Tag Archives: life

I’m About To Positively Annoy The Flying Fuck Outta You

25 Oct

…You know how when some people first find Religion, (or Sobriety, or Parenthood, or a book, or a really good shoe sale), and become completely obsessed about it, as if it were invented specifically FOR them, or by them, and their wonder knows no bounds of excess, to the point where if you have to read one more weepy confession, or see one more picture, or post…you’re gonna lose your shit?

This is fair warning. I am about to be one of those people. 

…I already have religion, (well, my version of it.) We are all lucky that I have no progeny. I already own all the books. We all know, I’ll never give up on alcohol. And I’ve about thirty pairs of shoes I still haven’t gotten round to wearing, so I don’t need any more. 

I am going to annoy the flying fuck out of you through self-help, in my current attempts to drag my ass out of my PTSDing, depressed, and anxious incapacity. Also known as: my current place in life.

I’m ready for this shit. Even if you aren’t. And I’m gonna take you kicking and screaming with me. I mostly won’t be precious about it…that’s not my style…but I will be real, and sometimes it will suck. A lot of time it will be bitchy. Sometimes sad. My end goal here is to just annoy the hell out of you all, with positivity, and hope.

…Cuz we can sure as hell all use some of that, yeah?


So’s you can keep up (and join in if want) I’m on day three of this:

…And while doing nonsense like chores at home, and pretending to be busy at work, as the season turns, am listening to this:

…Because I needed to do something and start somewhere…and this seems as good a time and place as any.

Go team me!


Mind Palace Asshole

26 May


You know how Sherlock Holmes retreats to his “Mind Palace” for reflection, concentration, and a little R&R? As a creative person, I *wish* my bloody brain was functional to work in that capacity. How amazing would that be… to have this little untouched oasis of a Happy Place to go to, when the turds of life spontaneously combust, leaving you surrounded in what feels like a constant film of putrid stink and forever diarrheatic unrest.

This is what it feels like lately.

…Wish it didn’t. Because, don’t we always? But, it does. And a brain that is built to fixate on the fact instead of run away and save you from it, sucks.

… Kind of everything right now, sucks.

Which happens.

So, there’s that.

Meanwhile, am trying to fight my body and brain through a rampant case of “don’t careism,” which makes every walk in fresh air and every shower, and every chore feel like it’s the end of the goddamn world if I have to do it.

… It’s like a whole month of being a teenager again. And I hated it enough the first time.

I keep having to be my own guidance counselor, with mental conversations like:

Me: You need to get up.
Other Me: Why? I have only slept three non consecutive hours. I don’t care what time it is.
Me: Well, you should. Also: you smell.
Other Me: *You* smell!
Me: I know this. When was the last time you took a shower?
Me: Yesterday morning.
Other Me: After a full work day, and walk. Then you just peeled off your sweaty shit, put on pajamas and laid on the couch all the rest of the night.
Me: So!
Other Me: So, you are a petri dish of gross. You need a shower.
Me: Fuck showers! They’re all wet and crap! Then I have all this hair, and have to shave…everything on my body practically… and then there’s all the teeth brushing and–
Me: –Did you just fart?
Other Me: I did. You wanna make a case of that too..?!?!


Me: It’s time to do dishes. And laundry.
Other Me: No.
Me: Yes. It’s time.
Other Me: I can just clean this spoon. It’s all I need right now.
Me: What about a plate to eat on.
Other Me: I’ll use the box lid.
Me: You are pathetic.
Other Me: I am “practical” and “inventive.”
Me: Yeah, well, how you gonna “invent” your way into some clean underwear tomorrow. Those are your last pair. The default kind, that you hate, which ride up your butt all day. How fun is that? Is it worth being too lazy to launder better ones?
Other Me: It is, in fact.
Me: Now you’re just being stubborn.
Other Me: HAVE WE MET?
Me:… I mean, it’s one thing when you have two shows you’re rehearsing and performing in, to live like this. But right now, there’s just no excuse at all. You have nothing. No actual daily purpose at all.
Other Me: You are a giant asshole.
Me: Upon occasion, yes. Also: you need to sweep. Like, woa.

… So, this is what I’ve been doing with myself lately…in case you happened to be wondering.

A whole lotta empty bickerings and bitchings with myself…waiting for something to hit the boards that I can transfer my focus to and reinvent a reason to give a shit, again.

Petulant artist-child, that I am.


Whatchu Been Missin’

29 Jul


Some reads to keep me sane through the bleakness of in-between casting which goes on and on.

….Season General’s are super great…while doing them…then about 6 to 9 months later. In between, there is just a hollow hole of nothingness in purgatory. Waiting. Waiting for second and third calls. Waiting for the next show to cast first. Waiting for more waiting.

  …In the meantime, I’ve scooped up some lit-read gigs and script one-nighters, which feed me just enough that I don’t artistically starve to death. Which I truly believe can happen to a person, if they allow it to.

…As nothing but the written word, walking, and Netflix, seem to be helping in my current day-to-day Hell of work-life, I have dedicated myself to them almost completely. Even with a maybe sorta broken but for sure sprained toe, I’m marching and spewing words from any and every source I can get a hold of. My yoga mat is forever now where my coffee table should be, so even whilst streaming on the TV, I can get more steps in.

I feel that I have a certain responsibility to just “DO.” Constantly. Whenever I can. However I can. Up hills, by oceans, on mountains, in the car, even while waiting for reports to print out…I can’t seem to solid focus on anything without tag-teaming it onto something else…because somehow, I think my brain figures that occupying my entire person’s function at all times, will make me feel like I own some sort of control over something…at some point.

…I don’t though.

Instead, I’m just perpetually exhausted.

I have no alternative fix or answer to this predicament. I am only stating fact.

…Maybe, when another show is on the roster and I have responsibility to it, and its team, my brain will ease up a bit and let me enjoy the sunshine and being human. Until then, I feel this is the best medication I can grant myself…so I’ll have to keep at it…through even purple toes and pissed off Fitbit buds.

When all you have is all you have, you can only do what you can.

…But I’d be full of shit if I didn’t admit: I’m fucking tired, and hungry-starving to be back home in a cast again. I’ll trade you ALL the Fitbit badges, for that. Gladly.


Everlasting Purgatory

13 Jul


The space “in-between” isn’t supposed to suck. We are given to understand that it is merely a holding pattern…like a plane taxied out on the runway, waiting it’s turn to take off. You’ve already boarded, already departed from your last gate, and have moved on to the next part of your journey, but have yet to quite lift off into final assent.

….My entire life is in this holding pattern.

Office, Theatre, Life, Finances…everything I own or identify with, is in a metal tube just sitting on that fucking tarmac. And contrary to what we are told about purgatory: it really sucks.

Like…a lot.

At this point, I’ve done all I can do. I’ve chosen the destinations and booked the flights and now…because I’m only human, I gotta just sit here in suffocating stillness, wedged between this screaming infant with dirty diapers, and one of those too-much-cologne-smelling Insurance Salesmen…who never shuts the fuck up. I feel absolutely surrounded by an attack force zoned specifically at my nerves and their Achille’s heel, and because I already left the gate and bought the tickets, I’m stuck here at their total mercy.

I HATE having no control. HATE it.

…And so, the only thing which has benefited in this past month, has been the only thing I CAN control: this goddamn Fitbit.

I am currently 14lbs down, 3 weeks in, because that thing on my arm is now my BITCH. I can’t control a callback, but I can control if I eat a Milkyway. I can’t control if that job recruiter will call me in for an interview, but I can control if I down a whiskey (or ten.) I can be depressed on the couch right now, or flip it the bird and get the hell outside for a walk.

…I have inadvertently turned fitness, into a form of saying “fuck you!” to everything not working in my life. (And all the things which might at some point suddenly decided to maybe work out, whenever/if ever, they finally get their shit together.)

…I’ve considered it a new strategy. Something that will take all the fates by total surprise. Because anyone in the damn world would rather dissolve at the end of these nonstop shitty days-and-weeks, with a bucket of fried chicken, a Blizzard, and a fifth of booze. By NOT doing that, I psych them out… I pull a different hand I’ve never played before. I take my usual patterns I love, which comfort me, and toss them out the window with a Thelma and Louise abandon.

Screw you, purgatory! If I gotta be stuck in this hot tar-smelling, tube of a shit-fest, I’m gonna do it my own damn way!


(as inspired partly c/o OITNB, season 3…second time ’round.)



2 Jun


Hi, remember me? I was this person you knew once…used to read my stuff, prob’ly cuz it made you feel like a normal put-together human who has way less issues than…well…me? Yeah, I’m still here.

My last fresh-start month wasn’t so fresh, so I decided to go dormant for a bit, sleep off the hangover it left behind (so to speak)…and now, look! It’s a new month again! Reboot 2.0! And I really mean it this time.

…Truth is, I’ve missed you. Ten or twenty times I could have used you as a good blow out exercise…but instead, I finished the show, made some new plans, went with Cecil on a mini Vaca, and came back with some super specific purpose.


…And now, it’s time to blog again.

…Mostly influenced by the reemergence of our friend, the home-challenged-cross-dressing-sex-working-substance-abuse-filled-office-neighbor* (*formerly known as “The Tunnel Tranny.”)

He came back today.

Retook up residence by the overpass tunnel, just outside our office. Cecil was excited, inquiring if he was “the” T.T. of previous blog-note. The WHS Pimp swears it is, and I suppose with the like-hours they worked in this space, he aughta know. Though for a while, I debated the fact. Despite his women’s tracksuit jacket, and proclivity to pose in random very specific postures, he would hold through out the day, as if for a photo shoot…or a ghost class of artists studying his form.

…Mostly I denied it, because the T.T. was never present and “about” during my hours of operation. And this gentleman very much was. In fact, across six hours today, (wherein he only moved from his spot just opposite our window once, during a momentary downpour), he was exceedingly present.

He was coversational…(to the air)…had several loud political debates (with a bug?), rehearsed his flirting and solicitation come-ons (with the fluted wall), and conducted his own dance party, during what we chose to take as our coffee break…so we could watch.

(…Dude had some mad hip-hop, Beyonce-bustin’ skills, is all I’m sayin’…)

…And as we watched him, sing his songs, direct from his probably drugged-out head, and get down with his bad self, grinning like a five-year-old kid, I turned to Cecil at her desk:

Me: Lookit this guy. He has no rent, no car, no credit cards, no bills, no job, no responsibilities… it’s 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, and he’s singing a song and dancing like a rockstar, while we dumbasses just watch from our hell-hole office, like animals in a cage. Something is super, super wrong with this picture.

Cecil: (with a sigh, and momentary glance of longing his way) Yeah…

…Which is to say, “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…” And if that guy can find ’em and make ’em work for him, so damn well can I!

The end.


That Was Why.

1 Apr


Stick with me a second here…

So, I believe in God. 

…I don’t consider myself a “religious” person, but rather “a person of faith.” The difference of that I take as meaning: I am pro-rights and against hate groups masquerading under religious dogma.

…Thing is: Sure I was raised in it, but as an adult, when my politics began to swing much more central, and I began to re-evaluate a lot of the core-values I was raised with, I realized that no matter what,  I needed God. For me, he is unquestionable.  He doesn’t have to answer to any one specific religion, doesn’t care about prejudices or hierarchy, and probl’y gets as annoyed and pissed off as Abraham Lincoln, when people use erroneous  quotes he’s supposedly said, out of context, and slobbers them all over the air waves in defense of some new horrible-racist-holy-war-political-scheme they’ve come up with next.

For me: God is a higher power, who helps carry the burdens of life.  God is the being in the wind who will listen to endless hopes and sorrows, so you aren’t just flinging them to ether of “no one gives a shit.” And also, (lets be real here) God is someone I can point to when I’m pissed off at the world and say, “Well?! You’re God! So FIX IT!”

…And when God doesn’t “fix it,” I am not one of those people who takes it lying down.  I stand up and voice my particular thoughts on that, pretty distinctly.  But then, that’s just how my relationship with God roles.  I can “pretend” to be deferential about it all, and say “you know best” but if I don’t believe it, he already knows, so what’s the point of trying to bullshit him?  My God knows me. And He’s all for freedom of speech…is anti-Dictatorship…thinks a woman’s place IS to speak up…and isn’t going to smite or punish me for the way I was made. Because God built me this way.

…So when something truly horrible happens, and I decided he’s prob’ly crossed a line, and I tell him that, we both know there is no answer on earth that will possibly sooth or excuse that horrible thing for me. Frankly, the whole “human nature and freedom of choice” bit explaining why wars and genocides go on and on, is not an appropriate answer to innocent lives lost. Not when you’re God and can stop it at any moment. Plagues and cancers will never come under “justifiable suffering” for me either. Sudden accidents, weather-disaster-titled “acts of God,” and the like, are also on my list.

…And the list grows, the older I get. I try not to let it eat at me too much, but when something happens on the list which makes it PERSONAL, it becomes quite hard to just leave it be.

A little over a year ago, I had a good yelling at God for just one of those things. I didn’t understand. The illness was basic. The victim was a strong, grown man in his prime. He was a good man. Not just how people throw the word around…but a genuinely GOOD MAN. Hundreds and hundreds of people coming from all over, assured us of that. And when he died, leaving a young special-needs son behind, a whole hell of a lot of people (assuredly not just me) screamed a big, fat, hairy ass: “WHY?!?!?!?” at whatever deity they believed in. And like sometimes happens, ZERO justifiable response was given. 

…So for over a year, I’ve been mad. At God.  We’ve still been speaking and all…but that thing has been there…always in the corner.  And I thought there was just no way there would ever be a justified explanation for any of it.

Until today.

This morning, the 115th anniversary of my Great Grandma Nana’s Birthday, Uncle Big Guy’s son passed away. 

While we all knew his failing health was bringing this to an inevitable point of reckoning, and it would mean an end of so much pain and ongoing medical tortures, the concept of a thing is so different from the end of it.  And once the end came, the preparation I thought was at hand, changed.

…Because today, Nana and all her giant family of sisters and brothers and aunts and parents…,my Gram and Gramps…and Uncle Big Guy were just beginning to celebrate…in good Irish style up there… when little Nick just walked into the room.

Knowing Big Guy is up there in joy receiving his son, instead of here: totally, emotionally obliterated: losing him, changes so much about that day…over a year ago.

… I guess what I’m saying is:

“Okay, God. That was why.”



8 May


Good news is: I’m not contracting a weird disease in my wrist.

…This watch I bought from Hong Kong online has been freaking me out for days…on account of the face constantly changing color when it touches me.  I didn’t realize it until after I’d already been wearing it across two day’s span…chalking it up to “difference of light.” Then I took it off to show Ma at one point, and it turned from brown to green within seconds. My brain instantly jumped to the fact there is prob’ly something spurious in the metal…filling me with lead-based cancerous ions of doom.

…Like those coffee cups I drank out of for a whole year before I read the base stamp that said as much.

Nowhere on the literature of what I purchased or where I purchased it, was there an explanation to my new state for concern. Until I found it today, by total generic Googling.  Apparently it’s a selling point feature of said watch, for every place BUT the one that I purchased it from.

…Whether I’m feeling “coffee,” “green,” “black” or “blue” tinted, I am told none of them will fill me with any toxic diseases.  That they know of.  So, that’s comforting.  Although it still doesn’t explain why none of these places online provide you with a “key” to the color codes. I have no fucking idea what in the hell any of them are supposed to mean.

Is it my aura?

Is it my chi?

Is it generic me-temperature?

Is “coffee” better than “green?”

Should I esteem to a calming “blue” over the who-knows-what-to-think-of-it “black?”

I dunno.

They won’t tell me.

…So now I have that to worry about.

…Meanwhile: Am on a record-breaking semi-insomniac cycle. That means I can get to sleep alright, (around one-or-so a.m.), but pop awake for any variety of “thinking” reasons at three or four, without being able to kick it and go back to sleep again. This is just weird. Who wakes up from “thinking?”

…It isn’t a dream. It isn’t a sound. I’ve had the fan running WITH the heater at the same time, and singularly by turn…so it isn’t climate.

I don’t understand.

…Really, it’s akin to going from total sleep to that semi-haze of alertness when rolling over, and my brain suddenly yells something like, “RENT!” And then I snap totally awake and commence to worry the rest of the morning about when the fucking landlord will finally deposit that damn check…cuz I have my auto car and insurance payments hitting any day now, and even though I did the math and it should all be fine to go through, who the fuck knows what random “oh, I forgot about that” thing might hit my account in the mean time and screw everything up?

…And then the rent might bounce, and I’d be homeless on the street…and I have a lot of shit that NO WAY would all fit into a shopping cart as a make-shift mobile home unit…cuz if the RENT doesn’t clear, it’ll reject my car payments too…and THEN where will I be?!

…Oh sure, you can laugh or roll your eyes at me all you want, but these are real anxieties at three a.m. on almost no sleep. Your brain isn’t thinking super clearly…it just fixates, and chews the SHIT out of things…like an old piece of bubble gum, long since flavorless, but the chewing action keeps your oral fixation and teeth clenching at bay…so you just keep chewing on it until you’re exhausted for totally OTHER reasons.

…A case of the solution making another problem.

Basically, this is the entire life-cycle of a person with clinical anxiety.

…So: not a lot of sleep. And busy work days slamming me against the wall without mercy. And random anxiousness popping up night and day, for what equates to “technically sound reasons,” although not good enough ones at all for normal people to obsess about for hours and days on end.

…It’s the only time I crave to be one of them.

We are not without some “goodnesses,” however. Until today, there was sun for after-work walks. Some buddy hang times. Lovely read rehearsal work-outs with old friends for a performance this Friday. Birthday toys to be played with…

…I have “stuff.” I’ll be fine. I’ll eventually figure out this new rut I’ve been thrown into and even things out. Either way, it beats the hell outta the “depression” tsunami that “was”…so…I’ll take it.

…I’ll chew on it…

…Til the fucker turns to rubber.

…Then, one day, I’ll figure out how to spit the bastard out, and have a reprise of calm before another piece gets popped in my mouth.

…So it goes.


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