Category Archives: bad

When you feel sad, or under a curse; your life is bad, your prospects are worse

Things have been…um…weird lately. Not overly cheerful. I know, I know, no one promised anyone a rose garden. Which is fine. Roses are kind of sneezy anyway. Cliched. I’d rather have some nice tulips. Or daisies. I’m not a smelly-flower fan. Who cares, it’s not like I’m getting all the flowers delivered, why are we even talking about this. I’m firmly in the camp of “flowers just die and then you have to throw ’em away, give me a nice houseplant instead, at least that lasts a few months before its inevitable death from the teeth of Dumbcat.”

Aw, pretty! So cheerful.

So I asked the internet, “internet,” said I, “how can I cheer up? I am grumpy. And sometimes randomly weepy. Because of the worries. And the working a million hours at weird times at my part-time job so my sleep schedule’s all weird.”

The internet was PLEASED to tell me how to be more cheerful! SO CHEERFUL. Thanks, internet!

Look how cheerful Anne Hathaway is! Even though apparently she is standing in a wind tunnel!

This article told me how to “train your brain to be more positive.” Well, that’s going to be helpful. I have a brain! Perhaps my brain is like a recalcitrant puppy and it needs to be trained not to pee on the rug. That’ll be good. I also like that the article ADMITS it sounds corny. And it’s from the Wall Street Journal, too. So that’s reputable! Let’s see what happens.

The things this article says to do:

  • change all your online passwords to positive things like “iam1awesomelaydee” or “iamasuperstar***!”
  • treat yourself like your own best friend
  • focus on the positive, not the negative
  • make yourself pictures and posters and things that are cheerful and hang them up and look at them when you are sad
  • take small breaks during a bad day to improve your bad day (go out for ice cream! go for dinner with a friend!)
  • write down all the things you are grateful for at the end of each day
  • talk out loud to yourself about all the positive things about yourself
  • help your friends with their problems because that will make you forget your own
  • think about your problems rationally; maybe they aren’t real problems at all
  • make a list of things you love doing and do one of them every day
  • make a list of things you hate doing and see which you can stop doing
  • fake being happy; to do this, hold a pencil in your mouth which will make you look like you’re smiling

Um. Well. Some of these things are less stabby than others.

I’m not changing all my passwords again. I just had to change them all recently and I STILL don’t remember them all. I have to try like a million combinations before I can get into my sites. If I changed them to something positive like “iamthekingoftheworld1234!” and then forgot it, I think it would make me MORE depressed. Wouldn’t it? If I couldn’t even remember my positive affirmations? Yes.

LOCK IT DOWN! With positive cheerful words! That will make you SO HAPPY!

I’m all for treating myself like my own best friend. I’m a good friend. Well, I’m a better friend when I have more time to BE a friend, because right now I am one suck of a friend (sorry, friends) but when I have the time to invest and not just throw out a few emails all “I LOVE YOU I MISS YOU I’M SORRY I SUCK,” I do alright. I’d take me as a friend. And I’ve mentioned this before, I know – we’d never treat a friend the way we treat ourselves. We’re always saying to ourselves how stupid and ugly and useless we are (well, women do – do men do this? Or, do they do this as much as women do?) but we would NEVER say this to a friend. Or in some cases, even an enemy. So why are we saying it to ourselves? I’m down with this one, Wall Street Journal.

Ugh, EVERY SELF HELP THING EVER tells you to focus on the positive and not the negative. Here’s the scoop, guru. That’s easier said than done. It’s really easy to be all “isn’t the sun GORGEOUS today?” when you have enough food and money and rest. It is LESS easy to concentrate on the small happy things when you have the weight of the world. And also when you are prone to depression. So, sure, tell me to concentrate on the positive. Keep sayin’ it. And I will smile at you with a lot of teeth and keep doing my best and only hate your face a little bit. I feel the same way about writing down all the things I am grateful for at the end of each day. Yes, yes. I should probably DO it, but it feels a little too hippy-dippy goofy for me and also, as mentioned, I’m not feeling especially grateful at the moment.

I will do my best not to cram your bullhorn up your…ahem. I will do my best.

I’m not doing an arts-and-crafts project and hanging it on my wall. That would not end well. This is not kindergarten. This is my home. What would I even WRITE on the poster? “YOU ARE AWESOME YOU WILL GET A JOB.” And, what, glue macaroni and glitter to it? No. No, I don’t think I will do that. That’s messy and I don’t have time to vacuum. Also, it would throw off the DAY-CORE in here. The DAY-CORE in here is…um…well, I guess it’s not shabby chic. Just shabby, I guess. Shabby and dusty.

Macaroni HAMBURGER! All this would do is make me want a REAL hamburger.

I don’t have time for small breaks and I don’t have money for ice cream or dinner. I have twenty minutes for a sandwich in the breakroom at work and sometimes I have time for breakfast if I wake up in time. What, you think I’m FANCY, Wall Street Journal? Well, this is written for people who have stocks and bonds and shit, I suppose. I don’t have those things. Well, shit, I don’t know. I might. I still have money in my 401(k) and maybe some of that’s in stocks and bonds. I don’t know what that money’s doing. Sitting there waiting for me to get poor enough to pull it out, I suppose.

I’m going to walk around positive-affirmationing under my breath for the next week or so. “I love this weather…my friends are really the best people in the world…at least I don’t have to go back to THAT job again…” and you know what that will accomplish? Making people think I’m out of my mind. Well, at least that will keep people away from me. And I don’t like people, much. So I guess that’s a win, overall.

I am HAPPY to help my friends with their problems. HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT, FRIENDS. However, I don’t think it’s going to make me forget anything going on in my life. I mean, maybe while I’m helping but it’s not like helping gives you amnesia. I don’t think that’s how brains work.

Um…I guess if you’re a kook, you might be making your teeny molehill-problems into mountain-problems. I’m sure I’m guilty of this at one point or another in my life. But this isn’t pertaining at the moment. I’m going to ignore it. I’m going to exercise that right. Sorry, Wall Street Journal.

Make a list of things you love doing and do one every day; make a list of things you hate doing and maybe don’t do some of them. THIS LIST IS EXHAUSTING ME. OK, I have enough time to do EXACTLY what I’m doing every day and nothing else. End of story. And things I hate doing? Um. I don’t love doing the dishes, but I think it’d be slightly catastrophic, vermin-wise, if I stopped doing them. Also, I think eventually I’d run out of dishes. It’s not like I have an infinite amount of them.

Not my dishes. I do mine every day, actually. I’m weird about there being dirty dishes in my sink. It’s a fairly recent obsession.

BUT! Then we get to the LAST tip, and YES! there we go. I’ve been doing it ALL WRONG! I need to be walking around with a pencil in my mouth! Which will be hard to keep there while I’m talking to myself, but I WILL PERSEVERE. (Honestly, I don’t know if faking happy makes you happy, but it fools people into thinking you are, because people see what they want to see. So if you don’t want people to know you’re depressed, just put on a happy face, like the song says. Works about 99% of the time. The only people it doesn’t fool are your closest friends and your worst enemies because they know you the best. No, seriously! Your closest friends obviously know you the best, but your worst enemies keep an eye on you – it’s the nature of enemy-ship – so they notice. It’s a weird thing, I’m sure someone has an explanation for it.)

Well! What have we learned today, apple dumplings? Apparently being cheerful is mind over matter and you have to trick yourself. Which is probably easier said than done if you are a., unintelligent or b., not filled with genetically-transmitted depression. So now I’m going to make myself a posterboard with ALL THE GLITTER AND MACARONI WORDS that spells out “LIFE IS SO SO AWESOME ZOMG” and that’ll fix it.

The article also said not to fall back on chocolate to boost your mood. I think the best tip was the one it told you not to do and I’m going to eat some chocolate now.

(Title’s from Godspell. Talk about your hippy-crunchy-granola things. I loves me some Godspell, yo. Check this out. Who’s that playing Jesus? Yep. Victor effing Garber, is who.)


Regrets, I’ve had a few; but then again, too few to mention

Well, those of you that know what’s going on are probably waiting for the BIG POST, explaining WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY, but after much thought, I decided it was probably best not to post what I WANTED to post about what happened yesterday. I’ll explain more in a bit.

What’s going on, Amy? those of you who are confused are saying.

Yep, yesterday right before lunch, I was fired from my job. Shitcanned. Donezo. (Dunzo? I dunno.)

Surprisingly, none of the paperwork I got was pink. What a letdown.

Now, this would be where I would BLAST MY COMPANY and BE ALL LOUD and WHAT THE HELL and stuff, right?

Nope.

Here’s the thing. They owe me a lot of money, which I want, and also I don’t trust them not to sue me if I say things about them that they take offense to.

I can, however, tell you what happened, right? I don’t know that that’s confidential. As long as I keep it factual.

Yesterday right before lunch, the HR rep asked if she could see me in a conference room. I knew exactly what was coming; the only question was whether I was going to get scolded or fired. I shut down what I was working on and I went to the conference room, where she and my boss (who didn’t say a word throughout) were.

I was told (which I knew) that child monitoring software had been installed on my computer and they knew been using the internet during company time for non-company purposes. I was also told they’d been reading my blog (aw! new readers!) and Twitter feed and I’d said some not-very-complimentary things about my workplace there, so it could have been a reprimand, but in light of that, it was immediate termination, and I’d have to leave the premises immediately. I’d have healthcare until the 31st, I’d get my final paycheck (and all my vacation pay and unused cafeteria plan money and such) on the 1st, and my 401(k) would remain where it was until I was ready to either roll it into my new job’s 401(k) or withdraw it.

I was then escorted to my desk, where I was overseen while I packed up, and then escorted to the exit. All of this took fifteen minutes, tops. Six and a half years boiled down to fifteen minutes.

Bye now. Bye now, and forever, actually.

Were they in the wrong? Nope. I did everything they said I did. I didn’t argue with them. “You don’t seem surprised by this,” they said. “I”m not,” I replied. And I wasn’t. I didn’t cry, I didn’t argue, I didn’t beg, I didn’t whimper. I signed where they told me to sign and packed up. There was no reason to fight it.

What, Amy? Don’t you know better? Didn’t you pay attention when Dooce got fired for blogging? (Bee tee dubs, she was able to be more honest about it than I am; read that post, and most of what she’s saying is my own personal defense. Which I didn’t put forward in the meeting where I was fired. I was uncharacteristically quiet as a mouse.) AMY! What’s wrong with you?

The answer is, I knew, and I just didn’t care. I don’t have a better answer than that. I was suffering severe job-related malaise.

No. Not forever. Not at all. No more malaise, from this day forward.

I knew this was coming. There was something in the air for weeks, and then when they installed the child monitoring software, I knew that was that. Could I have possibly stopped it, by not opening the internet again once that was installed, by only doing work-related things during work hours? Yes. I might have been able to do so, depending on how far along in the proceedings they were. But it really would have just been prolonging the inevitable.

I haven’t been happy there since I started. But it was safe. It was a paycheck; it was close to home; it’s not a great job market; and honestly, I was petrified to start looking for a job and not find anything. It was easier to stay put. Because I was afraid. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to be doing or what was right for me or what was right for them, but I was scared to get out there and risk what I had for what might be, even if what I had wasn’t what I needed.

New things = scary. It’s a fact, Jack.

I’ve been looking for a new job for the past week. I knew something was coming. I knew it was time to get out there and start applying. I actually have an interview lined up for next week. I can’t get unemployment – since I was technically let go for violating company policy, I’m not eligible (and whether or not I agree with that, completely? Whether or not I get to defend myself? Well, that’s where I need to censor myself, because I’m sure they’re still reading this) – but I will contact my part-time job and see if they have any shifts available to get me some money coming in while I look for something permanent. I have a decent amount of money coming to me from the various final-paycheck avenues mentioned above so they will help me out a little, too.

I’m not thinking too far ahead from there. I refuse to think of this as a bad thing. Utterly refuse.

Me being there was a bad thing for me. Me being there was a bad thing for them. I was being turned into a bitter, twisted version of myself that I didn’t like, but I couldn’t make it stop. I was just so profoundly unhappy that it was spilling out every time I opened my mouth during office hours, and sometimes even after office hours. I was miserable, and I am objective enough to know I was making (most of) my coworkers miserable.

Since there’s just one of me, I guess I’d be un miserable, instead of les miserables, oui?

I’m not going to slam any of them. Do I want to? I won’t answer that. I’ll just say, I’m not going to.

This is a good thing. It is. I’ll find something else. Something better. Something that will suit me better, my personality, my quirks. A workplace where I’ll flourish and that I’ll actually not dread going to every day.

I’d like to go into more detail. I would. I’d like to tell you more about whether or not this is fair, and some of the things that happened there over the years. But I don’t know what would happen to me if I did. As I said, I’m sure they’re reading this, and even though I haven’t – and have never – mentioned the name of the company here, they think what I’ve been doing is negatively affecting their image. What do I think about that? Again. I wish I could go into more detail. I’m not meant to be ball-gagged. But I truly believe it’s in my best interest not to. Not because I’m a lady, no no. Because I’m afraid of being sued and/or not getting my final checks.

So, I will leave it with this: it was a bad fit, and it has been since I started. For both them and me. This is a good thing for them and a very good thing for me, even though right now I’m a touch panicked and a little stressy and my chest is kind of tight and also it was super-embarrassing to leave carrying my sad office plant.

Even my plant is sad. SO SAD. (This is not my plant.)

I’m looking for something new. I am sure I will find something. I’m very sure. There has to be something out there. I’m intelligent; I’m a very hard worker (I know you can’t tell, because I did a lot of not-work at work, but that’s not because I wasn’t a hard worker; that’s because I finished my tasks in a timely fashion and was looking to fill the hours); when I’m doing something where I feel vital and important, I really am a lot of fun to work with; I’m creative and I’m wacky and I’m a fast learner. There’s got to be something out there for me that won’t make me feel like my soul’s being crushed with every passing hour. I know there is.

Also, listen, thank you guys. You are really amazing, you know that? I tweeted the tweet above this morning and haven’t stopped getting emails and tweets of support from people all day. I’m really humbled. I have some of the best people in the world. If not the best. Sincerely. Also, Ken wrote me this amazing post which made me laugh, and also tear up a little. Shut up, it’s been an emotional day.

So I’m not saying anything more about this, other than yep, that happened. And after I get over the HOLY SHIT I AM MAJORLY UNDEREMPLOYED AT THE MOMENT, I’m really going to revel in it. I’m going to find something else. Something that isn’t that job! Something that I might really like – can you imagine – what if it was something I’d love? I don’t know. Is that possible?

Thank you for being so awesome. Also, if you know of any excellent clerical jobs in the Capital District region of New York that pay well enough I can pay my bills and don’t mind if my hair’s a little unruly, let me know. Or if someone want to pay me to stay home and write things, I’m down with that, too. I wouldn’t mind that even a little bit.

(Oh, also, the next two days’ posts were written pre-firation, so if they mention my job…pretend they don’t. Or laugh at the distant memory. Ha ha! Remember when Amy was employed? What fun times those were!)


“Truly, I am a marionette and he is a master puppeteer.”

Today we have to discuss something VERY SERIOUS. That affects ALL OF US. Are you ready? Are you ready for something very serious that affects all of us? 

What is it, Amy? What affects all of us? 

Bad porn, is what. 

Listen, I just finished reading Fifty Shades of Grey, and people who purchased this and are reading this and are all het up about this, we need to have a discussion about why this is a VERY BIG MISTAKE ON YOUR PART. 

I’m not giving you the Amazon link to this because I DO NOT THINK YOU SHOULD BUY OR READ THIS.

Now, I am not a porn connoisseur. I couldn’t honestly care less about porn. I know it exists. As long as it’s not being waggled in children’s faces or the cause of crime against women or whatever, porn, you keep on keeping on. Everything has its place. Even porn. I’m a firm (heh, firm) believer that everyone has their kink, as as long as no one gets hurt, you do your thing. 

However, there’s PORN, then there’s Fifty Shades of Grey. 

Oh, don’t even get all technical with me and say it’s erotica, or even literotica. What it is, my little cauliflower florets, is one of the worst books I’ve ever read in my entire life. And I have read a LOT of books. A LOT a lot. 

First, can I just explain, please, why I read this book. It was on the cover of Entertainment Weekly and I didn’t even read the article and I was like, huh, must be interesting or something, and I put it on reserve at the library. Then I heard it was getting banned all over and I thought, well, NOW we KNOW it must be interesting! If someone tells me I’m not ALLOWED to read something, then I REALLY want to read it. Then people started telling me what it was about, and I thought, huh. Well, who cares, I don’t mind erotica. I read all of those stupid Ann Rice Sleeping Beauty books. Those were pretty steamy. 

Oh, in case you live under a rock or maybe in the outback or something, Fifty Shades of Grey is about two people in a consensual BDSM relationship. Plus some other stuff. We’ll go more into that later. Also, do I have to tell you that a., there are going to be spoilers here, and b., WE’RE TALKING ABOUT SEX STUFF TODAY? So kids, go watch a Disney movie, or something, and people who want to remain unspoiled for the book (I think most anyone who wanted to read it have by now, though) you can go read my archives or something, I suppose. 

See? Nice. Go watch this, kiddos. Don’t keep reading, you’ll get a complex.

Moving on. I was not at all comfortable with the older women in my office who decided to have a conversation about it with me in the lunchroom before I’d even read it, though. I’m not friends with these people. I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT SEX WITH YOU.

OIder lady 1: Amy, you like to read. Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?
Me: Nope.
Older lady 1: You should. It’s about…(whispers) SEX.
Me: I’ve heard. I have it on reserve at the library. I’ll read it someday.
Older lady 1: All KINDS of sex. KINKY sex.
Me: Mmm-hmm. (Frantically reading book, eating sandwich, trying to look busy so the conversation would stop)
Older lady 1: SO MUCH SEX. I was wondering, where’s the plot? Because there was SO MUCH KINKY SEX. People were TYING PEOPLE UP!
Me: Oh? Huh. (Reading! Eating! READING!)
Older lady 2, walking in: Hey, ladies! What are we talking about?
Older lady 1: Fifty Shades of Grey! It’s a book about ALL THE SEX!
Older lady 2: Oh! Wow! (sits, settles in for a long discussion)
Me: I…um…have to get a thing from the place. (leaves in a hurry) 

(SIDE NOTE: I don’t MIND discussing sex, just not with women old enough to be my mom that I don’t know very well and don’t like all that much. And not in the work lunchroom. That seems unsanitary. That’s where the FOOD is.) 

OK. So. Fifty Shades of Grey. Why’s it so bad, Amy? Is it the sex? No. The sex is fine. Is it the subject matter? Nope, like I said, whatever, there’s a place for porn (or erotica, or literotica, whatever) and great, good, you go, book, you go. 

Here’s the problem. 

IT IS ONE OF THE MOST POORLY-WRITTEN THINGS I HAVE EVER READ. 

Here’s a quick rundown. Anastasia Steele, a very, very clumsy girl about to graduate college, is roped into interviewing Christian Grey, a very rich businessman. They dig each other. They get together. He’s into being a dominant! He wants her to be his submissive! He has ISSUES! In his own words, he is “fifty shades of fucked up!” Plus, his last name is GREY! HENCE THE TITLE YO! 

Will these two crazy kids make it work? Oh, will they? I CAN’T WAIT TO FIND OUT! Oh, wait, yes. Yes, I can. I can wait. I can SO WAIT. I can wait FOREVER. 

I assure you this single photo is a billion times sexier than the entire series. And I didn’t even read books two and three.

So I got the book from the library. I was a little worried it would be sticky. You don’t know what people do with library books that are NORMAL, I don’t want to know what they do with PORN. 

I read about thirty pages and was in tears of laughter about how badly it was written. I scared the cat. I was talking to the damn book. OUT LOUD. 

First, I was only a little way in before I said, “Huh. What’s going on here? Ana seems a lot like Bella from Twilight, with the self-doubt and the clumsiness. Is clumsiness the new black? If so, I am on the CUTTING EDGE OF COOL since I fall down ALL THE DAMN TIME. Where’s my knight in shining armor, I wonder?”

Oh my NOOO! Look at poor clumsy helpless BELLA! (Man, did I hope this truck was going to hit her. It didn’t. I had sadface.)

Then someone on Twitter pointed out that the book started as Twilight fan fiction, and the Twi-hards were all, “Um…naughty! But titillating!” so the author just changed the names and published it. 

Listen, had I known that, I would NOT have read this book. I hate Twilight. HATE. With the fire of a thousand suns HATE. 

Also, it says something that even Stephenie Meyer was all, “Um…yeah. No. No, this isn’t…good for her, but…no.” 

So even though it was the worst book ever, based on one of my least-favorite series ever, I kept reading. Why? To be honest, I wanted to blog about it. It’s the main reason I do anything hilariously awful lately. 

Here are some (and there are many) issues I have with this book. 

Argh 

One of the only times that “argh” is permissible. Plus, it’s Joss, he can do whatever he wants.

At least twice that I counted, in the middle of some very “hot” sex (the sarcastic quotes are because there’s nothing hot about the sex Ana and Christian had, ever, except, I suppose, the temperature when they were having it in a bathtub) Ana made the noise “argh.” Now, I’m pretty sure if you make the noise “argh,” you are a., a pirate, b., tripped over an ottoman, c., foiled again, curses, d. doing the Mutant Enemy Joss Whedon credits and saying “grr, argh.” You’re not in the throes of passion. (She also made the noise “Aaaaah!” and “Aaaaagh.”) An easy fix? “Ana moaned.” See? See how much more sexy that is? NO ONE WOULD SAY ARGH DURING SEX. If I was having sex with a guy and he broke out the “argh” I would laugh so hard one of us would roll off the bed, I’m not even kidding. Oh, you want an example? HAPPY TO OBLIGE. Let’s take this. The Bloggess had her laptop stolen. So she wrote a post entitled Aaaaaaargh. THIS IS AN APPROPRIATE USE OF ARGH. Not during SEX. Not during something you’re ENJOYING. (Well, I guess unless you have a charley horse. Not that this has ever happened to me. OK FINE ONCE IN COLLEGE. And it was the WORST. Talk about something that took me by surprise. GOOD GRAVY.) I don’t take a bite of cereal in the morning and go “ARGH!” unless  the milk’s gone bad. Who does this? The answer is no one. No one does this.

Euphemism 

Oh, I’m pretty sure this was utilized in the writing of this book.

I’m not saying I needed a clinical textbook or anything, but the only body part that was referred to by its proper name (I’m of course referring to our swimsuit area body parts, don’t be ridiculous, of course she said “arms and legs” or whatever) were breasts. Everything else was all “throbbing member” and “the juncture of my thighs” and “the place where he was both velvety and hard, what a titillating combo” and “my warm and wet place.” ZEE OH EMM GEE. Here, look what you can do in print without the world exploding, ready? Penis. Vagina. Clitoris. WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHAT WILL HAPPEN? Nothing, is what. I’m not saying porn would be hotter with “he then inserted his penis into my vagina” – that sounds a little too much like a sexual how-to pamphlet in hell – but it’s amazing to me that you can make it through an entire 514-page book riding on a boat made of euphemism. They’re just words. I mean, you had these people whipping and chaining and such, and you’re quailing at the use of “vagina?” Please. 

Britishisms 

Yep, this about sums it up.

Ana made a big deal about being country mouse and never having left the continental United States. Christian was well-traveled, but grew up and lived (as did Ana) in Seattle. However, for some reason, the two of them said things – constantly – like “have a tidy-up” and “well-remembered, you” and “well played.” Hmm. Why would Seattle denizens speak thus? OH. BECAUSE THE AUTHOR IS BRITISH. I really got the feeling the closest she’d ever been to MERKA was to watch a couple episodes of Dallas one time. If that. Maybe.

GIGANTIC THESAURUS WORDS 

No one thought: they pondered. No one was interested: they were titillated. No one was wordy: they were verbose. No one was moody: they were sullen. This woman never met a three-dollar word she didn’t just love, she rode until it was all up in a lather and then she, for good measure, beat it into the ground while cackling like a crazy. Oh, sorry, like a banshee. Or an utter lunatic. Or an institutionalized harpy. I KNOW BIG WORDS TOO. And I know there’s a time to use them. It’s not always in your bad porn. We still know it’s bad porn, lady. 

“inner goddess”/inner monologue 

Mine likes to wear pajamas and loaf. A lot of loafing.

Listen, Ana was annoying. The MOST annoying. The whole book, unfortunately, was from her point of view. We constantly had to listen to her inner monologue. And at least once on a page, you had to hear what her “inner goddess” was thinking. “My inner goddess was doing cartwheels.” “My inner goddess was hiding behind the couch.” “My inner goddess was doing a sultry samba.” WHO TALKS LIKE THIS. I don’t have an inner goddess. If I did, you’d get “Amy’s inner goddess is eating Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food out of the container on a couch covered in cat hair while watching Celebrity Rehab.” 

I think everyone was schizophrenic 

Yes, I realize Jack wasn’t a schizophrenic in this movie, but I love this picture so much. Let me have it. I just read a really awful book for you. Thanks.

I know. People are unpredictable and wild! That’s nice. It is. Thing is? People aren’t. Not really. Sure, people do things that are out of character. But these things usually point toward something being wrong with them. How many times has a friend of yours done something weird, and you’ve said to a mutual friend, “That’s unlike Frank/Francine. I hope everything’s ok with him/her.” Probably you have. I know I have. People are, for the most part, a predictable species. NOT IN THIS BOOK BUCKAROO. People say one thing and do another! People say they want to be beaten with a belt, then get mad at their boyfriend for actually going through with it! People say they don’t want a relationship and then two pages later say, “All I can think about is being in a relationship with you because I love you now!” I can’t take anything seriously when it’s this all over the board, I really can’t. 

Stilted writing of unnecessary scenes 

Pretty sure we’d find this in the author’s house. Only with glitter stickers on it. Of hearts and shit.

There were page-long descriptions of “I decided I might be hungry. But what might I be hungry for? Maybe an omelette. I don’t know. Was I in the mood for an omelette? My inner goddess wanted some fruit. I decided to make some pancakes. I didn’t know where the bowls were. I looked in the cabinets. I found the bowls. I put the bowls on the counter.” ZOMG IF I WANTED A BLOW-BY-BLOW I’D VIDEOTAPE ME MAKING DINNER. I don’t care. I don’t CARE! There’s an old rule of thumb – if it doesn’t further the story, you don’t need it. Apparently, E. L. James was too busy masturbating to thoughts of Edward Cullen to read any “how to write something that doesn’t suck” manuals. Sorry. Was that totally the grossest and all the TMI? Wait until I get to my next section. 

The sex isn’t at all sexy 

I’m fairly sure this isn’t the face I was supposed to be making when reading the sex scenes. Yet it was pretty much my reaction.

There’s a lot of sex. Don’t get me wrong. A LOT OF IT. Like, every few pages, someone’s getting a throbbing member thrust into a wet and warm place. But it’s not sexy. From the time Ana loses her virginity (the pain of which? “a slight pinch” – um, ok, good for you, darling, not how I remember it, but fine) to the most DISTURBING TAMPON SCENE YOU CAN EVEN IMAGINE (I’m not even going to go into it, but watch this totally amusing fake YouTube book trailer if you want a hint, a gross, gross hint) to the BDSM scenes, which I suppose would be sexy, if I didn’t hate both Ana and Christian so much I wanted him to accidentally choke her out, have to bury her in the backyard, and then get caught and locked up for life, you get all the non-sexy sex you could desire. With a lot of “my inner goddess swooned” interspersed. Oh, and she never has an orgasm. Instead, she “shatters into a million pieces and slowly puts herself back together.” EVERY DAMN TIME. That’s another word the author is afraid of. Orgasm. ORGASM IS A DIRTY WORD YOU GUYS. Nipple clamps and fisting are on the table (heh, on the table) but not orgasm. (I just checked, and yes, she does say it once and a while. I apologize. Not OFTEN, but apparently it’s not the naughty word that penis is. My fault. So sorry.) 

Also, there was a lot of “he pulled at my nipples until they elongated.” As in, more than once. In multiple sex scenes. Um. OUCH OUCH OUCH. THAT’S NOT WHAT THEY’RE FOR. They are not Silly Putty. You cannot transfer the comics onto them. THERE ARE NERVE ENDINGS IN THERE. 

I wanted to punch every single character in the neck three times a page 

Ana was a useless waste of space who went into the relationship expecting this guy to change even though he told her exactly what he was looking for (granted, he acted like a schizophrenic with the changing of his mind, so maybe that’s why she was fooled.) She also fell down a lot and ran into things and almost got hit by a bike. Christian was a control freak who was sexually abused as a teenager and most likely abused as a child (that was hinted at but not explained. YET.) Ana’s mom talked like a pre-teen. Ana’s friends were either controlling bitches or would-be rapists. And that’s pretty much everyone in the entire book. There’s no one to root for. NO ONE. 

No one talks like this, NO ONE 

…and here’s another reference book she used. Used WRONG.

People say things like “WHOO all this UST in the room!” and then I have to look up what “UST” is and it’s unresolved sexual tension. WHO THE HELL TALKS LIKE THIS NO ONE NO ONE. Or, how about Christian’s brother’s term of endearment and goodbye to his girlfriend, which Ana and Christian adopt as their own: “Laters, baby.” LATERS, BABY? Oh, no. Oh, my, no. Also, there’s a lot of “I bit my lip” and then Christian goes BATSHIT CRAZY all “Don’t DO that, you KNOW how that affects me, I WANT TO BE THE ONE BITING YOUR LIP.” What the actual hell? And the title? The title of this post? Direct quote from the book. THAT IS SOMETHING ANA SAYS TO HERSELF DURING SEX. You know, because when you’re in the middle of all the sex, you think of a sentence as clunky as that. Or, OR, when Ana and her overbearing roommate and BFF (why? who knows, Ana’s a douchenozzle) were talking about how Ana lost her flower to Christian: “Kate looks wistful. ‘Yeah, took almost a year to have my first orgasm through penetrative sex, and here you are…first time?’”If my BFF said “penetrative sex” to me, I think I would throw something at him, possibly the television remote, and then laugh until I had a choking fit. Who says “penetrative sex” in a casual conversation? That’s the kind of thing someone says in a safe-sex talk at the local Planned Parenthood, or something. Not two BFFs sitting around shooting the shit. I feel like this author was raised by wolves. Wolves with nothing to read but thesauruses. 

THERE ARE TWO MORE OF THESE 

Why. Why. WHY.

The book ended on a CLIFFHANGER ZOMG (let’s be honest, I didn’t give a shit) and there are TWO MORE OF THEM. Fifty Shades of Greyer and Fifty Shades of Suck My Soul Out Through my Nose if I Have To Read Any More of This Shit. NO THOSE AREN’T THE REAL TITLES. Am I going to read them? No. No I’m not. Life’s too short. I assume, with no prior knowledge, that most likely Ana and Christian end up happily ever after, with her accepting his lifestyle as her own, with some modifications, or something like that. It’s not like this woman can write or come up with anything original. OOH! Maybe someone has a magic sparkle baby like in Twilight! That’d make me want to read more!* (*no it wouldn’t) 

Now, listen. I’m not completely against this book, for two reasons. Two. And only two. And to show you that I can be UNBIASED, I will share them with you. 

The power of viral marketing 

This woman published these with a tiny e-pub house in Australia, and with the power of viral marketing and word-of-mouth, they’re topping the bestseller lists. That makes me want to vomit until I’m sore, but that’s not the point. The point is, whoever’s marketing her books is doing one hell of a job. Or just people talking did this, I don’t know. Whoever it is, or a combination of both? Kudos. These terribly written pieces of trash are the it thing. Undeservedly so, but they are. And that’s impressive. Now let’s use our powers for good and get some GOOD books on the bestseller list, what do you say? 

Getting women to talk about sex more openly 

I know I was all ew ew ew earlier about the ladies in my lunchroom (and I’m still ew ew ew, that hasn’t changed) but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with women feeling like they can openly discuss sex. If this terrible book makes them feel like they can do that? Well, fine, then it has served one purpose, and now we can use it to prop up the short leg on the coffee table. Seriously, sex isn’t dirty. There’s a time and a place for it (and if you’re a stranger and you think we’re going to talk about it on Twitter, hit the road, I’M TALKING TO YOU DING DONG JOE) but sure, it’s not something women should be ashamed of talking about. Men talk about it all the time. Women should feel free to do so, as well. So, yeah. Just – there are better books, sexier books, that you can read. You know that, right? OK, good. Just checking. Go read those. Because I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to slip into a sexy frame of mind when the writing is so bad in a book it makes me laugh until I’m crying, you know? 

Goodreads really needs an option for .00001 stars, because giving this one star really didn’t give me the satisfaction I wanted. 

For additional awesome, please to visit this Tumblr, which has provided me with hours of entertainment.  

My inner goddess is hungry now and I think I need a sandwich or maybe some wasabi peas. Laters, baby.


Especially at night, I worry over situations.

I like this photo because crazy eyes? CHECK.

I have been an insomniac since I was about 13. That’s almost 25 years of very, very poor sleep. In case anyone’s counting. Is anyone counting? OH WAIT I AM. Because I have all the time for it, you see. ALL THE TIME. Because I CAN’T EFFING SLEEP.

I come by it naturally. Every single person on my dad’s mom’s side of the family, going back to…wherever they go back to (I don’t know where, we’re apparently in some sort of ancestry witness protection, because whenever I ask, people just say, “CANADA” and then get shifty-eyes, and when I say, “Well, there must have been something BEFORE Canada, or are we Native Canadian people, or what, exactly?” they clam up and start talking about the weather or snowmobiling or hunting or something. They’re shady, those upstaters. This is QUITE A MYSTERY.)

My dad can’t sleep. His mom couldn’t sleep. None of her siblings could sleep. Her dad couldn’t sleep. I can only assume one of HIS parents couldn’t sleep, and there we go, back to the wilds of Canada or wherever my ancestors are from. I’m going to pretend Italy. Let’s pretend Italy, ok? I’d like to be pretend-Italian. It would explain my love of carbs and insistence on talking with my hands. OOH OR MAYBE ATLANTIS. Yep. That would totally explain all the secrecy. I’m going to start telling people my ancestors are the last of the people from the lost city of Atlantis. This is going to be GREAT.

My main problem is, I can’t turn off my brain. You read my blog. See all this crap? This is not just how I write. THIS IS HOW I THINK. My brain is going a million miles an hour and it’s all Ricochet Rabbit bing-bing-binging around in there. If there were a way to get that all to just STOP, to go to static like the TV used to sign off at the end of the day? That would be great. But brains aren’t like television sets from the 70s. They DON’T EVER STOP WORKING. It’s not even nightmares. It’s that I can’t get my brain to turn off long enough to get to sleep in the first place. I’d WELCOME the nightmares. At least that means I’m SLEEPING.

I have sleeping pills. Well, here’s the odd thing. I went through a million sleeping pills, and none of them worked. First, they tried to do herbal and did the melatonin thing. That worked for a little while, but then I had to keep upping the dose until I was taking about ten of those things a night and they weren’t having much of an effect and when I told the doctor that she was all, “Um…yeah, that probably isn’t a good idea, let’s stop that.” Then she said to try over-the-counter medication, but not to bother with something fancy, just get Benedryl. That did nothing other than make me fall asleep for about an hour, then I’d be awake, and very, very dry. Because it’s for allergies. So it dries you all up. So mostly I was all dried up for a week or two. Not working. Then some herbal calcium supplement, which again, worked for a week or so, then my body was all, “WE’RE HIP TO THIS JIVE” and right back to staring at the ceiling at 3am.

Then she tried precription sleeping pills, but the first couple did nothing at all. NOTHING. It was like taking sugar pills. Which they might have been, I don’t know. I might have been in a whole medical test situation that I didn’t know about.

Then she got frustrated and said, “Here, try these” and wrote me a prescription for something else. When I asked what it was (probably between yawning) she said “Well, that’s a funny story. It was originally marketed as an antidepressant. But people who were taking it as such remained depressed, and then some of them started killing themselves? So doctors knew it wasn’t actually a very good antidepressant and probably just about the worst, actually, so they don’t really prescribe it as that anymore. But a side effect of it is, it makes you VERY DROWSY. So now we use it as a last-ditch effort for people who can’t sleep.” When I asked her if she really thought it best she called that a “funny” story she thought about it and said, “No, probably not.”

Yes, I realize I’m taking pills that failed in their original goal. That’s ok. Everyone deserves a second chance, even pharmaceuticals.

I’ve been taking it for almost ten years now. Up until recently, it’s worked fairly well. FAIRLY well.

Here’s a normal person’s night of sleep:

Gets sleepy
Gets ready for bed
Gets into bed
Falls asleep
Stays asleep
Wakes up feeling, for the most part, refreshed

Here’s MY night of “sleep”:

Gets close to bedtime; remember to take your pill so you’ll get sleepy
Wait for an hour for the pill to get you sleepy enough to want to attempt to sleep
Get into bed
Lie there for anywhere from half an hour to an hour tossing and turning, kicking Dumbcat out because he is stepping on you with sharp feet and refuses to JUST STOP IT, thinking about EVERY BAD THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO YOU EVER plus ALL THE THINGS WEIGHING ON YOUR MIND plus ALL THE PEOPLE YOU FORCE YOURSELF TO NEVER THINK ABOUT DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS
Fall asleep (most of the time)
Wake up 3-5 times a night, randomly, and repeat the whole process
Wake up in the morning CRANKY AS HELL and WANTING TO PUNCH A KINDERGARTENER IN THE FACE AREA

(From this, I think you can see why me ever getting married or sharing my bed with anyone but Dumbcat would be a very, very, VERY bad idea. Also, I don’t like anyone touching me when I’m trying to sleep? Because it’s like work, and that’s distracting. I mean, sure, fine, let’s have some sex, that’s nice, that’s good, but then why don’t you go sleep elsewhere because there’s no WAY I’d get to sleep with someone touching and breathing and being all up in my space when I wanted to toss and turn and huff and puff and look at the clock and go “ARGH!” and such.)

At this point, I’ve gotten used to it. There’s no point in NOT getting used to it. It’s not like it’s going to get any better. I know I’m always exhausted; I’ve been that way for the majority of my life. It does make me sad when people say they’re looking forward to bed, though. The only times in my life I’ve slept without a problem are when I’m sick, when I’m depressed, or when I’m not supposed to (in class, when someone’s talking to me, in movie theaters – pretty much when I’m bored and should be paying attention to something.)

The only, only, ONLY good thing is that sometimes I come up with kickass ideas when I’m in bed unable to sleep and it’s 3am. And not all of them are harebrained schemes! I know, right? I know you’re probably wondering, why don’t I get out of bed and do something? I am ETERNALLY OPTIMISTIC. I keep hoping if I stay there, I’ll fall asleep – and even a little sleep is better than none. If I get up, I know I’ll never get back to bed, and then I have no one but myself to blame when I feel like shit the next day.

So anyway, here is last night. Ready? Last night was a BLAST.

The new thing is: panic attacks. Does anyone have those? They are a TREAT.

My fight or flight is ALL EFFED UP, you guys.

They’re LIKE a heart attack, only my doctor assures me they’re not. So, that’s nice. You can assure your BRAIN that you’re not having one. HOWEVER. Your heart is beating a mile a minute; your chest hurts; your arm hurts; your neck hurts; and sometimes, SOMETIMES, your limbs twitch uncontrollably and if you’re half-asleep when they hit, YOU SHOUT. Yep. They are the prettiest things in the WORLD, panic attacks are. They were fun when I had roommates, who often thought I was being murdered in the middle of the night, not just panicking over things that weren’t real.

I haven’t had one in a while. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Work stuff. Personal stuff. I’m on stuff-overload. Last night, Panic Attack Time! Wahoo!

So I went to bed EARLY. Well, for me. Because Mondays at work kick my ass and I wanted to face it with ALL THE INTREPIDNESS. Also, I had gotten less and less sleep over the last week. It went from 6 to 5 to 4 hours of sleep over the week. I wanted to get ALL the sleep. So I was just curled up for about fifteen minutes when PANIC ATTACK. The worst one EVER.

“I’m fairly sure I’m dying right now,” my brain said.

“Don’t be absurd, it’s a panic attack,” my brain replied. “You KNOW these can’t kill you.”

“But has my chest ever hurt THIS much? Or my ARM? Also, I bet the morgue is FULL of people who ignored these VERY SIGNS and then their cat ate their face because they are Forever Alone. I think I should call 911.”

“The doctor TOLD you these are panic attacks. You KNOW they are. Do you really want to be the asshole who went to the hospital for a panic attack? Also, your copay is $100. Kiss your laptop fund goodbye, sis.”

SHIT.

So this went on for three hours.

Then I decided, because I was SO TIRED and also WEEPY, that it was the BED’S fault. So I went to sleep on the couch.

Dumbcat was on the couch. He was VERY EXCITED it was playtime.

“Meow? Meow? MEOW?”

“No Dumbcat not playtime let’s sleep so tired” I garbled at him and flopped on the couch.

More panic attacks, but this time with the added “over twenty-pound cat walking to and fro on me because he thought I was a bridge and this was super-fun-playtime and he was KING OF THE MOUNTAIN and I WAS THE MOUNTAIN” accouterment.

Eventually, I guess I fell asleep. I opened my eyes and was SO EXCITED. Had I conquered it? Surely I had! The BED was the culprit! That damn bed. Was it time to get up? Was it time for work?

Yeah. Twenty minutes had passed. It wasn’t even light out yet.

I went through “panic attack panic attack PANIC ATTACK sleep for twenty minutes” a few more times, then decided I needed some aspirin because the guy in the Bayer commercial told me at the first sign of a heart attack to take some. And since I wasn’t going to the hospital for what might or might not be a panic attack, I was going to take some aspirin to stop the heart attack panic attack so at least when they did the autopsy they’d know I was paying attention to the Bayer commercials. So I got out the aspirin bottle but it has a childproof cap. You know. Because of all my children. NO not the soap opera. So I got it open in a feat of strength that was heretofore unknown in my household only to spill half the bottle on the bathroom floor. Then I couldn’t decide – could aspirin kill cats? Or was that ibuprofen? Did I care enough about Dumbcat and his middle-of-the-night foraging to clean up all these aspirin?

I did. I got on my hands and knees and cleaned them all up on the off chance it would save my cat’s life. YOU OWE ME DUMBCAT.

Then I realized I could have just shut the bathroom door until the next morning and just started BAWLING because I was SO EFFING TIRED SERIOUSLY.

Then I somehow ended up back in my bed. I think I’d forgotten my bed was conspiring to keep me from ever sleeping again? I’m not sure. But in a strange turn of events that I can’t quite explain, I fell asleep with my HEAD near the FOOT of the bed and my feet on the pillow. With no pillow. Or sheets.

At this point in the night it was 5am. I get up at 6:20. So, all in all, I got an hour and twenty minutes of uninterrupted sleep, and two or three 20-minute catnaps, while being walked on by a cat. A VERY DUMB CAT.

Added up: a little over two hours of sleep.

And Mondays are HELL at work during tax season.

So, I was a zombie today. I ran into a wall; I answered questions with the wrong answers (and, not just KIND OF the wrong answers – I was asked, “What’d you do this weekend?” and I said, “Thanks, I got it at Rite Aid,” and when they said, “What?” I said, “The movie was good.” Those kind of conversations happened more than once today), I started crying when a very nice coworker told me it was ok if I left some work for the next day (not because he was giving me permission – I was going to leave it anyway – but because he was BEING SO NICE), I got a call from Adam to Christine, and called Christine, and said, “I have Christine on the line for you, Adam” to her, which was classy and not at all word salad.

My dad is very “WHAT WILL WE DO TO FIX THIS PROBLEM” when I tell him things, so his first thing was, “well, it’s the blogging’s fault, quit the blogging” and I was all, “um, no, can I quit work? I’d sleep like a baby then” and he said I could not. Dammit. My mom said warm milk. WHO DOES THAT. Ugh. I only like very cold milk. THAT’S WHY YOU KEEP IT IN A FRIDGE.

I’ve TRIED all the normal fixes. I know, people love to give insomnia advice. It’s very nice, it is. But when it’s been happening for so long, and when the nights are so damn long and dark and seem endless and all you can think of is how bad the next day will be because your brain will be mush – all the advice in the world can’t fix that. Andreas wrote a very helpful post about how to combat sleeplessness not too long ago, and I loved it – but I’ve tried all the things. None of them work once my head hits the pillow and my brain starts being a hamster on a wheel.

I’m thinking lobotomy, right? Because that would turn off ALL THE THOUGHTS. Good idea? We like that? Yes? Wait, what, we don’t? Ugh, dammit, fine.

Wish me all the best. That bed’s giving me a look I don’t like. A very, “It’s you and me, buckaroo, and only one of us is winning this one,” look. I think it underestimates how very much I like to win. Also, how bone-tired I am. Dumbcat, you’re staying in the living room tonight. Sorry, buddy. Your feet are too sharp and I don’t feel like playing King of the Mountain tonight.

(UPDATE: This was written Monday night, right before bed. I SLEPT LIKE A CHAMP. Didn’t wake up ONCE. Fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. Woke up and Dumbcat was sleeping on my face and even THAT didn’t wake me up. BED. I totally conquered you. WIN! WIN!)


Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

I’m totally still dying and it’s annoying the shit out of me.

No, seriously, this is like the second DAY of death, and also I was dying a little on Monday, so like the 2.5th day of death. THAT’S WAY TOO MUCH DEATH. I didn’t even go to work today. I got up with every intention of going to work? But then I walked around the apartment for approximately twenty minutes, realized I was probably going to throw up if I remained that far from the ground (or a couch or a bed, I’m not overly choosy, the bathroom floor will also do) and called in to work. Which will probably cause a tizzy but seriously, if I went in today, THERE WOULD BE VOMITING AT WORK. This is not something I am keen on. Things I don’t like to do at work where people might know I’m doing them: throw up or cry. Neither of these things are anyone’s business and there’s no way you can do either of these things and come out of them looking like a superstar. And I only like to do things where I look like a superstar, I mean, seriously, come on. Who doesn’t?

So I stayed home and went back to sleep. And here is a dream I had that I was convinced was true and when I woke up and it wasn’t, I was sad. I dreamed that Ewan McGregor started following me on Twitter and we became friends and were chatting and I told my friend Mer, because we both love him, and the two of us were super-excited about this very celebrity turn of events in my life, only then I woke up and I no longer had a hot Scottish actor BFF and also still had a stomach bug so that was a total letdown.

Anyway, so I planned on sleeping all day to make this effing stomach bug just run away or something because I have totally had enough already, I have NO PATIENCE OR TIME FOR SICKNESS, but apparently I also have no patience or time to be lady-of-the-manoring around in my bed at all hours because after about 10am I woke up and was NOT ABLE to fall back to sleep, no matter what. This is how I know I am old. Remember back in college, when you could seriously sleep all day? I remember some days, waking up at 4pm, eating a combination breakfast/lunch/dinner thing, then going out drinking. I don’t think that’s a possibility anymore, is it? When you’re old, your body’s all “Get up, lazyass, there’s SUN in the WINDOW. What the hell is WRONG with you. Do you think you’re FANCY?” And, no. No, I don’t think I’m fancy. Just sick.

Also, I have two meetings tonight at the theater that I am NOT missing. Even if I have to attend them, sit really far away from everyone, be super-careful not to breathe on anyone, and also sometimes run into the bathroom all “sorry sorry sorry CARRY ON” in the middle of them. So I THOUGHT if I slept all day I could make the evil stomach bug leave out of boredom or something but that’s a no-go.

OK, so ANYWAY, since I’m already in a bitch of a mood and also kind of feel like vomiting, let’s talk about two things that totally piss me off. Ready? OF COURSE YOU ARE SLAPPY.

Stop Effing with Cookies and Children, You Morons

OK, so it’s Girl Scout cookie time. You all know what that means, right? Overpriced cookies in teeny-tiny boxes that are TOTALLY EFFING DELICIOUS. Seriously, ZOMG. I mean, I can’t eat cookies anymore, due to health issues and such, but back in the day, I’m pretty sure I could have eaten an entire box in one sitting. Not that I would have. NO NOT ME.

So back in October in Colorado, a seven-year-old transgender boy named Bobby wanted to join the Girl Scouts. Bobby has identified as female since he was two. His parents, who sound totally savvy and I kind of love them, are accepting of this, and identify him as female (I would, also, identify him as female throughout this diatribe, but it would make for confusion, writing-wise. Please know that I totally accept his identification as female, and, in any other writing situation where it would not be confusing, identify him with his chosen pronoun.)

The local Girl Scout troop leader, some woman named Mary, was all “NO DICKS IN MY SCOUTS” and wouldn’t let him join. (Yeah, I made that quote up. I think she was all “he has boy parts.” Same thing. Mine was funnier. Also, Mary, you’re a dick.)

The Girl Scouts themselves, when informed of this situation, gave their official stance, which was “Girl Scouts is an inclusive organization and we accept all girls in Kindergarten through 12th grade as members. If a child identifies as a girl and the child’s family presents her as a girl, Girl Scouts of Colorado welcomes her as a Girl Scout.”

This totally rocks, Girl Scouts. Seriously. This is progressive, and this is kind, and this embodies the Girl Scouts, to me. Inclusiveness, and accepting each other, and working together.

However! Then we get this stellar example of youth in America. I refuse to put the actual video on my blog because this girl makes me want to punch her in the snobby little mouth.

First off, COULD SHE BE ANY MORE FULL OF HERSELF WITH THE TOTAL SNOBBINESS. She’s totally going to get her ass kicked at some point for the attitude. Also, I don’t think any transgender children would want anything to do with her. Because she’s a total little snot. Also, this isn’t all on her. How old is this child? I’m awful with ages. Like, 14? Something like that? Someone’s fed her all this shit and she, being 14 or whatever, has swallowed it down. Listen, when I was 14? I thought a LOT of things that my parents wanted me to think that I now know are not only incorrect, but downright full of moral turpitude.

The way she says “QUOTE” reminds me of the way Dwight Schrute says “QUESTION.” She’s got some hard times ahead of her, methinks.

Anyway, so this little snotty-snot is all “do not buy Girl Scout cookies to teach them a lesson because I don’t want to share a tent with a transgender child because I wouldn’t feel safe QUOTE.”

Here’s the scoop, sunshine. The transgendered kids in question here? ARE GIRLS. Do they have penises? Yep. Until they have surgery, if they indeed choose to have the surgery, sure they do. They don’t WANT to have sex with you. I mean, the minute you’d say “QUOTE” no one would, let’s be frank, but they don’t want to have sex with any of the Girl Scouts. Unless maybe they’re a lesbian, and then they might have a crush on one or another of the Girl Scouts. Again, probably not you, Dwight Schrute. But you’re just as safe with that girl in your tent as you are with any of the other Girl Scouts. And the fact that you think otherwise makes me sad for you, and sad for your parents for either feeding you that bullshit, or allowing you to continue to believe that bullshit.

I want you to think, baby Dwight Schrute, just for a second, about how hard it is for a transgendered child. Who is in the wrong body. Who identifies as female, but has a penis. Every day is a frigging struggle. What bathroom they can enter. What people they can be friends with. What toys they can play with. What clothes they can wear; how they can wear their hair, how people treat them, as if they are bad, wrong, an affront to nature itself – AND THEY ARE CHILDREN. If they want to join the ever-loving Girl Scouts – I mean, what are you DOING there, naked pillow fights, for the love of Pete? NO YOU ARE NOT, you are making crafts for county fairs and selling cookies and talking about your feelings and sewing patches onto your sashes and shit – WHO THE FUCK CARES. It’s a small thing you can do to make someone feel more included, to make their lives a little more bearable and a little less lonely. You’d deny them that? Really? According to a 2006 poll, 33.6% of transgendered teens have attempted suicide. THIRTY-THREE POINT SIX PERCENT. You can help, just a little bit with that, by giving them a place they feel accepted and safe and loved, but instead, you spew a hate video all over the internet. Stellar work, young lady. Just stellar.

So yeah. Buy Girl Scout cookies, if they’re your thing. Because the Girl Scouts, kind of quietly, without a lot of fuss, are completely cool with allowing transgendered children into their group, and transgendered children are at risk, and you know what? THEY’RE STILL CHILDREN. Even if they have “boy parts” ew ew ew. Children. CHILDREN, you guys. Come the hell on. We’re going to let children down? Really? Also, Girl Scout cookies are like effing crack, seriously. Those Thin Mints are AMAZING.

Blah blah blah YOU ALL ALREADY KNOW THIS blah blah blah

So it’s SOPA/PIPA blackout day. And, as you can see, I didn’t do it. Here’s the thing: I probably SHOULD. And I know there are people who are totally disappointed in me that I didn’t.

I stand BESIDE the people who blacked out for SOPA and PIPA but didn’t black out for SOPA and PIPA because, honestly, I don’t do shit I should when I should do it. Like recycle. Or watch well-reviewed foreign films in a timely fashion. Because I feel like someone’s telling me “You’re a bad person if you don’t do this.” And that makes me dig in my heels like a donkey. Which is counterproductive. I get that. It’s a constant internal struggle, what can I say.

So anyway. In case you live under a rock: SOPA (Stop Internet Piracy Act) and PIPA (Protect IP Act) are bad news. They want to censor the web; they would be time-consuming for businesses, and could stifle innovation; and, best of all, they actually WOULDN’T STOP PIRACY. Pretty much, here’s the thing. You know how we all hate Big Brother? (OK, I mean, I assume you all hate Big Brother. Unless you ARE Big Brother. In which case, you’re reading my blog in in order to write info down about me for my file, aren’t you? Dammit. Cut that out, you.) They’re Big Brother, you guys. And if you piss Him off, you’re gone. And your blog would be gone. And your internet provider could, hypothetically, stop providing you with internet access. FOR DOING WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING ALL ALONG. Just piss off one wrong person, and you’re done. Listen, I love my country. I know that makes me an optimistic weirdo and I’m like one of the seven people left within the borders who is just crazy in love with MERKA but I totally do. I don’t want it to become a police state of insanity and people watching everything that comes out of my mouth. They’re comparing these acts to the way the internet is monitored in China, you guys. Seriously. I’m currently reading a book about what it’s like to live in China. You are MONITORED when you’re on the internet. By the GOVERNMENT. And if they don’t like what you do? Sometimes? You disappear.

So, for those of you who are assholes like me and become stubborn mules about blacking things out and can’t imagine staying off Twitter or Facebook for 24 hours or maybe your head would explode: read a little more about them here, sign a petition here, see a list of the websites that are against the acts here so you know it’s not just a big old fakey-fake, and contact your congresspeople and senators and tell them you’re not interested in living in 1984 since it’s 2012 (see what I did there? FANCY. Also, there’s a good chance, were these to pass, I’d probably get put in thumbscrews for that comment. I’m being sarcastic. OR AM I.)

I’m going to drink some beverages and eat some popsicles and watch some daytime TV now. Is Judge Judy on? I think you have to watch that when you’re sick, don’t you? Does she still tell people not to piss on her leg and tell her it’s raining? If she doesn’t, I’m so lodging a complaint or something. ZOMG SIDE NOTE. My dad’s cable company changed his on-screen channel guide so it’s smaller and has a different font and color and he HATES it? So he was all, “AMY. I EMAILED them. I told them I WOULD NOT HAVE THIS. How DARE they change my channel guide. I can barely SEE it. That taught THEM a lesson.” And I said, “Um…and what happened?” And he said “They RESPONDED and used my NAME so you know it was a real letter and said they would take my response VERY SERIOUSLY” and I said, “You know that was a form letter, right, Dad?” and he said, “No, they used my NAME, it couldn’t have been.” So I stopped arguing, because how cute is it he thinks he made a little rabble-rousey difference? Aw.


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