Saturday, January 28, 2012

Sometimes it feels good to be angry at things you can't control.

Attn:  Cancer.

I am fucking sick of you and your shit.  Leave my mother alone.  Leave my family alone.  Stop hiding in places and then popping out all, "GUESS WHERE I AM NOW?!" No one wants to play with you.  No one likes you.  You have no friends, fans or supporters.  You're such a selfish dickwad that if you were a person, I would already be in jail for doing the most unspeakable, unimaginable things to you that resulted in the most extreme kind of pain.  Go away.  Get on your stupid cancer horse and don't come back.  You may have thought that 10+ years of dangerous chemotherapy and radiation was a polite request that you vacate, so in order to make things absolutely crystal clear, I'm giving you the boot.  Make no mistake about it--you are not welcome and no one will be sorry to see you go.  In fact, we'll throw parties.  There will be cake and YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY.  I hate you so much, I won't even forward your mail.  I'm going to open all of it and cash your birthday checks and then HAVE ANOTHER PARTY WITH CAKE THAT YOU CAN'T HAVE.  Your days of doing bad things to good people are over, you worthless sonofabitch. 

Now, leave before I figure out a way to shrink down and drag your sorry ass out because I guarantee that if I ever find a way to face you, remission will be the least of your worries.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Dating and Valentine's Day: Or, single lady judgment at age 27.

Sometimes, it's hard for single people to suffer through Valentine's Day without a special someone or a date or a random, drunken booty call to fall back on.  Or sexting.  Does that count nowadays?  Other times, if you're lucky and you're in a good place in your life, Valentine's Day can come and go and your only awareness of it stems from the chalky antacid hearts that someone inevitably brings to the office.  Frankly, I've been anti-VDay for a long time, but I've at least reached a point that allows me to turn a blind eye to those that enjoy the celebration.  Go forth and eat that too-rich food and then get busy, because that's why the original pagan Lupercalia was all about.  Fertility, bitches.  (But wear condoms, because surprise fetuses are the worst kind of surprise.)

The other day, I was complaining (cuz it's my MO!) to EM and EM's-now-fiance about the usual single lady complaints, and EM's fiance kind of looked at me weird because he is a man and therefore does not understand wedding bell blues and in a few words, shut me up about my singleness complaining.

"Okay, so you might not be engaged or married or popping out babies, but you have accomplished some other things in your life," he said.  I was still grumpy.  It's not like I have a novel published, here.

He continued:  "Those accomplishments are for other people.  You're not a person who would operate well saddled with a husband and children at this age."  He's right.  I like comic books and video games and walking around my single lady apartment ass naked.  Also drinking wine from a bottle, watching documentary reruns and knitting without being judged like I'm some old lady.  I'm not ready to be married.  Actually, I don't even *really* want any kind of a relationship right now, because I don't have all of MY shit together just yet.

"Besides, I'm really glad you're not dating most of the guys that you've dated that I've met, because I didn't really like any of them," he said, quite candidly.  EM nodded.  I nodded.  EM's fiance nodded again.  Don't get me wrong, I don't regret any of my past relationships, gray area things, flings, makeouts, whatever... I have always cared and will always care for the fellas that have come into my life, but I've learned that change inspires growth, and at the very least, I think I've done quite a bit of growing.  You know, more than just like, my hair or my waistline.

So, here I am.  Single again on Valentine's Day, but maybe a little less bitter (just go with me here, people) because I won't begrudge any of you romancers your chocolate candy and time to enjoy each other and roll in the hay.  You will not find me watching romantic comedies and eating a huge box of chocolates that I bought for myself.  You will also not find me getting piss drunk and watching people in Texas get eviscerated with a chainsaw out of spite.  You'll probably find me at home, pantsless, surrounded by new comic books and hunched over my laptop, working on the next Great American Novel.

It's about zombie sharks.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Avoiding grief is stupid because it comes back and bitch slaps you right in the face later on.

I've been sitting on this post for a while.  Not literally, because that would for sure break my laptop.  It's not 'winter weight,' it's insulation, dammit!  I've started it a hundred times, but only last night while I was half-drunk and laying in bed wide awake did things finally materialize for me, leading to an all out emotional breakdown at the behest of hormones and feelings that I usually bottle up and drink away.

Shortly before Thanksgiving this past year, my grandpa passed away.

To be clear, this post will probably be less than humorous and entertaining, but my way of dealing with emotions is to write them because otherwise I can't figure out what the shit is going on inside my head.  That's why I call myself a writer, y'all.  So read it or don't--this one really isn't for you.

When we received news that my grandpa had died, I didn't cry.  Actually, typically when I receive really bad news, I don't cry.  I "sort it out" in my head, break it down into smaller pieces and file them away.  It's only later when something ridiculously trivial happens that my emotional dam breaks and brings forth the flood waters of every little thing that I've been sober and strong about.  That spiral usually leads to drinking in solitude, which you may think is unhealthy, but it's therapeutic for me.  As someone who doesn't handle emotions well, the alcohol in my system gives me remarkable clarity and insight into what I've tamped down inside me.  It allows me to "feel" my "feelings," as it were.  It is always a narcissistic mixture of self-pity, stubborn sadness and despair and it is utterly indulgent for me.  And sometimes?  I think people need that.  I know that I do.

So last night, the proverbial dam cracked and I drowned myself in memories of my darling Grandpa, a man I will always adore and never see again.  He wasn't a saint, in fact, he could be a hard man--a product of the tough-as-nails generation that survived the Great Depression and World War II.  He was smart and ambitious and he traveled the world but always remembered to send postcards to his grandchildren...postcards that I've kept and treasured and that helped light the fire of adventure within myself.  I think the biggest, truest thing that anyone could say about my grandpa is that he was generous.  Truly, when that word has been polluted and lost meaning, he really was generous.  He helped put all of his grandchildren through college.  Not that he was rich financially, but the little that he had, he spread around.  How many people do you know would do that these days?  That's why he is so remarkable to me, I think, because he sacrificed what would have been a very cushy retirement in order to live plainly and provide for his children, and his children's children.

I would not be who I am, I would not have what I have and I would not know what I know without him.  And while the world is a bit more selfish and scary without him, I'll always feel his guidance and inspiration within me.  I love you, Grandpa.  Thank you for everything.