Tag Archives: Random

Night Three

Here I am. It’s Night Three: the third night in a row of the wild swings, from giddiness to despondency in moments, that characterize my depression and anxiety. I am twisting and writhing, trying to fit myself into a world that I’m sure doesn’t want me. I am worthless, stupid, ugly. Wasted space, wasted potential. I should have been better, different. Somebody else.

The refrain from that chorus of voices, the youngest parts of my psyche: Why can’t you just be somebody else? Somebody normal? You’re broken. We’re broken. Fix us. Fix yourself. Be better. Please. Be better. Please.

Be better. Please.

I know these are defense mechanisms formed in my early years. Parts of me saw the world and how shitty and unfair it was — fuck, were they in for a surprise in 2017 — and figured the only way to survive was to internalize ALL the bad and make it my own. Make it me. If I was the bad thing, I had some control. I could improve me — the world, not so much. But I could be better — had to be better — or the world would swallow me and spit me out like so many others who couldn’t “handle it.”

God only gives you what you can handle. I don’t believe in god, haven’t for many years, but that saying still makes my stomach sink like a stone before the rage bubbles up into my chest where it burns red-hot. You only give us what we can handle? Do I look like I am handling this relatively easy life to you, you vindictive, omnipotent fuck-face, lying on the floor in a heap of tears and snot and sweat? How can I handle anything with this useless, broken brain you saddled me with? And don’t even get me started on those who have it worse. You accept their prayers while killing their kids and destroying their homes and tearing holes in their bodies and devastating their souls. Either make yourself useful for the first time in thirteen billion years, or go back to your cloud palace and leave us the fuck alone, you gossamer-winged douche canoe. Also, your wine fucking SUCKS.

Okay, that felt a little good. For a moment.

Still: four years of steady therapy and sixteen years of every medication under the sun feel worthless tonight, on Night Three. I’m exhausted to the point of collapse, but when sleep comes, I dream in rapid, flickering images, full technicolor and too well-lit. Vignettes of violence and humor and fear and love and death and that British lizard from the insurance commercials. Snippets of songs and whispers and horns and sirens and bad-movie dialogue.

I wish I could say that I had a good reason to feel this way. There isn’t, though. It’s just me, and my brain. It’s not Vegas, or the Orange Fucker, or work stress, or life stress – though none of those things help. It’s just me, and the voices.

Be better. Please. 

My therapist says to be nice to these voices – they’re only coping mechanisms, after all. They’re trying to protect me. And they are asking politely.

But I cannot be better right now, tonight, or really anytime. At 32, I am mostly baked – I am doing my best, and I am not going to become a superhuman anytime soon. I also cannot control the shitty, unfair world we are stuck in. But I do have work tomorrow, so, voices, here’s my offer: calm down, shut up, and go the fuck to sleep. Be better at being my psyche, will you? Please?

Here’s to a better Night Four.



Witness the ten stages of tiny house show indoctrination on a Friday night

So I came home from work after a LONG week, ate all the sushi, drank all the wine, and watched ALL the tiny house shows. And I have QUESTIONS. Ahem:
1. Should we all be doing this to be as mobile as possible when the apocalypse comes, which is, by my accounting, going to be next week? Or just face it like ADULTS and accept death with grace? I’m leaning towards death with grace at this point TBH.
2. Seriously, though, how do couples or, like, FULL FAMILIES (I’m talking full grown adults with two children and a dog) handle this shit? What if someone gets norovirus and (sorry, gross, but let’s be real) has it coming out both ends and no one else can use the composting (EW) toilet or fold-down bathroom sink for 24 hours because their toddler is goddamned mess? NO ONE IS THINKING THIS THROUGH MY ANXIETY SPIKES JUST CONSIDERING THIS AND I DON’T HAVE A TODDLER OR EVEN A GOLDFISH BUT I HAVE HAD NOROVIRUS AND YOU TINY LIVING MOFOS DON’T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU ARE IN FOR.
3. I would fall out of any number of tiny house lofts while just mildly tipsy in a hot minute. And/or hit my head on the short ceiling, pass out, and die of a brain bleed. Tell my mom I love her and make sure to sell my tiny house to a hipster couple who make artisanal butter for a living (this is in one of the shows I watched, I swear to all higher powers and deities).
4. I don’t care how cute rustic/modern/industrial/parisian chic AF your tiny house is, you still have to park it in an RV park next to THAT dude in his trailer. You know, THAT dude, who may or may not be on the run after killing and eating several ex-wives in six different states since 1995. THAT dude.
5. COMPOSTING TOILETS. I would die before touching a composting toilet. Moving on.
6. None of these random people actually want to “live tiny.” They’re just cheap AF and huge whiners. They go into the house and are like, “Oh, we don’t have a soaker tub or double ovens, sad!” Well, of course you don’t, you morons, because your house is ON WHEELS and is smaller than a dog crate! Don’t act shocked when you can’t get a palace for 30,000 bucks and a sliver of land in the middle of Montana. Nobody’s putting marble floors in a 200 square-foot shack with a composting toilet for you, I don’t care HOW sad your rescue dog’s origin story or your husband’s organic beard is.
7. Ooooh, that one’s cute, it has a murphy bed and–
9. Oh, but that one has a porch, and the washer-dryer unit is all-in-one, and–
So, what do you guys think of this one? I hear there’s a great RV park near my work where I could park it, and the neighbors are really nice…well, except for that one guy with the Confederate flag tshirt and the bloodshot eyes, but the composting toilet is really eco-friendly, and–
Oh God.
What…have I become?
Have I lived long enough to see myself become the tiny villain? Shudder.
Good night, all. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum tiny houses.

FYI: I Will Cease to Care About Anything on Friday Except Gilmore Girls

This is a quick heads-up that I will cease to care about anything or anyone else on the planet this Friday except for the four-part revival of “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix. Here are just a few things the existence of which I will forget about for six full hours:

  • Energy bills
  • My failed high-protein diet(s)
  • Nuclear proliferation
  • My unkempt eyebrows
  • Donald Trump
  • Neo-nazis (see above)
  • Deep dish pizza vs. regular pizza
  • Daylight Savings Time
  • Time
  • Space
  • Space-time continuum
  • Stephen Hawking
  • Feminism
  • Planes
  • Trains
  • Automobiles
  • Zucchini noodles aka “zoodles”
  • Fro-yo
  • Ill-fitting jeans
  • Red states
  • Blue states
  • Purple states
  • The oceans (all)
  • The continents (all)
  • Also lakes
  • 2016
  • 2017
  • 1066 (I know stuff happened but I forget most of it anyways blah blah England)
  • Most of History
  • Millennials
  • GenX
  • GenC (?)
  • Whatever generation I am
  • Non-fat Greek yogurt
  • Your racist uncle
  • Birth control methods (all)
  • Indiana (included in above “red states” but I want to forget it twice)
  • The New York Times
  • Fake news
  • Real news
  • Sort-of-real-maybe news, but it was retweeted by Joss Whedon so who knows?
  • Carrier pigeons
  • Ostriches
  • All birds, really
  • Whether or not there is a God(s)
  • Reptiles
  • Whether my direct deposit for work will kick in soon
  • Apples
  • The fact that we are all, as Dickens said, fellow passengers to the grave
  • Reality
  • Satire



Happy Thanksgiving.




Wet and Wild (A-Z Challenge)

So, I made it to New Orleans in one piece! Today it’s supposed to rain, which is fine, because THERE IS NO HAIR DRYER IN THIS APARTMENT! Witness:

weeeeet hair


So, yeah, I had no idea what to write about for “W” in this challenge, other than writing itself, which I’ve done before and which takes time, and, BITCHES, MY FRIENDS AND I ARE GONNA GO GET BEIGNETS WE AIN’T GOT TIME FOR LONG BLOG POSTS.

I anticipate being very wet and wild today: wet hair, rain, and sweat. I am not sweating currently, but that will change because I am in the AirBNB with the AC on high blast, and it is in the ’80s here and humid AF and I am a sweat machine. IT’S BAD. That being said, I love New Orleans so far. I had my first Hurricane last night and it was amazing and I was drunk after one, which is how I like my drinks (#cheapdate). I also had fresh crab and it was great. Basically, I’m great and my life is great EXCEPT FOR MY WET HAIR. You can’t have everything, though.

Stay dry!


The first step is admitting you have a problem

I have to admit it.  I’m an addict.  I dream about this stuff; I can’t go a morning without its icy goodness sliding down my throat.

I’m talking, of course, about the Starbucks Iced Chai Tea Latte.

A thing of beauty, isn't it?
A thing of beauty, isn’t it?

I know some of you can’t relate to this; some of you are, UNIMAGINABLY, addicted to the Pumpkin Spiced Latte, or the Caramel Macchiato (you know who you are), or even the Cinnamon Dolce (yeah, Mom, I judge you), but for me it’s all about that sweet, sweet Chai.  And not that Oprah shit, either: I’m talking about the real, original Starbucks chai tea latte chock full of unnecessary sugar, with non-fat milk only (2% takes away from the sugary-ness).  And it has to be ICED.  Why would I get it hot?  What am I, some kind of monster?  Of course, actual chai is supposed to be prepared hot, like it is in India, but I’m not some mindless sheep who does things just because that’s how they do it in India.  God.  Screw you, society.  You don’t own me.  You can’t make me drink Chai authentically, even if I do live in San Francisco.

I recognize that some of you may not even be addicted to a Starbucks drink at all.  I salute you, if so – you are a stronger person than I am.  You will be the among those who survive when the End Times begin.  I trust you are up to the task of perpetuating the human race.

Ahem.  Anyways.

So I know I have a problem.  A big one.  For God’s sake, it’s not even chai drinks in general that I have to have – it’s Starbucks, and only Starbucks, chai that has me in its icy, milky, slightly-spicy grip.  Nothing else does it for me.  Not Peet’s, or Dunkin, or your local organic non-GMO gluten-free coffee shop chai – only Starbucks.

What do you put in it, Starbucks?  Is it crack?  Unicorn tears?  Do you have a pagan priestess on-call to bless every cup so it tastes like the nectar of the goddess, but with a slight touch of caffeine?  Do you know the power of what you have here?  You could start and end wars with this stuff.  This is the drink that launched a thousand ships, or at least a thousand diabetes diagnoses.

I know I have to stop, but my God, I just can’t.  Each one is, like, 300 calories.  That’s equivalent to breakfast!  “Jackie,” you might be saying to your computer screen right now, “why don’t you just have one instead of breakfast, then?”  HA!  You think I haven’t tried this?  You think I haven’t downed a venti iced chai at 8 am only to be starving by nine?  You think I haven’t then RETURNED to Starbucks for a scone?  (Their scones are great, too; I recommend the vanilla).

It’s ok, though.  I can beat this thing.  The first step is admitting you have a problem, right?  What’s the second step – apologizing to people you hurt?  Ok, come join me at Starbucks so I can apologize to you, I’ll buy us a couple of iced chais and – DAMN IT.

Whatever.  I give up.  Pray for me.