Tag Archives: writing

Thanks for Bitching at Me

24 Jul

I know, two posts in one day. Watch out, world!

I just want to say thank you all so much for the kind wedding messages and wishes you have sent. They are truly appreciated. I also feel the need to extend a sincere thank you for bitching at me about not writing as much. It helps to have a community of talented artists poking at me about it. It’s highly motivating and I feel so good after I do it (even after the simple, goofy posts).

Recently I’ve been feeling like there is nothing to share. However, after a few of your pokes and a few minutes to myself last night, what I failed to realize is that there are still things happening every day that normally I would share with the world, tons of them, but I’ve been too busy thinking too much about how weird it is that I’m getting married. Just the other day I had some drinks and got a piggy-back ride through the streets of Baltimore because my shoe broke and then I spilled a beer in my purse and ruined our friend’s mail and ate way too many potato wedges and a meatball sub and apparently in the middle of the night ordered a book called “Quit Your Job and Move to Key West.”

It was fun. I forgot that happened, though, because like I said, I’ve been too busy thinking too much about how weird it is that I’m actually getting married.

Like, a cute, funny guy wants to marry the real me. This is the same me who has accidentally tucked a dress into my underpants on multiple occasions and writes letters to inanimate objects to make myself laugh. The girl who thinks the perfect evening involves cigars, wine and pizza. Or hot dogs–I like those. The poet who instead wants to make people laugh because we need more laughter. The writer who can’t seem to finish writing a book. The vulnerable, overly apologetic failure who loses and has lost and lost and lost and yet remains passionately and relentlessly (and what some would call “hopelessly”) optimistic. The same me who dances alone, talks to the stars when looking for answers and puts on lip gloss when I’m nervous (which is very often). The restless me who longs for the sea and salty hair and to connect with nature (but not with butterflies, I’m scared of those guys) and needs to learn about other people and cultures because if I don’t I will go insane with boredom.

I’ve been a bit skeptical these days because even though I hoped, I didn’t think anyone genuinely would fall for the silly, curious, anxious, wild, flawed, open, honest me and honestly, I don’t know why anyone would. So I keep thinking too much about how weird it is.

I think love makes people who think too much think WAY too much, and I get caught up in it and I procrastinate and I don’t make time for writing–and now it seems that we’re back to the reason for this post in the first place.

So, thank you for your kindness and thank you for bitching at me. :D

On Blogging

29 Apr

Blogging has been an unexpected journey for me. It started as an extension to the journals I began at age 12 that lasted until about 23, filling five books:




The quote on the cover that says, “Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale” is ironic, really, because from page one the reader can sense the true awkwardness of a chubby, shy, hopeful romantic (even at age 12) who experiences the absolute opposite of anything resembling a fairytale.

The topics within the second half of that top journal alone talk about my friends and I at 15-years-old facing being dumped, eating disorders, rape, my dream date for a dance who broke me into pieces by choosing to go with a girl he said was prettier, drinking, a stomach being pumped, a stabbing, depression and death.

My romantic awkwardness and my tendency to over-think everything continues throughout the five journals and despite every moment that would make most readers cringe as I embarrass myself on the regular, the entire thing is woven together with a sense of “gratefulness, hope and humor” that I had and continue to carry with me as I go.

I stopped writing things down for a few years and when I picked it up again, I chose to blog and decided that no matter what depressing thing happened in the world or in my personal experience, I was going to write for myself and shed a humorous light on life. I was tired of reading and watching awful things, you know? I didn’t expect, or necessarily even want others to read it. I’m grateful that people do read and comment, but I still don’t expect it. I simply wanted to creatively journal for myself and had no idea there was going to be a community aspect.

My stats, number of followers and being Freshly Pressed meant and still mean very little to me.

With that said, I was delighted to meet people, be real and learn that I can make others laugh. I think the community has introduced us all to others who inspire us and/or have somehow changed our lives. Writers can easily connect with each other here–we all know about an artist’s deeper layers that exist within each one of us. It gives us an immediate connection and for some, a way to throw around ideas. Through this I’ve also met some friends I’d like to keep for a lifetime, had conversations with people from all over the world and even had a very odd fan fiction story written about me. I wonder whatever happened to that guy.

Perhaps the real bonus for this little lady has been the dick pictures from past commenters, even though I continually announced that I would laugh at every penis entering my inbox (and I did… that pun was not intended, by the way).

Little did those dudes know about the coffee table book I’ll publish someday called, “Is This Your Dick?” that will highlight all the ding dongs.

So, that’s what makes my blogging experience go ’round.

Why do you blog?

NeverEnding Imaginations

20 Nov

I love reading creative posts and catching a glimpse of what’s inside the imaginations of other bloggers. My imagination gets wild and crazy and I can think of a few childhood experiences that certainly played a major role in that development.

One example is my love for the 1984 film The NeverEnding Story.

Cue majestic music, bitches:


When I was a kid, I made my parents rent that movie every weekend for approximately two years. Something about it truly grabbed my imagination and expanded La La Land into a vast empire where I am still a beautiful empress with a British accent. I also blame it for giving me imaginary friends (a mermaid and a turtle) that lived in the sewer.*

At night I made up related stories while curled up on the floor in my Care Bears sleeping bag. In my head, I WAS The Childlike Empress and I lived in an ivory tower made of glorious light. I imagined (still imagine, just kidding, kind of) someday walking down the aisle wearing her headpiece:

But with real pearls. Image from Etsy.

Except back then I was jonesin’ for some Atreyu:

Atreyu sporting the Auryn. Image from Google.

Is there something from your childhood that you associate with the development of your imagination? Do you still make up stories in your head as you fall asleep? Have you ever put someone’s baby on a dog and pretended he was riding Falcor? No? Oh. I guess I haven’t either, then. That would be a weird thing to do.

Also, this is the song from the movie. Look at this guy. Just look at him…and there upon a rainbow is the answer to a never-ending story.



* My imaginary friends and I are no longer in contact.

Where do you want to be right now?

30 Apr

I am taking off this week due to an arm/elbow issue (nerve entrapment) that seems to get very angry at me when I work/write and spend too much time on WordPress. This puts a damper on my spirits because, well, one is my job and the other is what I do when I take frequent breaks from my job. Also, I was in an effing car accident last night and I have a sore throat. If anyone knows how to exorcise the crappy luck demons, that would be fabulous.


Maybe I just need to get away.


If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would it be and why? I know where I would be (and where I will escape to in my imagination all day):


Bora Bora, bitches.

On writing.

4 Apr

Whether or not I ask for it, my 57-year-old scientist boss likes to give me advice. Here is a conversation we had about writing.

Boss: So, you want to be a writer?

Me: Yep.

Boss: You know what you have to do now, right?

Me: Write?

Boss: You have to write erotica.

Me: I was thinking about going with humor, like funny short stories or something.

Boss: Make them sexy short stories. Sex sells.

Me: You’re a scientist, what do you know?

Boss: I wrote two erotic novels–introduce the virgin, virgin meets the guy, deflowering of the virgin, virgin faces crossroads and so on.

Me: What was your nom de plume, then?

Boss: I didn’t have one. I sold them to a publishing company.

Me: Right.

Boss: I can give you the guidelines, you have to use certain words for body parts and stuff.

Me: Gross, no thanks, I think your sexy story advice would give me writer’s block for an eternity.

Boss: All a part of my plan to keep you here, editing my boring scientific papers.

Me: Get out.


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