bystander intervention af

New York in summer, with its millions of people crammed together like sweaty sardines in an ancient, oily tin, is a veritable wonderland of idiosyncrasies, outbursts and xenophobia. On the other hand, it occasionally provides opportunities to spot moments where one can step in and make this city a little less of an angry, festering butthole. I tend to walk away from these sorts of occasions both encouraged and disturbed. For example:

Yesterday I was walking to the train from Central Park (yep, my ass was in Manhattan on a weekend. I feel like I deserve a freaking award), through the remnants of the Bastille Day celebrations on 60th Street (Now that I think of it, I was given a free pastry just for walking by a dude that was breaking down his tent, so I guess I did get a reward for being in Manhattan after all) and I saw these two dudes smoking a cigarette and staring across the street, chuckling. I turned and saw a woman about my age stumbling with really tall shoes, sort of aimlessly, and I learned from ONE ACT that to not be a total piece of shit, you need to take care of other women, even if it means seeming nosy. Also, fuck those dudes. So I stopped and leaned against a wall to watch her and see if she needed help, and she crossed the street to stand next to me, which is a weird thing to do in New York. It scared me because it made me think something happened to her. She seemed emotionally fine, but she was so drunk or high that she couldn’t meet my eye. Long story short, I got her into a cab, but like, fuck whoever left her alone, and what if something did happen to her? I wanted to ask, but I also didn’t want to pry.

Today, a lesbian couple got on the train and sat across from me, and this older dude sitting nearby started complaining loudly to these two poor Asian tourists that same sex relationships are disgusting and two women can’t make a baby (joke’s on you, dude – that technology is almost here) and two men can’t make a baby and all this garbage. Once I realized what he was yelling about (I had headphones in at first) I asked him to stop yelling hateful language. He was obviously a massive dick about it, but fuck if I’m gonna let this lesbian couple sit here being shouted about while no one even tries to defend them, and plus I grew up with same sex parents. It’s hard to know what to do in these situations, especially if the person being shitty is also a member of a marginalized community, which in this situation was the case.  If it’s a ostensibly cis-het white dude, I will open up a can, but when it’s not, it’s so much more complicated.

Man, hat was a downer. I did have a post all ready when I had my period during the 4th of July, but was too lazy to finish it – here’s how it started:

Last weekend I was lounging in my white underwear and blue shorts and my vagina was like, “Bitch it’s 4th of July. Imma make your ass patriotic as hell right now,” and swooped in to give me the color scheme I needed to make this holiday memorable.

You have to give it to my vagina for spotting an opportunity and seizing it. Get it?? Eh? Spotting? Ugh h8 myself. Joke’s on her, though, because blood stains brown. Anyhow, my underwear is ruined.

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Hopefully that punderful anecdote will make it worth reading this whole post. But seriously, y’all, we have got to take care of each other.

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I’m on my period, Grand Canyon edition

If the universe didn’t want me to make a bunch of puns about the Grand Canyon and my period, it wouldn’t have brought my period while I was in Arizona to visit the Grand Canyon.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to write this while I was actually there because I was too busy *~hiking~* and *~clutching my bloated tummy~* so I may be incapable of producing inspiring puns, particularly because I’m back in New York and there’s nothing red or arid or cavernous about this place. Also, I haven’t written here in ages so I feel a little out of practice.

Bae and I felt that, given the fart-filled balloon we’ve elected as president, we ought to go out and support our national parks while we still have the chance. Some day I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren that I shed my uterine lining while hiking the Grand Canyon. They’ll be filled with awe, like a pad bursting with blue fluid. Or they won’t even know what I’m talking about, because the Grand Canyon will have been filled with concrete to build a Google campus #justkiddinggoogle #idneverinsultyougoogle #iloveyougoogle

By the way, y’all, a body was airlifted out of the canyon the day before we came. I literally experience moments of fear walking down a hallway that I will just fall on my face spontaneously, and I somehow endured the Grand Canyon after finding out that someone had just fallen to their death. Unsurprisingly, most of the people who die in the canyon are men.

All right, that’s enough rambling.

my stupid fucking baking blog

OMG y’all, I’ve actually fulfilled the original purpose of this blog once again – while I was in Chapel Hill, I baked a pie! Well, to be more accurate, I stood around taking pictures of gross-looking things while Mary attempted to scoot around me.

I’m going to write a post about that later on when I feel like it (potentially never), but since it’s New Years I’m going to write a post about *~*New Years Resolutions*~*

Ugh this is hard because I have so many zits that it’s impossible to focus. Pretty sure they’re sucking up my brain power in order to grow their strength and take over the world. TBH, a world where my zits were in charge instead of dump truck Trump would probably improve everyone’s lives.

This year has been intense for our country as a whole – do we say that every year? It’s necessary to have some collective and individual amnesia for survival; otherwise we’d be constantly agonizing over all the trauma we’d experienced in our lives. I think almost everyone is feeling eager for us to banish this year to the past, but I’m wary of allowing myself to be relieved over an arbitrary border of time units. What if next year is just as bad, or worse? Shall I invest in another arbitrary concept and knock on wood?

I’ll attempt to do my part in making next year less of a car accident with a porta-potty cleaning truck. Some ideas I’ve been considering in terms of my own self-improvement:

  1. Panty-liners. Why the fuck have I not been using these? I always leave tampons in when my period is almost over because I don’t want my cute underwear to be ruined, and I could just be protecting my undies (and myself from literal Toxic Shock Syndrome) by using panty-liners.
  2. I just realized why the fuck I have not been using panty-liners. Because they’re called panty-liners.
  3. Meditation. I told my fuckhead psychiatrist (who cancelled our appointment 20 minutes prior because he was “sick,” AKA afraid of me) that I’d meditate three minutes in the morning and three minutes at night. But it feels so long! It’s incredible how ten episodes of Law and Order: SVU can go by in a second and three minutes can feel like a lifetime. The mechanics of time fill me with mystery and awe.
  4. “Monotasking,” AKA the most pretentious way of saying “paying attention.” One of the reasons it takes me so goddamn long to write a blog post is that literally anything can catch my attention, especially if that thing is this gif:
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    But every skill takes practice. Such a necessary concept for me because I’m so easily bored. I know intuitively that when I do one thing at a time, I get so much more shit done. Unfortunately, my memory is also poor. The reality of the situation is that I need to pull a Memento and just tattoo that shit all over my body, along with “Exercise and you will feel better, it’s literally science,” “Eat vegetables or you won’t be able to poop, also literal science,” and “Tattoo lessons that you’ve learned on yourself or you’ll forget them.”
  5. Writing every day. Based on how stupid my blog is, you’d be surprised to know how much time and effort each post requires. But being able to laugh at the shitstorm that is life in New York rather than stewing in its shittiness improves my life in a way that I didn’t think possible. Food for thought for those of you who I always nag about starting a blog.
  6. I have a habit of asking too much of myself around New Years – I’ll resolve to practice singing more, write more music, eat healthier, exercise more, and be a better person all at once. So maybe I’ll try one thing at a time this year. Starting with getting my fiber back on track.

I hope y’all are having a wonderful first day of 2017 and feeling slightly less nihilist than yesterday. Make sure you eat collard greens and black eyed peas and corn bread, or the southern gods will bless your heart into oblivion.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

I’m moving right along with Little Women. It’s so fucking charming that it makes me want to bake a whole goddamn cake just for funsies. Or maybe just eat one.

google_sketchAnd this is the Google Doodle today! It’s like I have ESPN or something.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, whose acronym seems so on the nose that it’s almost inappropriate, is actually less SAD and more APATHETICFATIGUEDBOREDANXIOUSLISTLESSHOPELESSSEDENTARY. For me anyway. For example, it’s taking me literal actual hours to write this fucking post.

We’re singing Beethoven’s Ninth in choir which I was really excited about, but as it turns out, singing it brings about this unfortunate paradox in which your throat is somehow dry while simultaneously fifty percent of the air in front of your mouth is filled with spit. The piece has no chill whatsoever. But neither did Beethoven. I mean, look at him:

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That dude has definitely spent some quality time with a Fleshlight.

Speaking of Fleshlight, I just Wikipedia’d that shit (if you only knew the internet spirals I’ve descended into over the years) and learned this:

“In 2011, the company that manufactures Fleshlight sent a complimentary package of its products to the members of the SEALs team that killed Osama bin Laden.”

I’ll let y’all meditate on that. Enjoy this shitty-ass weather, friends.

What do I do now?

Is anyone else having the experience today of momentary amnesia? I’m being trained for new job responsibilities, so my mind is occupied by learning for perhaps an hour at a time, and then a jolt (less a jolt and more a menstrual cramp) of reality washes over me and I remember that we have elected Donald Trump to be our next president.14962656_1174069676020606_8122524643330499631_n

Menstrual cramp truly is the correct word for this, because it feels like I’m on my period. I’m feeling fatigued. I’m feeling achy. I even had a lower back ache so akin to a menstrual cramp last night that I was certain my body had brought my period early, desperate to flush out the toxicity of what is happening. I especially felt a phantasm of such a purge each time I felt that familiar glandular rush of tears trying to escape, at random, throughout the day. When I looked in the mirror yesterday morning, I had lines in between my brows where they’d embedded themselves in furrowed worry all night long.

I want to write something funny. I have been known to make jokes at inappropriate moments, perhaps because I am so entrenched in discomfort all the time – and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many people in discomfort at once. It feels like trying to make a joke at a funeral. It just hurts so badly, so absurdly that I want to laugh.

This isn’t to say that it didn’t hurt before. We all live in the water of hegemony and it takes insight to view the murkiness of it. It’s just that all of a sudden the dirtiness of the water is in stark contrast for everyone now. Is that a poor metaphor? It’s hard to come up with images for how complicated this situation is. I don’t want this to be too long. It’s just hard to collect my thoughts enough to be concise.

So anyway, a few ways I plan to keep my fucking shit together during this trying time (and hopefully help some other people keep their fucking shit together):

1. Take video when I see interactions between people of color (especially Black/Latinx people) and the police: this is something I started doing recently, when I realized that video can be (but frighteningly, often isn’t) a way to hold people accountable for their actions, and when I realized that when people of color do this they are at risk of being arrested.
2. Watch documentaries. Read books. Make more friends whose experiences are different from mine. Challenge myself to accept discomfort in my privilege instead of avoiding it.
3. Take care of myself, so that I have the ability to take care of others.
4. Fucking meditate or some shit.
5. I’m already guilty of paying too much goddamn attention to the shit that’s happening around me (one of the reasons I’m on Lexapro) but y’all mothafuckin KNOW I will make a big-ass fuss if I see someone acting on any Trump-inspired impulse.
6. Give more hugs. My hugs kick ass!
7. Laugh like hell. Laugh all the fucking time. Access my Jewish roots and make fun of myself endlessly, until it hurts less.
8. Listen, listen, listen.
9. Support art by people of color, support art by women, support art by disabled people, support art by trans people. Demand that I have a place in the worlds that I inhabit.

What else to say? Making even the smallest of jokes feels wrong.

I don’t feel like I can offer very much, but I will ride a bike to you, and with you. I will watch Arrested Development with you. I will make a dish with you and then make a lot of jokes about how gross it looks. I will go with you to Planned Parenthood. I will walk down the street with you. This shit is so fucking scary.

I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU! WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU!

Yesterday I attended an event called “Fun, Fearless Money” thrown by Cosmopolitan, the magazine that brought you life-changing sex tips such as:

When fondling his manhood, slip a hair scrunchy around the base of it. The tight scrunchy combined with your touch creates an amazing sensation.”

Very softly bite the skin of his scrotum.

Move my penis all around like an old-school joystick – up, down, side to side, in a circle.

TBH I learned that I’m a huge dumbass when it comes to investing, and that you can, indeed, serve fudge cubes on hooks hanging from an epee and call them fudgsicles. Other takeaways:

  1. If you give muffins to a room full of women who read Cosmo, nobody will eat them.
  2. Tyra Banks can speak for half an hour and never say “smize.” Tyra Banks can speak for half an hour and never say “five-head.” Tyra Banks can speak for half an hour and never say “I have never yelled at a girl like this! When my mother yells like this it’s because she loves me! I was rooting for you! We were all rooting for you! How dare you! Learn from this!” By the way, did you know that “Super Entrepreneur” and “Super CEO” are things, and that Tyra is both of them (and also made those words up)?img_9923
  3. Jason Biggs’ wife is just as much of a douche as I feel like he is. I have no proof, but I just feel like he is.
  4. The CCO of Hearst (almost made that “Hearts” – Freudian slip) is BAE. She was wearing a black turtleneck with silver pants. I want to be her butler.

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    “I need a drink”
  5. But for real for one second. I did keep hearing the advice that you should take the cruel and damning things others have said to you and use them to drive you forward. I’ve thought of myself as “that type of person” since I was young and my dad called me “mediocre” and “narcissistic” and “selfish” etc. at twelve years old and peaced out of my life. I’ve used the endless ambition to prove myself to my father as an impetus to accomplish things in life, but I’ve been told by others that I will only be satisfied if – not to sound corny – my motivation comes from within. I ruminate on this often.
  6. If you use the term “consumer-facing” often enough everyone will think you know what the fuck you’re talking about.
  7. And the most important takeaway:img_1049