I Was Buried Under a Pile of Monkeys

I don’t think it’s normal to learn a lesson from your dreams, and I’m not even sure that I did learn a lesson. My dreams are startlingly realistic, most of the time they cling to me far past sleepytime and I momentarily forget whether I’m in dream world or reality. My life is like a melodramatic remake of Inception where the main character, Katrina, an oblivious white girl, works at an ad agency in Los Angeles and compulsively chugs tea out of an enormous Iowa mug her mother accidentally sent her.

Sometimes I can control my actions in my dreams AKA “lucid dreaming.” These dreams are the most memorable because they genuinely feel like a second life. There are certain things that exist in my “dream life” that don’t exist in my actual life. For example, my childhood home always has a pool in the backyard in my dream life but not in reality. This has been the case since high school, so it kind of felt like waking up and realizing you didn’t actually get that golden retriever puppy in real life. Every, day.

By the way, for anyone who thinks this sound “cool” I would gladly trade you this ability for ANY one of your marketable skills… Like the ability to do math for example. Or maybe ability to write code. Programming. Anything of that nature.

ANYWAY. For this dream, I was in Africa with a few friends (no I’ve never actually been to Africa) and we decided to go rogue on a safari. Dream Katrina is constantly putting herself in vulnerable situations with wild animals, not sure if that means anything, but she sure likes to do it. For the safari we were walking through a desert savannah and kept spotting monkeys in the distance. They disguised themselves as trees before attacking their prey… It was as acid trippy as it sounds, yes. Picture Kirby’s World for NES in that level where the birds all shoot out of the tree when you pass it (if you get that reference please notify me, ASAP, I’d like to make you my husband.) There were also alligators, rhinos, plenty of shit that can kill you. But we were prancing carelessly around like we were in a fucking Minnesota cornfield.

My friends rushed ahead of me and out of sight. In real life this wouldn’t be a huge issue because I’m fast as all fuck, but in this dream I might as well have been 95 years old with metal knees. While I fruitlessly rushed onward, I accidentally stumbled under what looked like a harmless tree, but was actually an aggressive nest of monkeys. This troop of monkeys leapt onto my back and paused for a moment while I pretended to be dead. They chattered amongst themselves, probably deciding how to best feast on my innards. What the fuck else could the monkeys of my subconscious possibly have to say? 

Unfortunately this was a very heavy pile of monkeys, and I needed to breathe, so they quickly figured out the truth as they felt the rise and fall of my ribcage underneath them. I braced myself for contact, which is a horrifying prospect if you’ve ever seen anyone who survived a monkey attack. Monkeys rip faces off.

For reference, this is sort of what the monkeys looked like:

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Before you make fun of the size of this monkey, let’s discuss a few things.

  • Look at its fucking teeth
  • Look how angry he looks
  • Imagine at least 12 of him on your back (you’re completely alone)
  • He is a wild animal, so the fact that his mouth is about the size of a cat isn’t relevant because this motherfucker will tear into you barehanded with reckless abandon on INSTINCT
  • He is defending his nest

Anyway. I’m deflecting because I’m trying not to be too morbid. This entire post is a little off, sorry mom, these are the things that keep me up at night (or not? these are the things that haunt me while I sleep?) 

The moment underneath those monkeys felt so real that I genuinely thought I was going to die. I felt those near-death thoughts flying through my head. How disappointed my parents, friends, family would be that I died in such a reckless way. I thought about how my last moments on earth would be wasted by my own ignorance and overzealousness. I would be just another white girl who thought she was invulnerable and could run around unknown territory without any repercussions. Just like when I used to walk home alone from Allston back in college at 2:00 am and get into strange cabs who offered free rides.

Most of all, I thought about how this was the real, black, immanent, void. The end.

I came to that lonely realization that I imagine most Atheists have in the back of their mind (but are too busy playing World of Warcraft and blaming ~society~ for their problems to admit.) When you reject religion or a higher power as a concept, you reject the belief in an afterlife. You truly believe that when you die, you just rot in the ground and that’s it. Maybe people scatter your ashes or whatever, but you cease to exist in any way shape or form. Bleak. As. FUCK. (I’m really fun at parties.)

When I was younger and a “practicing Lutheran” I had these types of dreams, I’d get to my Monkey Pile Moment and I’d pray. I’d pray that God would save me or that somehow this wouldn’t be the end, and many times when I did this I’d be rescued or brought to some other reality within the dream. But now, at 25, I feel that crushing defeat of ultimately losing faith. I don’t believe anymore, I genuinely don’t, and having that vividly illuminated in a dream is startling. 

On the optimistic side, I realize the importance of self reliance. Being able to find solutions for yourself and work your way through The Monkey Piles Of Life (I hate myself for just saying that… I feel like I just wrote a fucking sermon which is some pretty tasty irony for you literary fiends out there who might be picking apart my work trying to decide if there is any deeper meaning! There’s not, and I’m sure that’s not what you’re doing here.)

Let me try again without getting all preachy. I woke up from this dream covered in sweat, with a very sore throat from some sleep-apnea-esque snoring (I’M SORRY, I’M ACTIVELY WORKING ON IT OK?) and I felt myself actually relax a bit. Whatever the hell gets thrown my way, whether it be an entire tree full of monkeys, a knee injury (please no), or a career change… I’m gonna make it work. I’ll be ok. 

Your story is not already written for you. If you’re an Atheist or even just someone who is questioning faith, spirituality, etc… If you’re feeling like you have nothing to fall back on… You do. But either fortunately or unfortunately, that thing is you. As I’ve said many times before, if you don’t like your life, it’s time to grab it by the haunches and hump it into submission. Because you can, no one else can.

Genuinely beautiful song about loving yourself even though everyone else might think you’re a lunatic ❤ (and they might be RIGHT)

A Comforting Exchange (I’m Listening to Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield rn I can’t lie.)

It’s nice to start off my day in a not shitty way, even if my definition of “not shitty” still includes me waking up in a cold sweat after having an unsatisfying sexual dream about former Bachelor lead Chris Soules. A dream that came at the end of a series of highly disturbing dreams, I might add. One of them my brother Kyle had an evil twin who was trying to slit his throat while Kyle played video games. The hard part was that I couldn’t tell which Kyle was Evil Kyle so I just watched. For more information on my fucked up dreams- shoot me a text. I’ll happily make you uncomfortable.

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(Definitely never going to be able to think of him the same way)

Full disclosure, I’m trying to teach myself how to properly wear makeup on a daily basis. When I say that, I specifically mean I’m trying to learn how to contour. Before you laugh, please realize that shit is highly complicated and the reason a lot of people look ridiculous when they attempt it is because it’s an artform. I honestly don’t think I’m doing it right yet, but I’ve covered up most of the failed effort using “bronzer powder” which just makes my skin smooth and sparkly like a Twilight-era vampire.

I had an extra half hour to do my facial reconstruction today, and since I don’t have a functional hairdryer I’m working with the “wet rat” base look. I went ham at TJ Maxx last week and bought a few contouring kits as well as bronzing powder, a blending sponge, and lipstick. Yes, lipstick. I have a lot to say about lipstick, we can talk about it later. Maybe on another post.

One of my contouring kits specifically outlines on the box exactly where to put each color and even includes a diagram. I have been strictly following this as if it were a bible, and to be honest I question its credibility as a few times I’ve just looked like a tribal warrior at the end of it. No doubt, I’m still missing a few steps (primer, tinted moisturizer, setting spray… etc) but I am in the process of learning and that’s what counts, right? I’m trying and eager as ever. About as eager as I am to finish off the remnants of whatever appetizer is on the dinner table in a large group, because I guarantee I didn’t get nearly enough of it.

Anyway. I showed up to work today with my experimental makeup look on, and immediately felt insecure. Not only because I don’t typically wear a lot of makeup, but also because I have no idea if I look ridiculous in this lighting as compared to the dim sea cave I call home. I realize that half the battle with feeling confident is appearing confident, but it’s hard to do that when there’s a serious possibility you look like you have dirt/soil/excrement smeared on your face.

I went up to order eggs and bacon in the staff cafeteria and immediately when I approached the chef, I got insecure. I was certain he was giving me a weird look, as he probably knows me as the weird girl who always asks for an extra egg and seems ashamed about it. (It’s true, I do emotionally need that extra egg and it pains me to make it known.) In my mind, he noticed in a bad way, and I was about ready to sprint off to the bathroom and wipe off my fake face.

Quick aside here- I’ll give you a flashback to the first time I ever attempted to wear makeup in sixth grade. All of the other girls were doing it, and I was sick of being called a tomboy (note: I exclusively wore XXL mismatching sweatpants and sweatshirts for the entirety of my sixth grade year, this is fact.) So one day, after my mom left for work I raided her makeup stash (which is very minimalistic I might add- props to you mom… you’re fackin gorgeous!)

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(Above is a good example of what I was working with at this time in my life, please appreciate those jeans for the love of god where did we find those?)

At this stage I really did not know how to wear makeup, I wasn’t even sure what most of it was for. I put mascara on, shockingly correctly. But then I found some dark blue eyeliner that my mom probably bought by accident and discarded. I put that at the back of my eyelids, not the line of them. I outlined the base of my eyeball. And then I probably did another line on the inside of my bottom eyelid. While this terminology may not make sense- trust me, it did not look good. The mascara was passable, but the rest… ooooof.

Immediately when I got into school, Kaitlin Barry, one of the popular girls, asked me what the makeup was for. In a condescending tone. My stomach fell into my colon and I nearly shat out my internal organs. I was insecure and she knew it. When I didn’t answer?

“Katrina… What’s the makeup for?”

Mind you, this girl had makeup caked on in the punk rock Good Charlotte era style that was quickly becoming the new norm. I still couldn’t say anything, because I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself for even trying to be like the rest of the girls. When clearly I’d made myself an “other.”

“Katrina… Are you trying to impress someone?”

I shot up from my desk and ran to the bathroom and started wiping off my face with wet paper towels. I wasn’t crying or anything, I was just humiliated. And honestly I don’t even know if anyone else ever noticed I had it on in the first place. But it felt like the whole class saw and was laughing at me. (Just like the time I accidentally farted audibly during silent reading time.)

I spent the rest of the day asking one of my closest guy friends in paranoia if it was smeared or visible in any way shape or form. We’d pass each other in the hallways and he’d give me a thumbs up to assure me he couldn’t tell. Thank god for dude friends before hormones were a real thing. I somehow survived the day, but definitely had panic diarrhea.

Anyway- with that aside in mind, I was having panic flashbacks this morning. Sure it was 14 years ago and I’ve come a long way in my makeup skills… But I’m still the oversized sweatshirt wearing woman at the end of the day. I’m comfiest when I’m dressed like Stan Kovack, the middle aged real estate worker who cheers on the Phillies and listens to Toto. I like wearing makeup and feeling pretty, but I’m terrified of doing it wrong and looking like a fool.

Moments after I got my bacon and eggs and went to pay for it, I was met by one of the friendly cafe staff members. We frequently banter over my daily kombucha keg cup that legitimately looks like a cup full of beer… She playfully calls me “drunk girl” and has no idea how accurate of an assessment that really is.

“Your makeup looks really good today, did you do something different?” She said casually

I felt a full body sigh of relief and thanked her. “I was just thinking about how I’m afraid I look ridiculous.”

“I know what you mean,” She said “Sometimes when I wear makeup differently I feel like I look like a drag queen.”

It’s funny, because I’ve said that so many times about myself and no one else has ever humored me. We had a quick chat about the downfalls of wearing heels, purses, etc and I walked away feeling 100% better about life.

Not even because I am sure I actually look good, but more because I realize everyone has their insecurities about their femininity. Especially women like me who tend to err on the side of masculine or “tomboy.” It’s not that we don’t have the desire to look pretty, but it definitely doesn’t come naturally to us. For that reason, showing up to work in “experimental” makeup feels about as awkward as wearing a fedora, although far less shameful.

Having another woman’s support, even just something as small as commiserating, meant a lot to me and reminded me we’re all in this together. And we run the world. So for anyone out there who feels weird in their own body today, just know that we’re all feeling a little weird in our own way. If you see someone taking a step outside of the norm, give them a compliment. I like you already for making it this far down in the post, and please know that it means a lot to me.

o7NgowX

I Was Wrong About My Career Path

It has been a few weeks and naturally, it’s Wednesday, so I am mustering up just enough little travel-sized fucks to give in order to write something arbitrary. As much as I’d love to write something heartfelt about my triumphs and tribulations in 2016, I know for a fact that none of you want to read that. How do I know? Because literally every time I see one of those manifestos on my Facebook feed and I have the option to click “See More” I click it just to see how unbearably long it REALLY could be, then when I’m met with the wall of text that follows I start inevitably hating the person who wrote it. I don’t need to read any of it, I just hate you for sitting down writing it out and thinking that it’s important or relevant to another human being that you got super “woke” in 2016 and then you also went apple picking with your grandma for the last time before she died. 

My only valuable information to bestow upon the minute demographic who consistently reads this blog is that 2016 was the year I finally admitted I was wrong about a lot of things. (Everyone loves to read about another person’s failure, right?) In fact, I was so wrong that I lost sight of who I was and fell into what some wonderful people in my life will refer to as “a downward spiral.” Call it what you want, it wasn’t fun and if I can help you avoid it by writing this post you’ll thank me later. Or maybe you won’t because you’ll never have to find out what happens when you eat too much of your friend’s edibles in Vegas.

I tell people all the time that I’ve known I wanted to be a writer since I was around 7 years old. That sounds absurd because let’s be honest, can seven year olds even write coherently? (No they cannot) I actually kept some of my embarrassing kitten covered “cat-lady-in-the-making” journals from first grade so that I can go back and read them. Granted, most of it looks and sounds like something I’d write while blackout drunk in current times. (AKA talking about my cat’s fluffy tail and being really really mean to boys I have a crush on.) I still remember my second grade teacher Mrs. Schwebach pulling me aside in class, intensely staring at me (a la Billy Madison) and telling me that I should never stop writing. She didn’t have to tell me that, I knew I never would.

When you love something so much and derive so much pleasure from it, you want to make it your career. I landed on writing for television because the stars aligned and my dream school (Boston University) offered a highly competitive program. Given my unhealthy obsession with Family Guy from age 12 onward I felt like it was a no-brainer. Writing for animated comedy, bam. Done deal.

I moved out to LA right after I graduated and busted my ass to try to get into a writers room. I got so close I could taste it on so many occasions but if it came down to me and one other person it would somehow always end up being the other person. It was hard not to take all of the rejection personally and keep putting myself out there through the highly uncomfortable interview process. But I did, and I desperately settled for job after job in the unscripted world. For those not in Entertainment, that means Reality TV. Yeah, I know, I shudder at the thought as well. 

I’d go to lectures and hear people I admire discuss what it took for them to succeed. Everyone’s path was different and so much of the journey depended on luck, chance and sacrifice. For many writers their work was their life, and that life was filled with uncertainty and emotional volatility. I identified with these people and I saw so many similarities in our personalities, I wanted so badly to be them. I remember sitting at a panel where Dan Harmon spoke and I drooled over every single word he said. He is still my idol and someone whose career I dreamed of replicating. 

I’m not sure when the doubt first started creeping in, but when it did I desperately tried to suppress it. I never doubted whether or not I was capable of handling the pressure, workload, and dedication it would take if I did get my chance. I just started to doubt if it was really what I wanted.

Over the course of my multiple job changes, I formed a mental list of what I wanted in my ideal job. The list formed as follows:

  • A degree of work/life balance
  • Stability
  • Livable income
  • At a large company with protection for employees
  • Potential for upward mobility
  • Identifiable and healthy culture (not necessarily healthy-living based, but one I can get behind)
  • Respectful bosses and coworkers

This list seems a bit basic, and when I shared it with some friends from home they actually laughed at me.

Well if you’re in the Entertainment Industry you might find yourself reading the list and unable to check off a single one of those items. I know I have worked at multiple companies where none of those things were present. It’s easy to fall into jobs like that because they have a high turnover rate because, shocker: no one wants them.

Bottom line, I wanted to stop hating my job. I wanted to feel like there were opportunities for me that weren’t based on luck. I wanted to stop leaving the office counting down the days until I could finally get the job I wanted. I wanted to find a job where I could actually push myself and challenge myself until I earned the next job in line. While this is entirely possible in Entertainment, it wasn’t lining up for me and the companies I landed at.

It’s still too soon for me to say whether my new career path will work out, but I feel immensely better every day when I come into this office. I feel like I have a shot, and like I can work my ass off and feel good about what I produce. I look around and see people who are happy to be here and who are talented at what they do. I am part of a culture that makes me feel proud, rather than ashamed.

It was hard as hell admitting that I was wrong. But when I finally accepted it and moved forward, some other major things fell into place. (I finally figured out how to carve my own Costco rotisserie chicken without help!) 2016 was a piece of shit year for a lot of reasons, and who’s to say 2017 won’t also blow up massively in my face? As dumb as it sounds, I find that I have a renewed purpose in my life. I am motivated more than I ever have been before. I am beginning to feel like MAYBE, just maybe, I can sort my shit out.

So if you’ve read this far, all I’m saying to you is not to be too proud to admit when you’re wrong. Especially when the desire to be “right” is making you miserable. It’s not worth it. You deserve to be happy, you deserve to feel fulfilled. It’s easy to get comfortable in something you know isn’t right for you because it’s… easy. You’re really fucking good at something and the right company will offer you a chance to prove that to them. Go find that company.

As for writing… I’ll never stop writing. Duh, I have this stupid website. Also, there are a million different jobs that need good writers. I’ll land on my feet, probably. And if I don’t, I’ll sell my soul to Donald Trump.

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I Don’t Want to Sit Still and Look Pretty

Sometimes when I am having a particularly unflattering naked-face day I listen to this embarrassing playlist on Spotify called “Confidence Boost” and one of the songs today was Sit Still, Look Pretty by Daya. I’ll admit, the song is massively overplayed… But it’s really catchy. For some reason listening to this song made me realize just how much I’m going to miss Michelle Obama. (My thought processes are even more disjointed than normal when I start my morning preworkout, just ask Mary.)

We all lost out in some way when Donald Trump won the presidency. Since I am a white woman I can only speak with authority for how it affects me, that’s not to downplay the impact it has on other groups of people. It’s also not to suggest that the impact on me is any more important than any other demographic. I’m aware that I am lucky in many respects, but the only point of view I can express with real insight is my own. So I’m going to.

Michelle Obama is easily one of the most influential First Ladies we’ve ever had. She worked hard to be a positive role model for young women as well as make lasting changes in our country to build a brighter future for them. Her entire platform emphasizes the fact that girls are just as badass as boys and that we have power. She’s even got her iconic “Michelle Obama Arms” which are toned and obviously strong as fuck. She was a partner both in marriage and in policy to Barack Obama, nothing less.

Now I see Melania Trump… Donald Trump’s third wife. She’s beautiful, objectively. She was hardly involved in his campaign from the start. She has made no statement to indicate she has ANY strong point of view toward anything. A Slovenian immigrant herself, I’ve watched her grimace through his campaign and justify the things he has said. She dismisses his comments as if they do not impact her, even though they (should) personally offend her in more ways than one. She’s a puppet on his strings. She’s inextricably tied to him in what appears to be an abusive and unhealthy marriage.

While young women used to be able to look up to Michelle Obama and relate to her, now they will see Melania Trump. A former model, rumored to have had multiple cosmetic surgeries, who is willing to keep her mouth shut… She will quite literally sit still and look pretty. And we will all watch like it’s normal. When asked what her role would be if Donald became president she said:

“I chose not to go into politics and policy,” she said. “Those policies are my husband’s job.”

Melania Trump, whether intentionally or not, will reinforce the roles women have worked so hard to break out of for the last hundred something years. She has one of the lowest approval ratings of any first lady EVER. She reeks of indifference. She turns a blind eye to facts, much like her husband does. Donald Trump’s relationship with Melania speaks to the way he views a woman’s role in the American society and that terrifies me.

I’m never going to sit still and look pretty. I hope that men’s attitudes toward us don’t change in this new Trump era, but I have to assume they will. I’m already sick of feeling insecure every time a guy makes a comment about what I wear to work, I’m sick of gritting my teeth and staying silent when I hear someone blatantly speak disrespectfully about other women, I’m sick of the negative connotation associated with the term “feminist.” Does Melania Trump even call herself a feminist? Or is she okay with the way things are?

I know none of us are. So whether or not we agree with the results of the election, we can never shut up. We have to keep fighting for what we believe in, even if we aren’t really sure what that entails right now. As Hillary Clinton said:

“We have work to do, and for the sake of our children and our families and our country, I ask you to stay engaged, stay engaged on every level,” Clinton said. “We need you. America needs you, your energy, your ambition, your talent. That is how we get through this.”

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Giving Someone Whiplash

Yesterday I had an indoor soccer game. It’s actually called Futsal- basically a combination of Soccer and Basketball both of which I, at one point in my life, was a badass at. Grammar check there? Alyssa? Anyway- it’s coed. 4v4 and it’s in a tiny little gym that is 20 degrees too hot for anyone to function in without dripping sweat like a fat man at the County Fair.

I use this weekly opportunity to take out a lot of my pent up aggression. There are so many things I get angry about in my daily life- the fact that my shower is consistently cold after 1:00 pm, the weird colored zit on my left shoulder that I can’t figure out how to get rid of because I can’t reach it, and the perpetual feeling that I’m a stereotypical LA failing writer/standup comedian/woodworker.

I get fired up. I was born last in my family, after two men were first raised in my mother’s quaint and fertile womb. Marinating in their testosterone, AKA the ZEUS of hormones according to my book on the Male Brain.  The science people say I was exposed to this excess of testosterone while my fetus formed into my creepily delicate alien shape. I was destined to be more of a tomboy than other women. I was born to be a haughty, vulgar, aggressive bitch. And I absolutely love that about myself.

Yesterday, I was particularly fired up because of some FINANCIAL CRISIS SHIT that I love dealing with. In the Futsal game, I decided to take out my rage specifically on this balding man who was a foot shorter than me and highly aggressive. He kept beating me to the ball and making me look like a lanky idiot with my arms flailing about. He kept running into my stomach like a little charging bull. Like the little guy from Hercules with the hooves, the guy who is voiced by Danny Devito. I gotta imagine that as a (presumably straight? He seemed straight) man the last thing you want to be doing with a woman is charging into her stomach like an angry bull.

I bodied up on him a little too hard at the end of the game going after a 50/50 ball that was headed for the wall, when we were tied 8 to 8. He got major whiplash and smacked his head on this metal lunchroom door thing (It’s funny to me that we played soccer in a lunchroom.) I felt guilty, I really did, I didn’t mean to push him that hard. He was totally fine- just annoyed that I’d shoved him and he looked like a little bitch (they called the foul, don’t worry.) I was a little shocked that he was so rattled. I’m hardly intimidating, I drive a Buick LaCrosse and wear Mom Jeans to work.

After the game, one of my male teammates gave me props for pushing up on the dudes. And I realized it wasn’t in my head. I was actually pushing grown ass men around (the other men on the team were normal sized, even huge, as opposed to my tiny victim.)

I thought about it. I started lifting weights in the fall of 2014 after I’d struggled continuously with my diet. I started lifting so that I could eat a lot and still look toned (always valid reasoning.) I started with just the bar on every single lift. I couldn’t even do the bar for several of them. I had muscle but it wasn’t substantial at all- just slight toning from prancing on the elliptical and sad leftover meat from high school sports. Kinda like Spongebob when he puts on those fake muscle arms and tries to lift the barbell. All looks- no power.

So just for reference- I started at 45 pounds for everything, that’s how much the bar weighs. Now I’m lifting 60 pounds over my head repeatedly, rowing 75 pounds, benching 95 pounds, squatting nearly 200 pounds, and deadlifting 220 pounds.

I’m sure if any of my former athletic coaches knew this now they’d hate me, because I didn’t give a fuck in the weight room (I spent as much time as possible just sitting on the leg press chair and sleeping) when I was younger and had a bright future ahead. But now I can do cool strong-person shit like easily throw the ball past midfield in soccer, do a soccer throw-in that looks more like a corner kick, make grown ass men scared of my grip when I shake their hand, hit a softball weirdly far even though I never played softball, free climb extremely difficult mountains on my first try (and thanks to Danica, Alex and Becky you crazy sons of bitches), and emasculate guys who are the same height as me.

Sometimes I feel self conscious because my triceps looks weird as hell, like Scyther the Pokemon.

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Or like a weird turtle person hybrid… Idk they look like flippers but they’re helpful? Sometimes I feel self conscious because I’m a bit bulky and feel like no straight man will ever be able to love someone so brutish who also has foot fungus/troll feet.

But overwhelmingly, I feel like a badass. I feel strong, I feel motivated, and I feel confident (most of the time).

The point of this post isn’t to rub my own dick (well that’s not the ONLY point, it is VERY erect though.) I am hoping that someone else reading this might get motivated to find a workout routine that makes them feel like a badass. I know several of my lady friends who started lifting are loving the way it makes them feel. I’m happy to help you find a routine that works for you if you’re interested. Not kidding- message me and either I’ll try to help you or I’ll ask my ripped-ass brother and he will weigh in.

I’m actually going to change my previous opinion on a something. This is an opinion  I’ve held for awhile and been very vocal about. Hypocrisy is something I don’t like to own up to, so enjoy…

Spin class is okay. CrossFit, is okay. Yoga, is okay. Running 18 miles in one day, is okay. All that shit is great if it works for you. TRY ALL OF IT. You find what works for you, commit to it, and I guarantee you will earn at least 4 happiness points for your Sim character over time. Who doesn’t want to see their little Sim self leap around with joy? The alternative is that horrible thing where the Sim needs to pee and looks up at you in agony while they wet themselves… Because you locked them in a room and removed the doors to see what would happen.

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Twenty Something Eat Pray Loving

Now that I’ve experienced prolonged unemployment, a painful break-up, and nearly fatal car explosion (jk?) all within the span of a few months… I think it’s time for my twenty-something Eat Pray Love style melodramatic existential crisis. This is a book/movie I’d hoped I would never have to reference, but here I sit, at work… I ate rice and beans mixed with a soggy veggie burger for dinner last night with a can of Coors Light before walking to an Open Mic night in one of the most pathetically stereotypical starving Los Angeles artist nights of my life.

 

At Open Mic Night I took a massive bite of a (legal) edible marijuana rice krispy bar midway through the show, assuming I wasn’t going to perform because my name hadn’t been drawn. Not sure why I assumed that. Of course, I got called LAST and by that point was a few beers deep and HIGH AS ALL FUCK. The kind of high where your eyes are red slits and you keep giggling at the salt shakers on your table remembering Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper  from Blue’s Clues (Luis and Erik if you’re reading this we should totally do them as a joint Halloween costume.) Set still went well, all things considered. No, I didn’t record it… I haven’t recorded ANY since my first one because every single time I go I get all jittery and forget to tell whoever I’m with to record it. IDIOT.

 

My goal for 2016 was to perform in at least TWO open mic nights. I set the bar low because I didn’t know how long I’d get explosive diarrhea before every performance. Luckily that wore off after I had 7 minutes in front of a basically empty bar where I only got pity laughs (and obligatory laughs from my endlessly supportive and reliable hype man.) Well guess what? I’ve performed 7 times now! Bitches can’t tell me nothin.

 

If you feel like embarking on your own Eat Pray Love journey, I’ll give you my advice on how to get started. Granted, this is mostly terrible advice coming from a completely uncertified and unqualified source. Make of it what you will.

 

Spend Some Quality Time With People You Hate: Nothing reminds you of who you are quite like hanging out with people who annoy you. Go to some event where you’ll see a lot of people you’ll hate. For me, this would be one of the following: A fancy networking gala, a CrossFit competition, a zen Yoga Group, an Improv Show, or some sort of seminar on the meat packing industry. I know I’m going to be surrounded by people who share a passion that conflicts with mine, and I’ll be in the minority. Such a reality check, because I can never keep my mouth shut but this forces me to. Sometimes you just need a bunch of people to tell you that you’re wrong, and it’s even more powerful when you HATE the people.

 

Hobbies, Find Em: I joined two soccer leagues and a flag football league. I try to go to the above referenced open mics at least once per week when I don’t have a soccer game. I also try to set up networking drinks as frequently as I can manage (never.) When you fill your week with activities you have less time to be sad about sleeping alone in your cat litter laden bed (at least you can pretend you went to the beach?) I’m realizing that I actually really enjoy outdoorsy activities, like camping. These hobbies are helping me become ~a more complete woman~

 

Force Yourself Not to Be An Idiot: You know all those instincts you’ve developed over the years? Your impulse to run from all complicated scenarios? Your tendencies to shut people out when you feel them getting too close? That weird thing where you pick at the skin on your knuckle until you bleed and people ask you if you got into a fight and you have to lie and say your cat scratched you? Your Eat Pray Love period is a great time to try to retrain those. It’s painful as hell and you’re going to feel like a toddler screaming and shitting yourself every day. You might even actually shit yourself- in which case… Give me a call for diaper recs.

 

Don’t Put Up With Bullshit: When I was in high school I would convince myself that the CLEARLY douchey guy I had a crush on, who by some grace of da lord started to give me attention, was actually a great guy. I asked him if he liked me, he said “I like your ass.” I told him that I didn’t want to just hook up, I wanted commitment, he said “Probably not.” I told him I thought he was smart, funny and talented. He said I was “cool.” And you know what? I thought that was so sweet of him. I was so innocent back then. I wanna go back to that past Katrina and slap her across the face repeatedly. When bullshit presents itself, what do you say to bullshit? “Not Today.”

 

Quit Making Excuses For Yourself: You wanna lose weight? Stop making up excuses why you can’t go to the gym, and stop eating like a fat fuck. You want to read a book? Stop wasting hours writing political posts on Facebook. You wanna make friends? JOIN SHIT (just please not Improv for the love of God.) You wanna get laid? Spread your legs and watch your back. You’re not too busy. If you’re a twenty-something without children or a significant other, you have nothing but time. I don’t care if you have a job, I have a “job” and I write this blog when I feel like it. The world is your uterus, start building a fetus in it.

 

Wear Clothes That You’re Comfortable In: I felt obligated to wear jeans today because I wore joggers the other day and everyone made snide remarks about my “sweatpants.” Fair enough, they’re very comfortable. But sometimes after you go on a camping trip and eat copious amounts of burgers, sausages, eggs and bacon (without working out at all, mostly just while drinking beer) your jeans just don’t fit like they used to. I’m walking like a bow legged sailor. Or maybe like a lego man. Or maybe like a wooden doll. Just something that can’t move it’s extremities with ease.

 

 

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One last nugget of wisdom before I wrap up this breakfast burrito: you really don’t have to Eat, Pray or Love if you don’t want to. Of those three activities, I am only doing one of them. It is Eat. Praying is fine if you’re a religious person or know how to pray to an ambiguous Godlike creature. Loving is cool too- but if you’re in this mess in the first place I’m assuming your heart has turned into a shriveled up black hole like mine. My heart is like a pancake that was left on the griddle for too long. It’s pretty much just charcoal, butter and flour. If you poke my heart it will disintegrate and its ashes will absorb into different parts of my body, giving me some kind of communicable disease that will shorten my lifespan drastically. Please, don’t touch my heart. So of the three things, Eat, Pray, Love… Just make sure to pick one and do it well.

 

 

(the above picture is an image of my heart)

The Evolution of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson

Do you ever lay awake at night thinking about Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson? Because I do. I did last night, I couldn’t sleep because I drank Nick Contino’s Assault Pre Workout before our soccer game at 9:00 pm. Because I wanted to get my pump on, just like The Rock would.

My first memories of The Rock were from when he was a Champion, World Class, WWF/E fighter. He was always alarmingly angry (please appreciate that assonance.) Not Glass Shop Man angry, but truly on the verge of a brain aneurysm from the moment his eyes opened in the chamber he was created in. (I’m talking about the cryogenic chamber he emerged from from another dimension.) Not to say that wasn’t typical of all WWF/E wrestlers, but The Rock was a bit more sinister. Never felt like he was “acting” or “joking.” To this day I don’t think he ever was. I’m gonna be completely honest and admit that I had a WWF N64 game that we played frequently, which The Rock was a character on. And whenever my brothers and I would play the “Who’s your favorite wrestler?” game, The Rock was always mine. And then my brothers always joked that I had a thing for The Rock. Which, was pretty insulting to imply even to an 8-year-old. imgres-2.jpg

(I’m not attracted to men who constantly look like they want to/easily could murder me)

imgres-4.jpg            (Wait, I lied, maybe I am…)

The Rock is considered one of the biggest stars in WWE/F history. If you feel like checking out how many people think so, look at his Wikipedia and read the series of 6 quotes from different “famous” people all pretty much saying “The Rock is the best thing that ever happened to wrestling.” So why is The Rock not wrestling anymore? Why is he gracing us with our presence via BILLBOARDS? Why was I just asked on a DATE to the NEW ROCK MOVIE?

Because The Rock needed to write an Autobiography, a New York Times Best Seller called The Rock Says… (The bar gets lower every year to become a New York Times Best Seller, let’s be real.) At that moment, The Rock discovered he was meant to be an artist after all. He was meant to really PERFORM. To share his inner-Rock musings (probably of the igneous variety-a science joke… someone please tell me this was funny, I failed my rock identification test when I was in eighth grade and I need someone to tell Ms. Hansmeyer that she never should have given up on me) with the world. Let’s explore that…

THE SCORPION KING (2002): The Rock was paid $5.5 million dollars for this titular role. A world record for an actor in his first starring role. Well, boy, was it worth it! This movie got RAVE reviews, a whopping 38% favorable audience review on Rotten Tomatoes with one describing it as “A ridiculous though not entirely unpleasant way to while away ninety-two minutes.” I’m guessing the only reason it wasn’t entirely unpleasant is because… Well…

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That’s just a sight to behold. No wonder it was still a SmAsHiNg BoX oFfIcE SuCceSSSSs.

The Rock is 6’4 and 245 pounds…  Just wanted to pepper that fact in here.

DISNEY CHANNEL GIGS: If you weren’t aware, The Rock appeared on Corey in the House AND Wizards of Waverly Place. I can only imagine what the synopses of these episodes are. “Corey has a rough day being the son of the President’s personal chef, until The Rock shows up and teaches him the nitty gritty of the American political system using only his oiled up pectoral muscles.”

THE TOOTH FAIRY (2010): A horrifying concept. The Rock is the tooth fairy, you know, that dainty little fairy you used to think gave you money for losing body parts when it was really your parents all along? (when they remembered.) He’s going to suffocate you with your pillow while you sleep then steal all the teeth under your pillow and leave NO MONEY. Then he’s going to build a shrine out of your teeth. Right? That’s what this movie was about?

Don’t worry- still a box office hit. But did you ever think this man would star in a movie about the tooth fairy?

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Guys, I can’t slog through the rest of these titles. Let me just show you what I’m working with.

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I don’t have much to say about this other than the fact that I only actually recognize about 5 titles from that list. He easily could have been the face of Kazaam if we had let him. He was probably on the casting shortlist.

But I’m fairly certain every single one of the above listed movies was a commercial “success.”

Do you want to know what The Rock eats in order to be a Rock?

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I could only capture 6 of the 7 meals in a screenshot, but I need you to comprehend the amount of cod we are talking about here. That is 36 oz of cod. Let me see if I can find picture of 36 ounces of cod. I couldn’t find a picture, but I think it’s about this much (see below.) imgres-3.jpg

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is a perfect example of what The EnTerTaiNmEnT InDuStrY is becoming. We’re too lazy to create original content because that requires effort and usually very little return on that investment of effort. When I say return on investment, I mean money. And money is truly the only thing we care about in Hollywood.

It’s much easier to take something you KNOW is successful and put a silly hat on it (like The Rock and his fairy wings) and point a camera at it. It makes the money itself and we can just chill and sell merchandise.

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You can disagree with me, but if you do… I expect you to provide an explanation for why Trolls is the hot new flick on the horizon.

Seacrest out!