I have recently started publicizing my blog. Not in a real way, but in a hey look I have a blog too, kinda way. My method of "promoting" my blog is by telling friends that it exists, and giving them the URL which of course leads them to the blog. And the Question:
Cutest Landing?
That is because my blog title makes no real sense. I chose it because I like it, and because when I decided to create a blog I couldn't think of a witty title. So I decided to go through my Facebook status updates, and I found a Facebook app, which I have sense lost, that would tell you the most commonly used words on your status updates. My first two were, Cutest and Landing. And a blog title was born.
I feel like the title could have a deeper meaning, if you chose to think hard enough about it, although this might require you to think like me.
The landing part is easy, mostly cause I am almost always falling down, and you cant land if you dont fall. I also constitute falling as other random things that happen, where the end result is me landing on something. For example, getting hit by a car. So I am pretty good at landing, because I have a decent amount of falling practice.
Although if you go deeper, you could perhaps find more meaning in this. Everyone has a past, and I started this blog to deal with some of those issues. A friend of mine once told me that its a miracle that I am kinda normal, so I consider that to be one big landing.
Cutest...well I dont really have an in-depth analysis of this one, unless you take it to mean, clean or neat and neat as in precise like the The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Writing Fiction: Funny Guide
I was at my desk, doing my normal morning brain warm up: ie shopping online. I bought my Dragon Con ticket, which is exciting. And then I was cleaning out my email and I came across today's Groupon: 10$ for 20$ worth of knitting supplies at this store downtown. So of course I bought it. I actually bought two. One for myself and one as a gift (most likely I will give this gift to myself too)
After I bought the groupon(if your unfamiliar with groupon go here, its a website that allows companies to offer discounts so that people will come to there store, hopefully get hooked and then keep coming back). I scrolled to the bottom of the page where there is normally a Groupon Guide to:..... today's groupon guide, was to Writing Fiction, I pasted it in below:
The Groupon Guide to: Writing Fiction
Instead of being based on real-life events, many of today's best-selling books are composed of what are conventionally known as “lies,” although the publishing industry prefers the handy euphemism "fiction." Because they are entirely made up, writing fictional books is extremely easy—just follow this handy guide:
Use at least three characters:
Protagonist: The hero. In all books written thus far, the protagonist has been a sullen teenager, a swashbuckling duck, or car that can transform into a smaller car.
Anti-gonist: The bad guy. Always the protagonist's twin father.
Love Interest: Either a person or bag of gold that must be rescued by the protagonist.
Choose a type of conflict
Man vs. Man: A man fights another man
Man vs. Himself: A man fights his clone
Man vs. Nature: A man fights some angry clouds
Nature vs. Nature: Two angry clouds fight each other
Finish with a twist:
It was Earth all along! Or conversely, it was space all along.
All the characters were ghosts! And the characters that seemed like ghosts were actually mummies.
It wasn't a book at all, but a helpful exercise VHS! That's why it was so fun to read!
So as a challenge to myself. I am going to write a short story: Less than 750 words and include all of these things, for Free Fiction Friday.
After I bought the groupon(if your unfamiliar with groupon go here, its a website that allows companies to offer discounts so that people will come to there store, hopefully get hooked and then keep coming back). I scrolled to the bottom of the page where there is normally a Groupon Guide to:..... today's groupon guide, was to Writing Fiction, I pasted it in below:
The Groupon Guide to: Writing Fiction
Instead of being based on real-life events, many of today's best-selling books are composed of what are conventionally known as “lies,” although the publishing industry prefers the handy euphemism "fiction." Because they are entirely made up, writing fictional books is extremely easy—just follow this handy guide:
Use at least three characters:
Protagonist: The hero. In all books written thus far, the protagonist has been a sullen teenager, a swashbuckling duck, or car that can transform into a smaller car.
Anti-gonist: The bad guy. Always the protagonist's twin father.
Love Interest: Either a person or bag of gold that must be rescued by the protagonist.
Choose a type of conflict
Man vs. Man: A man fights another man
Man vs. Himself: A man fights his clone
Man vs. Nature: A man fights some angry clouds
Nature vs. Nature: Two angry clouds fight each other
Finish with a twist:
It was Earth all along! Or conversely, it was space all along.
All the characters were ghosts! And the characters that seemed like ghosts were actually mummies.
It wasn't a book at all, but a helpful exercise VHS! That's why it was so fun to read!
So as a challenge to myself. I am going to write a short story: Less than 750 words and include all of these things, for Free Fiction Friday.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Memoirs of a Crack Family.
All good stories involve cops. This is not true. Although it is one of those things that popped into my head, when I opened my laptop to find a word document titled “Random Family shit”, a file I vaguely remember writing, under the influence of gin and my family.
The first excerpt read:
“And I was like no F***ing way,
“And they were like, yes f***ing way, cause he f***ed his way across Europe and into Asia” (my mom, on Charlemagne, Incest, and Midgets)
This is not that funny, till you get to the midget part, which I am still uncertain of its relevance. Although the entire thing came up cause I was giving my mom a hard time for getting so drunk the last time I saw her that she peed herself while trying to explain to me and my sister why incest is sometimes okay, cause everyone is related to Charlemagne (but don’t worry we don’t believe her, we might be from Georgia but even we aren’t that messed up)
Apparently I agreed to write “Memoirs of a Crack Family” on this trip, which I do admit has some potential but I honestly doubt I could ever do it. I fear that we would all be too ashamed. Which brings me to another point.
I often feel guilty of things more rational people tell me I have no business feeling guilty for. For example, I was sexually assaulted when I was 14. I never told anyone (related to me) till I was in my early twenties.
One of my younger sisters was sexually assaulted when she was 14. She never told anyone either, we didn’t find out till she tried to kill herself. I have always felt responsible, not because she was assaulted. I know I have no control over that.
I feel guilty cause I never opened up. My sisters never saw me struggling, and when it happened to her, she felt so alone, and so afraid to share, that she shut down. She tried to kill herself. I never said, you are not alone. I was never an example.
There is this entire, “It Gets Better Campaign” for GLBT kids who get bullied, which is great, its empowering. But what about all the other groups who suffer silently, who slip through the cracks of society. What about the kids with alcoholic parents? What about the kids who are abused, what about the runaways and the vagrants?
I wrote a post on a forum explaining why I don’t think I could ever write a memoir, it would hurt too many people that I actually care about, in spite of, and because of their flaws. And one of the responses was. You should write one, think of all the people you would help. And perhaps this is true. Perhaps I could help people, but at what cost. And is it selfish of me to even ask this question. How much harm is it worth to save one person? Am I responsible to tell these stories?
Second excerpt:
It was 5am
“So I was driving this black guy home that I just bought coke from, but I didnt really know him, back to south side…and I got pulled over, and they asked me if I had been drinking, and I had two beers, so he had me blow, and I blew a .09, 1 point above the legal limit, so the cop said ‘let me tell you what, you leave your car here, have your friends come bring you back tomorrow, and I’ll drive you home.’
So we get in the car and were driving, and the cop asks me “Ma’am have you ever been arrested by Baldwin County Sherif’s department before?”
“Yes sir, a few times”
“Were you ever arrested with a guy who was crying?”
‘Yes sir.”
“I think I arrested you before”
"I think you might have."
Then we pull up to the house, and all of these people are outside, and they scatter like cockroaches into the dark, when they see the cop car, and he tells me to have a good night and be safe.
The first excerpt read:
“And I was like no F***ing way,
“And they were like, yes f***ing way, cause he f***ed his way across Europe and into Asia” (my mom, on Charlemagne, Incest, and Midgets)
This is not that funny, till you get to the midget part, which I am still uncertain of its relevance. Although the entire thing came up cause I was giving my mom a hard time for getting so drunk the last time I saw her that she peed herself while trying to explain to me and my sister why incest is sometimes okay, cause everyone is related to Charlemagne (but don’t worry we don’t believe her, we might be from Georgia but even we aren’t that messed up)
Apparently I agreed to write “Memoirs of a Crack Family” on this trip, which I do admit has some potential but I honestly doubt I could ever do it. I fear that we would all be too ashamed. Which brings me to another point.
I often feel guilty of things more rational people tell me I have no business feeling guilty for. For example, I was sexually assaulted when I was 14. I never told anyone (related to me) till I was in my early twenties.
One of my younger sisters was sexually assaulted when she was 14. She never told anyone either, we didn’t find out till she tried to kill herself. I have always felt responsible, not because she was assaulted. I know I have no control over that.
I feel guilty cause I never opened up. My sisters never saw me struggling, and when it happened to her, she felt so alone, and so afraid to share, that she shut down. She tried to kill herself. I never said, you are not alone. I was never an example.
There is this entire, “It Gets Better Campaign” for GLBT kids who get bullied, which is great, its empowering. But what about all the other groups who suffer silently, who slip through the cracks of society. What about the kids with alcoholic parents? What about the kids who are abused, what about the runaways and the vagrants?
I wrote a post on a forum explaining why I don’t think I could ever write a memoir, it would hurt too many people that I actually care about, in spite of, and because of their flaws. And one of the responses was. You should write one, think of all the people you would help. And perhaps this is true. Perhaps I could help people, but at what cost. And is it selfish of me to even ask this question. How much harm is it worth to save one person? Am I responsible to tell these stories?
Second excerpt:
It was 5am
“So I was driving this black guy home that I just bought coke from, but I didnt really know him, back to south side…and I got pulled over, and they asked me if I had been drinking, and I had two beers, so he had me blow, and I blew a .09, 1 point above the legal limit, so the cop said ‘let me tell you what, you leave your car here, have your friends come bring you back tomorrow, and I’ll drive you home.’
So we get in the car and were driving, and the cop asks me “Ma’am have you ever been arrested by Baldwin County Sherif’s department before?”
“Yes sir, a few times”
“Were you ever arrested with a guy who was crying?”
‘Yes sir.”
“I think I arrested you before”
"I think you might have."
Then we pull up to the house, and all of these people are outside, and they scatter like cockroaches into the dark, when they see the cop car, and he tells me to have a good night and be safe.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Oh the
I am no stranger to headaches. I lived with one for a little over a month and a half in January/February/March, a constant pain concentrated between my temples, radiating through my brain. I lived in sunglasses and earphones (often with no music just to drown out the noise). I took stock out in Tylenol and Excedrin, since I went through a bottle (of each) a week, screw my liver or kidneys. I had mini nervous breakdowns. I cried in bathtubs. I sent text messages to friends saying "I wish I could stop my heart from beating for just one second so the pain will stop." I cried at work, I cried at home, I cried on the subway and in my car. Light made my eyes feel like they were bleeding, a whisper pulsed in my ears with the grace of a hammer. I ended my day with two pills and started it the next with more.
And then there were the flairs. The blinding moments when the pain was so bad and so extreme that I called people and said, I need to go to the Hospital. Or get in the car and start to drive myself to the emergency room, only to realize how loud, bright and crowded that place would be. So I would go back inside, and try to numb whatever senses I could.
The rational part of my mind knew what I was saying/thinking/doing was irrational. It would say things like, you don't really want to stop your heart. But I also knew that the irrational part of my mind was winning. My rational mind was shutting down, giving up, saying; "I surrender. Just make it stop". Normal tasks became difficult, hard tasks became impossible, it took all my concentration, and will power to wake up in the morning and go to work, to sit in front of a computer with the brightness turned all the way off, and try to do my job. And I felt stupid, slow, like my brain was getting scrambled, and I was loosing what made me who I am. I felt like I was loosing my mind, and in several ways I was. No sane person thinks about stopping there heart to stop there head from hurting. I felt my grip slipping.
It took a month to get in to see my Primary care physician, at no fault of hers, more simply that the primary care physician that my insurance assigned to me no longer practiced medicine. So after trying and failing to get a hold of her, I called the insurance company to switch, only to be told all changes will begin at the start of the next month. A full two weeks away. I broke down. Then tried again, got a more friendly agent, who made the change. I called the new doctor, who told me they could see me in two weeks. I broke down again. Then tried again, and after crying into the phone, got an appointment in two days. A prescription pain killer, and an MRI later, I saw a neurologist. The neurologist ordered blood tests, and put me on a steroid anti-inflammatory with the prescription pain killer, and then, by the time I finished the treatment, the pain was gone.
I wish I could say it was like waking up from a dream, that suddenly everything was normal again. It wasn't. There was no fog clearing moment. I couldn't see clearer now, the rain wasn't gone. The pain was, but the foggy, slow, stupid feeling remained. I felt like I was having trouble doing normal tasks. I felt like doing my normal job took me twice as long as it had pre headache. My focus was shot. My body was drained. My mind was in pieces.
I had moments of doubt, when I would look at a task and say, this should take me X amount of time, then when it took me twice that, I would wonder, am I really this slow, or am I remembering my abilities incorrectly. Was I ever that fast, organized, on top of things? I felt like a stroke victim.
My coworkers were supper understanding throughout the entire ordeal. They would ask me if they could help. They would stay out of my way when I ran from the office in tears. They never expressed disappointment in my speed, or frustration in my abilities. But it was the self doubt, the internal feeling of failure that I couldn't shake.
I have not written creatively since mid way through February. My brain couldn't, wouldn't, grasp the words. Until this weekend. I went to a cafe and started to write.
It has taken me four plus months to recover. I still get occasional headaches, like the one I have right now, which is like a tickle of pain on the inside of my skull, and I cant always shake that tiny bit of doubt that plagues me with insecurity and uncertainty, that I am still not quite what I was before. Every headache causes me a moment of panic, what will I do if this one never goes away, but now, Six months after it started, four months after it stopped. I am beginning to feel normal again.
I never wrote about this headache before, I liked to pretend that if I didn't voice my concerns about loosing myself, loosing my intelligence, it would just go away. That it wouldn't be true. That if I never said it out loud it would magically go away. But I don't think that's ever the case.
And then there were the flairs. The blinding moments when the pain was so bad and so extreme that I called people and said, I need to go to the Hospital. Or get in the car and start to drive myself to the emergency room, only to realize how loud, bright and crowded that place would be. So I would go back inside, and try to numb whatever senses I could.
The rational part of my mind knew what I was saying/thinking/doing was irrational. It would say things like, you don't really want to stop your heart. But I also knew that the irrational part of my mind was winning. My rational mind was shutting down, giving up, saying; "I surrender. Just make it stop". Normal tasks became difficult, hard tasks became impossible, it took all my concentration, and will power to wake up in the morning and go to work, to sit in front of a computer with the brightness turned all the way off, and try to do my job. And I felt stupid, slow, like my brain was getting scrambled, and I was loosing what made me who I am. I felt like I was loosing my mind, and in several ways I was. No sane person thinks about stopping there heart to stop there head from hurting. I felt my grip slipping.
It took a month to get in to see my Primary care physician, at no fault of hers, more simply that the primary care physician that my insurance assigned to me no longer practiced medicine. So after trying and failing to get a hold of her, I called the insurance company to switch, only to be told all changes will begin at the start of the next month. A full two weeks away. I broke down. Then tried again, got a more friendly agent, who made the change. I called the new doctor, who told me they could see me in two weeks. I broke down again. Then tried again, and after crying into the phone, got an appointment in two days. A prescription pain killer, and an MRI later, I saw a neurologist. The neurologist ordered blood tests, and put me on a steroid anti-inflammatory with the prescription pain killer, and then, by the time I finished the treatment, the pain was gone.
I wish I could say it was like waking up from a dream, that suddenly everything was normal again. It wasn't. There was no fog clearing moment. I couldn't see clearer now, the rain wasn't gone. The pain was, but the foggy, slow, stupid feeling remained. I felt like I was having trouble doing normal tasks. I felt like doing my normal job took me twice as long as it had pre headache. My focus was shot. My body was drained. My mind was in pieces.
I had moments of doubt, when I would look at a task and say, this should take me X amount of time, then when it took me twice that, I would wonder, am I really this slow, or am I remembering my abilities incorrectly. Was I ever that fast, organized, on top of things? I felt like a stroke victim.
My coworkers were supper understanding throughout the entire ordeal. They would ask me if they could help. They would stay out of my way when I ran from the office in tears. They never expressed disappointment in my speed, or frustration in my abilities. But it was the self doubt, the internal feeling of failure that I couldn't shake.
I have not written creatively since mid way through February. My brain couldn't, wouldn't, grasp the words. Until this weekend. I went to a cafe and started to write.
It has taken me four plus months to recover. I still get occasional headaches, like the one I have right now, which is like a tickle of pain on the inside of my skull, and I cant always shake that tiny bit of doubt that plagues me with insecurity and uncertainty, that I am still not quite what I was before. Every headache causes me a moment of panic, what will I do if this one never goes away, but now, Six months after it started, four months after it stopped. I am beginning to feel normal again.
I never wrote about this headache before, I liked to pretend that if I didn't voice my concerns about loosing myself, loosing my intelligence, it would just go away. That it wouldn't be true. That if I never said it out loud it would magically go away. But I don't think that's ever the case.
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