Archive for May, 2011

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Stick your head out the window…

May 25, 2011

I’m finding the hardest thing to do in life is be honest about how you feel, what you need, who you are and what you want. My reasons for holding back are fear of what people think of me and no matter how many times I give myself the “I don’t give a damn” pep-talk…I really do give a damn. How do I know this? Simple, I Twitter. I’ve had my account for well over 2 years and it wasn’t until recently that I decided to branch out and start meeting new tweeters. Little did I know that meant opening myself up to a world of hate and ridicule. After seeing a photo of my 5th grade self you’d think I’d be used to this kind of thing. I’m not. And quite honestly – yep, I’m being honest at the expense of hurting someone – no amount of therapy in North America, Australia or Greenland will ever condition me to handle it. For this reason, I work very hard at not saying anything that someone else might find hurtful or offensive.

This is coming at my own detriment and taking a toll on my creativity.

I’d estimate that around 6 times a week I tweet something that I almost immediately retract for fear of recourse from other tweeters. This makes me a coward and — this is the hardest thing to say — a phoney. I’ve always prided myself on NOT being fake and the fact that I’m allowing a social networking site to slowly erode my character is ridiculous. What is it that I’m trying to prove? That I’m funny? I already know I am. That I’m witty? Yep, I’ve got this one too. That I’m able to communicate an idea or emotion effectively to a large audience? Well now…I might be on to something with that last one. Can I do this? Am I effective? Does anyone else besides me and my mother care what I think, feel or have to say? I’m honestly not sure, and more importantly, I’m honestly not sure it really matters.

A-HA!

This might be the golden suitcase* of Twitter! The elusive thing we’re all grasping at but just can’t seem to wrap our hands around. Maybe we’re trying too hard to not care when the secret is that we shouldn’t care. In the end you’ll be the one faced with yourself and have to answer for the kind of person you turned out to be. No one else is going to be there to do that for you. So what does it matter what someone -anyone- else thinks of you?

*I use this visual reference more often than any other in my daily life. It’s the best thing to ever come from a Quentin Tarantino film. Well that, and, Salma Hayek dancing nearly nude with a boa wrapped around her neck.

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Stop drawing the deer…

May 9, 2011

Somedays I wish I had money. Mad money. The kind of money where I never had to work another job that required me to wear a single piece of flair or answer a phone. Let’s be honest…I could walk into the light never having answered another phone call and feel my life was more than complete. What would I do with all that time I wasn’t spending on the phone awkwardly talking over someone or sounding like a short circuiting Speak-N-Spell with a shit ass cell signal? I’d photodocument one of the most fascinating phenomenon’s known to modern man: the vanity plate.

It’s hard for some people to imagine that anyone would have such a desperate desire to be heard that they would ask a jumpsuit-laden inmate to pound it into metal for them. I can respect that observation. If you’ve ever sat next to someone in an all day seminar and never so much as heard them breathing you’ll know there are those who walk among us perfectly content with going unnoticed. I am not one of these people. And judging by the number of times each week I rear-end, scratch, or ding the door* of a car that has a custom plate, we far outnumber the stealthy ones. The uneven balance of narcissists to clueless-about-themselves is fine by me since it gives me a chance to put the Psych degree I never took a single course in order to complete to work guessing what it is people are really trying to say.

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Let’s start with this guy. I had just left a grueling day of pushing pixels and trying to convince people who are not-at-all right brained that they should give a damn about user flow and typography and that not all designers are bubble-headed bimbos. Yes, my life is awesome. Brain fried, I pulled up behind this SUV. Immediately I was confused — was I in New York? Should I be in New York? It was gray and nasty outside and 3 people had spit at me that today so it wasn’t completely out possibility. Nope, that’s the ‘impossible to get into and out of QuickTrip’ on the right and the ‘please have a FREE FRYDAY McDonald’s’ on the left so I was most definitely still in Atlanta. It took me the entirety of the red light (which is far too long, by the way) to bring this thought process full circle I applauded this guy for his vanity choice. It’s good to keep people on their toes and remind them there’s a whole world out there far beyond the food processor most of us spend our day spinning in.

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I came across this spicy number on my way back from a little league baseball game. My mind boggled: what in the hell? Why would anyone openly admit to be a ho? Or a toy? Or sloppy seconds?? None of it made sense and no matter how many different ways I tried to get into the head of the driver, I just couldn’t. There were too many flithy magazine renewal cards and fifths of cheap vodka in there to have any elbow room. So I did what any half-conscience and fully functional adult would do. I assumed it was meant to be read together to make a clever word. Yes, that had to be it. HOTOYTWO. HOTOYTWO. HOTOYTWO. Son of a bitch – HOTOYFUCKINGTWO makes no sense and now I’ve wasted this entire red light making my mouth into Donald Trump butthole shapes in my failed attempt to force something that required no effort to begin with. It is what it says: HO TOY2. I can accept that. What I still can’t get over is why someone would call themselves a ho. Or a toy. Or sloppy seconds. And pay a premium tag fee each year in order to do so when carrying a bottle of Valtrex around would be so much cheaper.

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That brings us to me. Yep. Me. Shocking, I know – not just that I enjoying talking to myself on this blog (I actually really do a bit too much I think) but that I would have a vanity plate on my car. I’m just that much of an asshole with the burning piss and desire to get something out there. I’ve found it a very interesting study in human behavior having a vanity plate. Second only to the 3 years a drove a Miata and everyone at red lights, stop signs or strip club parking lots felt it gave them the right to ask me for directions, asprins, an extra pair of flip-flops or my ABBA CD. Hey dick-face, how about you download your own illegal music on your own ex-boyfriend’s computer and turn him into the Feds. Like I did.

*Before the police in my local area are called, please note that all of the outlined instances happen to my own vehicle at the hands of myself. Daily.

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As I walk away…

May 8, 2011

Let's do this thing.

After watching The Voice rerun on E! in the bedroom while folding laundry that had been sitting in the basket for over 3 days ($100 to the first person who can pull the hat trick of ‘what a LOSER this girl is’) I came back later to find the Howard Stern movie on. That’s when it hit me. I’m miserable in my life and work because I care too fucking much about what other people think. Seriously. It’s like that chest infection that keeps getting passed around my office — I just can’t shake it. To be honest, I’ve never really cared about Howard Stern one way or the other but tonight it all clicked. He’s a genius. Love him or hate him the man has become the radio legend he is by doing it HIS WAY. Not giving a crap who didn’t like it or had their feelings hurt by it. I’ll admit that just typing that makes me feel badly and there in lies the problem. I need to get over this. I need to get over me. I need to get over this obstacle if I ever want to have a shot at living up to my true potential. Wait…..I need to figure out my true potential. I mean, I know I have the ability to communicate in a way that most people only dream they could. Hell, I’d trade that in a second for a pair of golden pipes. If my shampoo bottles could talk they’d say “man, it’s dark in her ass – oh, and she can’t sing worth a shit.”

Ok, back on track. Potential. I have found that over the past few weeks of speaking up when I feel something needs to be said has been quite liberating. No, I haven’t stopped wearing a bra to work (yet) but it’s most definitely a HUGE step for me. I’ve found that once I let go and stop thinking so much everything comes a little easier. I really do think the trick for me is learning to get over myself and ruffle a few feathers and tell a few people that yes – those pants make you look fat*. Clearly I’ll need to find the line between honest and hurtful but I’m sure in time I’ll get the hang of it.

*I’ve lost 30 pounds since beginning the great sugar embargo and have had no shortage of people come up to me and tell me how great I look these days. Sure it’s wonderful to hear and since my looks are fading a great ass is all I can hope to carry with me into my 40’s so I’ll take all the compliments I can get. Hard not to think that if these same people would have been honest with me back when I looked like a one of those water filled hand toys stuffed into size 8 jeans, I might have cut out sugar a long time ago. I’ll take the personal accountability on this one so as to not hurt anyone’s feelings. Wait. Damn.

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He looks freakin’ dead…

May 6, 2011

Once upon a time I couldn’t go to sleep without updating this blog. Now I go months ignoring it – treating it like the fat, ugly sister who tags along on a night out with my sexy friends. As much as I try to hide it, writing is my first true love. Sure I might pretend that I’m someone who doesn’t care whether or not you talk to me or give me the time of day but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I live to make people laugh and sometimes I go over the line into inappropriate to do it and this is why I’ll most likely end up divorced and dying alone.

I’ve found myself in a new place where I’m aware that life is short and no one is going to force me into being happy and fulfilled in my work. That is all up to me. I choose to walk into the building where they ID me to even get into the parking deck every morning. Like I’d ever want to park there if I didn’t have to, right? My car is so fucking banged up and shitty at this point what the hell do I care. Put it next to the dumpster and let’s see if someone will pick it up before the end of the work day. Doubtful. Man, I’m never gonna get the 350Z convertible I’d have to trade in one of my kids* for.

I’m venturing into the next chapter of my life and that means I’m facing a semi. No, I haven’t sprouted a small dick (not just yet anyway). A semi-mid-life crisis. What? That’s not a thing? Well too bad cause I’m making it a thing. I’m not quite 40 but I’m definitely old enough to be looking back thinking “fuck young people” and “what the hell do they know about life anyway?” in my jealousy that I now require 6 pounds of eye cream just to look like I didn’t get an Angry Buccaneer the night before. Sure I could just stop all the drinking but what fun would that be? I want to see just how long my liver was designed to last and my money is on long enough that I die before my mind is mush and I’m shitting in my pants. Oh god, please let that be the case. I’d rather end up hideous with a still-sharp mind than pooping in my underwear, lying on the kitchen floor waiting for the neighbor to come over and have to change my diaper. Hell, I’m 36 and never even borrowed a cup of sugar before so that would be reaaaaaly awkward.

*Ok so I’d never actually trade in one of my kids but I sure as hell would make them sit on top of each other in the fucking passenger seat. Strapped into the proper restraint seat, of course.