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Feb. 14th, 2011

Writer's Block: Hit the road, Cupid

If you had the power, would you permanently eliminate Valentine's Day?

YES. If you need a special day to tell someone that you love them, there's something wrong with you and your relationship.

Nov. 12th, 2010

Writer's Block: Cover me

Which songs have been covered better by artists who didn't originally sing them?

Much as I love Nick Cave, I thought Fever Ray's cover of "Stranger Than Kindness" was vastly superior. And I say that as someone who loves the original.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_50c8QZZyQ

Oct. 31st, 2010

A rant.

 You know, I've spent the last couple of years trying my damnedest to believe that most people are basically good, and every time I turn around, there's some bitch knocking me down.

Maybe I'm being overly emotional because I'm hormonal and my period started today (FINALLY, I've only been anticipating it for three weeks now!), maybe I'm projecting my own body issues on it, but this article by Maura Kelly of Marie Claire made me so angry I couldn't see straight.

 Basically, the rundown is that she thinks that fat people are disgusting and they shouldn't be shown as happy and in love on TV (the whole thing got started when she was directed to an article on Mike and Molly, a new show about an overweight couple who met at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting) because it may show people that fatties are humans, too. And then when her article started being met with a little vitriol, she pasted on some sorry-ass apology saying that she didn't intend to hurt anyone's feelings and that she was anorexic once, so she knows how it feels.

 No. You don't know how it feels, you judgmental cunt. You CHOSE anorexia. You CHOSE to become a 70-pound stick woman. Sure, you may have lost control towards the end, but that was a lifestyle choice that you made.

 Am I going to sit here and tell you that I don't think being overweight is my fault? No. I'm overweight because I don't exercise. I'm not gonna lie, sometimes I wonder why I'm so lazy when I don't even LIKE feeling lazy. But the fact that major publications are putting this shit out into the world and not just the little Internet Trolls that you'd expect it from? That makes me ill.

And there is one troll in particular who, much as I try to ignore him, has progressively gotten more abusive. He's now claiming to be a doctor, but he spouts shit like "You should walk your commute to work every day, fatties (even if it's 50 miles)", which any doctor would probably tell you isn't particularly healthy, and "All women should weigh 95 pounds or less regardless of height". I'm 5'11", I would DIE before I ever got that light. Not being over-dramatic here, that's 60% of the least I can weigh without being considered unhealthy. So somehow my first comment got deleted yet this little motherfucker is being allowed to post whatever hateful garbage he wants to.

 This is the second comment I posted after realising that the first one was gone:

Well, I guess I'm just a horrible, disgusting person because I'm overweight and I come from a predominantly horrible, disgusting family. People like Maura Kelly ought to be a little less judgmental and a little more open-minded, especially when they write for MAJOR MAGAZINES. How did BS like this slip past an editor? It's hearing/seeing/reading things like this that gradually made me hate myself more and more until I felt like, hey, there's no point in trying anymore, nobody's ever going to love me anyway. Why should I bother trying to get healthy? I'm not worth it inside or out, because as Ms. Kelly here has so eloquently written (note the sarcasm dripping from every word), no overweight person can possibly have anything good about them because they're all fatties and fatties are gross. How can anyone be so cruel as to think that people of all shapes and sizes don't deserve to be publicly loved and appreciated? And that flip little comment about her "plump" friends didn't help her case, cos I'm sure that her definition of "plump" is probably anything over a size 2. I will admit that I can change things about myself, but I'm high-risk for ovarian cysts and that could cause me to gain weight in the future. Will I still be a bad person then, Maura? I'm sorry. I guess I'll just go die in a ditch somewhere and spare the rest of the world the sight of me. Because, hey, 225 lbs is terrible, even though I'm 5'11" and my normal weight range is 165-170 lbs. I'll probably never get below a size 10, lest I become a little emaciated stick woman like you, at which point I hope one of my friends loves me enough to give me an intervention because that isn't something I want for myself.

 I mean it, too. One of my friends better shove the biggest, greasiest, cheesiest cheeseburger down my fucking throat if I ever become an anorexic. That's what a true friend would do. Not lie and tell me I look great when all my Goddamned hair is falling out and my skin turns yellow. I certainly would do it for them.

Of course, maybe I shouldn't be surprised, especially when this bitch also wrote an article a while back about how awful gray hair is. She went gray by the time she was thirty so OF COURSE she had to color it! She looked so OLD! And she also wrote another short piece about chubby actors like Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and Seth Rogen titled something like, "Huggable? Yes. But hot? Not so much." I don't know about you, but I think Seth Rogen is adorable and I'd much rather be with a sweet chubby guy that treated me right than some well-built dickhead that treated me like dog shit.

But this is the sort of thing that's really made me hate myself over the years. Not just because I weigh more than I should, I've made my peace with that and I'm working on it. It's because this bias, this hatred gets indoctrinated into younger people, and then they start treating anyone that doesn't in this little box, one that represents such a small number of people, like they're less. Like they don't deserve respect, just as a human being. I certainly don't agree with excusing unhealthy lifestyles when people start to complain about the consequences (pot, meet kettle, right?) but some people can be overweight AND perfectly healthy. So really, when you say that simply watching a fat person walk across a room disgusts you, you may be tearing down someone who's more healthy than you are.

In all seriousness, though, thanks, Maura. Thank you for confirming what I've always imagined was true, that whenever I go in public, there's some skinny cunt somewhere that's grossed out by my very existence and who's making fun of me, regardless of the fact I've done nothing to deserve it. Thanks for reminding me that most people think I, and other fat people, don't deserve love because we aren't like you. That nobody will ever accept me as I am and that I have to change everything because I'm not "normal".

Fuck off.

Okay... End angry bitch rant.

Sep. 28th, 2010

I feel remorse for the weirdest things.

This is a weird, sort of random thing, but I have a little confession.

I was thinking about it today, and the memory's been eating me ever since I remembered it a couple of years ago.

The summer I turned nine, I was in a summer camp that was held in my school. It was five through (I think) twelve, and some of my friends from school also attended. All things considered, we had a lot of fun, even though most of the time was just spent running around the gym. When we got in every morning, the TV would be on, usually turned to MTV but sometimes cartoons. It was a good summer.

But every time I think about the last day, I feel terrible. My mom came to get me, and as I was saying my goodbyes, a little five-year-old blind girl named Courtney came up to give me a hug. It's completely ridiculous and I know I can't do anything about it now, it's been twelve years, but... It was so mean, I wouldn't even hug this poor kid back because I was freaked out by the fact that she was blind.

There was nothing else wrong with her, I had just never known a blind person before and I didn't know how to handle it so I tried to avoid playing with her. I hadn't really spent any time with her at all and she still hugged me goodbye. And I just treated it like she was violating my personal space and I was being too polite to say anything about it.

Again... I know I can't change it now and there's probably no chance I'll ever see Courtney again, but if there was anything I would want to go back and change it would be that. I can't even tell you why I feel so horrible, I was just a stupid kid, but God, it makes me sick to think about it.

Sep. 19th, 2010

It's really not all that weird.

Well, after all my ramblings about how I wouldn't care what people thought about me, here I sit with color on my hair. All so I can get a job working at fucking Radio Shack or something.

I think it's so sad that, in 2010, people are still so offended by unnatural haircolors that companies have policies against it. My green hair wouldn't have had a thing to do with how I did my job. And I'm worried about what's going to happen to my hair, because it's so weak, but I'm having to bleach out the green before I can color over it (I have black dye but I'll be damned if I have monotone hair that isn't a real color) or at least tone it- which hopefully this red-pink toner is going to save me the trouble of doing.

I realise that it's kind of ridiculous to tie my identity up in my hair so much, but you have to understand- the color was the only thing I liked about it. I hate the cut (too damn short), I hate the damage, I hate all of it. Except that wonderful blue-green. And the fact that I'm having to hide part of who I am in order to find work is sickening.

I tried to cover it with a black semi-permanent, but it always turned a dark bluish-gray and then rinsed out in three days. So I'm having to use permanent dye, which I am allergic to now (why do you hate me so, Universe?), in order to cover it.

On top of that, I probably won't be able to at least comfort myself by using my more bright and/or dramatic eyeshadows because that frightens the punters as well. It's not like I'm asking them to wear it, it's just something that makes me happy. Is that so wrong?

I've never been what others would consider "normal". Every since I formed my own personality (sometime around the fifth grade), I started getting treated like a freak. And that was before all the haircolors and the makeup. That didn't start until my senior year of high school.

Last week, my mom and I got into an argument. I was trying to get out of the house to talk to some people about a job, and she started bringing up everything I've ever done wrong in my life. Things I still feel terribly about. And she mentioned my first job, at Publix, and I said I'd rather kill myself than put myself in that situation again. That she probably didn't remember or care about how much that job really messed with my head and killed what little confidence I'd had. Then, out of nowhere, she made a very cutting remark about how I've "always refused to fit in" and that, basically, it's all my fault when people look at me differently.

Now, I'll admit that bright colors catch people's attention. But that's not why I wear them. They make me happy when absolutely everything else is killing me inside. So do my piercings and my tattoo. They make me feel like myself. My natural haircolor is so ugly, like dirty dishwater. And my eyes are blue and gray, and I'm pale. I look muted, almost faded without something to cut down all the boring. God forbid I shouldn't want to look at a 50% gray image.

If blonde highlights and an Orange Julius-colored fake tan make you happy, great, but that's not me. Never has been, never will be. And I shouldn't have to apologise for that.

Sep. 6th, 2010

Why is my best friend such an idiot?

Seriously, I love Melissa so much, but if she doesn't leave this guy we're gonna have problems.

I haven't spoken to her since Thursday, but I've been trying to call her for three days. Each time, either the phone rings until voicemail picks up, or it rings once or twice until voicemail comes on, or it just goes straight to voicemail. I'm really worried that something happened, because if she hasn't returned my calls, that means Shane has had her phone for at least four days, if not five.

I can't do anything, either, because I don't know what their new address is so I can call the police and have them check things out, and I can't call her family because even if they did know something, none of them would tell me because they all hate my guts and think I'm a she-devil. I'll have to call the salon she works at tomorrow while I think she'll be there, just to make sure she's alright.

And even if she's fine and Shane's just taken control of her phone, what is so wrong with her speaking to someone other than him? I swear to God, I'm just so tired of dealing with all this. She's my best friend and the thought of severing ties with her kills me, but times like this make me want to. I didn't know that it was so much to ask for, just one non-dysfunctional friendship where I didn't have to worry all the time and jump all these Goddamned hurdles just to hang out with them or talk to them. But it's so hard for me to make friends... I just usually latch on and pray that nothing goes wrong.

I don't know, maybe I'm worrying over nothing. I hope so.

Sep. 4th, 2010

Seriously... F*ck this shit.

Ugh. Today was exhausting.

A lady my mom works with asked if I could help her get some professional hair color, because her stylist moved away and the last person that did her hair did it wrong. I was all too happy to meet up with her and help her pick something out, which I had done with my mother before at this very shop and it hadn't been a problem.

The manager of this store, ever since I've moved back, has been rude to me whenever I've been in there. She apparently has a problem with me because I'm not really a regular. She always asks me, in a nasty tone, if I'm a stylist. So this lady and I were picking out hair color, and the manager comes up and starts getting all pissy with me because she doesn't recognise me. After we paid for the stuff, I was on my way out, and she stopped me outside the store and told me that I was "cheating the stylists" by doing this lady's color for her.

What. The. Fuck.

I AM a stylist! And this woman I was doing the favor for? She knows people. This shit may help me get a job. So why should I feel bad about doing something nice for someone who can help me and who is friends with my mom?

Needless to say, I'm not going back to that place. I'll get the color somewhere else.

I honestly think that most of the issues stem from the fact that I don't look "normal". Not that I looked that weird- I was wearing a black and platinum blonde wig, mostly-black clothes but I was covered-up, my glasses, and coal-black eyeshadow with red sparkles in it. Nothing too out-there, really. But I guess I'm a circus freak that deserves nothing but contempt. And people are usually nicer to me when I wear my glasses, too. I don't know what it is, but they are. But her and her frumpy old lady clothes are obviously superior.

I've had trouble for years with people treating me badly because of my appearance, but it still kinda fucks with me sometimes. Especially when I was pretty tame-looking today and got all that bullshit thrown at me. I hate people like her. I hate living in this small-minded community. There's nothing wrong with me. It's all to do with them.

Aug. 22nd, 2010

Writer's Block: It's allergies ... really!

What was the last thing that made you cry?

About an hour ago, when I realised that there's a whole section of hair on the fucking TOP OF MY HEAD that's just... pulled off. I know I've been hitting the bleach a lot lately but I really thought it was okay... And now there's this patch of one-inch-long hair giving me a serious cowlick to add to the ones I already had. Great.

Aug. 8th, 2010

Cyndi Lauper's show made me hate people all over again.


Now that I've been able to relax and somewhat clear my head, I can post about the Cyndi Lauper concert I attended the other night.

My mom and I left about 8:30 A.M. and drove all day. We reached Atlanta in time to head to the hotel and check in before we had to go to the venue, so that was good because then we could just come in and crash. It had been raining off and on all day, and it looked like it would rain on us out there like at the McCartney show, but the show wouldn't be stopped unless things turned dangerous.

We arrived at Chastain park to what can only be described as a diverse crowd. Old ladies, gay couples, children, yuppies, and wannabe rich people. There was even a man in honest-to-God capri pants.

Finally, they let us in at 7 P.M. and we found our seats. After a quick visit to the merch table (I got a tour shirt and an autographed CD) we sat down and waited for things to get started. The first act (I can't remember his name) was disappointing to say the least. I didn't even car that my view was obscured by a large umbrella. He played by himself, and he was a lot like Peter Frampton without the talent or the personality. Thank God he only played four songs.

The next act was Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, and they were so much fun. I loved watching her and the music was good, and I think I got some good pictures, but we'd had to move because it was still drizzling rain and the people in front of us had yet to put their circus-tent umbrella away. Nobody said anything to us.

The problems didn't end there, though. There was a crowd of gay men at a table (Chastain Park has a table section that takes up about half the venue) and they didn't stay seated for more than five minutes at a time. All of them were drinking, standing up (this is a sit-down venue, like the Fox Theatre) and dancing, and making out every ten seconds. So, during Cyndi Lauper's set, my mom and I moved about five feet to the right, and after a few minutes, a woman holding the biggest glass of white wine I've ever seen leaned forward and told us the seats were reserved. My mom tried to explain to her that we'd moved because we couldn't see, she just said, "Well, you can move over that way. These seats are reserved." For who, her imaginary friends? NOBODY sat in those Goddamned seats the entire time, and the only time that space got used was when these two extremely white older people (older than my mom, so too old to be acting like this) VAULTED over the row of seats and started "dancing" (if you can call it that- think Elaine from Seinfeld) to "She Bop" towards the end of the set. I also heard on no less than five occasions people talking about how crazy Cyndi is, and all this other bullshit- if you're just going to make fun, why'd you show up? Let those of us who came to enjoy the music have the seats, then! And there was a table full of WASP-y, drunk, yuppie assholes that were making fun of Sharon Jones by doing impressions of people at faith healings. They thought they were funny, but it just made them look like a bunch of stupid racists.

My dad later told me that Chastain Park is different from other places. People buy season tickets and come to every show, carting their expensive catered meals and their candelabras every weekend, just to say that they do it. It wasn't always a pack of assholes, but that's what it is now. And companies also buy blocks of tickets for their employees. And while some of these people go to shows there all the time, that doesn't give them an excuse to act like a douche canoe and ruin everybody else's good time. It was the first (and after my experience, probably the ONLY) time I've ever been there. We didn't bring fancy gourmet food (or any, we just had a bottle of water each) and we didn't dress up, we just went because we wanted to see the show. And up until we got to the gate and I saw what we'd be taking the show in with, I was excited. It bums me out that I had a, for the most part, shitty experience when it should've been a lot of fun. Sharon Jones was great, Cyndi Lauper was great, but I was so annoyed that I could hardly enjoy myself. I felt like crying on the way back to the hotel when I realised that instead of taking away a great concert-going experience, all I could say about it was I hated everyone in that venue. I hated them for being there, for ruining things for me. I don't get to see as many musicians as I'd like to so I try to suck all the good out of every show I go to, and this is the first time the bad has outweighed the good for me, EVER. And this may be the last show I get to see for a long time, because I'll be working and it's hard to take time off in a salon.

Some of my attitude came from my being all PMSed-out. But not a lot of it. Thanks, fuckwads. I hate all of you.

Writer's Block: Pleasure, little treasure

Are there any sentimental objects that you've kept for many years? Are there any that you bring with you wherever you go?

I've got quite a few, actually. There are some things I probably won't ever be able to let go of. I have the same set of jewelry that I wear every day, no matter what, that includes:

A necklace with a Runic dream symbol on it, sterling silver
My class ring, white gold with alexanderite
A claddagh ring, sterling silver
A little ring I bought for $10 that came from Thailand, sterling silver with a piece of malachite in it

Everything else is interchangeable. I don't feel right if I'm missing any of these pieces. It's weird, I know, but I jsut can't handle it for some reason.

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