Developments

13 Jul

So, THINGS have happened. Big things, big messy lifechanging things, and even though I’ve presented the TL:DR version on various social networking whatsits, I figure I should fill all you folk in, especially since some of you don’t know me in meatspace or talk to me on the IM’s.

So yeah.

I got a promotion. At the workplace. I’m basically being bumped up to full time, plus shiny benefits and a pay increase that is both more than I’ve ever made in my life and near double what I was getting paid as a part-time data entry drone. Apparently I DO catch on quickly and learn fast and they need more of that in the survey building area of where I work.

This is good, excellent, brilliant news, and I’m excited, and nervous, for that ball to start rolling this coming monday.

Only downside? The work hours are 8 AM to 5 PM Monday through Friday. Which means waking up at around 6:30 every morning.

This will be… interesting… and a bit icky. Hopefully I’ll manage to adjust without going completely insane.

Jeff and I move in 19 days. Our new apartment is closer to downtown than the current one, and we’ll be free of roommates, so it’s a big exciting thing. Hopefully packing won’t be too much of a pain in the ass.

My sister got back from her study abroad in London. She’s jet lagged and homesick but she’s back with our parents and her kitty cat, so it could be worse.

I’m still drawing comics, though JulNo didn’t go very well. Guess I’ll just chalk it up to an impossibility and accept that I can throw myself into NaNo in a couple months.

I got Google +. Feel free to track me down on it, I don’t have much up there but a few random photos and thoughts.

And I’m catching up on season 5 of doctor who. It’s better than I expected, though Matt Smith’s head still looks like a bloody potato.

That’s your update from me. More adventures to report later, when life’s gotten even more exciting. Because it always does.

 

 

 

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Why I’m a Feminist

7 Jul

Feminism gets a lot of crap these days. The word has become less positive and more of an epithet. Feminists are seen as dangerous, irrational extremists who despise men and want to make mountains out of molehills for the sake of being the Better Gender. That or their work is considered useless, as women still get paid less than men, still face harrassment, rape and a bombardment of negative images from media and culture.

What is feminism though? Semantically now, I’m talking about the textbook definition.

fem·i·nism
–noun

1. the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.
2. ( sometimes initial capital letter ) an organized movement for the attainment of such rights for women.

so sayeth dictionary.com

I’m not here to give you an history lesson, and it’d take a lot of research to lay out the exact history of feminism. But now that we’ve got a basic definition, I can give you readers a list of reasons why I am a feminist, and what feminism has done for me:

Feminism has given me the right to vote in US elections.

Feminism has allowed me to go to college.

Feminism has made it possible for me to dress how I want to dress, be it in short, pants, a skirt, my sweats, dressed up and pretty or casual.

Feminism has given me the choice to have a career AND/OR be a housewife.

Feminism has given me legal rights in social, economic, and family situations.

Feminism has allowed me to be valued for my brains as well as my domestic abilities.

I am a feminist because feminism lets me go to work for six hours, then come home and bake bread. Feminism doesn’t make me choose my path, it allows me an option c.

Feminism, definitive feminism, the feminism defined above, does not tell us we can’t be traditional women. There’s nothing wrong with a woman who wants to raise her children as a homemaker, work as a cook, sew or teach or be a secretary. Just like there’s nothing wrong with women being doctors or lawyers or CEO’s.

The difference is, little girls would NOT have the ability to become doctors without feminism and the feminist movement of our ancestors. Now we as independent, modern women can be mothers, can be teachers, can be lawyers or cooks or anything else you can think of because we CHOOSE to, not because those are our only options.

Feminism gives me equality. Feminism permits me choice in all my walks of life, the choice to wear what I want, say what I want, BE what I want, and the freedom to express my identity.

Is feminism perfect? Hardly, and I know it. The bad rap comes from stereotyping, a lack of ‘visible’ progress and a misuse of the term.

I’m a feminist, and that doesn’t mean I hate all men. I like men. I also like women, but I’m currently in a relationship with a man and he and I are very happy together. Equally together. There’s no expectation I fill a traditional gender role of being a wife and mother, just the understanding that I can be that if I choose.

I’m a feminist, and that doesn’t mean I think it’s wrong for women to want to be mothers and homemakers. I want women to be happy. I know that my way of being happy (writing books and drawing cartoons and being a cat lady) isn’t going to be the same happy my female friends want.

Fifty years ago, I would not have had the option. I would have tried, but would have to fight tooth and nail for it. Women in the sixties were making progress, but it was still frowned upon for a woman to focus on something other than a husband.

One hundred years ago, I wouldn’t have even been able to try.

I think definitive feminism is taken for granted. Many of us take for granted our rights to vote and go to college and wear trousers and marry who we want or not marry at all.

Sometimes I do too. I forget that this is something new for the world, and in many areas of the world isn’t even common practice yet. Women don’t have rights everywhere. American women are lucky. We can choose.

A recommended movie for y’all: Mona Lisa Smile. It’s kinda girly, and Julia Roberts is in it, but it says a lot about the roles of women in America, today and fiftyish years ago.

I end with a favourite quote:

Feminism is the radical notion that women are people.  ~Cheris Kramarae and Paula Treichler
Y’all can agree, disagree, point out flaws in my argument and reasons why I’m wrong and this post is silly and rambly, but I’m a proud feminist, and firm believer that women deserve rights EQUAL to those of men.

Freedom, Friendship, Chips and Dip, Worth It

5 Jul

It’s about 2 am. I have to get up for work at eleven, which isn’t awful but could be handled better. Jeff’s across the room reading comics on the internet, Morbo is asleep in his food bowl, the roommates are derping around with anime and I’m covered in bug bites.

Tomorrow I go back to work, which is a bummer that I’m dealing with. Things like seeing my sister next week and Ben Folds in concert on Friday are what are keeping me going. That and the new apartment, which feels so far away right now, a million years and countless hours of packing and work between now and then.

JulNoWriMo is going okay – I’m behind because today I decided to hang around with friends and cook instead of write. That’s okay. I’ll catch up.

Today I made a seven layer dip and a six layered cake. This amused me. It was pretty delicious stuff too – thank Nathan Fillion’s twitter recipe he posted a good six or seven months ago. Turns out you can be a brilliant actor and a genius cook too.

The comic continues, fairly well. I occasionally have spasms about the quality of my art and storytelling ability, but I figure I have what I have, I”m improving as time goes by, and I love doing it, so fuck the rest.

Sometimes I wish I could fast forward a few years and be able to live off my art and my writing. Somehow that feels like cheating though, so I suck it up and go to work for six hours and then come home and work another six hours drawing and beating my head against my novel. It’s all worth it. Fuck plan B.

Friends are friends. Still mostly a hermit, but had a great time tonight with folk, first with Jeff, Dan and Brandon watching movies and grilling and eating and conversing, then with Sam and Jess setting off fireworks while being chewed alive by mosquitoes, then going back to their apartment to play with their adorably spazzy kitty and watch The Emperor’s new groove.

I may be a hermit, but I love the friends I have. They remind me there’s something in the real world worth sticking around for.

Back to work tomorrow. I have a Carl Hiaasen book on audio to listen to, havarti cheese and cucumbers in the fridge to make sammiches with, enough money to survive frugally for the next two weeks even though I blew most of it on food and concert tickets.

Totally worth it.

Sometimes life just is.

Hope everyone else had a good 4th, even if you aren’t American and celebrating by blowing shit up. Hopefully today was freeing for all of us.

The Artist at Home: Six Months

15 Jun

It’s June. Six-ish months ago I dragged my scared, uncomfortable ass out of bed on a saturday and walked across the stage to get a diploma that took four and a half years of my life to earn. I was living off of my parents kindness for the most part along with a part-time bowling alley job, and didn’t have the slightest clue where I was going.

Cut to six months later.

I have a job. Part time yes, but it involves mostly just typing things in a nice, air-conditioned basement, there are vending machines, low lighting, and all the music and audiobooks I can listen to. I make enough money to get by for now. I have free time coming out of my ears and am only just now getting past the whole ‘what homework do I have to do next?’ mentality.

I have another job too. Also part time, but only because of necessity. I get done with my data entry work, shuffle myself home, throw something together to eat, and sit down at my desk and draw. I have a webcomic that I post here on mondays, wednesdays and fridays. Each page is hand drawn and takes between two and four hours depending on how solid a grasp I have on the concept. When I’m not working on the comic I’m writing, or thinking about writing. I’m working on a new novel, The Heretics, which is science fiction, and I have an idea for a dark humor fantasy novel that I’m keeping on the backburner until November.

Last year I didn’t know what I was going to do. Didn’t know where I was going.

Now I have a better idea.

My comic is a personal project above anything else. I’m doing it to improve my art skills, to tell a story I’m passionate about, and to have fun. Maybe after I’ve been updating for a couple months I’ll put up a donate button or start offering commissions. I draw art for friends’ birthdays and holidays as a personal gesture as well as a relief to my budget. I hope to submit some short stories to places once I get the ideas down on paper. I hope to have both The Heretics and this new novel idea done by December, and 2012 will be the Year of the Nerve-Wracking Publisher Hunt Experience.

So there you go. I work two jobs now. One is part-time and pays the bills. The other is full time and goes on constantly in my head.

It’s difficult, the conundrum of wanting more hours at the Real Job to make the monies but also knowing that this will cut into the Dream Time. I need more money, but I also love having time to sit at home and draw or write. I don’t get more hours for another couple of months though, so I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.

And will I daydream about being able to write and draw full-time? All the time. If enough people start donating, I could even go full time. I could also start a unicorn farm.

Hey, when you dream, dream stupid right?

Do I miss school? Somewhat, but only because I miss the familiar. The Real World is still something I’m getting used to, especially the financial side of it. My parents are infinitely supportive of my dreams and my goals, my boyfriend is in the same boat as I am so we hold each other up. I make just enough money to make rent and pay bills, put gas in my car, buy food and squirrel a tiny bit away to save up for things like plane tickets to visit my friend Karen in Washington, a bicycle, my next tattoo.

I’m poor like dirt. My living situation is still a month and a half away from being more than just tolerable. There’s pockets of drama blowing up every which way because people don’t function well during the summer. It’s hot as balls and it’s gonna get hotter. I have to move soon.

I couldn’t be happier.

This is living the dream.

Time to go to work now. Six hours of data entry slaving, but I have techno and books to keep me going. Then I get home and I have a comic page to draw and at least three birthday presents to start work on. It’s gonna be awesome.

Don’t give up folks. The dream is in reach, even if it’s uphill struggle all the way.

Scenes from an Artist

8 Jun

It’s Wednesday. I got off work at about six and then proceeded directly to the cave that is my bedroom and threw myself into some good old art, since my webcomic is now up and running (you can find it here if you haven’t tracked it down already). I settled down with some snacks and got to verk.

I’m working a good three weeks ahead of the update schedule, so call that a very distant preview. Also visible are all my art pens and pencils.

And how did I inspire myself to finish this page?

Watching The Voice. Because I’m a nerd for quality singing voices, Cee Lo is a badass and Raquel Castro is pretty fuckin’ awesome. Seriously. She’s the adorable little girl from Jersey Girl!

*Kevin Smith fangirl moment*

I’m starting to work on more scripts. I’ve got sketches for the next few weeks of updates. I’m drawing when I get free moments. Wishing I didn’t need that peskity day job so I could just spend my whole day writing and drawing, especially since that new novel is feeling slightly neglected. I’ll get back to it though. The summer is young.

Back to the art slavery I go. At least the art store has some quality sales!

Cool grey prismacolor 12-pack sets for $9 each?! I think I’m in heaven ❤

 

Happy June everyone. Hope your creative endeavors are going as well as mine are (At least for now).

Lady Gaga and I: A Review of ‘Born This Way’

26 May

Some of you have no interest in Lady Gaga, and that’s okay. You’re welcome to skip this blog and scamper away until I write something more interesting. Those of you who don’t openly despise Ms. Gaga for her music or style, sit back, because it’s been a few days and it’s time to review the new album.

I’ve been nervous about Born This Way. Privately of course, as I’m a closet Gaga fan and have been ever since I awkwardly bought a copy of ‘The Fame’ in Target almost two years ago. I enjoyed both The Fame and The Fame Monster, I watched the music videos, I danced to her songs in various bars. It’s hard to describe what makes Lady Gaga appeal to me. Musically it speaks to a small voice in the back of my head, a fabulous voice, but ultimately I respect Ms. Gaga as a person for putting herself out there and, basically, not giving a shit. She plays flaming pianos, wears dresses made of bubbles and scary high heels, and she’s a year older than me. Crazy successful and I could have gone to high school with her. She basically speaks for the nuts among us, the downtrodden, the outcasts, the sad creative types who spent most of their lives being poked by bigger, meaner fish.

So yeah. I like her. It’s lame, I deal with it.

The Born this Way single was the first nervous twitch for me. I liked it well enough, but it didn’t grab at my brainstem and tug it urgently like some of the songs of the past. The video make me check my glass to make sure nobody had spiked it, and the melody was so… Madonna… it caught me off guard. But it was catchy and fun and had a positive message I could get behind, so I took a deep breath and stepped back and said “okay, let’s see where this is going.”

I’ll say it flat: I didn’t like Judas. Not because of the religious issues (this is me we’re talking about), but just because I couldn’t get into the tune or the beat. It was blah. I was unexcited. Continuing to be nervous about the new album.

Cut to Monday, when the album goes on sale on Amazon MP3 for 99 cents.

I’ll be honest with you, fellow little monsters. I probably wouldn’t have jumped for it if it had been posted at the regular internet price of $9.99. For a buck I figured ‘what the hell’ and spent a good hour and a half or so of my working day on Tuesday giving it a listen.

I’ll be more honest with you: I don’t like Born This Way as an album.

It’s got decent individual songs. Some really good ones too. Edge of Glory is a good song, so is BTW. The rest of them I think I’d like if they were remixed by someone and played in a club. But that was the vibe I got from most of these tracks. They were lacking the energy of older Gaga songs to me. She was still singing, still dancing, but it didn’t gel with me. I couldn’t dig it. It felt like they took a bunch of beats you’d hear at a DJ party and then added some vocal tracks on top of it. I’d use words like lackluster, unenthusiastic, meh. Not bad per se. Just not ‘wow’. I wasn’t excited like I was the first time I listened to The Fame.

One song off that album saved it for me though. One song that sounded basically nothing like any of the other songs on the album.

You and I is the second to last song on the album, and it has what every other song seems to be missing. It’s got soul, heart, passion, it sounds like it gives a damn and has more to it than pounding bass. I heard this song, then listened to it again. And again. And once more for good measure.

I love this song.

Maybe it’s because I’m a sucker for a good piano melody. Perhaps it’s that the lyrics speak to me. Whatever it is, this song is hands down the best on the album for me, no fight, and it’s saved my love of Lady Gaga. Because it’s real. It’s not just dance mixes and high heels. It’s a song about love and friendship and holding on to the things that matter. It’s got balls, big ones, and it gives a shit. It’s not tired or boring. It’s easy to tell (kind of like you can on Born this Way) that this song is coming from Lady Gaga’s heart, not produced or prodded into something catchy and drab.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t listened to the rest of the album much. I do plan on giving it another chance, and I’m sure some of the other songs will work for me in time.

But I love You and I because it reminds me that even though Ms. Gaga and I live worlds apart, we’re not so different. After all, we’ve both got our cool Nebraska guys.

I don’t have oodles of pride for my adopted home state, but it speaks to me, since even if it isn’t my home state, it’s the home state of the man I’m bonkers about. And if Ms. Gaga can admit the same thing on a multi-million dollar record, she’s gotta be all right.

So that’s my two cents: it’s not my favourite album, but for 99 cents on Amazon MP3, go for it. It has its moments.

I’m not dead

15 May

Not yet anyway. But for all the life of this blog, I might as well be decomposing underground somewhere. Sad fact is, gainful employment is something of a time steal, and I received the opportunity for three weeks of overtime, which I worked, then collapsed into exhaustion.

Did I mention I also moved during that three week overtime period? Also, that I had the cold from hell?

It never rains…

So that’s what I’ve been up to real-life wise. Verk, overtime verk, lots of typing (and money in my bank account), moving out of my apartment and temporarily in with my boyfriend until we get our own place in July (I can’t wait. No seriously) and trying not to go completely insane.

Non-real life wise, I acquired and played through Portal 2, and am currently on my second playthrough, because I missed a few easter eggs and it was awesome enough that it definitely warranted another round of play. I’m still minecracking, still watching strange movies on Netflix and random TV shows on Hulu Plus (which is worth the monthly fee for me).

I’ve also finally find the time to get work done on my creative projects! For the last couple of weeks I’ve been writing and drawing a new comic, that I hope to post sometime in the near future. I’ll keep you posted.

As well as this I have two novels and a short story bouncing around in my head, so fear not, creative derp is occuring in my headmeats! My body has given up but my brain liveth on! Huzzah!

So that’s the basic update. I vow to try and make these updates a wee bit more regular. And a bit more interesting.

Time to go to bed now. I’m all tuckered out from existing.

Flash Fiction Challenge: 5 words

15 Apr

So I felt like actually posting something writerly today, so here’s a Flash Fiction challenge I undertook from Chuck Wendig’s Terrible Minds website. The prompt was to use 5 random words in a story that was less than 1000 words. The words were ‘figure’, ‘dusk’, ‘flirt’, ‘mobile phone’ and ‘wig’.

Here’s my little exercise, complete with all 5 words (and in order too, just for the fuck of it). If you feel inclined to give it a try, you have until next Friday to go for it, just click the link above.

**

Of All the Gin Joints

The figure in the shadows in unimpressed. I can tell by the way he or she has remained seated and kept his eyes fixed on the ashtray in front of him while the rest of the bar is at attention, eyes locked on the girl standing in the door way.

She’s tall, near inhuman in height, her blonde head brushing the ceiling of the low tavern room. Her face is shadowed, much like the darkened sky behind her through the open door, dusk having just fallen. A hint of a smile plays at her full lips as she scans the room with dark eyes, eyes that would smoulder if one were interested in dipping into clichés.

Another femme fatale. Just what I needed.

I return to rinsing glasses behind the bar as the woman moves slowly, high heels clicking with militant thumps across the wooden floor. The eyes of two dozen men follow her path, and more than one of them gets a well-deserved thump on the head from a jealous wife or girlfriend seated beside them. Rolling my eyes, I notice that the figure in the corner, still shadowed and silent, has put out his cigarette and is finally paying attention.

The woman leans over the bar, seductive and exposing a cleavage line in a dress that would make Jessica Rabbit jealous.

“Hey there handsome,” her voice is smooth, chocolatey, and it melts the hearts of the men around her. “What can a girl get to drink in this place?”

Her eyes and posture indicate that she’s attempting to flirt with me. I keep my eyes neutral and out of contact with hers and gesture behind me. “We have a full bar ma’am,” I say. “I’ll make whatever strikes your fancy.”

She ponders for a second, pouting slightly. She’s gotten the hint, and isn’t happy about it. “Dirty martini,” she says, still sultry despite my disappointing her.

I turn to gather my tools and concoct her beverage, ignoring the clamors of the men along the bartop, throwing themselves and their dollars in her direction.

A phone rings behind me, and I glance around to see the shadowed figure has answered his cell. I can’t hear his voice, but I recognize his posture and know what is about to transpire.

I place the woman’s drink in front of her and rapidly duck down behind the bar. The sharp crack of gunfire echoes through the bar, punctuated by yells and one high-pitched shriek. There’s a thump above me and I hear shattered glass. I release the breath I’ve been holding and then watch as something blonde and shapeless tumbles to the floor in front of me.

I can’t help but laugh. The dame went for a wig.

I stand up and survey the damage. The menfolk are shellshocked, the women trying not to be pleased. The dark figure vanished into the night, door of the tavern swinging from his departure. The woman is strewn across the bar, drink broken in her hand next to her, wig on the floor and natural hair color exposed and distinctly brunette.

I pick up the glass and sigh. Another night, another mess to clean up. At least this one was predictable.

I head for the back room to get the broom, and as I leave I address the room at large:

“Somebody’d better call 9-1-1. I’ve gotta start mopping the blood up or it’s gonna leave a stain.”


This Song Has Been Stuck in My Head Since I Heard It

10 Apr

Lyrics:

There was that whole weird thing with the horses
I think they know exactly what happened
I don't think it needs any explaining
I'm pretty sure I wasn't your first choice
I think I was the last one remaining
I wish we hadn't gone and destroyed it
Cause I was thinking we could pull another weekender
You've still got a bit of clairvoyance

I remember the metal bar
I remember the reservoir
You could say our paths had crossed before

So if it has to be a secret
Then I guess that I can deal with it
you and i both know it's a negative thing
In the end only the girls know the whole truth

There were a couple pretty crass propositions
There were some bugs in the bars
There was a kid camped out by the coat check
She said the theme of this party's the industrial age
And you came in dressed like a train wreck

I remember the O.T.B
The five-second delivery
You could say our paths have crossed before

So if it has to be a secret
Then I guess that i can deal with it
God only knows it's not always a positive thing
To see a few seconds into the future

And if you swear to keep it decent
Then yeah I'll come and see you
but it's not gonna be like in romantic comedies
In the end I bet no one learns a lesson

guitar solo

So if it has to be a secret
Then I guess that I can deal with it
you and i both know it's a negative thing
In the end only the girls know the whole truth

And if you swear to keep it decent
Then yeah I'll come and see you
but it's not gonna be like in romantic comedies
In the end I bet no one learns a lesson

In the end only the girls know the whole truth
In the end I bet no one learns a lesson

 

Self-Deprecation Seems Okay: Mini-Essay

5 Apr

You can’t live right if you hate your life.

I’m serious. If you hate your life, what you do with your days isn’t living, it’s an uncomfortable imitation. We sit and we stare at the world passing us by, converting oxygen into CO2 and food into feces. Breathing and shitting isn’t the only purpose to our existence, but sometimes it might as well be.

It might as well be because we hate who we are, hate who we see in the mirror every day even if we try to paint our faces and pin the corners of our mouths into smiles. Self-loathing is the new status quo ladies and germs, and its so cliché it’s accepted and expected.

I don’t live right most of the time. Most days I wake up hungover and feeling like last night was a mistake I won’t live down. I feel hungover even when I spent the night before sober, my mind a mess from the dreams of the night before, from the toils of existing. My working day is a haze of computer screens and fingers on keyboards, my nights mostly solitary, also mostly in front of screens. My computer is less an accessory and more an appendage, my gateway to an outside world I try to avoid even on my good days.

I make elaborate plans for self-improvement involving work-out schedules and the proper intake of sustenance, but find myself sitting on my ass three days later surrounded by empty bags of chips that smell of fake cheese and somewhat of shame.

Shame smells like cheese in a can. It smells like snack cakes and delivery pizza. Once or twice a week I scrub off my shame with a home-cooked meal, pasta or a grilled cheese, because I’m too poor to afford shame 24-7. I spend my money on long nights and poor decisions, on videogames and liquor, on cake mix and frosting, on the gas I need to run my car, on groceries that I select in the store carefully, trying desperately to do math in my head despite suffering from discalcula because what loser carries a calculator in a grocery store to make sure they only spend ten dollars on food to last a week?

Self-deprecation comes to us as naturally as breathing. It’s ingrained in us from the beginning and holds on with sharp and sticky fingers. It’s like a little monkey, a gremlin, some mutant creature clutching our back and whispering hateful thoughts into our receptive ears.

I hate myself most of the time. I wake up and stumble into the bathroom, staring at my hair that never sits right and my ass that isn’t perky enough and my tits that refuse to stay the same size as each other and the same shirt I’ve worn to bed since high school and I glare at my blurry reflection and tell it I hate it and wish it would just go fucking die already so I could stop dealing with it and everything it represents. It represents the degree I got that wasn’t worth anything. The half-dozen half-baked novels sitting on the hard-drive of my computer, all of them mediocre when read despite hours, days, weeks, months of hard work. The job I go to with the hope of advancement even though I’m only working part time at a job a monkey could do better. The friends who clearly don’t know me well enough or they would have run for the hills by now. The boyfriend I feel I don’t deserve no matter how many times he tells me I’m wrong.

When I was a kid I hated myself so much I was violent. I didn’t start fights or ram my head against walls, but that would have been less stereotypical. Less cliché.

Maybe that’s part of being a writer. Being a bit of a cliché. At least I’ve quit the cigarettes, even if the alcohol shows no sign of stopping.

We keep trucking though. We’re human, and we know we aren’t perfect no matter how many people try to put us on pedestals with their words and expectations. No matter how much we hate ourselves for our lack of perfection.

I’m occasionally guilty of loving myself. Of being okay with my out of shape body and never sits right hair, of liking my wonky tits and the shirts I’ve had since high school that I still wear for the memories. Of sitting down at my computer desk and typing up a novel that I want to write because even if it sucks, it’s a story I have to tell. Sometimes I think about how hard I worked to get through my BA, how far I’ve come since high school and the sad, broken girl lying on the floor of her bathroom, not caring if she gets blood on the tiles because then at least she’s feeling something. I feel lucky that I work in a basement with a dozen other nerds who type at inhuman speeds, that I can read at the speed of light and make ten bucks an hour part time practically right out of college. Lucky that I have people in my life who love to watch funny movies and mix strange drinks and make really bad penis jokes. That I have a boyfriend who loves me no matter how down I get on myself.

Maybe I’m mediocre. Maybe I’ve fucked up in too many ways to count. Maybe I’m just a hack.

But hating myself for it is no way to live my life. It isn’t living.

So, sometimes, if I try really hard and nobody else is around to see, I love my life. And in doing so, just for a little while, I really live.