An abandoned lot

There was this lot behind this little girl’s house. The lot was actually part of her own yard, but sat neglected full of trees and rocks and weeds. It wasn’t fenced in like the rest of the yard. It wasn’t landscaped or cared for. Instead, it was the outlier; separate despite being very much part of the very property is was divided from. Somehow it wasn’t worth the time, money, or effort to have included this patch of land when the rest of the yard was getting made over.

This abandoned, neglected lot was her favorite part of the house. She would sit in it and watch the back of her house like she was spying on strangers. The lights would be on in various rooms, sounds would emanate from the house as the people in it moved from room to room doing various things- watching TV, cooking dinner, talking on the phone, listening to music- all of it just ways to avoid whoever else was in the house with them.

The girl would sit and watch and wonder to herself, “What if I just left? How long would it take for me to sit out here before someone called my name? What if I don’t even belong here but no one knows how to tell me to leave?” Her stomach would knot up and her heart would race. She would imagine for a second that someone would step onto the deck and call out her name, a sign that they are looking for her and are afraid they lost her. But after one minute turned to many, her shoulders would drop like a sack of potatoes. Eventually she would begrudgingly go back inside.

Because she was hungry.

Because it was getting cold.

Because she had to pee.

But most of all she because she had no choice. She had no place else to go.

Once she was back inside among the chaos, she would sit in her room still thinking “What if I just left? How long would it take before someone called my name? What if I don’t even belong here but no one knows how to tell me to leave?”

Those questions stayed with her well into her 20s. And by now, it’s pretty obvious that that little girl is a grown woman writing this post. Just thinking about this made me realize why I liked that decrepit lot; It looked how I felt.

Some people who think they know me would be shocked to read this & to hear me admit, so candidly and openly, that this was my inner narrative. Others who really, truly know me read this and know every word of it to be true. I built a super-ego out of steel, a bomb shelter to keep the super sensitive little girl safe from whatever weapons of mass destruction people would use to hurt me, break my heart, kill my spirit, and make me cry.

The thing about bomb shelters is they have no windows. No light gets in. Nothing grows. And eventually, it just becomes this dark, lonely place that isn’t fun to live in. Because you can’t live in a bomb shelter; you just exist. BARELY.

I eventually let myself out of my own bomb shelter when I learned there’s no war coming. No one is dropping an A-bomb on me and destroying my world. No one is intentionally out to hurt me, and if I do get hurt, it’s probably by someone who’s in even more pain than I am.

But some people can’t ever got out of that place. They can’t ever accept that there’s sunshine and light and all sorts of other cool shit outside that really dark, lonely place. Sometimes those people get so severely trapped that they think the only way to get out is to die.

My point, which believe it or not exists, is that today is Suicide Prevention Day. While I’ve never thought of ending my life, there are plenty of people that have and do. And maybe it’s because they think no one understands the pain they’re feeling, or that the people who have their “shit together” really don’t. None of us do. And that’s totally ok. It’s not so much about having your shit together as it is finding people in the world who have some paper towels and Clorox Clean Up and will help you clean your shit up.





These are the helicopters I’m looking for

Don’t ask why I need these. Just know that I do. I need them the way the C3PO needs to be a rambling know it all that never shuts up. I need them the way the stormtroopers need better aim. I need them the way I need to read Japanese so I can figure out how to buy one.

By all means, if you live in Japan and want to make some terribly immature writer in the states happy, feel free to send me a Millennium Falcon helicopter. Thanks in advance.

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According to Slate, my sex life is way more impressive than I thought.

I’m just going to assume you used Slate’s Sex Calculator. How could you not? It’s literally the only time I’ve ever heard something that sounded vaguely like math and was still interested in it. I think I did this before I even drank any coffee this am. Priorities.

According to Slate, my sex life is pretty damn impressive. Which means either everyone else my age has a way sadder sex life than I do,  are all married and have been for a number of years, therefore driving down their overall number of sex partners, OR ( and I’m leaning heavily towards this being the truth) they’re a bunch a damn liars.

I also don’t know if I believe that the average number of partners for a Gen Xer is 10. That feels like a damn lie. Either that, or my friends were way bigger sluts in high school than I thought. ( I mean that with love. Sluts are awesome. All sluts. Go hug a slut right now!)

What’s possibly the most interesting, though, is that the average number of sex partners has gone down. I feel like there’s a joke there about hipsters and not being fuckable, but that feels like low-hanging fruit.

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This is a thing that exists: Personalized Bronze Anus Casting

What better first post back on my long neglected blog than to share this gem with you. I need to know a couple of things.

1- Who was the first person that thought “I really wish I could cast my anus in bronze ” then proceeded to find  a way to cast anuses in bronze.

2- What occasion is one gifting someone with a bronze casting of their anus?

3- What’s the return policy?

4- Why is this a thing?

You, too, can get your anus casted in bronze for the bargain price of $1,900.00.



In case you’re wondering, Robin exclaimed a variation of his “Holy….Batman!” catchphrase 359 times in the tv show.

Yeah, you weren’t wondering that. But you’re welcome anyway



OMG, I Kinda Forgot I Have a Blog

I forgot all about you. Sorry about that. I made you a cake.




Whatever, I googled you a cake. Don’t be so ungrateful. It’s the thought that counts. And since I just admitted I forgot about you, it’s safe to say my thought doesn’t count for much either. Shit.


So I forgot about you and didn’t make you a cake. But in my own defense, I did say upfront I suck at blogging. I obviously KNOW I have this blog, I just forget to blog on said blog. But I’m going to pay more attention to blogging on my blog, since that’s what blogs are for.


I just said blog a lot.


Also, saying blog very many times within short span of time makes you really realize how dumb the word “blog” is.


It actually kind of sounds like the word for the sound someone makes when they dry heave.




Ugh, gross.



And with that, I’m going to quit while I’m (not at all) ahead.



Happy 4th. Don’t blow your hand off lighting fireworks in your backyard. Or do- it’s a free country AND THAT’S WHAT TODAY’S ALL ABOUT. *allegedly








“Blogger” and “Writer” Are Not The Same Thing

I was really hesitant about having a blog. I think for the most part they’re pretty self-serving unless it’s a specialty blog about “food” or “music” or whatever. I already have Facebook and Pinterest and Instagram, all of which are full of shit I like, and my dogs, or other dogs, or sharing funny/interesting/informative shit I find on the interwebz.

So when I started this blog I was pretty realistic and looked at it more as a way to be writing a little more for the sake of writing versus because there’s anything of value in any of these posts. Basically this blog, like most blogs, is a bunch of brain farts. Occasionally my brain farts are funny and twisted. I’d also like to think I’m a little more honest about that’s what this blog is.

I never and still don’t want to be known as a blogger. I’m a writer, and they are in no way the same thing. Now, you may have a writer that has a blog and blogs occasionally; but they usually are able to actually write something be it articles, stories, scripts, poems, etc. There’s more that goes into writing than just firing up a WordPress and declaring yourself a blogger. That’s like saying the person who happens to be in a restaurant while they’re filming a Real Housewives scene is an actor just because they signed a release for when the episode airs. Just because you say it, doesn’t make it so.

Writers are artists just like actors, musicians, artists, etc. They actually work at their craft, study it in their own ways, and possibly have mounds of things they have written and never let a pair of eyes read because they are fiercely critical of their own work. I never started calling myself a writer until I was actually hired, paid to write, and published. And even then, I was very timid about doing so. I respect the word and what it means to be qualified as a writer, and even though I do get hired to write and have entered writing contests, I still almost whisper the designation when I apply it to myself. Part of it is a confidence thing. Part of it is because my goal is to accomplish something bigger as a writer, and I feel like only then can I securely consider myself one.

But bloggers? There’s a scene in Bring It On that explains what bloggers are to writers:

It’s not the same thing. And it shouldn’t be considered the same thing. But we are in a day and age where mediocracy garners praise and everyone’s goal is to be a celebrity or to be famous. Everyone wants to be on the D List. It’s a time where people think we all want to see their OOTD, TBT,FBF, dozens of selfies and pictures of them out with their friends like their night is being covered by TMZ, and where having hundreds of thousands of followers on a social media network makes them famous.

Whenever I come across something like this, someone who’s internet footprint exists really to just talk about themselves like they’re auditioning for a role as a Kardashian friend, I always try to find what it is they actually DO. What do they provide? What service or art or product are they offering? What are they creating? It’s usually nothing but a lot of smoke and mirrors. A bunch of wannabes that never were and never will, hyping themselves up to anyone who will listen. And it is sad because among a sea of noisemakers there’s something or someone who has integrity and offers something of value that’s getting ignored.

Because let’s face it, everyone slows down to look at a car crash. And the internet is like one massive, multi-car pile up that we can get stuck on. But just like in real life, you can get off the highway and take another road.