Me And My Relationship With Life. . . It’s Long Distance.

Video games were my method of relaxation until I attempted Bloodborne.



Want to gain the courage to smash the shit out of that black spider hiding in the corner of your room? Play ten minutes of Bloodborne, let the rage churn for a moment, grab your nearest shoe, and smash that little fucker into oblivion.

If I see this screen one more time: 


I’m going to take to the streets and start sawing bitches in half with a real saw cleaver.

So I’m taking a break.

In wondering what I should post today, I realized I haven’t said much about myself on this blog. I’ve said a few things, relevant things to my other posts, but I tend to focus the attention on other things because talking about myself is weird.

I figured I’d take a moment to share 36 weird facts about me and my life.

But before I do: Happy New Year or some shit.


  1. I don’t celebrate a lot of holidays. Once I stopped being twelve, the holidays got a lot less enjoyable. I like getting presents on Christmas, I like the chocolate on Easter, but that’s as celebratory as it gets.
  2. I’m tired a lot. I’m tired right now. It’s chronic and annoying.
  3. I eat proportionally. “The fuck does that mean?” I’m glad you asked. Say I have chicken and mashed potatoes and vegetables on my plate. If I take a bite of chicken I have to take a bite of potatoes and a bite of vegetables so that at the end I have one bite of each left. If I don’t want to eat a portion of the plate than I have to decide that very early on in the meal or else I get frustrated.
  4. When I was thirteen my friend and I decided we would burn down the school. I brought a lighter and we proceeded to burn dry leaves on the lawn hoping it would catch the grass on fire. I’m not in prison, so obviously it didn’t work.
  5.  I’m more aggressive than my anxiety makes me seem.
  6. like_a_bossI have weird obsessions with power. Whatever I do I have to be on top; I don’t like people having authority over me. 
  7. I’m more intimidated by my professors than I am a police officer.
  8. I brought beer to school when I was twelve, it exploded in the library, and the friends I was with snitched to the principal. No one ever expected the mute, socially challenged freak to get in trouble so I convinced the principal it was a joke and it wasn’t really beer. Even though, you know, it was all over their tables and the stench reverberated through the entire library. Even though, you know, there were over seven witnesses, two of which gave me scented lotion to hide the smell on my hands because I demanded they do so. Stunned children are easy to intimidate.
  9. I smoke way less weed than I used to. It kind of sucks.
  10. I forget often.
  11. I read high school level in third grade.
  12. I love books. NOT MYSTERY BOOKS.
  13. My attention span is a little longer than a goldfish’s.
  14. I skipped so many classes in high school it’s a wonder I even graduated.
  15. My social anxiety prevented me from learning basic math since I couldn’t ever ask questions. I didn’t learn until college. I don’t need Calculus for my major but I’m halfway done with the series now for personal satisfaction. I’ll probably go beyond it when I’m at my second university for the hell of it. Then I’ll go back to my algebra 2 teacher from high school and show him I’m not as stupid as he thought.
  16. I like patterns and routine. I don’t like surprises or last minute plans. Obviously.

    You Have No Idea How Pleasing This Is To Look At
  17. If it wasn’t so rude to ignore people, I’d ignore people a lot more often.
  18. I hate the dark. I have to have my light on at night.
  19. I forget to eat.
  20. I have both Hypnogogic and Hypnopompic hallucinations (they happen either while you’re going to sleep or when you’re waking up) and have woken up during sleep paralysis. The sleep paralysis is more terrifying than the other shit.
  21. I often remember my dreams with great detail.
  22. I have olfactory hallucinations occasionally. The most frequent one is smelling wood smoke in the water of my shower. It used to make me think the neighbors were trying to burn us all to hell. Foods smell weird as shit to me sometimes. I’ve had vegetables and bread smell like really strong paint and fetal pig. That’s hard to eat. I dissected a fetal pig in junior high, I know that smell anywhere. nose2a
  23. I genuinely enjoy my alone time. 
  24. If I turn my back to my door while on my bed I feel like something is crawling on the floor towards me. Creepy.
  25. I’m a fan of sarcasm. 
  26. I hate the days when I’m feeling alright because that’s not going to last very long.
  27. When I was younger I was obsessed with cars and car brands, so I cut out every single car in a bunch of magazines and put them in a folder and memorized them. I made lists of the types of cars I saw. Now if we pass something and you say “damn, that was a nice car” you can count on me to tell you what kind it was and its year. Comes in handy when you can’t see out your tinted windows at night but you don’t want a cop to get behind you because your tags are expired. I recognize what kind of headlights go on what cars.
  28. My dream car is a 1967 Cadillac Coupe Deville. 1967_cadillac_coupe_deville_by_vampyyrinvalo-d2zikkf
  29. My current car is a 1999 Dodge Stratus.
  30. I listen to all types of music. I like traditional music from China, India, and Spain especially but also western Classical, like Piano music. I listen to Rap, Rock, Metal, “oldies”, and some pop. I don’t like mainstream artists of today: meaning fuck Taylor Swift, Drake, Lil Wayne, Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, Drake, all the “rappers” (I use that term VERY LOOSELY) who I can’t distinguish from each other when they come on the radio, Drake, and . . . Drake. I’m only mildly entertained by Fetty Wap, only because of his eye socket he shows off.
  31. Unlike Drake, I actually started from the bottom. I’m still there. For now.
  32. I like the weird way my brain operates.
  33.  Whether I become a psychiatrist or not, I want to be an advocate for mental health. I want to be part of organizations and foundations. Maybe start one. I want to be controversial in a good way. I want people to be able to enrich their lives through what I learned with my struggles.
  34. I don’t feel like myself when I talk to people. I have to embrace different personalities out in public. I’m only ever my true self when I’m alone.
  35. I don’t like saying certain things about myself out loud, particularly stuff that involves fantasy and the characters in my head or my issues with the dark or my thoughts on interconnections and signs. Saying them out loud makes them much too real and, in some cases, might ruin the fantasies I’ve built. As long as they don’t take over my rationality, I’m fine.
  36. I enjoy my privacy.


There. 36 things you probably don’t give a shit to know about me, but that now you know.

Well That Was A Waste . . .

Alright . . . interview . . . interview . . .

*Taps chin*

What to say about this experience.

Well, I applied for a Backroom Associate which handles shipping, receiving, and does customer pick up.

There was not a single woman in that building. I shit you not.

Except little old me. And the managers were bewildered, as if they’d never seen a woman before in their life. It was so comical I almost laughed.

They asked me what position I was applying for again, as if I’d made a mistake.

I already waited around for about 30 minutes before the interview even started, and I’d arrived ten minutes early.

I fucked up once or twice in what I was saying and I probably said “uh” too many times, but honestly after the way they dealt with me and all the snotty looks they gave me (besides the one worker who got the manager for me, he was cool and always smiling) I don’t really want to work there anymore.

Usually they hire people right on the spot but instead I got the old “we’ll call you back for a second interview, maybe.”

I honestly don’t care. They weren’t professional, neither was their office. Their expressions towards me were atrocious–and this time I’m not even exaggerating. The manager liked my answers (so he says) but honestly I’d rather work for a different company. It just doesn’t seem to fit me, and that’s okay.

I’m hoping for a call back from a company that delivers food to low income families and other businesses and a school program. It pays well, it’s part time, and at the same time I get to help people. That’s the kind of job I want.

When the interviewer asked if I had any questions I said no because I’d lost interest. I know you should always ask questions but fuck it. I know if I had that job I’d have to sit there and prove myself ten times harder around those people. I don’t need that kind of stress.

I think I’m going to keep looking. If they call me back, I’ll just say I’ve got another position and thank you for the offer.

That being said, I’m proud of myself today. I handled it well. My anxiety caused minor stomach problems and I didn’t even shake. I was calm and collective and only slipped up once or twice with my words. I appeared way more confident than I was.

I feel this attempt was practice for the other job I’m hoping for. I think I’m going to continue on my path towards that job. I know I can get it if I really want it. And if they don’t call me back, I wait another week and re-apply. I’m the perfect person for that position, I know I am. I just feel it in my bones.

So I’m sending the feeling out into the universe.

I want the delivery job, not that backroom job. Please, for the Universe’s sake, give me that damn delivery job. 

I might actually suck up the courage to call them and ask where my application is. I want it that bad.

If I push aside my anxiety to do something I absolutely 100% hate doing, than you know I need that shit like a hog needs slop.

want that shit like a hog wants slop. 


I’m about to go bust up some BloodBorne.

What Do I Have To Prove?


Hello Lovelies.

Why the fuck did I say that?

You’re all lovely, don’t even trip.

Tomorrow is that interview.

Surprisingly, I’m not nervous for it. Why? Because this anxiety is the normal “before interview” jitters. I can handle healthy anxiety, that’s a piece of cake.

5yqak3hcIt’s the “oh shit, I got the job and now I have to commit to something where I can’t predict every single move within the day” that makes me nervous. It’s the “oh shit, I have coworkers who will undoubtedly judge my appearance and capability from the moment I meet them (because everyone does it, don’t even lie)” and the “oh shit, I have to work and collaborate with these people.”

Mostly, it’s the “fuck, I have to adult again”.

I’ve adulted before. It fucking sucks.


That feeds my addiction to my depression and anxiety and all the other fun, weird set backs my brain puts into place.

You know, like the times I pick up a cup from the cabinets and there’s some kind of white stain on it and the first thought that pops into my head is cyanide. So I have to get a different cup and I never touch that one again. Believe me, I remember it.

The fact that I can’t ever walk the same way twice down the apartment hill to my car. In the dark, particularly. There are always people waiting to stab me–at least that’s what it feels like–or coyotes ready to rip my arm off, which is completely relevant given there’s a pack of wild coyotes living behind one of the fences. We hear them howl all the time.

Honestly, sometimes all the Raccoons scare me more than anything. I might be able to make a loud noise and make myself appear bigger to a Coyote. I can run away from a stabber–you never know, he might trip over the horribly tall, concrete colored speed bump. But a raccoon? Naw, fuck that, straight up. They’re all suicidal, they don’t give a damn. They’ll charge you whether you have a sandwich in your hand or not.

I forgot what I was talking about again.


Oh the weird habits. If I get a bad feeling I have to cut through the lobby and go down the stairs. Then on my way through the lobby I’m wondering “shit, what if that decision I made butterfly effected across the whole universe and now someone is going to get hit by a car, or I’m going to get hit by a plane in the next five seconds because of that decision?”, or “shit, what if that feeling was a diversion and the actual danger is the route I’m going right now?”

I don’t feel any better when I come out of the situation alive, either. It’s there festering, waiting until I come home and park and go through the whole process again. If it’s late at night I usually run up the hill and crash into the door. The faster I run the worse the feeling gets. Go figure.

The people in Ross were talking about me today, and laughing. I don’t know about what, but I was the only person in the store. It was 10:30pm. They started talking in Spanish first, but the closer they got to me the more they started speaking in English.

It’s sounds ridiculous but when I first heard them speaking Spanish I thought perhaps they were talking about how dumb it was to walk into a store a half hour before it closes, then I thought maybe they thought I was trying to steal something. They kept sending workers to go up and down the aisles by me. As soon as I thought “they’re speaking in Spanish so I won’t understand”, they started speaking in English.

Maybe people can read minds.


Maybe I fly off the hinges at coincidences.

Maybe both are true and the world is an illusion.

Sometimes I think I was put here on Earth by whoever to go down a very specific path and I find signs to validate that belief. Deja Vu is one of them. You know, that feeling you get randomly, like you’ve done the very thing you’re doing currently, before? Some people have tried researching it and says its some kind of electrical overlap in the brain but hey . . . they were wrong about too little serotonin in social anxiety, weren’t they?

If you don’t know about the serotonin thing, it’s a pretty recently published finding. Google it. There are a lot more articles on it past the Finnish study I read.

When I think about something, and happen to see or hear about that thing a day later or whatever, that’s a sign I’m on the right path too. It means whatever layers of reality are out there in the universe have lined up for one specific moment just to link two of my thoughts together. That’s an honest belief. I’m not trying to sound like a loon.

What do I think I was put here for? I don’t know. But it’s something amazing, something world-changing. In high school I was convinced I would be the President of the U.S, but the signs were never there now that I think about it. Politics are too stressful anyway.

Then there’s my normal social anxiety. The “Oh God they’re staring at me, they hate me” or the “shit, what do I say now? I can’t hold a conversation”. And all the other ruminating thoughts that keep me awake and alert of my own existence at night.

There’s the fact that I’m an introvert.


Then there’s my health anxiety. The “I’m going to have a heart attack or blot clot or stroke at any moment because I haven’t moved from my bed in the last few hours” or the “shit I got a cut, I got Ebola” or the “this butter knife was used in the butter and is still in the butter because it was meant for the butter but . . . how long has it been out here? What if someone put something on it? By accident? On purpose?

See! Deja Vu right now. I’ve written that line before, I know I have. But not this one. I’m telling you all the right things, that’s what it means.

Anyway, what if a fly landed on the knife or something? What if it laid some kind of infected larvae? Ebola. 

If I’m depressed, lying in my bed, hoping a plane will crash on the complex and kill me, I don’t have to think about trying to “better myself” in this world (whatever that means anymore), I don’t have to think about responsibility or life or people.

I never use my mental health to get out of things, not purposefully, not in a manipulative stand-point. I’ve only used it where applicable. It keeps me from doing things I want to do and it keeps me from doing things I don’t want to do. 

So, you know, 50/50 there.


What I hate are people who make me feel I need to prove the problems I have. You know, the people who ride off how hard it is for me when I tell them, the people who don’t believe me or simply don’t give a shit and think I’m some moocher making up a thousand excuses just to hide from responsibility.

Well, getting this job will be a big poke in the eye and a kick in the groin to them. I am trying.

Will that help my mental health?

I don’t know. It might make it worse. It might make it better. It might do both.

I don’t have anything to prove. It’s going to be infinitely harder for me to work this job than it would be for my boyfriend to do it. It’ll be infinitely harder for me to work this job than it would be any of my “friends”.

I’m just using them as an example.

I know what’s hard for me. If they don’t believe me, that’s their problem. If they laugh when I tell them about the creepy people hiding in the shadows when I run up the hill then that’s their choice. Regardless, it’s still real for me in the moment.

If that’s funny than I’m missing the joke.

And I’m the fucking queen of bad jokes.

Interviews Vs. Social Anxiety


I have an interview on Wednesday for a position that requires my interaction with customers is limited to those who have come to pick up an order. The pick up is free, so I don’t have to run a cash register or anything. With minimum wage jumping to ten dollars this January, I’ll be satisfied.

You all remember my rampage about the fucking stupid application process that has you answer those really open ended questions? The ones that make you either sound like a complete asshole or a complete sheep? They rejected me a while ago. It was Target. Fuck Target.

The Store Which Brought You This

I only applied there because I needed a job. Everyone I’ve ever known who is or has worked at the Target in town says it’s the worst experience of their life. I only gave it a shot out of desperation. Hear that Target Big Wigs? I didn’t even want your crappy minimum wage position; it was the last thought on the bottom of my shoe after I stepped in dog shit. Fuck you, Target.


One thing those of us with severe social anxiety hate is interviews. I’m pretty sure I speak for 90% of us when I say that. The fact that it’s one-on-one is what saves us. It’s easier to quell some of the anxiety if it’s not a group interview and you don’t have to give some sort of whacked out sales pitch off the top of your head. Toys R Us does that. I was one of the lucky ones; my group interview was only me and some guy.

And now you see why my blog is pretty much anonymous–imagine an employer googling my name and finding me talking shit about a whole load of other businesses? That’s not professional, right? Or something? I don’t know, I’m an alien; I don’t belong here. Your earthly customs are strange.

That being said, let me just say something about Toys R Us.




I applied for a stock position and they said that position had been taken, but asked if I wanted to be a cashier. I shrugged and said alright.

Worst mistake of my life.

The lines are horrendous. The kids scream. The parents don’t have a parenting bone in their body and let their kids run around knocking shit off the shelves without making them pick it up.

How did we restock the shelves? You take giant carts full of random items and drive it around the store until you find where it goes. And good luck, since they rearranged the shelves every week on Wednesday.

Labels were in the wrong places, toys were in the wrong places, and when we had “meetings” with the main manager I was laughing so hard inside. Everything was so fake. Everyone was fake. These people didn’t care about the job or who was putting the wrong items on the wrong shelf or any of that. Faux professionalism is . . . I can’t help but laugh at it. I don’t understand it. Why is everyone faking so hard?

The dollar store labels their shelves with sharpie on metal. That’s how you label a shelf. Fuck the dumb shit; get ghetto with it, get real.

We were all putting things in the wrong place because no one knew what the right place was! The idiot who got caught doing it just wasn’t good at doing it. Whenever I had to put away a toy that literally had no place or name to it, I just scanned the roof for the cameras, hid from them, and stuffed it next to something similar. There was literally no other option.


Then they told me I was too quiet and they did it in a patronizing tone and a baby face.


I hate when people call me quiet like it’s an insult.

There were huge lines that sometimes backed to the middle of the store and sometimes you had to jump and shout to get a customers attention to your station. Apparently I wasn’t doing that right. Even though I was shouting and hopping and getting their attention.

I had to sell Credit Cards to people. You can’t do it for international people, which they didn’t tell me. I had to find out by trying to sign them up. They were from Norway; awesome accents. Made myself look like a jackass.

You also have to tell them certain things about the card. They say you get 20% off when you sign up. That’s what my managers told me to say, and that’s all they told me to say.

Well one woman customer took the pamphlet and read the tiny ass fine print which said you only get 10% off and they’ll mail you the other 10% in a month or whatever. I had to call one of my SEVEN MANAGERS over to help her because I basically looked like a liar. There were a bunch of other little rip-off details in the fine print and the woman decided not to get the card.


The day I decided to leave was not a difficult decision. The thought of returning to that place made me physically sick; I was nauseated and my eyes were throbbing.

Don’t ever call me quiet like it’s an insult.

Don’t ever make me lie to sell your bullshit credit cards.

Don’t ever talk to me like I’m a baby.

And DON’T pay me EIGHT DOLLARS AN HOUR, which at the time was 75 CENTS BELOW MINIMUM WAGE, and then get caught doing it because YOU FUCKED UP MY W2 which confused my college campus and financial aid and taxes.

Can you tell I’m not a fan of this Toys R Us?

Don’t get me started on Wells Fargo. Those stupid motherfuckers couldn’t even set up my account online, so I couldn’t get direct deposit. We called over and over again and all we got was some dude in India who also didn’t know what to do. Because, you know, he’s in India.

I’m going for a Credit Union this time. A local one with people I can trust.

I say “trust” loosely.

The world is a business, that’s for sure. And it can be hard to trust business men and women.

I’m not as nervous about this interview as I was about the one at Toys R Us. I had a panic attack in Sears trying to buy proper clothing with my mother because it was all so overwhelming.

This time I know what to expect. I know what to say and how to dress and even if I don’t get the job there are other positions available–just in case, you know, I really fuck it up. Which is a possibility.

Doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.

At least they scheduled the interview really, really quickly so I don’t have a lot of time to mull over it.

If they offer me a cashier position, I’m going to refuse it.



I have a problem telling people no, particularly authority figures. I can handle cops and judges and those kinds of authority figures, but when I get to people above me in a job position or a professor or anyone who knows more about a subject than I do, I cower and let the anxiety take over. I need to learn that I’m the one looking for the job. I have the right to turn down the offer.

And if the offer is cashier, I’m strapping on my space boots and jumping straight the fuck out of there. 


To Dorm Or Not To Dorm, That Is The Question


I often get overly excited.

What do I mean?

Say there’s a writing contest. I put some effort into making a submission and the only reason I do is because I’m convinced I’m going to win.

Confidence? Not always.

9aedcc109bd77477f891be956d46de0af181954fMore like I’ve convinced myself in some weird fantasy world that I’m the absolute winner. I’m the Kanye West of competitions. Something like that.

It fills me up with a bunch of nice feelings and I think about grand prizes and I start planning what I’m going to do with the money. I spend days like this.

If I don’t win, I’m not crushed, I’m just confused: who the fuck turns down Kanye West? 

It happens with everything. And there’s only one thing that can stomp and squeeze and ravage the good feeling right out of me: my own brain.

I’m not getting any younger over here people, and with only one class left to finish my degree I’m going to be transferring soon.

Assuming I can even start that class without having a mental breakdown.

I haven’t taken any “Communication” classes, or any Economics, so State School applications are pretty much a no-go. I did that on purpose. 1) because there was no way in hell my social anxiety would let me get through a speech class without me having a break down and 2) I don’t want to go to a state school.

I’m not trying to sound snobby. There are some really good ones in my area, I’ve just always had my eyes set on a few private universities. I like the class sizes and the personal attention you get. Everyone says “holly hell, that’s going to 40k how are you going to pay for that?”

I tell them I don’t know.

They stare at me like they’ve just caught me banging their mother on their childhood bed.


There are always ways to make things happen. Always. I will eventually get through that last psych class. I will eventually take some sort of speech class, or at least a class with a lot of speeches in it. I can and I will. Can I do it right now? I don’t feel ready for it. I also don’t feel ready to pay 40k to a school.

But everything always works out. I’ve never lived through anything so horrible that I haven’t bounced back from it, that I haven’t found a way to solve the problem. I usually have several solutions. I give thanks to my anxiety and hyper-vigilance for that.

brain_locked_up_md_wmI am my worst enemy. I tear myself down more often than anyone. I often feel my brain and I are separate people, and we communicate as such. We’re disconnected until we’re in moments where we need to be connected. He works with me when he’s in jeopardy, I should say. He’s a pretty selfish thing. He’ll lie to give excuses for the things the anxiety  or depression made him avoid, the things people needed him for. And then he puts the guilt on my shoulders because his are already smothered in it.

What he forgets is that guilt isn’t a bad thing. It’s telling you that you can do something better, it’s telling you there’s more you can do than just wallow in it.

Today I was thinking a lot about my future. I was thinking about life after the college I attend now and how it will all go down with my boyfriend. He’s planning on attending one of the better state Uni’s in the area. The University I want to attend is 13 minutes away from his, by car. What a coincidence.

Anyway, these are things you have to think about at some point. Where to live? A room in a house? A studio apartment? Dorms?

Hit up San Francisco State and These Are Your Dorms. I’ve Done A Tour. I Went Into A Dorm For Four Students . . . Couldn’t Walk Through It Without Turning To The Side. It was Literally Room For Four Beds And A Clock.

Anyone been to Cal Poly San Luis Obisbo? DAAAAAAAMN their apartments are FIRE SON. Better than most ones I’ve lived in. I was jealous when I went there.


I probably won’t do dorms. They’re already getting 40k from me (by me I mean the government and banks) just so I can sit in a fucking classroom for this chapter of 2 or 3 years before moving on to Med School which is going to require my left arm, my right ear, my left leg up to my knee, plus another 50k, there’s no way in hell I’m giving them money to live on their campus.

My boyfriend and I haven’t talked about living together indefinitely, which is a good thing, no one needs to be rushed into something we might not be ready for.

Regardless of whether we do or not, I’m going to need a job up there. Which means I’m going to need some work experience down here. Because, um, I can’t be earning minimum wage part time and expect to pay rent, utilities, and food. I’m either going to have to starve in the dark under a roof, or have no roof but have food while



Obviously I’ve been looking, and I’ve filled out a lot of applications and now that Christmas is over, I’m expecting at least one person to call me back.

But I get to fantasizing. I get to thinking how awesome it’s going to be for once in my life to be out of this house and worrying more about myself than my parents. I’ll have a crazy amount of freedom. I’ll be working with my own money and have my amazing boyfriend (unless he decides he’s sick of me) and be taking classes that lead me towards medical school and I’ll be geeking out in science and spending my little free time writing and enjoying my life how I want to.

It feels so nice to think about it.

Then my brain reminds me I’m not like everyone else.

Having a job, going to school, and dealing with all the personal responsibilities that come with living on your own is really going to tax my system. I’m an introvert. I can’t handle a lot of time around people. Being in a movie theater and then walking around downtown for maybe an hour or two is enough to hold me off from needing interaction with the outside world for the next five days. Maybe even a week.


I know getting control of my anxiety will help me tolerate people longer, but that’s more work than I can handle while simultaneously attending classrooms and doing internships and projects and working and socializing.

It’s always going to be there: that’s what my brain is telling me. I might get more comfortable with people as time goes on, but I’m never going to be carefree like other people. I’m okay with that. Life might not be. It’s going push me hard. It’s going to throw a burlap sack over my head, tighten a rope around my neck, tie a cement weight to my ankles and toss me in the river.

'I'm thinkin' this sleeping with the fishes option ain't best practices.'

Some how I’m going to have to swim to the surface.

Doing therapy, pushing myself in social situations, getting out of the house–this is my way of preparing for the up and coming war.

The anxiety doesn’t worry me as much as my depression in this situation. If I feel like I’ve failed, that old buddy is always there to comfort me, put a cold arm around my shoulders and convince me the pain I feel is loyal.

That’s not a lie, it is loyal. It just really impedes my life.

We all know living on your own at first is tough. I’m expecting that. I’m expecting it to feel awkward and weird but relieved and validated. I’m expecting to be stressed trying to juggle work and school. All of that is a given.

But add the terror that is my brain to the equation and it’s a hell the majority of my coworkers and “friends” and classmates will never understand.

It’s hard when you know how difficult you struggle but no one else seems to give you acknowledgement for it. You acknowledge them when they make accomplishments, you’re proud of them and pat them on the back and say way-to-go.

C'mon it's not that hard!But if you do something like go into a grocery store or talk on the phone or start a conversation with a random person on the street or not cut yourself or not burn your self or not or not blow your head off or not panic or whatever, no one says way to go! Awesome! Because they don’t get that it’s hard. It’s not hard for them, why should it be hard for anyone else?

So be proud of yourself. Be proud of what you make it through. That’s how I’m choosing to talk to my brain tonight. He’s been hounding on me a lot lately, particularly today about how the problems I have now are never going to be completely erased, it’s going to be easy to fall back into old habits and it’s even going to feel good. He tells me I should stop fantasizing about what life will be like in the next year or so, leaving home and being on my own without any real tools, but he’s just trying to rob me of looking forward to something, of having a goal, of feeling some type of raw happiness. That’s all he ever does. 

I understand. He doesn’t want to lose his best friend to a life of her own.

I choose to ignore his advice. He gives horrible advice. He’s like that one kid at your high school who sat underneath the bleachers in his faux leather jacket and Elvis hair cut, rolling a joint and always pressuring you for a hit.

That being said, this song explains our thoughts much better:

Oh, before I go.

I‘d also like to give a shout out to the dumb motherfucker who tried jimmying the lock on my car. Now when I turn the key it sounds like metal against metal and I have to jerk it to the left to unlock the door.

Never parking on the street again.

Just a month ago one man bought a new car, had to park it on the street because there’s no parking in this complex, and that night it was stolen.

A word of advice to this stupid fuck, the one who messed with my car. NEVER try and rob a naturally paranoid person. 


I already have my eyes set on security cameras with wifi capability, motion sensitivity, and apps so I can keep track of it on my phone. I told my mother the moment I hear the alert on my phone, I’m running out in the street with my hair fluffed, my clothes on backward, and my crossbow and I’m going say very calmly “you have five seconds to get the fuck away from my car”.

Then when he’s running, I’m going to shoot him in the back. 

They’re rubber tipped, chill.


I’ll Be Watching. Sleep Tight.

Don’t Shoot Me Bro


Thank you to everyone who shared their experiences and made me feel not so crazy and not so stupid over yesterday’s post. I feel a lot better now about the whole Christmas thing. When I mean I feel better, I just mean the thoughts aren’t circulating as much.

Besides, I’ve got some pretty good ideas of something special I want to do for my boyfriend. It requires I get some kind of job and save money, so there’s my other big motivation to keep job searching. I don’t know if I want to do it on a holiday or just because. I’ll probably do it just because and surprise the hell out of him.

I won’t say much more on that, because if he’s reading this, he just found out about it.

I kind of already let it slip anyway because I was so excited. I didn’t tell him what, just that I was planning something. So it could come at him and any time and he’ll never have expected it.



Everyone shhhhh!!!!! Don’t say anything to him.

Enough about that. I’m writing right now because of what I saw.

I take dreams very seriously. I don’t think they predict the future or anything slightly, ahem, *magical* or whatever it’s call in psychology. Odd beliefs? Whatever. All my thoughts are magical because I’m fairy bitch, so step on.

That’s what I’d tell a psychologist.

Watch, when I’m licensed someone is actually going to say something similar to that and I’m going to have to resist the urge to high-five the fuck out of them.

I’ll probably high-five the fuck out of them.


Hmm. What was I talking about? This song I’m listening to is FIRE ya’ll.


That’s right.

I had two separate dreams but they kind of merge into one in my awake brain right now. I was living on my own. I don’t know where my boyfriend lived, but it wasn’t with me, and yet we were shopping together–probably because I have trouble going into grocery stores by myself. I was having trouble deciding what I wanted to eat. He suggested tacos so I was running around getting lettuce and tomatoes and cheese. Americanized tacos, alright? I like my fucking cheese.

Then fast forward to something else.

I was not myself on the outside, but I was in the mind of whoever this was. They were in the library of a school trying to find a place to sit. I mean, it was packed too. People were sitting everywhere and the tables were set up to where you could get trapped behind them. In the back was a little cubby where you could take a nap if you needed to. I found a tiny desk that I could pick up and move towards the center of the room, a place where the desk could fit without disturbing people. The librarian was smiling and everyone was talking, and had I been able to sit down I think I would have done some homework.

Something popped outside. Once. Twice, three times. I stared at the people around me and they stared back and I knew what it was: a shooter.

happy-facemaskThree of them, I think. One was in some kind of Ronald McDonald’s mask, the other two were characters from some kind of movie. I forget which one. But it was very specific. Some of us headed for the gym before anyone had the chance to come after us and there we locked the doors. We could hear the screams and the shots and everything was muffled compared to the heart beating in my throat and ears and behind my eyes.

I couldn’t see the fear on everyone else’s face, not even the teachers who were cowering just as much as we all were, but I could feel their terror. It wasn’t a dream that I was floating above just observing, I was fully immersed in it. My muscles were aching even though I wasn’t moving, I was afraid to open my mouth in case there was someone outside of the doors, I was thinking “my God what if I don’t make it out alive? What if I get shot?” followed by the primal instinct thoughts of “don’t get shot, don’t get shot”

Everyone likes to think they’d be some kind of hero in these situations but the truth is you’re thinking about yourself. You have a right to. It’s about survival.

The people who do enact courageous acts are not all acting by choice, a lot of it is instinct, survival instinct, the kind of instinct that lets one lioness attack an intruder and another lioness join in on the fight. We’re all one in the same species, we have a desire to survive and survival means protecting ourselves and protecting others. In our eyes they’re heros. In Nature’s eyes, they’re doing their job.

So before you’re so quick to say “oh yeah, I’d help” or, “oh hell no, I’d get the fuck out of there”, know you can’t possibly know the answer until you’re in the situation.

Anyway, the McDonald’s looking motherfucker burst through the doors and I remember her voice–it sounded like a girl behind that mask–screaming at people something along the lines of “this is what you all wanted, how do you like me now, yada, yada, yada.” I can’t remember her exact words because I couldn’t hear them; her friends were outside shooting other people.

I got out of the gym. I don’t know who else did, but I got the fuck out. Outside bullets were flying and I was ducking with my head and trying to find a road or something to get off the school property. My thoughts were to alert other people in the area, if they didn’t already know. The school was targeted, we were already in the midst of the violence, I couldn’t do anything about that. But for the people on the outside who might be in their houses with sound proof walls or something, I think it would be fair for them to know there are three gunman with the mentality warped enough to burst down everyone’s door and make it a true massacre.

And, in case no one had a chance to call the authorities. Outside help would be perfect.

1678Then I woke up sweating and heart beating and heart deeply saddened. I don’t know if any other shootings have been going on, I don’t have cable and I don’t look up the news because I hate a lot of the news stations. Besides Russia Today. They’re pretty truthful. The Young Turks on YouTube often have some good news stories to spend a few minutes discussing.

Anyway, I don’t know what this dream was for. Was it because I’d temporarily forgotten about all the horror that’s been going on? Is it there to remind me to never forgot? Because that’s what seems to have happened. People say “that’s horrible, oh my Gosh”. Then another shooting happens. “Oh my, this is getting worse”. and then another and another and not one person in power has taken much initiative to dig deep in the soiled pit of American histories and futures and presents and pull out a good explanation for all of this. It’s not bullying, it’s not rap music, it’s not metal music, it’s not mental “illness”, it’s not any one thing.

It’s a lot of things.

It’s how we raise our kids. It’s what they learn from the world around them. It’s what we’ve done in our past and what we’re doing in the present. It’s that facade we have around us thinking “we’re so free, and we’re one of the wealthiest country in the world, we’ve got the biggest military, we’re living much better than other countries, especially those third world bitches, God Bless America . . .” It’s that idea that we’re not racist, we’re not sexist, we’re not anything but The Pursuit of Happiness and Freedom, as said by whatever sheep of a president we have in the white house.

I’ve always liked Obama, and not because he’s “black”. But every president is a sheep.

The point is, we like to project an idea of “we’re okay, we’re progressive and we’re doing good” but the reality of it is hidden in the shooters and the hate crimes and the police and all of it. That’s America at it’s finest right now. You’re only as good as your worst citizen. 

We have a lot of work to do. In policy, in truth, in education, with our Youth, with our elders, with everyone. Shooters aren’t going to magically disappear because you lock up everyone with mental health issues. Prison isn’t going to solve anything. Therapy isn’t going to solve anything. It has to be worked out as a whole.

Sometimes I wish this country wasn’t so large. It’s hard to get an entire nation of this size to come together. There’s just too many different opinions and ways of life and ingrained ideas of the world and the self.

Anyway, that dream was a reminder, I think. Never forget.

When someone shoots up a school I’m sad for the families who have to live with that forever, I’m sad for the kids whose life ended way too short, but mostly I’m depressed over the fact that we’ve done this to ourselves.

I’m a part of the shooter, a part of the victims, a part of the families and a part of the society which grieves for the behavior, shuns it, blames it on disturbed mental health and selfishness, and then forgets. I’m a part of it all and so is everyone else. But they don’t see that.

One day I’ll list some of the dreams I had. The robbery ones were crazy. And the guy I stabbed.

Anyway, just some thoughts for today.

Rant: END.



A Classic Christmas Ending

You know that moment when you think Christmas is pretty much over and you’re alright with everything that went down? And then your boyfriend comes over and the PS4 he bought you and you get zapped into another dimension fighting alien bird things like what the fuck just happened?



I did not expect that.

I love it. I mean, I didn’t know how to feel when I saw it.

That’s some money right there.

I spent well over a hundred on his but that’s nothing compared to the system brand new.  That’s one thing that’s hard about Christmas: when someone gives you a gift that’s worth a couple hundred more than yours and you’re like shit, I owe you a two hundred dollar gift now.

For someone like me, who’s inclined to believe she does everything wrong, it makes me feel like I’ve done something horribly wrong.

I know I haven’t. I know it’s the thought that counts. I know I have to personalize all my gifts and that’s why I spent eight hours working on the photos that went into the gift I got.

But it still feels like I didn’t do enough, not compared to a PS4.

I absolutely love this gift, it’s the best thing I’ve gotten for Christmas since I got my PS3.

But accepting it is hard. It’s hard for me to accept when people give me nice things. I don’t think there’s any way in hell I deserve any part of it. I end up thinking there’s nothing I can do to repay for my mistakes I mean . . . there just isn’t.

I get this from my dad and my depressive nature. He does the same things sometimes. He never buys anything for us during Christmas, mostly because he has no money, so when we give him things he sometimes goes into a rage. This Christmas he didn’t. No drinking, no anything, and when I presented him with the hand made drum I bought him he was ecstatic. At least I did one thing right today.

Of course I’m happy. Today has been amazing and it still is amazing.

But I feel so guilty. And like a complete idiot.

I mean obviously you can’t predict people’s gifts–well, I guess you can, every other year my mother buys me socks, but that’s besides the point.

This year was one of those years. I got a packet of socks. And this Chromebook.

But I can’t deny I needed socks. Every other year I’m completely out because I’ve lost them all. Where the hell do they go? I have no idea.

The point is, I’m an idiot who knows she’s not an idiot but feels like a complete jackass idiot.

I just suck at doing things right, I think. I don’t mean for this to be a whiny post, although I can feel a bit of a rant coming. I’m just trying to tell the truth. I try to do things right but then I end up fucking up and making myself look stupid and sometimes I wish I could read people’s minds just so I’m absolutely sure everyone’s talking shit about me and my stupidity.

At least then I’ll know for sure. I’d always rather know for sure than to have to teeter back and forth between “yes, they’re thinking good things!” to “no, oh my God, you made an ass of yourself, they’re laughing at you” every other minute.

I’m probably not going to be able to sleep tonight.

And it’s not going to be because I’m playing video games.

Alright, it might partially be because I’m playing video games.

But it’s also because I just suck. I do. Sometimes I feel like I act like such an idiot and do the most stupidest things that I should just stick a gun to my head for being so damn dumb. Like . . . that’s the punishment. You’re so stupid, you just need to shoot yourself. Your stupidity is overwhelming the rest of society.

That’s just how it feels when I convince myself I’m doing everything wrong.

Obviously if I was going to shoot myself in the head, I would have done it by now.

I don’t even know how to get a gun.

They got airsoft guns at Big 5 but I don’t think that’ll do the job.

It’s good to get this kind of stuff out of yourself before it mucks up your senses. I know I’m not a horrible person, even though I feel like it, and I know I’m not stupid, even though I feel like it. It’s just a feeling. And tomorrow it might still be here, and the next day and the next and it might even stay until I give him something of equal or more value.

But when you think about it, it really comes down to money. I put a lot of thought and time into my gift–so did the people who assembled it–so hopefully that makes up for the extra two hundred, three hundred dollars that he spent over me.

I just don’t think I deserve it, that’s the main problem. I mean, what have I done? What do I do besides sit behind my computer and fill out applications no one ever takes me serious on? I don’t leave my house because it’s hard, I don’t shop for myself because it’s hard, I don’t like to be around people because it’s hard (and exhausting). i mean really, what do I do to deserve anything decent at all? Literally nothing.

That’s why I think people call me a loser, because I kind of am one. It’s probably a subconscious thought floating around my head.

Then I think about shooting myself in the head because I feel like I’ve been a cheap jerk even though–hey, it wasn’t cheap alright. That was most of my budget. But regardless of the money, I feel cheap and stupid and it makes me want to shoot myself even though I’m so happy with what I’ve got and how today has went. I mean, that’s the hallmark of a loser, right?


Calling yourself a loser is something a loser does as well. So I mean, I prove my point pretty fiercely.

If anything, he deserves the whole world and a lot better than me. 

Tell me how much of a loser I am in the comments.

No, really, I’m not being sarcastic. I need to know it. Maybe it’ll motivate me to not be a loser.

Who am I kidding? HA!!!!!!!!!!! Once a loser, always a loser.

There are days and times I’m just overwhelmed with the amount of things that hold me back–the anxiety, the depression, the introverted nature that makes me want to ignore the real world and live in my head, and I know they come with disadvantages and I know those disadvantages are why I consider myself a loser. It all makes perfect sense. It’s a full circle.

I’m working on them but it’s not going to be instantaneous. It’s going to be months, years. Honest to God, even though I’m not religiously affiliated, I think–I know–my boyfriend deserves much better than me. It’s not because of tonight. It’s just because of everything.

I’m just a fuck-up.

I thought it was a lie when people said it’s hard to love someone else when you don’t love yourself. It really is. How are you supposed to accept them and love them and let them in when you can’t do any of that to yourself?

I don’t ever want to leave him. But I don’t know why he doesn’t want to leave me. What is so special about me? I’m funny yeah, but I’m a loser! I just don’t get it. I’m really, genuinely shocked.

On another note, at least I don’t fuck up on games. Speaking of which, this one looks fun as shit. I am the happiest, saddest girl on earth right now. I’m going to murder fools in this game like no fools have ever been murdered in a game before.

L.O.L at these downloads though. Had to do a system update, except, with the internet speed of my phone, it would have taken nine hours. So I download it for PC. With the internet speed from my phone it would have taken 4 hours. So I had to get another free hour of Gay ass Xfinity Wifi from Comcast to download the Ps4 update, put it on my flashdrive, upload the update to the PS4 through the flashdrive, and then let it restart.

Even my new toy is telling me I’m fucking up tonight.

I just can’t stand myself sometimes. I should probably change that since, you know, I have to live with myself for the rest of my life.


Christmas And The Internet



Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate such things. Happy holidays to those who don’t, and happy Solstice to everyone. Yay, the sun is coming back.

I am now a proud owner of a ChromeBook.

I hated them when they first came out until I saw how useful it could be for school. Since my old laptop currefntly has two broken legs, a fractured wrist, and part of its brain is soft and squishy, I knew I’d need something a little more portable and practical than my 24in desktop. It’s 18 pounds. I refuse to be this person:


I have a 10 inch, the size I wanted. It flips backwards with a touch screen to go into tablet mode and it’ll come in handy for my online class.

The irony of it all? I don’t have a stable internet connection. I just think it’s funny I get technology that relies on the internet I don’t have.

I’m using it to type this post and honestly I’m impressed with how smooth the keyboard is. Although the screen is smaller than your average laptop I can see things just as clearly. I don’t need giant screens.

One complaint I always had with my laptop was when I sat at desks in public places, I felt like everyone was staring at my screen. Not the people who glance and walk past, but like people set up chairs behind me just to watch.

Exactly Like This

With this thing I can at least block the screen.

Hackers. They’re all hackers, I swear.

Enough paranoia. Here’s why you should get a Chromebook for this coming semester/quarter/year/for your kid you don’t want to buy a 500 dollar laptop for.

And that’s my main goal: it’s much cheaper. You don’t need to buy all the subscriptions that come with laptops. Do you remember the days you could walk into an electronic store and buy a computer pre-loaded with Microsoft office? Remember when you had to put a product key in your office account within thirty days before it expired so you could use word? Remember when you didn’t have to pay for annual subscriptions? Remember when things made fucking sense?

I don’t like that they raised the price on the electronics, took everything important off them, and then still make you buy subscriptions. I think it’s a joke, it’s a scam, and if I don’t need it for work purposes or school purposes, there’s no way in hell I’m going to pay 600$ for something worth 200.

I don’t care if I put the dollar sign on the wrong side. I type it how I say it. Six Hundred Dollars.


hqdefault2Why complain about not having Microsoft word installed on a Chromebook when there’s a little thing called Word Online. If you didn’t know, now you know. It’s not as fucking horrible as Google Docs and you can basically do everything word does, except for free. And save it online. Where it will never be a corrupted file. It might get stolen by internet hackers but dude, no one wants your fucking history notes.

If you have a dropbox, it’s even easier to transfer and edit documents online with Microsoft Word for free. 

Have kids? Have 12 year olds? Don’t want them watching a lot of porn? Get a Chromebook.

Have kids who like to play video games on their computer instead of doing homework? Get a Chromebook. Bitches won’t be playin’ no games. Not unless they can handle some serious lag.

Don’t think your ten year old needs electronics to live by? Already mad your brother bought her an Iphone? Does she need to be on Google Classroom for her school because apparently that’s a thing now? Get her a Chromebook. There’s an app for that.

6a00e5536443eb88330147e384504b970bWhy do little kids have Iphones? Don’t give me that “they need a way to get in contact with me” bullshit. Listen. When I was eleven we were homeless and lived in a different town–same county, different town. I went to school in my home town area and often had to walk places to meet my parents to pick me up or went to friends houses until I could get picked up. They bought me a phone so I could stay in contact with them. Sure, this was before fancy touch screens but I didn’t get no Motorola Razor, I got a prepaid cell phone where you had to buy minute cards from Valero.

Because that’s what you give to fucking kids. Phones that aren’t going to make deficits in their attention when they’re in high school.

“My kid is going to be made fun of if they don’t have a phone!”


Just . . . shut . . . shut the fuck up and get off Earth. Get. Off. Don’t come back until you get a new brain.

Do people not realize what frame rates do to developing brains? You’re teaching them to multitask and not in a good way–too many fast things. Even I notice a difference in myself compared to people barely ten years older than me. I’m jumping around from topic to topic, I’m doing about ten different things on three different devices at once.

Imagine that in your thirteen year old, but ten times worse.


See, I went on a whole tangent and I was talking about fucking Chromebooks.

best-samsung-chromebook-2-11-inch-laptopChromebooks are slim and easily portable.

They take care of all your school needs without any subscriptions.

No, they will not be powerful like your laptop, so don’t post an online review complaining about it. If you don’t understand the specifications of 2ghz and such when you’re reading about them, either do some research or don’t buy it. Don’t consider it a bad product because you’re a fucking idiot.

Taking online classes? Perfect. That’s what I wanted mine for.

Easy access to dropbox/cloud documents. Edit and share documents anywhere.

Eye hackers who gawk at your screen will have to squint and that will give you time to block your screen and whip your head around at them and hiss.

There are some Chromebooks the size of laptops, but . . . that kind of defeats the purpose. Unless you need larger print and webpages for visual reasons.

If you go to school, these are a must. If you don’t think your child needs a piece of high tech technology (you’re absolutely right), this is the perfect beginning device for them. Don’t want them on it all night? Turn off the internet.

maxresdefault2There are simple ways to keep your kids from getting addicted to technology. You just have to be smart about how you buy. Chromebooks are stylish and cute so your kid won’t be made fun of, if you’re one of those superficial people, but they also keep their focus directed on one thing. And like I said, just turn off the modem if you don’t want them on it. They won’t be able to do jack shit.

That’s supposedly a lot of complaints is that it only runs on the internet but think about it . . .what do you do when you get on your desktop? Laptop? Probably Facebook. So . . . what are you complaining about?

Perfect for school. Need to save a bunch of pictures and documents and shit like that? Well, save up your money and buy a laptop. Need something cheaper and more practical because you’re a broke college student eating Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Get a Chromebook.

Mine resembles a Macbook. So I mean, fool your friends.


Except that it says Asus.

So I mean . . .

Fool people for .1 second.

Hope everyone is finding some way to enjoy their holidays.

Shout Out to all the ten year olds with Iphones this Christmas. Congratulations, your high school years will be hell when you realize books don’t have apps built into the pages.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree . . . Yo Lights Be Fucked Up Doe


I guess I’ll jump on the band wagon. It’s rude not too, right?

Happy holidays, Merry Christmas–it’s getting close to Kwanzaa so happy early Kwanzaa and for those who celebrate Hanukkah, sorry I didn’t wish it earlier because I know it ended on the 14th, so Happy late Hanukkah. Just in case any of my followers are Jewish or African.

There’s probably so many more holidays, so happy every celebration ever to all cultures, even the ones content in the mountains void of Wifi and television and plumbing and Old Navy.

winter-solstice-greetings-cardsYo, happy Winter Solstice.

Is that a thing we wish? Happy Winter Solstice? It should be.

I guess this is why people say “happy holidays”.

People who say Happy Christmas make me giggle. To an American ear used to hearing “Merry”, “Happy” just sounds weird.

Holidays are usually rocky at my house. If you’re used to fighting and rampant alcoholism and drunken arguments and just a general dullness over the whole “holiday spirit” thing, just know you’re not alone. I prefer my holidays to be calm and boring. Presents are nice, chocolate are nice, but I don’t go out of my way to make people happy because it’s the holidays. Do that everyday.

If you’re used to giant parties and huge family get-togethers and wonderful time with the ones you love, I wish you all the best. I wish you days filled with happiness and peace and joy. Thank you to the people who kindly donated presents for kids in foster care and kids too poor to get jack shit (one holiday last year or the year before I got shampoo. I honestly wasn’t expecting anything, not being as broke as we were). Thank you to the people sending out your wishes to people who don’t have what you have, to all the kids with Cancer and terminal illness who might be experiencing their last Holiday season right now, to all the adults with Cancer and terminal illness who might be experiencing their last Holiday season as well.

Thank you for people who have the time and money to donate to hospitals and services that treat these kind of people since, you know, the government and other billionaires don’t give two shits.

amazon-smile-logoIf you haven’t already, sign up for if you shop online often. It doesn’t send very much of your money to the charities of your choosing, but it sends a little bit and every little bit counts. Hopefully this isn’t like Jared from Subway’s scam he had with the charities who just stole all the money. Hopefully Amazon is true to their word because I’ve been signed up for a year and spent ample amounts of money. I regret that I didn’t do with this last purchase.

Apparently a woman in my area got kicked out of a house she rented three or so months ago. Her son has Cerebral Palsy and requires medical equipment on the daily, particularly a breathing machine to help clear his lungs. They were living on a camp ground for a while and running it off a generator but some assholes in the camp ground were complaining about the noise the generator made (like seriously? Grow the fuck up. Get some ear plugs, the kid will die without that shit. People are complete idiots.) and the park rangers had to kick them out. A family looking to rent a vacation rental in my town heard of the woman, bought a house, and now rents it to her for a very low rate and told her she can live there as long as she wishes.

Beautiful holiday story, right?

I wonder if it wasn’t the holidays, if these people would have done that?

It’s conflicting feelings I get during these seasons. It seems everyone is happy and willing to give–it’s called the season of giving, right? Why? Why is that a season? Just do it every day. I don’t understand why that’s so hard.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.

But people are more likely to stop and help you with your car on the side of the road during the holidays than they are during “off-season”.

maxresdefault1That seems like a disconnect to me. Seems like people aren’t thinking clearly. It’s kind of like The Purge: get all of your giving and joy and happiness and kindness out within the next month so we can go back to living like assholes for another eleven months.

I know, I know, positivity down the drain. It’s not that I don’t get in the spirit completely–I like smiling at people and saying happy holidays and watching them smile back like I just gave them the greatest gift in the world. I like the everyone who can visit their family, visits their family and makes the best out of whatever situation they have to. It’s a nice feeling in the air. It’s a stressed feeling, but there are little pockets of joy too and those pockets are my favorite.

But that shit ain’t going to last, let’s be honest.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to not last with you, however. This New Year, try and keep the holiday spirit going not for the sake of the holidays but for the sake of everyone. Ask if someone needs help when they’re broken down on the side of the road. Don’t text and drive with your kids in the car (dumb people everywhere, I’m telling you).

134339-always-help-someoneIf you see something you can help with–well fucking help! Shit! The guy who drops the two boxes of chocolate bunnies in the market? Get your ass on the floor and help him pick them up. It shouldn’t even be an afterthought. It shouldn’t be because everyone else it doing it. It should be because he needs help.

Smile at the people who pass you on the sidewalk. It might be all they need. I’ve lugged this body around in depression during the day and one person smiles at me and I force a smile back and just that little moment of connection makes me feel apart of something again.

Say hello.


When you cross the street, thank the driver who stopped for you. Even if they’re the last car on the road and they were fucking stupid.

When someone cuts you off in traffic, smile at them. This is advice I need to take. My road rage is a monster.

Don’t be nice because it’s polite to be nice. Be nice because you want to be nice, be nice because you may not know the person you’re interacting with. Maybe they were planning on shooting themselves in the head that night and your little joke and thirty second conversation with them made them rethink their decision.

I have social anxiety and I still find ways to try and be kind to strangers. Sometimes I come off rude because my anxiety makes me absent but I try my best. People don’t see that, but I do.

Being kind isn’t an obligation. It’s not about making yourself feel better–although for some people it is. But in reality it’s common decency and respect and it connects you with other humans. That’s something people are supposed to want . . .  right?


I wouldn’t know.

My point is, why only be that connected to people during the holidays? Doesn’t that seem a little odd?

I do know through all my anger and depression and anxiety and panic and insomnia and fatigue and fear of failure and fear of success and weird fantasy worlds and characters in my head and all that good, yummy stuff, that giant mental goulash sloshing around in my brain, that I like making people smile. I like making them laugh and enjoy what they have around them. I like helping them even if they aren’t appreciative. I don’t do it to make myself look good–who the hell would notice anyway? I don’t know anyone to spread my good deeds on Facebook and make me sound like a saint–I don’t do it to please my parents or my friends or anyone really. I just do it because that’s what I do.

I might not have a job right now. I might look like a loser and a wimp and a straight up pussy. I might seem like a seven year old trapped in a 20 year old’s body. I might even just seem plain dumb. But I’m happy with myself and I’m happy with how I’m learning to treat others. Everyone else’s opinion of me can, quite honestly, fuck right off.

Remember: the holidays are a time for warm treats and hugs and songs and family. So is the rest of the year.




Put The Executive In Charge


I won’t say that today has changed my perspective on holidays.

But I will say I enjoyed wrapping gifts and buying last minute ones. Wrapping paper on boxes requires a certain level of logical, structural thinking, kind of like building houses out of legos, and I think that’s what makes me enjoy it so much. It’s something concrete to do with my hands that makes me focus.

Then again, I see patterns in everything.

Here’s a tip: If you’re ever panicking or in the middle of a panic attack or anxiety attack, whip out the old math book and get to doing some problems. Works every time.

If you know a little bit about psychology, it makes sense.

If you don’t, this is how I developed this little trick:

When you’re panicking or you have high anxiety, where are your thoughts focused? What’s hijacked the entirety of your brain and body? Your amygdala, right? That old bean shaped geezer in the middle of your brain that you’ve had since your chimp-like ancestors birthed into existence.

We’re all monkeys. I don’t care if chimps aren’t monkeys or apes aren’t monkeys, they’re chimp-monkeys and ape-monkeys to me. They’re monkeys. Get out of here, anthropologists, I’ll believe what I want! Viva La Free Thought About Monkeys!!!!

My favorite are the Bonobos. Google them and you’ll know why.

Anyway, it takes control of your frontal lobe and therefore your rationality and suddenly your arms are going numb and your having a heart attack and you know you’re going to die so you just wait with your pulse throbbing behind your eyes for death to sneak up behind your back and crack his scythe against the back of your skull.

Or He’s A Mouse

Did you know death played dirty like that? Everyone assumes he’s a skeleton but he’s really a pudgy middle aged, uni-sex being with soft skin and a nervous giggle. He never actually slices anyone’s soul out with that thing, he just sharpens it to be intimidating. He actually has a lot of social anxiety and hates meeting people face to face, especially when he has to, you know, take their life, so he wears black to blend into the shadows and bangs you on the back of the head. Why do you think people rarely see him coming?

Your frontal lobe is the executive. It’s the man–or woman–in the blueAfrican American Businesswoman Sitting On Office Chair - Isolate suit with his arms folded and a computer chip installed in his eye so he can make calculations near the speed of light or . . . or whatever. I don’t know. The dude–or chick–just makes decisions for you, alright? It’s good at judgement and problem solving and it’s supposedly highly evolved although . . . I don’t think many people use it to its full potential. I mean, if we are than . . . than shit.

I guess if you compare it to monkeys it’s highly evolved.

Although monkeys are some smart little bastards. So are dolphins. I’m pretty sure dolphins are smarter than us.

I was talking about the amygdala.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

21578Anyone ever try that “Cram” brain supplement they sell in natural food stores? It’s supposed to help you focus and “Cram” for finals. I saw them in an aisle once and grew perturbed. I’m pretty sure it’s either a stimulant prescription drug crushed up into little crystals you’re supposed to dissolve in water and definitely not snort, or it’s straight up crack cocaine that you are definitely supposed to snort.

I’ll probably become a victim of it in Medical school. I’m pretty sure all my peers will too. People be selling Ritalin left and right up in those joints.

Let me go to medical school to learn how to save lives while simultaneously putting a substance in my body that probably isn’t very good for me just so I can get an A on this test because that’s the kind of smarts that got me into Harvard Med.

Oops, did I say smarts? I meant thousands upon thousands of dollars for donation and a long history of family attendance.



I apologize. I talk to myself all the time and I’m starting to wonder if the conversations I have are completely incoherent.

The amygdala is your worst friend–so far. So far, according to biased research. So, you know, take it with a grain of salt here. It could be your best friend and we just don’t know it yet. It could kill you maybe, somehow, what the hell do we know?

But from what we know, yes, it has a lot to do with anxiety in an evolutionary standpoint and a current standpoint. So what do you need to do when it takes over?

article-2117722-0cf4a92000000578-69_468x399Think of it as a screaming toddler. You don’t curl on the floor and let the toddler scream at you. You don’t give up and let the toddler run your house. Some days you might be tired and be a little more lenient when the toddler screams but you know you can’t condition yourself to let the toddler do what it wants. It’s YOUR toddler.

You’re not going to stuff pill after pill into your toddler until it’s woozy and sick and puking in the bathroom and expect the magic pills to do all the work, are you?

No, you gain some control over the toddler. You enlist the executive for some help.

How do you enlist the executive? Why, simple math of course! Tasks,normal_angel_doing_math structural things, things that make your hands work. Take apart an electronic and put it back together. Do some algebra or trig or maybe first semester calculus. Something that doesn’t tax your entire brain, but makes you focus a little.

That’s putting the executive back in charge.

So you’re not punishing the toddler. You’re not fighting the toddler. You’re not screaming back at the toddler or physically subduing the toddler. You’re just showing the toddler that you’re not going to feed into it’s tantrum.

It’s a coping mechanism. One that doesn’t involve substances or physical pain or mental pain (unless you really, really hate math in which case, uh, stick to building legos or something, drawing patterns, taking things apart) or a meltdown. Once your executive is in charge you stop crying and your heart rate slows and you realize . . . what the fuck is going on?

And then you have clearer vision.  And then maybe you identify what caused the anxiety. Maybe you see nothing caused it. Maybe you see something large caused it. But you rationalize your reaction wasn’t right. Does it cure your anxiety? No. But it’s better than being up all night rocking yourself to sleep in a pool of your own tears or stumbling into the emergency room just so they can shoot some Ativan into your veins and send you home.

Don’t be a victim–there’s no need to be.


Rely more so on yourself to control your life than something outside of yourself. Use all your resources. Use medication, use therapy, use coping mechanisms, use family and friends, use supportive programs, use blogging, use books, use art, use them all and use them well.

DO NOT use only one of them and expect your life to change. Do not use one of them and sit on your bed and cry about how horrible your life is. That’s being a victim. If you don’t put your all into your recovery what makes you think you’re going to recover? Magic? This weird, infectious idea that there are quick fixes for everything? What world do you live in? Obviously not planet earth.

That’s like giving you a computer monitor with no desktop and saying here, Photoshop my photos please.

That’s like expecting life on earth to proliferate with only an atmosphere of oxygen. No spinning rock, no O-Zone, no nothing, just . . . just oxygen.

You think your brain only uses one neurotransmitter to do all the amazing things it does for you?

Do you see how effected people are when they have a stroke and their left size is incapacitated?

By choosing one method for recovery and moping over it’s ineffectiveness, you’re incapacitating yourself in the same way.

I could just go to therapy once every two weeks and never step outside of my house or practice controlling my anxiety or combating depression or changing the way I think or socializing or speaking up. I could think that’s going to do something and I could lay on my bed and think, and think, and think about it and you know what? I’d probably kill myself.

That’s how you get stuck in a rut. You think more than you actually do.

So when you feel the urge to give up or you think a little pill or a couple sessions of therapy will solve your problems, remind yourself how much you appreciate your left side.

You can choose to be your biggest advocate or you can choose to be your biggest opposition. Doctors aren’t choosing it for you. Your friends aren’t, your family isn’t, your medication isn’t, your psychologist isn’t, your cat isn’t, your dog isn’t–you are. Those are catalysts for you, not cures.

That doesn’t mean don’t not struggle–that means embrace the struggle and understand it. Because you’re going to struggle. I do every day, you’ve heard me whine about it all the time.

But I’m still here, aren’t I?