What Makes a Movie?

Sometimes, something happens and you just know that you’re never going to forget it, or that it’s going to make a wicked story to share, or anything like that.

Sometimes stuff happens and you think you’ll remember it, but you forget.

Sometimes you do your best to forget, and sometimes your brain just picks up a bad memory like it’s a dirty kleenex and drops it into a compartment marked Repressed Memories. Because that shit is not good for anybody.

Growing up, I lived in a small town. It was really ordinary and boring. Except it wasn’t actually ordinary. I definitely felt like it was, but as I got older I noticed that my life wasn’t like anyone else’s.

My friends had mothers who were smiling and warm and loving. They hugged them and talked to them, asked them how their days were. I had a mother who was a timebomb. I never knew which Mom I was going to come home to: the one who screamed and chain-smoked; the one who would furiously clean while muttering about much her kids sucked; the one who spoke instead of giving the silent treatment; or the one who acted “normal,” drinking coffee or reading a book.

Growing up, I believed what I was told: that her behaviour was my fault. That she had never wanted kids, so we were the reason she was unhappy and it was our fault that her life was the way it was. I was raised to believe I was lowly, so I believed it. The concept of self-esteem and self-worth came along and was foreign.

My dad was pretty great while I was growing up. He’d try to calm her down, he’d stick up for us, he’d smile and laugh, he was proud. He was always really proud of the fact that my sister and I had tested really well and the teachers wanted to skip us each ahead a grade. He was proud that we could watch Jeopardy with him and get answers right. He thought we were beautiful, but he only said so when our mother wasn’t around. The one time he told me that I was perfect, after I’d lost a bunch of weight because I was sick and I looked like a skeleton with skin stretched over it and I was really self-conscious because I knew I looked bad, my mother snapped at him, “Don’t tell her that.” Heaven forbid I have a sense of self-worth, right Mumsy?

I never imagined, while growing up, that my fucked up, dark, miserable life would be the basis for a screenplay that would rule my life for a good year. I’ve written and rewritten this fucking thing over and over. I love it and then I hate it. My sister hates the ending. But in reality…the ending is what it is. I didn’t write the screenplay for it to have an obvious happy ending. The happiness is embedded in the final scene. You have to work for it; look for it; dig for it. Because in real life, that’s what I have to do.

I never got to snap my fingers and have everything turn around. I’ve just gotten to slowly reach other levels of surviving.

But regardless, the little compartments in my brain are bursting. The Repressed Memories are fighting to get out, and I’m fighting just as hard to ignore them. The Good Times are so sparse and gossamer, not heavy or thick enough to blanket the bad. Because the Bad Times take up most of the space in my brain and they’ve spent 20+ years governing the democratic republic that is my brain. Pulling them out and lining them up in chronological order was a super fun and enjoyable task. Writing some of that shit pulled me into a dark place that I spent the better part of my early 20s trying to escape. I was forced to remember and forced to put it down in words. But words have always been mine. Even when I have to use them against me, at least they’re mine.

So now I’m done my third rewrite on this screenplay. I wrote the parts that I skipped over and over because I refused to relive them and, for some of it, can’t relive because they’re fuzzy and blurred past comprehension. I’m sure some psychoanalyst could hold my brain in her hands and wring it out like rain, dripping the blackness that’s been hiding in there. But do I want to do that? That would be opening the proverbial can of worms. Like, not even worms. It would be Medusa’s head, times a thousand. Am I strong enough for that?

I could argue for and against that. I’m still here, so obviously resiliency isn’t paltry here. But do I want to drag myself into a well that fills as quickly as metal boots magically grow on my feet? I’d have to be crazy to voluntarily dive in. But…I am pretty fucking crazy.

I’m crazy enough to be 29 and still dreaming of a life far, far from the one I have. I still fantasize about meeting Tina Fey, writing for the screen, waking up and getting to feel the indescribable feeling of living my dream. What does that feel like, to be utterly happy?

It’s sad that it’s foreign.

It’s devastating.


All Keyed-Up

I stopped writing.
I stopped playing volleyball and baseball.

Basically, I’ve just stopped doing all of the things that make me ME. The writing thing is the craziest part. I used to write everyday, even if it was just drivel. Silly little Dear Diary entries from when I was 9 or 10. More recently, I was writing more and more. When I was in university I was writing everyday, but that’s different. That was because I had to, so I could graduate. But these days, I don’t write anything.

The last thing I actually wrote was a screenplay. I finished it a couple months ago. I guess the tantalizing offer from someone claiming to “see my talent” was too much for me to resist. So I caved, finished writing it, and sent it.

The thing is, I usually have to be a in certain mood to write anything that I end up even remotely liking. I have a few pieces that I like, but mostly I look at my work like it’s an embarrassment. The emotional stuff, at least. It’s extremely hard to reveal your secrets, I’ve discovered. People look at you differently. They see you differently. Everything changes. You either get pity or you get sorrow or you get the Leprosy Effect. Where people must think that if they get too close, they too will experience the Darkness. Sometimes I also think people see me differently because to the world, I really only show one side. I’m quick to laugh and make jokes, I’m sarcastic and dry with my humour. That’s the me most people see.

A small handful of people see the other side. The person who struggles and sometimes gets dragged down so far that she can’t see her way out. Takes me a couple of days to resurface. Crowds can be exhausting and being alone is the only thing that relieves that pressure of feeling like I’m about to explode.

Sometimes I feel like I have to write. HAVE to. But when I start, I look at the words and just hate them. I loathe every letter and each syllable, and I just delete huge sections or entire documents. I rip out sheets of Moleskine and try to start fresh, but I usually can’t.

I think it has a connection to this other feeling — the one where I’m waiting for something. Maybe it’s someone, maybe it’s something, but either way, it’s a dead-end feeling. Because I’m impatient. I feel like I’ve waited long enough, so what the fuck am I still waiting for? And what if, in the end, this waiting feeling was just nothing at all? What then? I have to sit and realize that I’ve wasted countless hours? Sounds great.

I guess I’m just restless. Right now, extremely. In general, often.

Sometimes I look up at the door or window for no reason. It’s not like I heard a noise or something. I just randomly look towards them. What the fuck does that mean? Sometimes my dog will suddenly stare off into a corner when there’s nothing there. I’m pretty sure he’s not schizophrenic or anything, so what the fuck is he staring at? And if it’s a ghost, why the hell am I not allowed to see it, too?

Lately, I hate everything. There’s nothing I want to eat or do. No one I want to see. I don’t even want to go out and get floor-licking wasted and play Buck Hunter, which is really not like me at all. Usually I’m always up for a hunt and a shot. Lately? I don’t fucking know what I want. But I’m pretty sure it’s not to be sitting at home in this frozen city, miles and miles away from any city that could even remotely take me anywhere.

This, is not what I want.

What I want is out there somewhere, and I can’t seem to figure it out.

Can I have a do-over?

When I was 13 and used to watch FRIENDS, being in your 20s looked like the best time. Now that I’m the same age as the characters, 20-something isn’t feeling so amazing. I mean, Rachel came into the picture wearing a wasted wedding dress and looking like I do the morning-after a solid night of Buck Hunter and Jack, and within a few seasons she was working a wicked job and had her professional life going. I know what I want to do, but unfortunately I don’t like in New York City; I live in an eight-month-per-year tundra where my dream is thousands of miles away and I can’t seem to find my fucking way there.

What makes some people lucky?

When I was younger people always asked what I wanted to be “when I grew up.” I have the same answer now that I had back then: happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I didn’t have the greatest childhood and I spent most of my time alone in my room, imagining how my life would be once I was older and away from all of the dismal aspects of my life. I didn’t think I’d be 28 and still on the hunt.

When I was six this special teacher came and spent time with each kid. She got us to count “as high as we could,” and read from a book and whatever. She decided that I wasn’t being challenged enough and should be pushed ahead into the second grade. My miserable, absent mother ignored this suggestion so the teachers stuck me into this group of other kids from other grades who were smarter than their peers. This was back in the early ’90s. No one really cared about child potential back then, like they do now. I wonder all the time what might have happened to me — to my future — if I’d had someone around who was really gunning for me; someone who cared what happened to me and how I fared in the world. Could I have been somebody?

I think most of my potential is wasted. I also don’t have any kind of parental or mentor figure to push or motivate me, and I’m not exactly inclined to do it for myself. I’ve developed a bit of a “who gives a fuck” complex. It’s pretty bleak and I’m not proud to admit it. I know I’m not an idiot.

What actually matters anymore? I’m literally the only person I have. And isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard?

I wish I could change everything, because isn’t that a kick in the cunt: Girl who was conceived after a vasectomy and thus not even supposed to be born in the first place is borne unto a woman who never wanted children and has never wanted her and turns out to be a fairly intelligent, potential-ridden kid who gets kicked to the back of the bus and no one even notices her until she’s older and even then it’s not the attention she wants? I can’t even believe I constructed that abomination of a sentence. My inner editor is cringing but the outer shell of that is the part of me who stopped giving a fuck about almost everything.

I want the do-over. I want to be born to someone who desperately wants a baby. I want to be praised and hugged and loved and mentored and pushed. I want someone who gives a shit that my report cards are shiny and flawless. I want someone who basks in my achievements and saves for my education. I want to be mothered and I want opportunity. I want the life I thought I’d have back when I was 13.

FRIENDS should have prepared me for this. Instead of becoming Rachel, somehow I’ve ended up as Mr. Heckles.

I’ve spent my entire life clueless. Happiness has always been my destination but no one gave enough of a fuck to give me some directions.

This is why certain people should be sterilized. Why is it that people who want a child more than anything are the ones who can’t conceive, and yet women whose IQs can’t muster up a third integer pop kids out like a fucking Pez dispenser? We live in a fucking joke of a world. It’s laughable, if you’re high enough.

For Christmas this year, I want a retroactive abortion. I want a switch to flick that sends me into a backwards time lapse. Zip me back, in record time, through my agonizing 20s, my lost late teens and now-subsequent oblivious early teens. The bad skin and distorted self-image; the damaging moments that left never-fading scars. Slip into the preteen years of confusion and misery, right into the early years, when everything was possible. Get hazy in that period where the most innocent parts of me were forever destroyed and shrink me back into the baby whose mother thought she was “funny-looking.” Squeeze me back into a fetus, so tiny that I almost don’t exist at all. And then…quash my existence. Make it so I never happened at all. What then?

A big reason I’m unsure of ever having a baby is because I’m terrified of fucking them up. I’m terrified of ever making another human being feel the way I used to. But the other part of me knows what it’s like to be a child who’s just as desperate to be loved as those childless mothers are to love something. Maybe I could give a kid a good life, but really, maybe I can’t. The chance of failure is too great, and the repercussions of that failure are irrevocable. People always talk about how you only get one life. Yeah. Exactly. One. And if someone else ruins the parts of you that really matter, what exactly is a person supposed to do with the leftovers?

I’m leftovers. And the only people who like leftovers are the ones who have moms who are such amazing cooks that the leftovers are still amazing. See that doesn’t even make sense. I tried picking me way through and that’s where I got.

The closer I get to 30, the worse I feel. I wake up almost every morning with this overwhelming sense of heaviness. Like I’m tired, and I’m just done. I’m done pushing. I’m done imagining this dream life in my head that, honestly, I’m never going to have. I’m never going to walk into 30 Rock because I work there. I’m never going to see my name in the credits. Sure, it’s fun to dream it. Just for shits and giggles, I sit around and imagine living that life. People who get my sense of humour and appreciate the dark and twisty turns that it takes; who enjoy the fact that I’m a mashup of Anthony Jeselnik, Daniel Tosh, Tina Fey, and Kristen Wiig. People who like the fact that I’m a sarcastic asshole. I mean, I do have those people now. I can count them on one hand, and I love them. I love them because they accept me for me who I am. Even though I don’t really know exactly who I am.

Whatever. All I’m saying is that Martin Luther King had a dream, and so do I. But I’m pretty sure we’re going to have similar endings. We’ll both be dead, except everyone will remember him, and I’ll just be this dark, unknown blogger who waxed poetic about a life she wishes she could have had when she already knew that she wasn’t going to have it.

Wax on, wax off…. Fade out.

Rookie Mistake

I’ve been had.

It’s pathetic. Someone comes along, says the right things I’ve wanted to hear, and I fall for it. What am I, fucking new? People have said similar things throughout my life. Complimenting certain things and claiming that I have a talent. Typically I just smile and don’t believe them, so I don’t know why this time was so different. I guess the hint of recognition was a strong aroma to resist. But in the end, I’m the idiot here. I thought I could have been good enough, but the thing I seem to keep running from is the fact that things are the way they are. They don’t really change. I’m still stuck in the same place, I just find certain wiggle room at random times. Something that lets me move a new limb, stretch a warped appendage. Something to get by on.

The reality is harsh.

People say you’re supposed to follow your dreams. I wanted that for me — a life of dreams. What they don’t tell you is when to stop being a moron and accept things for what they are. Like me, accepting that I’m probably not going to reach that pinnacle. I’m probably stuck in the wasteland of opportunity, discontent with what it has to offer because I’ve never been one prone to engineering and sucking the oil from our ground. Sure, I’ll edit the magazines about it, but that didn’t get me very far at all, and I’m not even in agreement with this whole “pave paradise and put up a parking lot” shit. If I had my way, I’d probably live on land where people don’t go. So I don’t have to see them or talk to them. People are the worst.

Every road so far has just led me to a sneak peek at a life I don’t get to have. It’s cruel, really. But I hope he enjoyed it — letting me dream that hard and wish that deeply. But you can’t trust anybody, no matter how much they preach differently.

What they need to teach in school is less home ec — baking is common sense; if you can’t figure it out, buy pre-made. And I’m not sorry I never learned how to sew a hideous fucking pair of boxer shorts, no matter how guilty that shitty teacher’s aide tried to make me feel. I wish school had taught me what failure feels like; that college is important, no matter how small town your school is; that dreaming hard won’t get you any further, given the wrong ingredients; that learning to spend your money the right way is more important than cooking a fucking batch of cookies; that even now, at 28, when my lifelong dream seems to be dying, that you need to pick a new one. I need to find something else, now. Something to keep me going. They never teach you that in school; that life is about finding something to live for. That you have to make yourself happy.

It’s easy, when everything feels like it’s fallen, to feel broken and empty and left behind. I feel like a prize fucking idiot. But negative feelings are something I’ve gotten somewhat acquainted with.

I didn’t get hope, so it’s hard to start growing it now.

What I have is what I’m left with, after the silly dreams of my own success have been forced from my hands. Which is what? A book collection I’ve stopped lending out because people never return them; a dog I love more than anything else, more than most people (like my biological parents) love their children; a pretty decent shoe and clothing collection; and my mind. My mind, which is a blessing and a curse, formed into a pulsating ball of repression, oppression, and a hint of progression. Rhyme time.

Of course I want progress. I want Kelly Oxford’s life. The Canadian writer who gets to make it? Obviously that’s what I wanted all along. Instead, I’m supposed to learn how to be happy with things I consider menial. I don’t want to sit at a desk in an office full of people who are content with stagnancy. I don’t want to live paycheque to paycheque. I don’t want to dream of what could have been — but I guess now I can stop. There is no “could have been” for me.

Sure. I guess it’s good that “I tried.” Otherwise I’m sure I would be even worse off, believing I could have made it.

So what’s worse: believing you could have done it, or knowing you can’t? Either way, it’s a serving of regrets.

I never wanted to be this person. Luckily, I guess, I’m only her on certain days, when the unsatisfying life I lead comes to head and I’m forced to see it for what it is and accept it. Other days, I’m able to escape those parts. I focus on other things. Things that make me happy. Even then — a new job — it’s short-lived. Eventually I’m left with, again, feeling out of place and wrong and uncomfortable and miserable.

I’ve been had.


People always say they want to “be somebody.” Even I say it. But the truth is, everybody’s version of “somebody” is different. For me, being “somebody” means writing. And I had to go and start dreaming when I was 12 that I’d grow up and write in Los Angeles. I’ve never been able to let that go, and now here I am, 28-years-old and still trying.

I could write comedy; I want to write comedy. But I guess I have a knack for a more emotional genre. You write what you know, I guess.

The thing with dreams is that you can’t stop. It’s an addiction. You spend days, years, daydreaming and fantasizing about the life you wish you had. The life you want. Sometimes people dream so hard that it drives them crazy. The idea of being stuck in the menial lives we live leads some people to just give up. And what happens to a dream when the dreamer is gone? Especially when someone lives and breathes their dream.

The idea of being like, 40, and still being where I am is a terrifying concept. But you can’t fast-forward and see what happens, and you can’t rewind either. I get what everyone says about living in the moment, but for writers…we spend most of our time living in our heads. I can spend days without talking to anybody. I’ll hole up at home, reading and writing for days, without seeing or talking to anyone except my boyfriend. But even he has learned by now that I sink into a world where I’m quiet and introspective and prefer my solitude. I’ve always been like that. I’m a solitary person.

I actually like being alone. I don’t do my best writing when I’m surrounded by others, obviously. Besides, large crowds make me tired, and certain kinds of people make me want to pull a Butterfly Effect and slam my hands down on a chit-stabber. Except instead of hands, eyeballs. I can’t stand fake, and I hate arrogance. I’ve always had more guy friends than girl friends, and I stopped feeling bad about that in high school. Girls are horrible creatures. They lie and bitch and gossip and you can’t trust them for shit. I have a handful of girl friends whom I trust. A very small handful. Lots of girls hate that their boyfriend has friends who are girls. I think it’s silly. Besides, if you start telling your boyfriend who he can and can’t hang out with, he’s going to hate you. Seriously. Being jealous and controlling is pointless and pathetic. Ridiculous people make me tired. I can’t keep up with the elusive “girl talk” that comes out of their mouths, and I don’t exactly give a fuck that you “literally almost died” when you saw your ex at the bar. No female on the planet knows how to use “literally” properly, and even fewer would hesitate before betraying a “friend.”

One of the worst parts of these Real Housewives shows is that it’s basically high school, on TV. Everyone knows silly bitches like that. And now they’re on a channel that’s supposed to propagate learning? The only thing TLC has taught me is that they can’t be trusted to produce worthwhile television. They’re promoting this lifestyle where women are narcissistic, arrogant, backstabbing bitches who are more plastic than person. Are we supposed to be admiring these women? Am I supposed to be PVRing this shit and be glued to my TV over it?

I’d rather watch my nonexistent parents fuck.


Fame is Poisonous

What’s eating Amanda Bynes?

I didn’t actually know who she was until I saw one of her early movies. I think it was that one where she goes to London to find her father or something. I learned later that she’d had some kind of Nickelodeon show or whatever, but I thought she was pretty funny in the movie. She was all bubbly and thin and pretty. Then she made that one where she pretended to be a dude, and I liked that one, too. I’ll say it: I’m a fan of Amanda Bynes.

But I’m definitely not a fan of whatever is happening to her right now. If I had to take a guess, I’m gonna say she’s having a serious and complete breakdown. It’s pretty fucking sad, which makes it pretty fucking ridiculous that the media is using this to make her out to be some kind of high-school-cafeteria embarrassment. Like we’re all supposed to stand and point and stare and laugh.

And sure, some of the shit she’s said has been funny. Like when she announced to the world that she wanted Drake to “murder her vagina.” I even “LOL’d”, like the kids say. But it was a funny statement. I don’t think there’s any humour in this collapse of her entire being.

Mental illness has this monstrous, strobe-light stigma attached to it, where people seem to think it makes you less of a person, or someone is deserving of ridicule and shame and public scrutiny. I don’t know about the rest of the “perfect” world, but if I were to experience a nervous breakdown, I wouldn’t want it to be in front of the entire planet, as TMZ and rabid paparazzi snapped photos of my disintegration. And I bet money that the real Amanda Bynes, the one who’s still in there somewhere, is painfully ashamed of what’s happening to her right now. Imagine if it were you. How would you feel to have this kind of attention and contempt heaved on you? Absolutely, she asked for the attention. Her parents tossed her into show business at a very young age, hereby subjecting her to fame. And fame is a nasty bitch. No doubt the money and the free shit and the parties of that life are fun. But the fame part is something I would never want. Her privacy stopped existing the moment that very first director called “Action!”

We, as the peanut gallery, already watched this kind of collapse happen to Britney Spears. And her father still, to this day, has conservatorship over her. He decides on money, contracts, doctors, medicine. He basically decides what she does. And look at her now. She’s got a full head of hair, her children sit in their own car seats, and she’s put out a few new songs. I’m not a fan of her, but I’m still glad she made the 180.

Watching these girls go through this shit is like watching The Office. You know when Michael does something just so fucking dumb and you feel uncomfortable even watching it happen? That’s what this is. Except it’s real life. These people have to live with this for the rest of their lives. And I may not know Amanda personally, but I want her to have a life. It would be so fucking sad to read that this cloud hanging over her lately has killed her. I’m glad her parents have finally stepped in, even though I think it should have been done sooner, and I’m glad someone who loves her is finally taking the reins. Because that girl cannot steer her carriage for shit.

The way I see it, is what if it was me? What if it was my best friend? What would you do? Or what would you want for that person? For yourself? I’m pretty confident that you wouldn’t want complete and total destruction. And if you did, you should probably seek some psychiatric help for yourself.

One of the worst parts of this mental breakdown, is the physical toll it takes on a person. Because of what’s happening in her head, her body is taking a lot of hits. Suddenly this young woman with absolutely nothing wrong with her is believing she needs nose jobs and boobs jobs and endless other cosmetic surgeries. And what doctor is agreeing to do these surgeries? Unless he’s been living under a fucking rock, he obviously knows who she is and that she’s not well. What kind of person still jacks her up with anaesthetic and whips out the scalpel? A douche nozzle, that’s who. That doctor needs to give his (her?) head a fucking shake and start being part of a solution for this girl. That’s basically like seeing someone on fire and when they come up to you, you toss a balloon full of gasoline at them. Seriously. You’re a doctor. You went to school. I assume plastic surgeons still have to take the oath wherein they pledge to “first, do no harm.” And buddy, you’re inflicting some serious harm. And also, she doesn’t need anything done to her fucking face. Or her body. When I saw Amanda in that movie with Colin Firth, I thought she was beautiful, and I was jealous of her body, since I was saddled (haha, this is a funny first word choice because it makes me think of saddle bags) with the curves of my paternal grandmother while my older sister had the Amanda-Bynes body. I had a waist and hips by the time I was 12, and in my household where my sister and the woman who birthed me were Ally McBeal body doubles, this did not bear well for my self-esteem. It’s all good now. I mean sure, somedays I twist around to stare at my ass in the mirror and just glare at that fucking thing and shake my head. You bitch, I think about my ass. You just had to weasel your way into my DNA and not my sister’s. It’s fine though. Apparently the fellows enjoy having something to grab back there. And it does add a certain something to the figure, y’know?

Speaking of body image dysmorphia, and that’s exactly what Amanda has, everyone’s favourite dumbass had the same problem. Maybe even has. Lindsay Lohan went through a similar thing where she lost a bunch of body weight, although in the process she gained a deviated septum and a Hollywood sock. What is up with all of these Tinseltown bitches doing their weight in narcotics and then hopping behind the wheel? What the fuck, ladies! Get your shit together. Meaning use your mountains of cash to do yourself a favour and talk to someone about it. There’s no shame in therapy, no matter what anyone tells you. And the people that tell you that are probably the most fucked up of anyone you know. Everyone needs to talk shit out. Everyone.

Basically, I just want to send out some positive vibes to Amanda Bynes, because man, the girl needs some. No matter how much you enjoy hopping online and reading about her demise, she’s still a human being, and the real her is still in there somewhere, and she needs help. She doesn’t need the media fuelling this fire that is her life. Hopefully the judge who decides about this conservatorship isn’t the same moron who let her DUIs slide. Because while we’re on the topic of DUIs and celebrity dipshits, if Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton or Amanda Bynes were black, they’d all be in jail. Still. I mean, for fuck’s sake, Wesley Snipes went away for years for what, tax evasion? And Lil’ Kim was locked up for perjury and conspiracy. These assholes are driving around loaded, endangering the lives of everyone they pass, and they’re getting slapped on the wrists because they’re famous and they have money. Girl, I could do a lot more good with that money than you are. You’re all supposed to be role models and you’re just flying off the rails. And snorting them.

I wish these people knew that life can be a lot better than it is, when you’re feeling like you’re in a hole. You have the money and the option to get some actual help, and the people who love you are more often than not sitting on the sidelines watching you flounder. If their families love them, they’d step in and do whatever it took to help them.

Amanda’s done some fuck-ups, and she’s done some wrongs, but she’s still herself. Somewhere inside, she’s still there. And I’m pretty sure that Amanda would want someone to toss her a fuckin’ life jacket or something.

Much love, girl. Hope you get some help and find your sea legs.

Quarter-life Crisis

Something is happening inside my head.

My crazy is growing and I’m starting to think about and worry about things I usually couldn’t care less about. Like babies. I usually look at babies and kids and just think, “Wow. That’s what you have to do all day, and all night. Keep that tiny person alive. I can barely keep myself hydrated and healthy, and you’ve got that.”
I saw a cute baby and I had this fleeting thought of wanting one. Like a baby. A human child. That I would create.

It was quite a terrifying moment for me. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. All I knew was that I was having feelings. Real FEELINGS. And all I could think was, “Jesus Christ, I’m feeling feelings. GET THEM OFF OF ME!” Thankfully I’ve learned to deal with this occasional thought of wanting a baby. I’ve accepted it as another echelon of my Crazy. It’s like puberty for adults. You’re changing from a horrid young adult into a…I dunno, 30-year-old? Yeah. It’s coming. Three-oh.

I also give quite a lot of fucks about my future now. When you’re younger you always think you have time. Life will just happen. The lofty dreams you have will somehow come true. Except they’re not. I mean, I don’t see Tina Fey anywhere. She’s not down the hall from an office of my own. I’m not fulfilled. What the fuck, life!? This is horseshit.

So here I am, 28 years old, college-graduate, and I’m bartending again because I chose a degree that is next to useless in the city I live in. I go to Vancouver or Toronto and I could get a sweet job and feel like a successful being. But nope. I’m here. Serving beer and hangover-food to rig pigs, old creeps, and women who shoot death glares at me because, unlike them, I haven’t ballooned into a creature not unlike a walking narwhal. Ah, life. She is a mysterious cunt.

So I need a good job. I need other humans who understand sarcasm; not droids whom I waste my best jokes on, while they stand there like a cornered nun, unable to comprehend the wit I have presented to them. I’m not an asshole. Well, I am, but I mean I’m not a narcissistic dick. I don’t think I’m the greatest thing; obviously. That’s what this entire post is about. I just do think I’m capable of mildly offensive and enjoyable humour. I’ve followed a path of dark and crude humour–it’s the very best kind! It’s hard to find people whom I can relate to. Mostly I feel like I’m not from here. Like it’s pretty possible that I was dropped here by the mothership, as an experiment to see how the humans raised their young. (My hypothesis, for the record, aliens: being raised by an angry hypocrite who never wanted kids in the first place will leave a person feeling rather misplaced and partial to treacherous spells of melancholy.)

Bartending is a decent raft for this Limbo. I can be my dry, sarcastic self and it seems to heighten my tip percentage. I get a better tip when I’m an honest, sardonic asshole, than when I pretend to be…I don’t know. Normal. I also get to practice my sarcasm and perfect the art of acting. I’m kind of great at seeming like serving you this beer and plate of wings is a super enjoyable part of my life. But sure. I guess this will do. For now.

But I’m antsy and impatient, and I’d like to feel like a Person. I don’t want to end up a bored and miserable wench, counting her thigh dimples because she’s turned into a housewife with no life, who’s built like a bag of milk and tells her friends she’s busy when she’s actually staying home and playing hide-and-seek with her dog. (In his defence, he’s pretty good at it. His canine senses make him find me right away.)

They should teach a class in high school called Realism 101. Just be like, look, you silly teenage dummies. You’re living the dream right now. (Unless you grew up like me, and moving out was the greatest day of your life.) Just some kind of class to prepare these kids for a likely outcome of lost dreams and joint pain after a particularly solid night of sleep. Prepare them for the day when you see someone from high school that you haven’t seen in years, and they’ve gotten surprisingly…thick and they look at you like you just told them about your pastime of hunting puppies and skinning them to make mittens.

Also prepare them for the honesty they’ll come across ten years down the road when you’re hanging out with your group of guy friends and they inform you that you’re way hotter now than you were in high school. Just a little reminder that you were, as you believed, a homely lemon with terrible skin who refused to put the time and effort into makeup. That’s okay, I guess. They’re a great group of guys. Guy friends are great. They’re easy to hang out with, they don’t gossip and act like axe wounds, and they’re fun to party with.

I think you could find people to teach such classes very easily. I mean, I’m game. I’m blunt. I’m an asshole. And I’m not a gleaming dish of success. I’m just a 28-year-old wannabe-writer who’s striving for her own flavour of happiness. And mine tastes like being a read writer, being on first-name, funny-text-messages basis with Tina Fey, and always having a freezer full of popsicles. Man, I love popsicles.