Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Go Fuck Yourself, Dear Abby

Ironically, one of my consistent acts of "digital snacking" while I ate lunch at my desk every day at work was to check into Dear Abby on Yahoo. Little did I know that Abby had joined the army of fatty haters in this world, cloaked in the disgust of the majority, easily dismissing and dissing one of her sad, FATTY fans in the following post:


When I read it, I was of course appalled. It is SO EASY for the thin and healthy to judge, isn't it? If you've never overeaten or suffered from obesity (for whatever reason) you do NOT. KNOW. WHAT. YOU. ARE. FUCKING. TALKING. ABOUT. You DON'T. Stop trying to play, you don't have a pass. FUCK OFF.

The most bullshit thing I've ever heard (many times) is how concerned people are about my "health." That is DARLING. Go on and keep telling your angel self that this is the reason you hate my fatty boombalatty ass. PLEASE. Because the only one convinced is YOU. When you say this to me, I hear you, I do...I hear I HATE YOUR FAT FUCKING SELF. Say the truth, bitches. I will say the truth to you, too. How about that?

How about:

  1. Nice to be so self aware and self possessed, ain't ya.
  2. If you are truly concerned about all the FAT ASSES in your life, why are you only sharing this "deep concern" with me? And, conversely, is this an open forum? May I discuss your eating issues, drinking, judgmental behaviors about EVERYTHING with you? I am concerned that your open legs will give you AIDS. OH, I AM SORRY. Was that wrong?
  3. Nice to be so skinny because you willed yourself to be so because nooooo, you weren't pressured at ALL from your parents, etc., and convinced that you were SHIT if you weren't thin. YAY for you.
  4. Nice to be genetically gifted with gazelle genes and do not EVEN TRY to pretend that we are all the same. My natural body type starts at sweet, squishy marshmallow. I would like to see you TRY to understand.
  5. Nice that you grew up in an active home, full of sporting, full of encouragement, full of fitness. Goody FUCKING for you.
  6. Nice that you are wired to care about fitness, your body sense, your whole self worth is wrapped up in your fitness and how others perceive you. On the other hand, my condolences. STOP pretending like we all fell out of the same mold. Stop doing it with me and I promise to do it with you, you loose ass WHORE. After all, it isn't your fault that your mother was a hooker and your daddy was a pimp, AMIRIGHT? And if they weren't, and you are still a dirty whore...my gosh. What is your excuse? Let's analyze it in an open, judge-y forum, shall we?

It is so easy to judge. Believe me, I judge people DAILY, so I already forgive you for hating my FAT ASS. Some people are massive assholes that parade their bad personalities all over life's stage. Others act like the world is just waiting to see them peacock all over the world like a shiny rainbow diamond shellbot. Still others smoulder in their own briny hate, burning to grate their hate all over everyone they can easily judge, scour, scorn, and best. Fuck all of you.

I live in this world in this body because of [REASONS]. Oh, I am sorry, are you pissed because I did not explain? Let's get right to it...in this world of oversharing, let's share: It Is Not Your Fucking Business. I am going through my own shit. I know exactly why I am, where I am and I DO NOT apologize. As someone so wise once said:

You don't know me. You don't know my LIFE.

So fuck you, Dear Abby. Fuck you and your bullshit "advice." Kiss my shiny, fat ass.

Thursday, April 17, 2014


I know I was among millions (meeeeellions bwa ha ha ha) who totally freaked out Sunday night when I witnessed King Joffrey's demise at the conclusion of the Worst Wedding Ever. Well, probably not. I can imagine every wedding to that hideous Frey was a festival of despair...yet, Joffrey's wedding was a perfect mirror of his horrid personality. Shaming his uncle, check. Shaming his dwarf uncle via a dwarf reenactment of recent battles, check. Shaming his uncle's wife's family via that reenactment, check check! Being a heinous bastard throughout? Checkity check check!!

Joffrey's death was a delight for most, though, like me, some were disappointed that it wasn't more slow, tortuous, and humiliating. But hey, beggars can't be choosers. And we are all beggars in George R. R. Martin's world. We truly are the lowly peons of his world.

What was most delightful (sick?) was the inevitable compilation of fan reactions to this turn of events. Seen HERE.

It can't quite compete with the Red Wedding reactions (seen HERE) but it was something the rest of us peons could relate to.

There was an article with Entertainment Weekly, where Martin says "...but Joffrey in the books is still a 13-year-old kid. And there’s kind of a moment there where he knows that he’s dying and he can’t get a breath and he’s kind of looking at Tyrion and at his mother and at the other people in the hall with just terror and appeal in his eyes—you know, 'Help me mommy, I’m dying.' And in that moment, I think even Tyrion sees a 13-year-old boy dying before him. So I didn’t want it to be entirely, 'Hey-ho, the witch is dead.' I wanted the impact of the death to still strike home on to perhaps more complex feelings on the part of the audience, not necessarily just cheering."

Sorry Martin, but NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE. Did I feel a little wrong cheering for anyone to die? Maybe. A little. But not as much as he thinks. Jack Gleeson's portrayal of Joffrey is the reason why. Not only is his VERY FACE ready made for punching (sorry, Jack), but his childish and sadistic portrayal is absolute and relatable. Take it from someone who was once a 13 year old girl...I may not have been Sansa, but I was psychologically, emotionally, and physically terrorized by one very adept sadist in my early teen years. Not only did I wish him dead by slow torture in my diary, I wrote short stories about it. Very, very detailed stories. So, yeah, NOPE. Sorry R.R. Maybe it went off like that in the books, but not for me! For me, it was glee. GLEE GLEE GLEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

The nice footnote to all of this: Community. Let us gather together in our shared despair (Red) and joy (Purple). I love watching the videos, not just because they reflect so much of what I expressed myself (brotherhood!) but because I got to see a myriad of lives, households, families, and friends. There are all levels of class, culture, and background represented. If we weren't connected via YouTube and all other social media, how would we ever know how much we celebrate together, mourn together...scream and yell at the television together. I can almost endure what happens next (UG, what could possibly be next?? Don't care what happens to Jon Snow...he can go next. Please don't hurt Sansa or Arya, PLEASE OMG...or even the damn Hound for pity's sake NOOOOOO). We have all been communally brain fucked by George R.R. Martin. God love the man. And maybe shove him around a little. Because REALLY RR? REALLY? WTF.

But don't stop. We love/hate it. What a ride.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

The First and Last Crush

So, I was dragged to my mom's best friend's house sometime around 87 (why does everything in this blog happen in the 80s??? UG, not ready to talk about the 90s, I guess. Def not the aughts) and I was sitting around BORED. BOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRED. She had a womany magazine, and I was flipping through. Bleh. What women want, what men want, diet tips, getting nice skin, getting laid, la la la la la. So I kept flipping, yawning, flipping. Until. I can't even remember why it was there, but there it was. The most beautiful man I'd ever seen. From that moment, I only thought of him in his 50s state. I knew who he was otherwise: Great Actor, Activist, Kind of an Asshole. Revered. But in that bored-not-bored  moment, he was Other. Something extraordinary and singular. A hot, sweaty, sneering hulk. It was lustylove at first sight.

Look at him.

Look at him again.

Isn't he fine as HAIL?

OMG, so sensitive.

I've never changed my mind after all of these years. He's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. In life, he was a MESS. Just do a Wiki search and you will see how messed up his family--as extended as it was--turned out to be. Very sad. When I started reading about him, checking out books from the main Wichita library, it was all negative. His first wife spent the first chapter of her book insulting his penis size. No one, not even his "friends," have anything nice to say about him.

We would all hope to have something better to leave behind. What he has is his acting career on screen. It is terrible. Not that legacy, no--he's obviously an icon--but as a person he left little behind but bad, worse, and shame. Sad!

Yet. Let's not kid ourselves. What do we "love" these people for, exactly? Entertainment? Yes! Idealized sexfest partners? Yes! Husbands/wives? Sigh, but probably. Sadly they are just human. Full of faults and scars and addictions. Despite all of his shortcomings, Marlon Brando will forever be my physical idea of perfection. Like a scary box of chocolates, his real filling was something close to that horrid faux cherry bootscum. But one can only hope to run into his doppelganger on the subway someday, full of gentles and reading Thomas King, full of nothing but soft salted caramel surprise.

Wow, that got kinky fast, eh? That man was salty, salty caramel. Daaaayum.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

The Best

I've seen very few big concerts in my life. VERY few, especially compared to everyone I know. They can't even count the number of shows they've seen. I can. Easily.

1. Blue Oyster Cult. The headliner was The Moody Blues...but I didn't make it that far. I was about seven and my mother was going to the Kansas Coliseum with friends. She tried to leave me off with my grandparents and I pitched a titanic fit...one so epic that my grandparents were like, I'M OUT. So she had to drag me along. She was pissed for sure, but didn't know the extent of how pissed she was about to be until the first chord struck. The noise was thunderous death. I started crying hysterically. My mother spent the entire concert with me in the outer ring area of the stadium. Enraged, I am sure!

2. Rush! This concert was special for three reasons:

a. My 8th grade science teacher asked me to go with her. In 8th grade. I went with her and my friend Julie. Julie was a teeny tiny rock chick with feathered bangs, black eyeliner, and one very special jean jacket. I had only just met my half sister--she had just turned 18 and found my my mother and I maybe a month before--so it was a crazy coincidence that we saw her and her friend on the way to the very same concert and waved screamily to each other between cars.

The funny thing was that I wasn't really into Rush. I knew "Tom Sawyer," but that was pretty much the extent of my interest in the band. What I was very interested in was going to a concert with my adult ass science teacher. I wish I could remember her name. I idolized her. She used to put Far Side cartoons on our tests. How cool is that?

Oh, the third thing, I looked way too old for my age (13). An older guy in the crowd hit on me and offered me a hit from his communal joint (drugggs!) which I of course politely declined whilst giving him SEXEYES but still I had to say no because my freaking Science teacher was standing right there giving me OH NO you DON'T eyes. Still, he had cool, dyed rock-star hair and was the most awesome thing I'd ever seen so I flirted like a foole. Of course I remember that guy. We all have one of those, right?

3. The Best. Tina Turner was 46 years old when she visited Wichita during her Private Dancer tour. My friends and I were dropped off by a concerned mom, and we made our way to our seats way in the way way far back. Until my friend Alma was like NOPE, and dragged me to about the third row. We stood on chairs with two annoyed guys who clearly paid to be there, but were then lost in the magic of the spectacle. HOLY GOD. There are people who come and go in the world of fame. But Tina Turner? JESUS. She was something otherworldly. You've never seen a woman work so hard, sweat so much, sing so fully. I loved that album, but I never really knew what a powerhouse she was...not until I saw her in concert. There are people, before her and since, who wish they could inspire that much admiration. Those boys with the stolen seats? We were right up next to them, shrieking hysterically, and I remember their faces even to this day. Awe. Joy. Transcendence.

I honestly feel so bad for you. You'll never be in 1985 watching Tina Turner at the Kansas Coliseum.

4. Aerosmith in 89 or so. Meh. It would take chains and whips to get me into a coliseum type venue again, honestly. Now that I am in NYC, I've had plenty of chances to see my idols from yesteryear (Duran Duran, Stevie Nicks and even with Fleetwood Mac) and it's all been one big NO THANKS. Like my grandpa, I truly hate the crowds. Though I should probably rethink that. It's sad to think that my one and only transcendent musical experience began and ended in 1985. Right? Even if it was Ms. Tina Turner.

Tuesday, April 08, 2014


An oldie but a goodie. I am only uploading it to make it all "About Me" at right.

Chinese Chicken Cup!

Did you guys see that a Chinese chicken cup sold for $36 million at auction?? Who wouldn't spend that much on a chicken cup?

Speaking of chickens, now that I've learned that we're moving to an open space office in just a few months (and not a  year like we thought), I must take down my Flatiron office and send all the chickens home. No more Fabulous Chicken Display (complete with fall foliage), no more Sticky Wicket Chicken (weird chicken statue gifted to Alan by a copyeditor years ago that I stared at so hard every time I came to his office that he eventually broke down and said HERE TAKE IT), no more Chinatown cell phone chicken (from shi shi!), no more glitter ornament chicken...

...that one is my favorite. Maybe I will try to bring that one with me and hang it where only I can see it. Secret chicken. Secret glitter chicken.

It's no wonder I spent half of second grade recess circling the school yard, singing to myself, alone. Until the second weirdest girl in the class decided to talk to me and turned into my best friend for life. Birds of a feather!

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Death of a Hatemonger

I don't think anyone reads this anymore, but I didn't feel confident enough to post this idea to Facebook, but still had to get it out somewhere...so.

Fred Phelps, famous hatemonger from Kansas, has died. People all over social media and just plain media have a LOT to say about it. George Takei's quote got me thinking...

"I take no solace or joy in this man's passing.

We will not dance upon his grave, nor stand vigil at his funeral holding 'God Hates Freds' signs, tempting as it may be. He was a tormented soul, who tormented so many.

Hate never wins out in the end. It instead goes always to its lonely, dusty end."

Phelps' association with Kansas has always associated him with me...along with other ridiculous Kansas news stories and policies...as a transplant living in NYC. I've heard "What's the Matter with Kansas" many times over the years. As a person who grew up in a liberal, Quaker-oriented family, all of that hate went completely over my head. It was sickening, embarrassing, and defeating to be generalized and marginalized by others' actions. More than anything--like SO MANY people in Kansas--I wanted to distance myself, my family, and my life experience from this garbage. "We are not all like that!" Said so, so many times.

With the passing of this hateful man, it is easy to say "Let's picket his funeral," "May he burn in Hell," or other similar sentiments. They aren't wrong. But wouldn't it be something if we did something completely contrary to what this man's life stood for?

I would love to see a global vigil, by candlelight or I-Phone light whatever, held by people gathered together--not to celebrate his death, but to stand up against inequality, hate, and fear. Maybe a part of it would be to lend a gesture to a person who would never grant the same to his fellow man: Perhaps not forgiveness (that would be asking for too much), but to see a tortured, twisted spirit out of this world on a note of positivity, strength, and unity to do unto others as we would have done unto us. Respect, acceptance, loving thy neighbor.

Probably a babyish wish, but this hateful man made a platform out of the deaths of others...wouldn't the greatest legacy be to turn his passing into a moment of solidarity and kindness?

Just a thought, but that's where my head is at.

Friday, January 10, 2014

Crying On the Train, A Tutorial

Should you ever find yourself exposed and unable to contain your shit, this is how you cry on pubic transit:

  1. Find a corner
  2. I hope it is a seat
  3. Close your eyes
  4. Think your thoughts
  5. Try to breathe
  6. Fail
  7. Oh No, Tears are Falling
  8. Keep Your Fucking Eyes Closed
  9. Cry Quietly Until You've Reached Your Destination
  10. Wipe Wipe Wipe
  11. Run

One of the SHIT things about living in the great metropolis is depending on mass transit to get you to and from work. Sometimes, when you are mentally or physically compromised, you must endure open emotions in front of the dark masses. You do not want to. You try not to. But sometimes it happens. It has happened to me on more than one occasion over the last HORRID year, and I hope to never be exposed again, but today it could not be helped. 

I rode the express from my workplace this evening and I was already in a quavery state of mind. As I stood amongst the masses, the pain in my lower back got worse and worse. I tried to move around. I tried to find the best position. But the pain just grew. My face screwed into a pocket of bitterness. I tried not to annoy the other people packed tight in the tin can around me. I finally escaped to 36th street and breathed a sigh of relief that I would at least not have a panic attack, even if I died from over exposure to humanity. I was misty by the time the R arrived. It took one stop, but I finally got a seat where I could stretch my spine and relax. It was not enough. Because in that time I'd managed to let all of the hate in...this is what it sounded like:

  • you are in pain, you told them it started to happen the first week you started the meds to fight anxiety because of the train...but your doc still insists the pain is because of your fat ass that expanded since then
  • no one is listening to you
  • you vomit on command because your gag reflex has been compromised because of your acid HATE reflex that has been curbed but not FIXED
  • no one is listening to you
  • you are a fat piece of shit because you ate Dairy Queen and McDonalds every day and shook your booty in the face of it -BUT- YEAH, you wish, because THAT NEVER HAPPENED but again NO ONE is listening to you
  • no one will ever love you again because you are broken and not worth fixing
  • no one is listening, and they shouldn't because you are SHIT and are not worth a whisper of attention, let alone a single, discernible word. 
  • Stop crying, PIECE OF SHIT, because NO...ONE...IS...LISTENING...TO...YOU.

So, advice: Sit where you are sitting, close your eyes, let the tears flow. No one will say a word. No one will bother you. Or help, for that matter. Not that you want them to. Get over yourself. What are you crying for anyway, you big baby? No one is listening to you.