would ya look at that ... it seems i've got a blog

I live with a somewhat consistent fear that the people in my life are going to one day discover something about me they don't care for and decide, "eh, fuck it. See ya." It's always been there and in my good ol' younger days, I always chalked it up to insecurity. But as I've gotten older and thankfully, far more secure in who I am than ever before, I've often wondered why the hell it's still a lingering fear. It's not constant and I consider myself lucky that I'm drawn to people who challenge that fear, allowing it dissipate (and on the rare occasion, disappear) rather than people who perpetuate it. But still, it's there. Only when you get down to it, the 'why' doesn't really matter at all. No matter the reason for its existence, I can either let it stick around or *I* can be the one to say, "eh, fuck it. See ya."

I've always been someone most people would say tend toward the quiet. It was only sometime in adulthood that my parents finally told me they used to sometimes worry about me because growing up, I spent so much time in my room reading or listening to music or writing in one of my bazillion journals. It was definitely somewhat of a coping mechanism back then but it was (and still is) mainly due to the fact that if I don't have anything to say, I'm not going to say anything. I've always dug my alone time, I've always dug just being quiet, and I can't stand the forced filling of silence.

But my quietness has often been one of those things that makes some people think something is wrong and I've grown so accustomed to that that even when I'm around people who I'm fairly certain understand that isn't the case, I sometimes find myself, after all these years, still apologizing for being quiet.

It happened last night with a friend; one of the people I can be dead silent with and not feel it's an awkward silence. Whether we're talking or not talking, there's a level of comfort there that makes me feel like I don't need to apologize, whether I say a big, fat nothing or I say a big, fat something stupid. He sometimes apologizes for unnecessary things like falling asleep while we're watching television and I usually give him shit about it because it's important to me that he not feel like I expect anything from him other than kindness and respect. It's all I expect from anyone, really and provided those two things are there, I could give a flying fuck what else comes along with it.

But I realized last night just how goddamn second nature it can be to apologize for stupid shit. Hell, I even apologized for suggesting that hanging out at his place is comfier than mine. Which is ridiculous. Mine isn't uncomfortable at all; I love my apartment and I'm always comfortable there and I want whomever else may be in my apartment with me to be comfortable there too. If he isn't and if he hates being there, I'm pretty sure he'd say so and wouldn't have explicitly said otherwise. But much like my apologizing for the silence, my apologizing for that wasn't at all based on any kind of ... well, truth. It's based on absolutely nothing but a possibility. The possibility that I somehow won't live up to some stupid-ass, imaginary, self-imposed standard of 'good enough.'

I'm not uncomfortable with silence and I'm not uncomfortable in my apartment. But I was worried that *he* was uncomfortable with the silence and / or in my apartment, which somehow would have translated to some kind of ... personal fault of mine. Remember when I said a few sentences ago, "which is ridiculous"? Yeah, so is that translation. It's not at all what that translates to and I know that. I also know that the apologizing has become nothing but a habit. Like putting away my dishes so they're alternating colours (purple, orange, purple, orange). Like when I eat M&Ms or Skittles or something with different colours and I separate them into piles with equal amounts of colours in each pile and then I eat ones of the same colour from each pile until they're gone. They're silly little things I do only because I've done them for so long that they've become second-nature.

Those habits aren't bad and I don't give a tiny rat's ass about re-learning how to stack my dishes or how to eat candy like a normal person. But the other one? The other one is a bad habit and one I do not care for. It seems kind of shitty to expect and encourage others to be 100% who they are if I'm not willing to try and do the same, doesn't it?

So, I'm going to be the one to say to that bad habit, "eh, fuck it. See ya." And I'm going to break it. Well, not immediately, of course, because habits take time to break. But I'm going to work on breaking it. Which is, indeed, good enough.

Seems quite appropriate ...

(Ignore the part where the lyrics say, "even when I numb myself" because I'm fairly certain the actual lyrics are, "even when I am not myself.")

in lieu of a real post, i give you ... semi-porn but not really

It's been quite some time since I've said anything even remotely resembling significant, huh? I'm gonna roll with that for just a bit longer.

While looking for the video of a commercial my friend and I were talking about last night, I stumbled upon this gem of a banned Skittles commercial. Surely, it was never intended to make it on television because sweet holy god, I can't imagine in what world it would ... but I still find it hilariously ... well, hilarious.



As you were.

I'll admit it

I dislike Oprah. I dislike her a ton. If I wasn't trying to steer clear of truly hating anyone or anything, I would entertain the possibility of saying, "I hate Oprah." Yes, I realize all the good she's done in the world money she's thrown at the world, but I always have and always will stand by my belief that she's a horribly wretched interviewer, a narcissistic jerk of a woman, and I can't wait 'til she gets the hell out of my city.

So, I shall steal some internet hilarity and join in the mocking ...

That is all.

creative writing prompt

Write about a moment when you and another person (sibling, friend, parent, etc.) bonded.

My brother and I have never been terribly close. Once we got past the stage where we flung, "you're a jerk!" insults at each other every five minutes, we seemed to basically ... exist just fine together in the same house but we weren't particularly friends. I think we're both pretty different people than we were when we were younger (thankfully) and even though neither of us are chit-chatty phone call-y types and we don't talk all that often, we *are* closer than we ever were as kids. He sent me an email the other day that said, "Cool bookmark. Thought an avid reader might appreciate it" with the following picture attached, which reminded me why I believe so strongly in the, "actions speak louder than words" mentality. I don't need a phone call every other day or a constant reminder that someone cares about me. I just need an occasional one that tells me you really know the kind of person I am.

One who would just about give her tits to have this bookmark!

One of my favourite childhood memories definitely falls under the 'bonding between siblings' category. My parents have a ranch-style house so the three bedrooms are in the same hallway and the only thing separating what was my brother's room from what was my bedroom is the bathroom. When we went to bed at night and left our doors open, we could talk to each other until the parentals told us to shut the hell up and go to sleep (but in a loving, apropriately parent-y kind of way, of course). So, until that time came, we talked. And we played Scrabble. Scrabble is a fairly visual kind of game and when I try and think back to how we would have made that work with just talking, I have absolutely no idea how we did it. The only thing I really remember was saying things like, "I'll take a B, Chuck" (because when he wasn't making Love Connections, Chuck Woolery was hosting a bazillion other game shows, such as Scrabble).

I don't remember what words we ever played or how exactly we played or who ever won. But I do remember not hating having to go to bed at the end of the day because I had a brother two doors away who, for the most part, was the last person I talked to before falling asleep every night.

Ah, the old days.

if the apocalypse comes, beep me

So, Judgment Day is coming in a few days, huh? From what I've heard, we'll have about five months after that before the world ends fer realz. And after having just read this post over at Feministe, I got to thinking about the self-indulgent things I would really, really, really, I mean really want to do if I knew the world was going to come crashing down around me, making the consequences of those actions quite minimal. I think I'll have plenty of time to fit them in and cross them off as I skip my way down the Path to the Apocalypse.

1. Ecstasy and heroin. Yes, I know and yes, really. You know how the uber anti-drug types are all hung up on the belief that simply talking about doing drugs is a way of glamorizing them? To a certain extent, I kind of agree. I've heard in detail what those highs are like and they totally make me wanna try it but there ain't no way. Well, that's a lie. I would do X tomorrow if opportunity knocked on my rave cave and said, "hey, let's have a happy, dancey, touchy good time." But if any of my family members are reading, relax ... the heroin is, without doubt, safely stashed behind Indulge Only In Case Of Apocalypse glass.

2. Fuck eight ways to Sunday. Whomever I want, as often as I want, however I want, with an absolute disregard for anything but the pleasure (and enthusiastic consent, of course) of whatever parties may be involved.

3. Rob a bank. It's the only way I'll be able to ...

4. Go to France and frolic the fuck out of the entire country.

5. Smoke as many cigarettes as I want without even the slightest bit of guilt or regret.

6. Quit my job after making my way around the office, telling each and every pretentious prick just what pretentious pricks they are.

7. Bungee jump.

8. Steal a CTA bus and drive it as fast as I possibly can on Michigan Avenue.

9. Smoke a whole punch of pot, put this song on repeat, and have hours of stoned sex.

10. Karaoke. Scandal's "Goodbye To You." And I will rock that bitch Kate & Allie-style.

So, to sum up ... if the apocalypse comes, please do beep me. Just be sure to give me plenty of time to take care of these things before hopping on a plane back to New York to shuffle off this mortal coil with my family, mmmkay? Thanks!

this is me at work

Okay, so it's actually Buffy at work. But what Willow said still applies.

Bored now.

take two

* I posted this last week and then deleted it but have since decided that was just silly. So, I'm re-posting it. 'Cause I wanna.

I heart Jezebel. I do not, however, enjoy my heart being broken while reading about young girls who believe that in order to be loved and desired and respected by guys, they have to be the epitome of physical perfection.

How The "Good Guys Are Hard To Find" Narrative Hurts Women

For the most part, I didn't grow up in a world in which I felt constant pressure to be perfect; at least, it wasn't anywhere near the world in which most girls grow up these days. Of course, every girl feels pressure from everyone and everywhere to be the prettiest (but not too pretty because then you'll be a snob), smartest (but not too smart because then you'll be intimidating), sexiest (but not too sexy because then you'll be a total slut), Most Perfect Girl In The World™, but I've rarely felt ... as inadequate as some of the girls mentioned in the article seem to feel; which makes me both depressingly sad and amazingly thankful. I've never been thin and tall with flowing hair and gorgeous skin and an ass that just won't quit and to an extent, that's absolutely kept me from putting myself out there when it comes to relationships. But I'm lucky. I've always considered myself fairly capable of understanding and accepting that people are just plain different. People like different things and they look for different qualities in partners, whether they're looking for a sexual partner or long-term committed partner. What works for one may not work for another; I get that and I generally don't take it personally when someone doesn't dig me, for whatever reason(s). People have dug me, people will dig me, and if someone doesn't, he should absolutely move along to someone he does.

But as the always-awesome Dr. Elliot Reed once said, "How is it that no man understands that every woman, whether shes 16 or 60, still has that awkward, insecure, self-conscious teenage girl inside of her?"

Lately, and for the first time ever as an adult woman, I've caught myself comparing myself to ... god, I want to cower in the corner in shame and embarrassment even as I'm about to type it ... a teenager. It's utterly ridiculous for several reasons and the smart, 32-year-old, raised-and-loved-by-amazing-men-and-women part of me completely realizes that. I may not be able to immediately take myself out of that head space but when I do finally find myself thinking, "holy fuck, will you *please* think about something else?!" I remind myself that comparing like that is unnecessary and hurtful and serves not even one positive purpose.

When talking to a good friend about it, I mentioned the fact that maybe my self-esteem isn't what I thought it was; to which he responded with a bit of surprise because he's never really gotten the low self-esteem vibe from me (hello? I moved from Small Town, USA to City, USA with $62 in my pocket and no job ... fuck you, self-doubt!). I've thought about it quite a bit since that conversation and I've realized that I think I've confused the way I see myself with the way I see others because the following Jezzie comment is spot-fucking-on (emphasis mine):

It is really important to remember that who you are should not be a reflection of anyone else's opinion of your appearance. I am an older woman by Jez readership standards, not slim and not pretty, and for the most part treated like some obstacle to be gotten around by the men in the room trying to get to the Hot Chick, and have had a lifetime of this sort of treatment. This has led me to have low expectations of men in general, but it hasn't given me particularly low self esteem, although it has probably led to my holding others in low esteem. (Is there a term for the opposite of SELF-esteem?) It has led me to expect little from most men, and to appreciate the ones who behave differently and see me for the whole person. And to have healthy boundaries and not be a doormat. None of that's a bad thing.

If Jezebel didn't have that stupid 'audition to be given commenting privileges' policy, that's just about how mine would have read. I don't expect much from men but it's never been because I don't feel like I have a right to. Honesty and mutual respect are just about the only things I need when it comes to any kind of relationship with a man (anyone, really). I think everyone is entitled to make sure they get both of those things and if I feel like I'm not getting them, it's certainly not because I'm unworthy; it's simply because someone either isn't capable or isn't willing to give them. Sure, it took a few more less-than-awesome experiences than I would have liked to get to that point but the important thing is that I got there. Well, here.

So, when I do find myself comparing a 32-year-old woman to a 17-year-old girl, I get all Virgo List Maker on my own ass and think about the qualities each of us has and the reasons our mutual friend would be attracted to us. At the bottom of said mental list is a big, fat, written-with-a-permanent-black-Sharpie scribble that reads, These are *his* reasons and his alone. They may tell me a decent bit about him but they tell me absolutely nothing about either one of us.

Then I usually butt my cigarette and get back to the business of being perfectly content with my level of awesomeness. Which usually involves shaking my ass around my apartment while listening to this:

Share Gonna Be Your Boy by Leopold and his Fiction

it's been nice knowing you all

But seeing as though the owners of the media did *not* follow my very clear instructions, I'm off to have a heart attack.

Thank you, Buzzfeed and the friend who sent me the link

And ... aalsdkfa;lskfdjlaskjdlkjadgj;lasdjfljadslkfj;dasljfl.

Dead.

one tequila, two tequila ... oh god, where am I?

I went to high school with a guy who had an absolutely adorable full head of blonde, curly hair. I always really liked him as a person and knew that years down the road, when I got to talking about the glory days of high school, I would most likely wind up asking, "hey, remember him? I wonder whatever happened to him and that gorgeous friggin' hair?" His hairstyle is different now but I still remember him as Cute, Curly-Haired Blonde Guy.

Okay, I told you that tidbit of a story in order to tell you this one.

There were many nights in college that involved a ridiculous amount of drinking at a local watering hole but one during my Junior year of college has always stood out. A group of us gals went out gallivanting in big ol' Olean, New York and wound up at a bar whose name I have long forgotten but could probably give you if I were to drive by it today.  It was like most other nights and involved sitting around a table while talking, throwing some darts, doing some mingling, and drinking many, many bottles of Labatt Blue. While making one of my trips to the bar to get the next round, I found myself standing next to some guy who was cozied up to said bar and I immediately noticed his hair; nearly identical to the gorgeous curly gold locks that belonged to the guy from high school.

Oh my god, I'm so totally close to shitfaced right now that I have no problem telling you how much I love your hair and immediately running my fingers through it as if we're the best of pals and I'm not a completely random, pretty-close-to-drunk-girl getting all up in your 'do.

We must have struck up conversation because the next thing I knew, I was telling him I'd never had tequila before and in a flash, there are two shot glasses in front of us. And then there are two more. And I believe another two. This was, of course, after having had several Labatt Blues to start off the night.

Now, plenty of times, I've managed to drink so much that I've spent the evening getting sick. I can't mix things for shit. Beer, wine, liquor ... I can drink those tasty beverages if I drink only one of those tasty beverages. But the minute I start combining them, it is not a sight you want to see, I assure you. For reasons that still baffle me, I didn't get sick that night but like most things in life, it was a trade-off. I swapped my ability to hold my booze for my ability to remember what immediately followed that last shot of tequila.

I bet you're thinking events of a questionable nature transpired with Random Blonde Curly-Haired Tequila Provider, aren't you?

They did not.

Somewhere in the midst of the tequila shots, my memory up and left me and I don't remember anything that happened between the last shot and walking into Shay-Loughlen Hall (not my dorm) with the bartender from the bar. I was told the next day that we took a cab back to campus but I have absolutely no recollection of getting from Point Drunk to Point You Stupid, Stupid Girl. Oddly enough, once we got back to the dorms, I remember the rest of the night as clear as day. I kissed said bartender once we got to his dorm room, I remember Titanic was on the television in the background, I remember lying on the floor in blankets, and I remember ... stuff. Many times, I've thanked whatever higher power may or may not be out there that I also clearly remember that what did not happen was *the* full-on drunken mistake that easily could have happened.

I no longer drink tequila unless it's in a margarita and even then, I will only have two. I no longer can watch Kate Winslett and Leonardo DiCaprio join forces in any cinematic endeavour without giggling. I still hate Celine Dion (although that may be because she's simply annoying as fuck). And I most certainly no longer make out with strangers when I'm drunk.

So, let this be a cautionary tale. A ginormous passenger steamship may take two hours and forty minutes to sink but I assure you, sinking one's memory may only require a cute boy and a few shots of tequila.

oh, i have some additions

People You Might Not Want to Have Casual Sex With

Since I'm a woman who prefers having sex with men, my suggestions are going to be dude-focused. And while the suggestions in the linked article are casual sex-specific, a few of mine definitely apply across the board; no matter the level of seriousness.

- People who want to suggest a new sexual activity but phrase it, "will you let me ...?"
- People who give their cock a nickname
- People who assure you you'll have an orgasm because "they've never had a problem giving a girl one in the past."
- People who refer to a woman's nether regions as her "kitty."
- People who have ever uttered the phrase, "oh, I don't read for fun."
- People who have ever sent you a text that used "u" as a substitute for "you."
- People who equate casualness with a lack of emotion
- People who refuse to do it with the lights on
- People who request you landscape your ladies bits first
- People who are in high school unless you're in high school with them
- People who, before you've even gotten naked, say, "just don't expect me to ..."
- People whose hands are filthy
- People who start sentences with, "I'm not racist / sexist / homophobic / etc, but ..."
- People who assure you they are discreet
- People who assure you they were wrongly convicted
- People who suggest you 'break the ice' with booze

Hey, list I just wrote, I'ma let you finish but only when I think of more things to add.

imagine that

I heart the hell out of it when friends are inspirational. Well, Ms. Thompson and I aren't friends but a friend did inspire this post by posting the following video to Facebook, in which Professor Trelawney says ...

"Imagine getting up in the morning and seeing, like, you’ve got a spot (I just found a spot this morning myself, actually). And you’ve got a spot and you don’t think that the world’s come to an end. You just put a bit of ... dab a bit of something on it and then walk out in the world because you’re so happy with yourself and your space that you can just take that space and you don’t need to apologize for yourself. Imagine that. That would be a great place to be. Imagine getting up in the morning and just putting on your clothes without even having to think about whether they make you look one way or another. Because you know that ... your space in the world is assured. You’re allowed to be whatever you want or need to be. You’re welcomed like that. Imagine that."

The video ends with the following text on the screen: Loving the natural you should be an everyday occurrence. Constantly worrying about your reflection and criticizing your body, shape and size is an act of violence against yourself.

For the past three weeks or so, I've been getting reacquainted with the gym and doing so on a much more regular basis than I ever have in the past. My motivations for returning to voluntarily sweating my tits off on a regular basis are varied and you should know by now that I'm an orderly kind of gal so a list, it is!

A. Every year, February kicks my ass; it's just a suckass month. And every time it ends, I notice how positively lazy and unhealthy I feel, both physically and mentally. I've never been a girl who loves being on-the-go and I value my relaxing alone time something fierce but a month of it is enough to drive a girl batty. What better way to actually regain some energy than to go expend some?

B. While I've never considered myself to be overly self-conscious when frolicking between the sheets, most women will tell you there *are* some positions that are more likely to challenge one's self-esteem and body consciousness. Being in the "lucky as hell to have had the partners I've had" category, the number of times that's been an issue for me has been next to never. But I did catch myself thinking it not too long ago and while part of it is the fact I don't fall under what I consider to be that partner's ... historically-proven preferred body type, that 'excuse' only goes so far. Mrs. Roosevelt wasn't lying; that's my thing, not his. And when I really thought about it, I realized I wasn't worried so much that he was unhappy with me (because as far as I'm concerned, even if you *are* having sex with someone you're not physically attracted to, that says worlds more about you than it does the other person), I found me being unhappy with me. Not because it makes me feel like a lesser person (it doesn't) and not because I think it makes me hideous (I don't) and not because it's going to change how I frolic between the sheets (it's not) but because I remember when I didn't feel that and I simply prefer that feeling to this one. So, as Mayor Wilkins assured the concerned citizens of Sunnydale, "never again," I've assured myself of the same thing.

C. At some point in February, as a way to combat its suckiness, I decided to start revamping my non-existent style. I still don't believe clothes make the (wo)man but I do feel there's some truth to the statement, "if you look good, you feel good." I bought whatever size I needed regardless of what number that was, I bought whatever I liked and wanted, and I've worn it. I've also found that actually giving a shit and making a conscious effort to not give in to the constant desire to just blend in feels pretty fucking great.

D. My favourite aunt was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, had a double mastectomy, and starts chemo in a couple weeks. Thankfully, it was found early enough to not be an immediate death sentence but when a girl starts thinking about losing one of the most important people in her life, she starts thinking about the best way to go about hangin' around in this world for as long as possible.

So. Seeing as though I suck at goals, I didn't set a specific one so much as tell myself, "If you go to the gym twice a week and both weekend days, that would be awesome. But three days a week and both weekend days would be super awesome." Technically, a goal? I suppose so. But a ... lenient one. I don't plan on altering my ridiculously picky eating habits much because ... well, simply put, I don't want to. Food has never been my vice of choice and while I do have an aversion to just about all things green (save for leafy lettuce), I'm fairly content with what and how I eat. The last time I knew my weight was maybe six or so months ago at my last doctor's appointment and I have no intention of tracking whether or not that number has or will go down. Simple Evil math tells me it will because when a girl who spends a good 9 hours a day sitting on her ass starts spending at least an hour or so at the gym four or five times a week, it's gonna show. Okay, if I wind up at the point of having to buy new clothes, chances are I will weigh myself our of pure curiosity. But I don't have a goal weight and I don't have a pair of three-sizes-too-small-but-maybe-I'll-get-back-into-them-someday jeans that taunt me from the depths of my closet.

We *are* all allowed to be whatever we want or need to be and I'm opting for happier and healthier. If thinner winds up being a side effect, cool. But if not, I'm still gonna have the happier and healthier part, which is really the only part that matters.

I get nervous and I start babbling. And he starts babbling. And it's a babblefest.

Weave a story around this mixed proverb: "Silence is a great healer."

I don't feel like weaving a story around that mixed proverb but I do feel like writing about silence and communication. Who said these creative writing prompts are written in stone, anyway? They're not the boss of me. I'm the boss of me!

When people stop talking, they start communicating. Language can interfere with communication because language limits. As soon as you say something, you've eliminated every other possibility of what you might be talking about. We also use language to separate ourselves from other people. - Joss Whedon, 2008

Oh, Joss. You're so amazingly right about so many, many things.

I actually watched one of my favourite episodes, Hush, this past weekend and was reminded of its genius. Even with only about seventeen minutes of dialogue in the entire episode, it manages to speak volumes about communication. And at one point, Buffy suggests killing The Gentlemen by staking them but really ... well, you know what it looks like. The episode is worth it for the great .gif, alone.

In this episode, words get in everybody's way. Buffy and Riley (aka. The Character For Whom I Have Nothing But Irrational Hatred) talk but they don't communicate and can't manage to have their first kiss because they keep babbling. Anya has no idea what she means to Xander and Xander is either incapable or unwilling to articulate his feelings for her. We meet Tara, who clearly has things to say but is too shy and timid to say them. These are the things we're told in the beginning of the episode (where the dialogue is) but by the end, Buffy & Riley shut the hell up and start communicating (and kissing ... blech!), Xander demonstrates just how he feels about Anya when he pummels Spike for what he thought was his sinking his teeth into her,  Willow & Tara get a glimpse of just how powerful each other is when they touch their soon-to-be-lesbian-lover hands for the first time and move a friggin' soda machine with their minds (Bad. Ass!) and Tara tells Willow just what a powerful woman she is. It's only when the creepy-as-fuck Gentlemen come to town and steal everyone's ability to speak that they all truly start communicating with each other.

In regular ol' in-person conversation, I have a tendency to get all fucking jumbled up. It's not at all uncommon for me to ask several times, "does that make sense?" and it's rare that someone responds with, "yes, that makes complete sense." I'm much better at writing than I am speaking because I have much more control over what I am and am not putting out into the world. When I write, I can read and re-read and edit and I can make sure everything is cleaned up and put into a nice, tidy message that says just what I want it to say. In person, I can't do that. The minute I say something, it's out there and even if it may have sounded in my head like exactly what I wanted to say, it may not be perceived as such. Like The God of Geeks said, as soon as I say something, I've eliminated every other possibility of what I might be talking about. So, when it comes to face-to-face conversations, I'm almost always trying to make absolutely sure what I *am* talking about is crystal clear. Surely, you can see where I'm going with this ... often, the harder I try, the less clear I and the less sense I make.

Words are necessary, sure. In Hush, Riley needed them to operate the voice-activated elevator that took him down into The Initiative (and fuck you, Joss, for giving me a glimmer of hope that he would be killed off so early on in the season). In order to prevent Xander from wailing on him, Spike needed to say, "I bloody well did not suck the blood of your vengeance demon girlfriend, you sod!" but couldn't. And when Buffy needed to tell Riley to destroy the box that would release the voices of everyone in Sunnydale, she was unable to speak and had to show him and hope he understood what she was trying to say (which he didn't, at first). When he finally does understand what she wants him to do, he destroys the box, voices are restored, and Buffy screams her pretty little slayer head off, killing The Gentlemen. The episode ends with Riley & Buffy sitting across from each other, their demon slaying secrets now exposed.

Riley: Well, I guess we need to talk.
Buffy: I guess we do.

There are a few seconds of awkward and uncomfortable silence and ... scene.

I value words a great deal. But I'm also a firm believer that actions speak louder than words. You can tell me something until you're blue in the face but if your actions say otherwise, I'm going to belief those actions long before I believe those words. Because the way you act / don't act and the way you treat people / don't treat people ... it tells them all they really need to know. No need for "what's he thinking?" or "what's she really trying to say?" or "what the hell does he mean when he says that?" What the person is doing *is* what he / she is saying.

We need words and we need to be able to use them in a way that lets other people in on what's going on in our heads and the bits and pieces in there we want to share with others. But sometimes those words aren't nearly as useful as just shutting the hell up and trusting that once we stop trying to talk everything into making sense, things *will* start making sense.

Everything. Everyone. Everywhere. Ends.

When I die, I want to be cremated. Well, I kinda want to be sired and become a libidinous vampire walkin' around suckin' necks and living a life without consequences in a sexy little number similar to this.

But let's face it, vampires only exist in Sunnydale and in all honesty, I don't really want to kill people. I suppose it's the outfits and the whole 'satiating one's appetites without consequences' that I find appealing. But alas, I realize that can never happen; whether I'm alive or dead.

So, cremation it is. And after reading this article, Funeral Home Blocked From Performing Eco-Friendly "Liquid Cremation," I would like it done that way, please.

I've been to a total of five funerals; the father of the boy who lived across the street from me growing up and my grandparents'. My paternal grandfather was my first experience with death and quite honestly, I don't remember much of it. I was in the 5th grade and my mom pulled me out of school so we could head up for the services, leaving me missing out on the class trip to the circus the next day. I remember being in my grandparents' house but I don't really remember the service or the burial. I wasn't terribly close with that grandfather and really, there's not an awful lot I remember about my last year of elementary school anyway. I was a bit older when the father of the boy who had lived across the street died but the only thing I remember about that was going to calling hours, giving him a hug and saying, "I wish you still lived across the street," and immediately thinking, "Christ, Janelle, what a fucking stupid thing to say. He hasn't lived across the street in years and you aren't even friends anymore and all he wishes right now is that his father wasn't dead."

My maternal grandmother was ... the big one. Her death was the first time I felt like the ground had just caved in underneath me and that the world would never be the same again. I've since learned that the world does, indeed continue to turn, but I was right that it would never be the same. I remember everything about that experience but one of the clearest memories is when it was time to go up to her casket and 'say goodbye' at the calling hours. They had dressed her in some outfit that was light blue and she looked creepily pale (for as far back as I can remember, she sucked down Tareyton 100s like they were going out of style and sat out in the sun every chance she got). I remember my mom holding my hand as I kissed my grandmother's forehead, thinking how ... hard she felt. Nothing like the hugs and kisses she had given me over the years that were soft and warm and comforting. It was at that moment that I knew I wasn't kissing my grandmother goodbye so much as I was just kissing a dead body.

And I knew right then that I don't ever want that. I understand funeral services and burials aren't for the dead but for the living. I get that they're a way for those who are left behind to attempt to get some closure after a loss and I'm okay with that. If, when I'm dead and gone, people want to get together and remember and celebrate the times we had together back when I was living, I want them to have that. Provided they don't put me in a casket and set me out on display.

But in addition to not wanting to the be the dead center of attention in a room full of mourners, I simply don't want to be stuck underground in a box. I hate when people try to put me in one while I'm living and I sure as hell don't want people putting me in one for all eternity. Provided I don't die of some horrible disease that eats away at my entire body, I'm also hoping to have a bunch of healthy parts left to give to someone.

Basically, once I bite the big one, if there are usable parts, I want someone to have them. Then I would like to be dissolved via the process mentioned above. Pour the 'liquid me' down the drain and give the 'crushed bones me' to whomever may be the appropriate person at that time in my life. Whomever that is, please take me to Portland, Maine and scatter me into the ocean.

And if, somewhere in the process, you could work the following song into the soundtrack of my death, I promise not to come back and haunt you.

.

misty, watercolour memories

Seeing as though I spend the majority of my workday playing Scrabble with a co-worker, reading my everyday blogs, and slacking off any way I can, it's no surprise that somewhere in my online travels, I stumbled across a site full of creative writing prompts.

Creative writing isn't my strong suit and I've always preferred to write about something someone tells me to write about. In college, I majored in English for two reasons: a. I wanted to read all the good stuff and b. I wanted professors to tell me, "write a paper about this" so I could "write a paper about that." I like direction. Order. Structure. I weigh the pros and cons of things. I analyze things until there's nothing left to analyze. Those traits don't lend themselves very well to just sitting down and writing about whatever pops into my head (or doesn't, which is often the case). Once I've been given something to start with, I can go to town. But when I'm tasked with coming up with that starting point, I'm often at a complete friggin' loss.

So, I've saved all 300-and-something of those creative writing prompts and am going to give some of them a shot whenever the mood strikes me. They're not all technically in the creative category but they are, at least, prompts. And really, the entire point is just to write. What better time than now, eh?

Write about a memory related to a holiday.

With my amazingly awesome family, I have tons of holiday memories; most of them just as awesome as the family that contributes to making them. Until recently, my favourite holiday memory was of a dress. My uncle has never been one to articulate his feelings with words or hugs but with material possessions. That's not to say he's not one of the most caring and generous men I know who loves his family dearly but I think it's just always been easier for me to show his affection in that way. One Christmas when I was maybe six or so, he gave me a dress. It was cream-coloured with a burgundy velvet sash around the waist and it was the most awesome dress I have ever owned. I don't remember a single thing about that Christmas other than that dress and I have no idea what year it was or if I really was six years old or not. But I remember standing in front of our fireplace and holding the dress up to show everyone. My mother has somewhere in her house a photo of me in the dress, which reminds me that I really need to ask her to find that.

But this past Christmas saw the bumping of that memory from my 'favourite' spot.

That same uncle isn't currently in the best of health. When I was a senior in high school, he had a liver transplant and this year, found out he needs another one but is no longer a candidate because of some lung issues he has. He's currently on oxygen and I imagine he will be until he's no longer around. He's tired all the time and doesn't go out much and even though he usually has on his big, comfy bathrobe, he curls up in blankets just about every chance he gets. For the past couple years, as his health has deteriorated, I think everyone has had in the back of their mind the knowledge that any Christmas could possibly be his last Christmas.

Every year, I make something for my family and everyone opens it together on Christmas Eve. In addition to the gift, I always write up a little something that explains why I'm giving that particular gift. This year, everyone received personalized wooden boxes in which there were a bunch of little business card-size pieces of construction paper with some of my favourite quotes on them. I think it's unfortunately quite easy to forget what's really important in life and for me, the kind of reminder that often works the best is one in the form of words. As I said in the explanation for my gift:

I think they're important and powerful and for me, they're sometimes all I need to remember the things that are ... well, often hard to remember. So, whenever you feel like it ... take a card out of this box and remember. Remember there are basic principles we should strive to live by. There are basic ways we should treat people. And perhaps more importantly, there are basic ways we should be treating ourselves.

After my mom read the explanation, everyone started flipping through some of the quotes and we went around and read a few. When we got to my uncle, you could see he had tears in his eyes (it's almost become my main goal of the gift to see if I can get Big, Strong, Tough Uncle Win to let his guard down and shed a tear or two). In a shaky voice but with a smile on his face that was clearly saying, "amen to this quote," he read one of the first cards he had picked up:

Wake up. You're alive.

It was absolutely perfect. It's a memory I will always have and one that comforts me when I find myself thinking about the day he may not be around to help make new ones with us.

you want it all but you've got to give

This looks like a long post (and kind of is, really) but I promise it's not just a clip and lyrics of an awesome fucking song. You'll get the gist if you keep scrolling.

You dream a lot about yourself
And you dream harsh winds upon your friends
But you wanna kill the beast
That lives up in your head
And you wanna kill the beast
That lives to see you dead

You dream a lot about the beast
And you dream that it's never gonna last
So you wanna give your love to your sister and your friends 
And you wanna give your love to the one who's facing the end

You want it all but you've got to give
You want it all but you've got to forgive

Restore me, restore me now and make me sane
Restore me, restore me now I got to give up your ghost

You make me lonely

You want it all but you've got to give
You want it all but you've got to forgive

You dream a lot about the past
And you dream that it's never going to last

I've been thinking a lot lately about something a friend said to me not too long ago: You know what I realized? I talk about myself a lot but you don't really talk about you.

He was - and is - 100% right. Truth is, I'm a very guarded person. It's not that I don't know how to show emotions; I grew up in a house with parents and family who told me they loved me and more importantly (for me, at least), they backed those words up with their actions. I did the same for them and every time I've told them I love them, I've meant it. A couple Christmases ago, we were having a discussion about I have no idea what but at some point in the conversation, we got to talking about people who aren't terribly free with articulating their emotions. My father said to me, "you used to be like that a lot. Hide out in your room with your music or a book instead of telling people what you were feeling." And I did. It's not that I didn't enjoy being with my family or friends but I spent a fuckton of time hiding out in my room with my stereo or the book I was reading or jesus, one of a bazillion journals in which I was constantly writing. Because that's where I was comfortable. And the very first time I sat on my bed and opened my first journal was probably the first moment I realized how much easier it is to write words than it is to speak them. Paper doesn't disagree. It doesn't judge. It doesn't give knee-jerk reactions. It doesn't disappear if it doesn't like what's written on it. It doesn't decide, "hmm, maybe I don't care much what this chick's got to say."

People do.

My response to my friend's comment was, I tend to find other people far more fascinating than I find myself. It was an honest response but it wasn't a complete explanation as to why I'm not free with ... who I am in that friendship. That's an entirely different post but it boils down to the fact that the more I share, the greater the possibility "who I am" won't be ... accepted.

So I don't risk it. And I don't invest. And I don't trust. And it's fucking exhausting.

I do dream that nothing is ever gonna last. And I do want it all but I don't give even a tiny bit of it all. I make me lonely. And the only one capable of restoring me? Yeah. That's me.

I can easily hit the 'delete' button and erase keystrokes on a computer screen but there's no 'delete' button to conveniently erase thirty-two years of indulging in a habit which ... gets my nowhere. So, baby steps, it is. It's going to be fucking hard but that friend is going to hear the honest and complete response to his statement. Even though I'm most likely about to hit "publish post," immediately hit "new post," and write the piss out of what I might want to say, I'm not going to email him or direct him to this blog or memorize what I'm about to write in the hope that the 'real world' conversation will go swimmingly. I'm going to look him in the eyes and give him that response. I may wind up sounding like a blabbering, incoherent mess and I may not. It might be an uncomfortable conversation and it might not be. It's entirely possible it will come back to bite me in the ass and it's entirely possible it won't. And even though that friendship comes with a certain safety that makes my worries about the consequences of the conversation rather minimal, I'm still counting it as a step. A first one.

Actually, I suppose the first one is hitting the "publish post" button rather than the "kudos for articulating these feelings but you best keep them to yourself" button, huh?

condoms, Rose. Condoms! Condoms! Condoms!

If I gave a flying frack about Valentine's Day, I would so totally send these to every single person I know.

The title of this post is from a gem of an episode.

it's not worth shit. let it go.

After a ridiculous amount of lounging around on the couch in my bathrobe, I'm on the final season of Six Feet Under. Around the beginning of the third season, I considered putting my viewing on a little hiatus out of fear that it wasn't the smartest idea to be watching a show about death (among so many other things, of course) when the inevitability of it has already been weighing far too heavily on my mind lately.

Last night I watched the season four finale from which this clip was taken. You don't really need any back story in order to understand what's going on, which is part of the beauty of it. One two-minute-and-thirty-second scene manages to sum up quite nicely what I think a good chunk of the entire glorious show is about.

It makes me thankful I didn't opt for the hiatus.

how is *your* relationship with your asshole?

While I'm all for removing the taboo nature surrounding some body parts, both in the sexual sense and the regular ol' everyday sense, this dude just creeps me out. I credit the, "little babies enjoy their assholes" comment.

But he *has* inspired a new "enjoy your asshole" tag. Sweet!

P.S. Since this isn't a porn-y "how to" site, you probably won't see that tag often. Probably.

you know what's fun?

Sitting at my boring-ass desk at my boring-ass job listening to shit like this.



In a cute little cardigan.

Who the fuck am I?