With Souls Day and National Turkey Slaughter Day, here’s a list of things I’m excited about for fall:

MORE EXCITED THAN I AUTUMN BE

(not the best pun, but you can’t argue with the fact that it’s definitely not the worst I’ve ever made up)

1). FALL FLAVORS: Not pumpkin spice, which is—I’m pretty sure—not an actual thing, but rather a scheme created by Ryan Seacrest and Starbucks. I do love me some sweet potato pie/pumpkin pie (I can’t ever remember which is which). I’m more excited for some cinnamon-dustings, some brown sugar, some sultry maple. At my internship last year, the coffee place in the basement of the building mixed their own spices and they had this autumn one that I would sprinkle over my lattes in the afternoon and it was SO BOMB.

2). SEASONAL PLAYLISTS: I never do this any other time, but I lose my g*ddamn mind for a winter Spotify playlist. I’ll gravitate towards certain bands during the summer—a fresh, very pop-beach-blue vibe—but fall is when I start curating actual playlists—more of a folk-rock-pop-brown-fire vibe—to get me pumped for making my Christmas playlist—which I’m already contemplating. I hate myself only a little for this, which rocks.

3). FLANNEL: Three words—“doesn’t show sweat.” Do you know how detrimental these last few weeks of school have been for me? I’ve been going through so many t-shirts that I think I might break the laundry machine (I’m not going to pay for a second load). In the colder months, I love to wear flannels and thick sweaters and button-downs because they don’t show sweat and I can pretend I have normal, human glands. Somehow, despite being made up entirely of genealogies that evolved in cold climates, I’ve got the pores of a Saharan camel-driver.

4). BIG MUGS: Nothing makes you look thinner/frailer than holding a huge fucking mug in two hands. GOD SO THIN.

5). SEASONAL DRINKS: I just turned 21, so I ain’t talking about no Pumpkin Spice Latte (although I inevitably break down every year and buy at least one). I’m talking about ALCOHOL. Ciders, golden-hued beers, hot toddies, Bailey’s. I can finally become the Pinterest drinker of my dreams.

Also, this isn’t one of my “numbers” but I’m just excited for everyone to lose their tans. This summer I tried really hard to be okay with my skin, but I’ll admit, I can’t wait for those beachy fuckers to know how I live 365 days out of the year. I’m also excited to not have to excruciatingly deliberate over Instagram filters that make me look as sun-kissed as possible. I can exist as a full-time marble statue™.

(whispers very quietly like a little mouse: “also number six I like pumpkin spice lattes”)…(more loudly says: “WHAT? No I didn’t say anything. You misheard. Pumpkin spice is not a thing; it’s a Hallmark seasonal scheme.”)

This blog started on Saturday, and now it’s Monday, and I’m just going to chalk that up to general laziness because the idea that it’s taken me three days to write one dumb article about FALL is an attack on my intelligence. Also today I’m wearing a deep burgundy-red long-sleeved t and I love being in them fall colors!!!! They lewk sew gud on me!!!

What if I was illiterate and that’s how you found out that I couldn’t spell and I’ve been using the “Talk-to-text” app that Luann used in the iconic “Tom, how could you do this to me. Question mark,” watershed moment in Real Housewives of New York City? And this entire blog—which I realized the other day is about to turn two—was just the longest con imaginable, and for no clear purpose.

I guess we’ll never know.

Also I’m super into yellow right now. Living for it!! So fall! So festive! So cheerful!

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Humor, Life, Rambles

SISYPHUS, “SHEEPDOGGING” AND MY LUBEY THIGHS

Written after picking a scab and now I will bleed forever for a thousand moons until the oceans have dried up, the tectonic plates have cracked and man’s cities have crumbled to dust and alien life forms will come to our desiccated husk of a world and my scab will still be fucking bleeding.

I was walking back from the gym this morning (#FitFam) and as I was walking, I happened across a couple who were walking in the same direction, wearing athletic clothing. I didn’t really think anything of it, and since I have long muscular legs (ohmygod I have been chafing so much that if we were stuck in the desert together sans supplies, I could start a fire with my thighs), I quickly power-walked past them.

I’m walking, walking, listening to a podcast—okay it’s the Bitch Bible podcast which I recently subscribed to and I’m such a stereotype—when suddenly the couple comes sprinting up behind me, except I didn’t know until they sped around me like a roaring river and made me quirk. However, it was just a short sprint, so, like, twenty paces up, they stopped running and starting walking very slowly.

And I fucking realized that with my long muscular legs and thick thighs, that at the pace they were going at and the pace I was going at, I would soon overtake them (physics (?)). I guess I could’ve slowed my pace but death is imminent and I had eggs to fry for breakfast so my pace waits for no man. Praying that they were done sprinting/would drop dead, I went around as we both crossed the street.

Butthole clenched, I walked along the—now much narrower—sidewalk, tensed like I was in the g*ddamn Hunger Games, and lo-and-fucking-behold, they come sprinting past me and ten paces up, drop off into a leisurely jog.

Side bar: THIS DOES NOTHING FOR YOU. Yes, sporadic sprints will confuse your muscles and help you burn more calories, but then dropping off into a FUCKING SLOW WALK will just put you at risk for my foot into your lower spine.

If you took Ancient Greek in high school/didn’t have many friends in middle school and read Greek mythology (I was both of these), then you might’ve heard of the myth of Sisyphus. Damned by the gods for…idk, skipping out on his cable bill or something, Sisyphus was forced in the afterlife (it’s like life, but more dead) to push a huge boulder up a hill. That in itself is actually just a CrossFit workout (wow, “CrossFit” is a recognized word in my Microsoft cuz I got that 2016 download), so the gods wanted to make it harder. When Sisyphus reaches the top of the hill, the boulder rolls back down and Sissy must start again. And that’s the real punishment for Sisyphus: the futile nature of his struggle, the constant cycle, no real traction gained despite his efforts.

Walking, like a sheep hemmed in by a pair of fucking sheepdogs in Nike gear, I felt like I was trapped in my own Sisyphean hellscape. Except I would rather burn campus to the ground than get stuck in an endless cycle with these fucks.

End of the story is that eventually we came to a corner and the path diverged into two. I hovered gently behind them and decided I would take the road less traveled on, aka the road where these two fucking weren’t. I can’t handle couples in general, but I especially can’t handle being herded by a couple.

Couple of fucks.

I moved back to school on Thursday, which is why I didn’t post anything that day. Not because I didn’t have the time. I had the time. I just didn’t want to.

This might just be a ~quirky little quirk~ of someone who had a double helping of anxiety and depression (greedy, I know), but transitions (school to home, home to school, USSR to Russia—fucked me up) are especially difficult for me to process. So my first day back—Thursday—after my parents left, I busied myself before hanging out with a friend and then hanging out with another friend and watching RuPaul’s Drag Race: AllStars 2 (#spon?) to ride out the lingering anxiety of being in a “new” place even though I moved back into my old apartment and I’m a fucking senior on campus. Anxiety has no rhyme or reason or rhythm (much like myself).

It’s Saturday today, and I definitely feel a lot more calmed and grounded—fame hasn’t gotten to my head—and also the Sisyphus-sheepdog incident really made me laugh, so I decided that I was in a stable enough condition to write this.

Ohmygod side bar: I’m gonna say what, but I’m making a very big life decision within the next few weeks, and I will be revealing that when it comes to fruition. VERY EXCITING STUFF.

So that’s really it. I’ve been wearing a lot of light-wash denim lately, and the other day I wore my Birkenstocks for so long I got a blister. Also I’ve been chafing up a storm lately for some reason, and I rubbed deodorant on my inner thighs this morning (per a friend’s suggestion, that is not a usual thing I do), and it helped a little bit. But I couldn’t quite get used to the feeling of lubey thighs and that really affected my mentality for the day.

Side bar: Buy my single “Lubey Thighs” on iTunes. The full album will be dropping later this month, Diary-Ah.

#LUBEYTHIGHS

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Humor, Life, pop culture, Rambles

HIPSTER NONSENSE

Written while having bad skin.

I don’t want to be dramatic, is something I say to myself and others before I go off. I won’t even say it now, because I want to remain cool and calm and collected, and foreshadowing a blog post with “I don’t want to be dramatic” just mentally gives me the go-ahead to rant. And I’m above that, frankly.

I’m about to head back to school. I have officially turned 21 (#twentyfun). I’m living life large, but also small because I’m so thin, and also medium because I can speak with the dead. But as I’m going back, I have to start reacquainting myself with my peers and my piers (Boston is a river city), and that means reacquainting myself with Fakesters (Fake Hipsters, but I can’t think of a wittier amalgam, so fucking sue me. Also like you even fucking know what an amalgam is).

To the casual basique onlooker, I might be generally confused (slightly) for a hipster. I’m gay (very against the mainstream), I wear a lot of sweaters, I make strong references, and I’m an English major (hipster boner city because if I’ve listened to one New Balance-wearing wannabe discussing 1800s English poets, I’ve listened to a thousand). However, I’m also deeply invested in the welfare of the Kardashian-Jenners, I don’t own an antique printing press, and my iPod nano has since lost all charge because I retired it in 2009 like the humanitarian I am.

However, when you dance the dirty tango with Hipsterdom, that means that you come into contact with A) real hipsters (which I can’t even) and B) Fakesters (which are like real hipsters but infinitely more insufferable). Look, I get it. Everyone gets caught up in trends. The ‘90s are back, hunny, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. HOWFUCKINGEVER, I can’t handle it when people take things a little too far.

I’ve been watching Friends recently and besides the very problematic lack of queer or black people, it’s been cute. It’s also been hauntingly familiar because everything that all the characters wear is something that I’ve seen on a classmate. Crop tops, oversized flannels, a simple boot. We’re jonesing for the ‘90s bad. Which is cool. Which is fine. But there are some things that cross the fucking line.

I was on Snapchat and I was scrolling through people’s Stories—muted—when I came across the Snapchat of a not friend-friend (like, we’re “friends” but I wouldn’t eat in front of her) and she has Snapchatted her listening to a circa-2007 iPod classic. So let’s break down this situation. You think it’s fucking hipster and alternative to listen to an iPod classic (no h8, don’t send me your letters, iPod classic stans) and document on a modern social media app with YOUR FUCKING IPHONE 6S. If you’re going to commit and make me seem like an asshole millennial, then you don’t get to use a goddamn iPhone. Go back to a corded housephone, you monster. And I say this with a lot of love and also if the person who did this ever finds this blog, I just want you to know that I don’t hate you, please don’t spit at me.

I can handle the Tumblr freaks and the mirror selfies and the acid-washed mom jeans. I can handle them because I am them. But I can’t handle blatant and (frankly) dangerous behavior. You’re not edgy. There’s a reason why we don’t use the iPod classic anymore. And that reason is because we have fucking iPhones, which you know, you fakester.

This might seem harsh, but let me reason with you. I deal with fakesters a lot: I go to an urban school in a fairly liberal city. And a lot of me being a mainstream, trendy motherfucker led me to feeling like an idiot. I felt like I was stupid in the face of these “edgy” people, like I was a phony or a total basic for liking the things I like. The people who are so stuffed to the gills with ennui that they’re choking on irony. I’ve learned to cope and ferret out my own internal reasons for feeling inferior.

But I can’t deal with fakery. I can’t handle peers who go thrift-shopping with their parents’ credit cards, who have political opinions but aren’t registered to vote, who have answers to questions they don’t understand. I can handle the slight narcissism that comes with being a hipster and going anti-trend. I even respect it sometimes. But I can’t handle full-on bullshit. You’re not indie. You’re not edgy. You can be you and do your thing and wear chokers and I can do my thing and read Daily Mail, but let’s not pretend that we’re any different. At the end of the day, we’re both trendy millennial fuckers. And that’s okay. Because that’s the way it should be.

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Rambles

FIVE THINGS I COULD BE THE OLYMPIC ATHLETE FOR

Apart from the hugely jarring fact that Bravo is not airing any Real Housewives episodes while the Olympics are airing—like why?? As if they have the same demographics????—this Olympics has been a lot about “the Olympics” and less about “me” so I’d like to pull the focus back onto myself. I’m sure we’ve all seen those Tumblr posts where it’s like “Katie Ledecky at 19 breaks world record, while I’ve got my hand stuck in the Pringles can” or “Gymnast: lands a triple axle flip but lands off-kilter; me (mouth full of Cheetos): bad form.” And that’s so millennial that we’re all feeling the same amount of shame and self-loathing that we, as old teenagers and young twentysomethings, are literally accomplishing nothing while our peers are winning medals and looking so ripped while doing it.

So to make me/us feel better, I’ve created a list of things that I could be the Olympic athlete for:

Side bar: Do we call them “Olympic athletes” or “Olympians”? Or is “Olympians” strictly for Greek deities? Drop me a line.

Five Things I Could Turn Into An Olympic Sport:

1). Folding laundry: I’m, like, really good at it. I have that trifold trick down pat, and I’m actually not bad at folding buttondowns, which—as everyone knows—can be a real drag to fold. I have yet to master the “Grasping the shirt at two seemingly random points and through artful twisting and cotton origami” method of folding clothes, but let’s pretend that that’s the same thing as using performance-enhancing drugs. Yes, it’s technically faster, but morally dubious.

2). Bingeing Netflix: There are very few things I’m better at than watching copious amounts of television. I burned through Scandal, I laughed through Chelsea, I tore through The Office. I’ve recently started rewatching Friends and this is completely unrelated to bingeing, but there are very few things in this world that I am more into than Season 1 Chandler Bing. The hair, the snarkiness, the gay vibe. I LOVE HIM AND WANT HIM TO BE MY HUSBAND.

Side bar: Everything that the people on Friends wore is exactly what everyone I know wears now.

3). Not knowing when I’m being flirted with: Not that this happens a lot, but for someone who is as self-centered and egotistical as me, you would be certain that I would be better at knowing when someone is similarly entranced by me. But, for whatever reason, I’m the last to know when anyone has been flirting with me. If you’re flirting with me (plz flirt w me), can you just, like, email me the night before to let me know to be on the lookout? Thanks. Also can you put something catchy in the subject line, otherwise I won’t even see it. I get a lot of emails.

4). Tongue-popping: What started as an ironic quirk has ingrained itself into my behavior as a nervous tic and a method of echolocation. Whenever I enter a particularly well-acousticed—not a word—area, I tongue-pop to hear the echo. It also acts as excellent verbal punctuation and pizazz. I can tongue-pop really loud, and the only downside to this Olympic skill is dry-mouth.

So that you can also learn this valuable shady skill, I’ve included a YouTube tutorial by the Tongue Pop Queen Herself, Alyssa Edwards. Yawelcomeyawelcome.

5). Cooking peppers and onions: My family reads me to filth for this, because I can only cook, like, four things really well, and one of those is peppers and onions. My friend—whose Wunderkindof pseudonym I can’t remember right now, and I forget which article she was mentioned in so I can’t look it up/I’m too lazy to look it up—can attest that I make bomb peppers and onions. Sometimes I’ll add kale into it too. The secret? Low heat, lots of patience, and balsamic reduction. If I could wed and bed one reduction, it would be a balsamic, hunny. Bombsalmic reduction. So fucking good. So fucking easy.

I’m not really good at that many things—oh I can crack a lot of bones in my body!—so I’m gonna end this list at five so that it doesn’t drag on and get sad.

“Get?!” you ask in disbelief.

This article is—at this moment—under 700 words and under 700 words has never felt so long. I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel right now, but I’m too dumb to know anything about politics—usually I’m more well-versed but idk what’s been happening with my brain—and no good juicy pop culture has been happening lately. Celebrities, give me your drama! I’m out of a job until you do!

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Rambles

THINGS THAT ARE IRRITATING BUT I’M ABOVE IT. DEFINITELY NOT IRRITATED.

Written after a weird, resent-y day. I hope this seethes with resentment, especially towards YOU DEBORAH. GIVE ME BACK MY TUPPERWARE.

Is anything more stressful than staring into the void of Netflix after finishing a binge and not knowing what to start next?

Whenever people say stuff like that—rhetorical questions—I always answer with stuff like “Famine” because I’m terrible. But seriously you guys, there is actually nothing worse than not knowing what to watch. This is tough stuff, you guys. You guys.

Remember when I said that I was going to stop writing about myself and focus on topics outside my person? That’s really hard when your life is as deep and multifaceted as mine. Also I would have to “look stuff up” if I wrote about not-me, and you guys the keys are really hard to push on my laptop and it’s just not in my five-year-plan to have bodybuilder fingers from pushing sticky keys. You guys.

I have nothing to say/everything to say but I’m not allowed, so instead of not posting on Thursday, thus marking the first Thursday in a WEEK that I haven’t missed—I’m on a roll, people—I think I’ll just burn off some resentment calories by listing things that make me annoyed that I’m not able to actually change. This was written I guess when I hadn’t posted in a while, but the similarities to my life rn are SHOCKINGLY WEIRD. Astral coincidence or I’m just stuck in a rut on Thursdays…

1). Group chats where I can’t turn on the “Do Not Disturb” button because sometimes they have important info/compliment me.

2). Having a corn kernel stuck in your back molar JUST after you clipped your nails. OMG I JUST FUCKING CLIPPED MY NAILS. I’M TOTALLY IN A RUT.

3). When your thighs chafe but you’re not being more active than usual, so you have to deduce that you’re just getting fatter. STILL FAT.

4). Compliment jacking off contests: This is a gross way to describe it, but the only other way is “the black hole where you just keep shoving compliments at each other in the vain hope that one of you will just give up and die, and thus end the cycle.”

5). When you keep accidentally writing “irrigating” instead of “irritating.” One is a valuable farming technique and one is a nuisance. I mean, technically they’re both nuisances, amiright ladies? My farming material never lands.

I can’t think of any more, so I’ll cease and desist.

OMG YOU GUYS. THIS ABOVE STUFF WAS PRE-WRITTEN BUT THIS (AUGUST 11TH) STUFF IS BEING WRITTEN RN!!! I JUST WROTE THE OPENING OF ANOTHER SHITTY BLOG POST AND THEN I THOUGHT I WOULDN’T POST BUT I REMEMBERED THIS SHITTY BLOG POST AND NOW I HAVE CONTENT TO POST!

Oh, should I have written about Kylie Jenner turning 19? I’ll pass. Even though I love you Kylie!!!!!

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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.

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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?

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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