Fight for your Stupid Life.

I'm experimenting with my first name. Because my name, while cute, while really pretty adorable, also doesn't seem very grownup to me. And if I ever write articles or books I want a name where you don't know my gender, and thus probably pay me more.

And you know, I'm not gonna live forever, why not try a name spelling change? If it doesn't take it doesn't take. If it takes it's not even really that much trouble for people.

The person I think might be upset about this would be my mom. But we'll seeeeeeeeee. Maybe she'll be really chill about it.

Me and Activism

This fall lots of people have acted in really necessary, important ways. I haven't been a part of it. I went to the first 3 hours of Occupy Cleveland, but got annoyed at everyone talking and left.

So I guess I want to talk about that. Because I have a complicated relationship with activism, and I think it is time to get past it. I've been young, it's ok to have complicated weird emotions as a young adult, but I do want to move towards being like the older adults I admire.

Ok. So. Activism. My political views cry out for it. Ok.

I grew up believing to be a good person required fairly constant activism. This idea came not just from my parents, but also the parents of the kids at my middle school. And then Cleveland has a lot of activists compared to other cities, I think. There was rarely an adult around me who didn't promote the idea that good=activist.

Now, I was a sensitive kid. I was a theatrical, emotional kid who talked all the time. Much like the adult I am now. And for many reasons, and you could assign blame up and down the levels of society for this, I felt a lot of shame about being that way.

Emotions and theatricality can be incorporated into effective activism. But they are not the traits that will get the bulk of the work done. Strategic thinking is more important. Stamina is very important. Assertiveness, and being comfortable pushing people around a little, are both very important.

So those are all traits I did not develop growing up. Maybe because I was already ashamed of being a little crazy-ass gaywad, the traits I developed were being funny, empathy, and making people around me comfortable.

There are many parts of activism that are really difficult for me. I feel so antsy and then angry in meetings. I hate long speeches (unless I get to be giving one). Delayed rewards are really, REALLY hard for my brain to process. Whenever I've volunteered in a political way, I always leave feeling like it was a waste. Not that it actually was, but I can't really keep my focus far in the future. And making someone else show up for something- that feels hard and terrifying for me.

(And I tend to be attracted to the politics of almost lost causes, where the rewards of political action are FARRRRRRRRR in the future.)

Don't like arguing. Don't like people who like it. Don't like know-it-alls, and come on, that personality trait is all over activists. I mean, if you paid me a nickel for every criticism I could make about the activist personality I would have no student debt.

(Also, it may be in the future because of those know it alls I'll have no student debt.)

Speaking of, a trait of mine that DOES work in activist contexts is really a delusional hopefulness. Well, that works for and against me. It makes it easy to start on something. But it makes it easy for me to be too enthusiastic at the start. It makes my disappointment particularly crushing. (The Dean campaign may be funny in retrospect, but guys, I worked hard organizing that house party.)

So there's a lot of psychological conflict when I'm at an activist event. And you can call me lazy (and lots of people have) but at other times in my life when it looked like I was being lazy I really was expending lots of energy on psychological conflicts. And thus had less to commit to the outside world.

But you know what I'm banking my whole life on? Growth. That something I was bad at yesterday I might be decent at two weeks from now.

I tried very hard one year to be an organizer. I put myself in an almost impossible situation. I worked for a union, and working in the labor movement has some of the most delayed rewards out there. THEY NEVER COME. Also I jumped right into a job where all the traits I hadn't developed were all that counted. Also I bought a car I didn't have money for, and drove it all day long, and my family is tired of me complaining about that but GUYS IT WAS TERRIBLE. And basically for 3 months I spent all my money, got no sleep and worked constantly and drank a lot and gained weight, then I spent 3 months slacking and doing a terrible job hiding it. Then I went back to being a legal assistant. It was the stuff of nightmares.

(No, I really did have nightmares, especially during the legal assistant period. Dudes, that is the worst job.)

And my implosion was pretty devastating. I took that job as some attempt to prove I was a good person, so there were impossibly high stakes, and made it as hard as possible on myself, and when failure came I took it really personally. I didn't attribute it to hard circumstances at all. I was a depressed kid, whowouldathunk?

After I had pounded myself with a bunch of blame I got really mad at all activism. Really mad. Mad at anyone who could think strategically, mad at people who can make other people do things, mad at people with stamina.

Um, also, I dated some activists, who I was into because I desperately wanted approval from activists, and wouldn't you know romantic situations where one person is desperate for approval can go south? Far south. Deep down south. So far south you're in the gulf with seafood BP says has totally recovered and is fine to eat.

So I had that all that ammunition too.

BUT. BUT. Activism is necessary. This American society is a mean and crazy one. We beat up on everybody, little kids make our shoes, we lock people up indefinitely with no hint of a trial, we torture people, we're all poor and miserable, we're killing the ecosystem that could sustain us- we're living in an insane way. To participate in this society with not even a break for a march or two is indefensible.

Also, activism, no matter who little effectiveness there is to it, is more effective than the activities that are not activism. Unfortunately.

Soooooo.......how to go about doing this? The goal is to participate in effective activism. And that will involve a lot of disheartening moments, where I feel dumb and hate myself, and thus will hate everyone around me with a fervent white hot hate. I think I need to really glom onto someone like-able. Find the person at the event who I would like to hang around at a bar. BUT instead of trying to chat them up about Glee (because I do that, I try to distract people at meetings and protests because I'm sooooooo booooorrrred) I just need to watch them and breathe very deliberately. And watch how they keep their cool.

Oh, actually, maybe I need to find the person at the event who is really crazily affirming. Just find the cheerleader.

I need strategies for being patient. How do people keep patient when they're not good at things, or when a lot of their ego fear buttons are being pushed, or when things are booooorrrrring?

Let's Raise a Kid

I want to raise a kid. I totally do, despite having limited baby-sitting experience. But here are the problems:

1) kids tire me out
2) I get crazy when I'm tired.

Honestly, I wouldn't trust myself to raise a kid alone or with a partner. That's not enough parents! I'm gonna say something terrible at some point if I'm exhausted. I would need about 5 other adults raising the kid with me before I'd really feel good about not causing damage to the kid.

So would anyone like to raise a kid with me? We'd have to live in a house together. It isn't important to me at all that I give birth to the kid. I'd rather do some child raising and get used to it before putting my depression-prone body on the line.

If there were 6 of us we wouldn't even necessarily have to wait for our financials to get better before attempting this experiment. 6 poor adults could still really raise a kid well. We could probably start on another after the first one hits 4?

Now, my one worry is that since some of us wouldn't be blood relatives, that there'd be less incentive for us to be cool to the kid. But I think if there's all these adults we can monitor each other pretty well. So if someone's being sketchy or mean, there's 5 of us to kick them out.

So I need 3 or 4 other childless people, and either a single parent or a couple. Oh, and if anyone in the house is romantically involved you have to keep your fights your business.

What a Queer Lady Not Living in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, Toronto, Minneapolis, Pittsburgh, or Even Columbus is Grateful For

Cleveland is a trip. We're a liberal, liberal city- for the 1930's. People here are all about economic rights, man, social justice, grassroots organizing, all that good stuff- and they got a strong start to their education on these matters at their catholic high schools. In addition to reading pro-life quotes of Cesar Chavez's, which is exceptionally confusing. (But true!)

And what were we taught about gay people? Uh....love the sinner, hate the sin? That's what vocations are for?

I always get wound up when I talk about my high school devout days.

POINT BEING Cleveland is an economically liberal town, full of the small groups of thoughtful, committed citizens that change the world, but it is not a particularly socially liberal town. And many, many times I feel stranded. Dyke drama is killer here, because there's only 8 of us. And 5 think bisexuality is a joke. ('Queer' means you got some funny ideas in college.) And the remaining 3 of us have dated, or our exes dated someone, at some point, and we believe about the other that they are PSYCHO BITCHES and thus do not make eye contact.

So you know what keeps dykes in towns like mine sane? Besides our sex-positive gay boy friends? The Internet. Because on the internet, boyish young women post beautifully lighted photos of their alternative lifestyle haircuts.

Because on the internet, there are queer women's websites that don't pay homage to the gold star ideal.

Because on the internet you don't have to watch all of the episode to get to the good parts of Glee.



Because on the internet dyke community is sufficiently developed to necessitate humor blogs.

Because on the internet you can pretend to be at the kind of dance party your friends in other cities send out invites to.



Because on the internet Tegan and Sara have reinterpreted your romantic desperation to be almost noble.



Because on the internet you can dream of living in NYC.

What I mean is, it helps me keep my chin up, this world wide web, helps me believe in a new culture even when I can go weeks with no sign of it. And hold the prayer close to my heart that someday I'll be a real girl. Or date one.

On Being Told I am Hated

In August I said something really pretty awkward to someone, while drunk. On Sunday I got reamed for it, not even by that person, but by a relative, who reported that the person I was awkward with "hates" me.

Fuck 'em both.

If your standards for hating someone are that low, there's no way I'm gonna win in the long term with you. I say awkward shit to people ALL THE TIME. I don't in general say hateful shit to people.

You know what I said? I said I had met this person's ex. It was a very awkward thing to bring up. I meant it as "Isn't Cleveland a small world, I just met you, and then 2 days later I meet this person you talked about!" It was dumb, if I hadn't been drunk I would've identified it as a dumb thing to say.

Here's the kicker- I apologized for it right after I said it! Because it was obvious from the person's face that it was an upsetting thing to hear! Because actually, even if I say something weird, I usually am not trying to make anyone feel bad, and I feel bad when that happens.

Most people won't be this upfront with their hatred. The last time I got a whiff of hatred from someone it was during that whole Time Out fiasco. And even then no one said the word "hate" to me. They said the words 'ugly,' 'bitch,' and 'fascist,' so it was implied, but still, it's sort of polite to leave it up to implication.

I was UPSET when I got told this person hated me (also because their relative asked "what kind of person would say that?!" and being challenged on your character is upsetting) but pretty soon after (maybe 20 minutes) I was happy it happened. It's good to just have people lay it on the table. Oh, you think I'm a shitty person? Thanks for letting me know, I propose you get out of my life.

Also it's cool to get permission to start being an actual shitty person. You've decided I'm the devil? Cool, I can be the devil. Don't think an awkward drunk moment is my deadliest weapon. There's more than a few people out there who can attest to my capacity to identify and abuse vulnerabilities. They are justified in hating me, and if you're gonna be on their team, you'll have the opportunity to find out why they're justified.

This is just me talking trash. All that's really gonna happen is I'm gonna try to never interact with those two again and I'm gonna tell people why. Because it was ridiculous, and that's the risk you run when you act ridiculously, that news of your exploits will precede you.

And one day I may get to call them miserable sad sacks in person. You might be surprised by how many people I've gotten to tell off in person. And you might be taken aback by the terrible things I said to them.

This is much like an incident that happened to me earlier last week, when a really worked up man experiencing some kind of upsetting delusional experience called me a witch repeatedly. He started off with yelling that I was a bitch and should go away (I was walking the opposite way on the other side of the street, so I was complying in advance of his directive). Then he moved up to witch, that I was a witch and was in league with the devil and would go to hell and in fact should go to hell as soon as possible.

It was awesome.

The best is when someone insults you in a way that gives you this powerful role. I was SO TEMPTED to get in his face and start chanting. Maybe I am a powerful, evil witch. Maybe you should be scared of me, random street guy with a mental illness.

The Joys of Waitressing

I know it's suppose to be a job for college students. I know people think you don't need to be smart to do it. I know office jobs are the jobs you're supposed to reach for. Guys, waitressing, even when you have an awful shift, is five gazillion times better than the best day as a legal assistant.

1) You're allowed to smile. You're SUPPOSED TO SMILE. You're REWARDED for making small talk.

2) When men are inappropriate with you, they're only going to be in your restaurant for an hour or two. And they'll probably tip you well. You can usually be sassy back, and they'll eat it up. Whereas in an office, they're just there, lingering. Also, men are just less inappropriate in restaurants, for real.

3) Your snack food does not come out of a machine.

4) You get a workout while you work. So after a shift, you don't need to argue with yourself about whether you should go to a gym. Of course you shouldn't, you just ran your ass off and your arms are sore from lifting huge platters.

5) There are zero ethical conundrums.

6) You meet new people every day.

7) Free soda.

8) People actually are impressed with you in the moment. When you're running around like crazy and you're still getting everyone's water filled in time, people notice.

9) When people are jerks, you have coworkers who have been in the same position to complain about it with. Also, those jerks are not gonna be around you for long.

10) You can make BANK. And it's in your hands at the end of the night. Oh my gosh, the thrill of achievement.

11) The blade hanging over your head is that you might drop something big, potentially on a baby. So much better than not filing something on time. Also, more exciting.

An Alternate History

In my alternate history nothing bad happens to me when I'm 19. If I can't get that, in my alternate history someone names it for me, has a support group I can go to, and some meds I can get on. Then I avoid a lot. I avoid the whole sex doesn't matter at all and it can't hurt me phase. I avoid the whole school doesn't matter because I'm so dumb anyway phase. I avoid the please please make me your girlfriend so I can get that badge of approval from the International Association of Straight Men phase. I avoid the being a shithead to literally the coolest girl who will ever have a crush on me phase. (Not to say anything bad about any of the other girls to follow, but she played guitar.) (SHE PLAYED GUITAR GODDAMNIT.)

Some very obnoxious people will tell you that rather than having a regret, you should honor everything that's ever happened to you because they were all lessons, and now you know. But I didn't learn any lessons for ten years. It's like not ever really understanding algebra in the 8th grade. Maybe when you're 30 you'll get it, but in the meantime there's no way you got an engineering degree.

Who are these people without regret? What kind of lives must they be leading? I lead a frustrating life. I lead a life where I can see clearly where I went wrong. I lead a life where the things I want feel so close, but never come around. Where every weekend feels like it could be THE weekend, the weekend life finally starts, but instead I earn some money and the change piles up.

Which is good. I'm getting closer. That money is a mark of getting closer. Give me a month and a half and I'll be in school, in school for I think actually seriously the for real career I'm supposed to have. FUCKING FINALLY.

Me and Nellie (not Nellie and I) are always talking about the Saturn Return. I want to believe in this astrological concept so badly. I want to believe that after 31 I'm gonna have a 30 year period of relative calm. I'll work on the same things day in and day out- the same job, the same relationship, the same house, the same kids- and I'll know every day these are the right things, the inevitable, unavoidable things to work on. They were always going to come into my life and I was always gonna labor for them.

When I have those people and home and things, please show me this blog post. So I can remember how terrible all the options were. How having options is a lot like having nothing, really. How new things every year, every month, just blur together. So that you don't even remember all the people you lived with or the jobs you had, where you know someone for a year before they learn about law school or north carolina.

I'm just having a lot of trouble with patience these days. I've always had trouble with that. But universe, I am putting the call out, the trap you've set for them, the small role you're gonna stick me in, the limits to my life- I may not be ready but sick them on me.

For A Person Experiencing a Depressive Attack

So here you are, experiencing an attack. I don't know what the clinical term for this is. But it's when the slow attacking thoughts gain some speed and energy, and you are alone in your house or apartment, crying. When normally these thoughts might slow you down, and make you foggy and listless, instead they have a lot of force and you feel on edge and very, very bad.

So perhaps you have not been able to fulfill some commitments you made because of your fog and listlessness, and it seems like this always happens eventually, you letting people down. Perhaps this refrain of the ways you let people down is bouncing around your head like a reflection in a hall of mirrors.

I need you to breathe very slowly and deliberately. You don't need to stop crying. We just need to decrease the energy behind these attacking thoughts at the moment. They need to bounce a little slower, so we can catch them and look at them.

Do you have the opportunity to make a hot (non-alcoholic) beverage? Not coffee either. Hot chocolate, tea, cider, whatever you like that is calming, and again, won't get you drunk.

Alright. So you believe you've disappointed someone. That's hard. You're in a hard place. Especially when depression is the reason you haven't been able to fulfill your obligations, because to non-depressed people it can look like a controllable set of character flaws, rather than a disease you can't control.

Is there room in your worldview for a depressed person who is also a good person? We don't have to talk about you right now. But can you imagine someone else who has a good heart, who is a valuable person, being incapacitated by depression? Now would be a good time to read a list of famous people who have been hospitalized for depression, attempted suicide, or attempted and succeeded at suicide.

Ok, so maybe you're not convinced of this in your case, but can we at least agree that in other people's cases, depression has been a real disease, and it wasn't a set of character flaws, and they were very good and valuable people who unfortunately were also depressives?

It must have been awful for them, right? It must have been really hard to sometimes be capable of great things, and sometimes be incapable of very simple things. It must have been nerve wracking and totally confusing. What an awful situation to be in. Let's take a sip of our hot beverage and feel some compassion for Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and (now we're bringing out the big guns) Kurt Cobain. All of these people who produced big amazing works still got it in their heads they'd better get rid of themselves. You'd think after winning a Nobel Prize, or selling a gazillion records, you might feel entitled to more life, but nope, guess not.

Can you feel compassion for them? I'm just gonna keep going as if for sure you do.

Ok, so unfortunately, you have the same disease these geniuses, these very good and valuable people, did. That is really too bad. It is truly unfair. It is really not ok that good and valuable people sometimes get a disease that makes them tired and sad and gives them terrible thoughts.

And it's obvious from that sample of geniuses that just because you can't beat it doesn't mean you are not smart enough, and doesn't mean you don't have accomplishments coming up in your life, and doesn't mean you will let everyone down forever. It means you're sick right now. And like a person with the flu, or with a broken leg, you can't manage everything a healthy person can manage.

I'm sure you'd rather be a healthy person who never let anyone down. I bet you'd rather be very effective and very reliable. It is disappointing to not get to be that kind of a person. It is disappointing to be vulnerable the way sick people are.

So probably the best plan would be to go ahead and feel disappointed. Wrap yourself in a blanket, put on a comedy show, and keep drinking hot beverages. Call your psychiatrist in the morning. Someday soon you'll meet another depressive and it'll be a blessing in their life that you can relate to them. It'll be a bigger blessing to meet you than to meet a very effective, very reliable super-hero person. Blessings can be hard to get to.

Take care of yourself. I'm pulling for you.

That Last Post was a Piece of Shit.

Right? Boring as hell.

Guys, I don't know, I'm real dissatisfied today. There are a few moments every once in awhile where I feel like, yeah, I know how to live, I'm good at this. Mostly when something really great happens, like I get into grad school. Then pretty quickly I get back to my baseline, which is: yuck. This shit sucks. My body hurts, people either want shit from me I'm bored with giving or they don't want anything from me, and I don't look cool enough.

Then I start thinking about my next haircut. My hair carries a lot of responsibility in this game. If only I could get it right everything else in my life would fall into place. How other people think about losing weight I think about my hair.

Except yesterday and today I've been thinking about my weight the way other people think about their weight. Really noticing the bulges. It doesn't help I've apparently lost my only belt. I need to work out until I look like an action hero and that way when my pants hang too low you'll see some kind of cut muscle instead of a pale white bulge threatening to collapse an elastic band.

Ladies, let's get real. Does anyone else out there hate being a lady? I need to figure out how far away from the mean I am in my hating lady-ness. I HATE the menstrual cycle. HATE IT. Also: having boobs! What a total inconvenience. They hurt when you exercise and even somewhat ok guys will look at them instead of at your face. And bras HURT. And I never even had one moment in my life where my boobs looked like Playboy boobs. What a total letdown having boobs is. To think I fantasized about getting them when I was little. I was promised more.

I like having my reproductive organs tucked up inside, all safe and warm. That's cool. I don't like having a high voice. I'd like a melodious baritone instead. I like not having back hair. I like not having to wear ties. I like not having to shave my face. But I fucking hate having to shave my legs.

Yeah, and my medical ailments are lady specific too. Bad cramps, migraines and anxiety- in other words HYSTERIA. In other words tuck me up in the attic with the yellow wallpaper because I am a CRAZY BITCH MAKING THIS SHIT UP. IF ONLY I WAS MAKING THIS SHIT UP.

Today I had to make a 5 in the morning run to a 24 hour Walgreens to buy pads. My cramps were killing me. I was yelling about it in the car by myself. And also laughing because cramps that bad are RIDICULOUS, my uterus is acting like it's expelling a baby deer and not a half cup of goop. Why does the uterus even need to contract to let that stuff go? What a stupid-ass design for a body that SOME OF US have to live in, thanks a lot Big Dad in the Sky who didn't even incarnate as a woman because he didn't want to deal with this BULLSHIT either.

I get to Walgreens and I do not know if I'm gonna make it out of there without rolling up in a ball and throat singing at top volume. I grab the pads and I'm speed walking to the checkout, but I made the fatal mistake of letting this dude with a cart pull ahead of me. He's attempting to buy 7 bottles of fabric softener using coupons that expired at halloween. AT 5 IN THE MORNING. Because he has a lot of clothing to make soft before heading to work, and he's on a limited budget.

Let me tell you. I was displeased. I'm still displeased. And when I wrote that post, I guess I was just trying to write something without writing about how displeased I am with what my uterus is up to.

Shit is hard.

Slipping towards Entropy

I worked two doubles this weekend, and my ass is so kicked. I like my work, I don't have any problem with working a lot while I'm at work. It's just when I get home, and all these things I meant to do aren't done that the problems start.

Physically, waitressing knocks me out. I tend to get sick if I work too many doubles, or really, even one weekend double.

After a double I spend soooo much money on food and drink. Because I just have no common sense after a double. That is when to hit me up for money, because I am fried and have cash in my pocket and my brain is asleep.

At the end of my double yesterday my legs and arms felt like bags of sand. I got in the car and really, truly, I meant to drive home. Then when I was on 90 (which is not part of the route home) I really, truly, meant to have one drink and then go home. Then when I texted a drinking buddy for the night I really, truly, still meant to be home by midnight.

But then you meet a nice young photographer man, and then your drinking buddy shows up, and then some people you hung out with once show up, and then some very drunk straight people show up and you tell them your name is Karen and one of them tells you repeatedly that you might turn out to be a yogi, and then even the bartenders are off of work and sitting at the bar drinking. And then you're eating a crazy amount of Taco Bell at 2 in the morning.

What's weird about being a waitress is that your day off is everyone else's START OF THE WORKING WEEK. It's a weird life. It's a good life though. A much better life than a legal assistant's life.

The Cleveland gay bar options are not very glamorous. But it forces you to love the bar you're at. What, is there some amazing hidden away place you know about that you'd rather be at? Then fine, make that middle of the night road trip to Pittsburgh.

Other queer women here tell me they like straight bars just fine, and pick up plenty of chicks at them, but I'll always prefer a gay bar. I never pick up anyone. I could go to an orgy and not pick up anyone, so my choice of bar depends more on the illusion of possibility and the friendliness of the strangers there.

Blog the Instigator

This blog is really valuable to me. It must look insane to put really personal feelings on the internet for strangers to see. But generally, I need to put them on this blog to figure them out. I tend to be the kind of person people don't listen to. People talk to me like you wouldn't believe. A day without hearing a stranger's life story is an exceptional one. But when it comes to being heard by others, 3/4ths of my words just float up into the clouds.

Which is why I am such an addict for this blog and standup.

Nellie thought my blog yesterday was passive aggressive. My sister didn't. I felt really troubled by those feelings yesterday morning, and putting a troubling feeling on my blog is a nice way to nail it down and look at it. But in retrospect, I had had a conversation where I said those things directly to the person who needed to hear them, and maybe I put them on the blog to turn up the volume on that message, because I just did not trust that I had been heard.

And yeah, that is a crazy way to do things. It is crazy to use a public blog to communicate with with the people in your life. But if I don't shout these fears in the public square, even the people who really love and know me will blow them off. And the people who don't love and know me- anything inconvenient I say disappears immediately.

But not on the internet. On the internet people react. It happens over and over they react much more strongly than I expected. I have been very surprised at how offended people have gotten- I mean, I got fired from a job for a blog entry. And I thought, but you know I'm a comedian, and you know I'm a feminist, and you know I have a period, so why was that blog entry a surprise? Or comedians who have gotten really mad at blog entries about rape jokes- I thought I had made it very clear face to face, in real life, how much rape jokes bothered me. So why be surprised when you come to my blog and read about it? Or like the gay stuff- until it was on this blog it seemed some people were just waiting for the phase to end.

If in real life you hear me in soft tones, in tones that seem to convey a sort of submission that undermines the content of my words, then it must be a shock to come read it on this blog and have it be forceful and exaggerated and jokey. And public. It's a very different persona I have on here and onstage. It's a persona I need so bad. And sooner than later I need that persona and my one on one persona to fuse together in an integral way, so that more people get mad at me in person, in one on one conversations, and don't need to come to this blog to get mad.

I guess I just need to stamp my feet more in these one on one conversations. My efforts at appearing friendly and open to other viewpoints one on one are working against me. Somewhere I picked up the idea that it was more important to listen than to be heard, and that's not true. I'd rather be aggressive-aggressive.

I Hate Skim Milk and Romance

I got nothing real to say, but man, am I a sucker for your page views. Every time I look at my sitemeter and I can't tell from the location who it was who visited here, I pretend it's someone who blew me off and now they're regretting it because this blog is SO GOOD. (For the sake of this scenario let's ignore the biographical content revealed in the blog, k?)

Not every day has a story to tell. What I really want to tell you, what I really need to get off my chest, what I feel is plugging my font of creativity unless I spill it on the world wide web is- skim milk is weak. Skim milk is bullshit. I'm drinking my coffee now, and I used up the half and half yesterday, and yeah there's a gallon of skim in the house. But this coffee is black. Because skim is such bullshit I'm not even gonna bother.

People act like skim milk is virtuous (mom). I'd like to know what is the point of enslaving a dairy cow, and pumping it full of hormones, and taking it's babies away, if all you want is white water from it? I'll only do that to a cow for milk fat. What kind of sick jerk wants to get an animal involved when you could just soak some antacid tablets in water? At least then you'd get some mint flavor.

Oh geez, there are actual veganz who read this blog. Sorry guys. Please don't take away your page views.

What's sad is I think I wrote about skim milk 4 years ago.

Let's talk about whether to be in a romantic relationship. I've wanted to be in one for awhile, largely because being single at 29 in Ohio is a mark of defeat. It lets everyone know that there's something wrong with you, and if they can't pick it out physically, they'll assume it's mental. THAT HITS TOO CLOSE TO HOME.

Right after the protest where we chalked around a building this summer, I bought some more chalk and chalked in front of my parent's house. People were confuuuuuussssed. Because in my neighborhood based on my age I should have a 10 year old, and definitely no time or interest in chalking. And these two women engaged me in a conversation about why I was chalking and within 20 seconds the one asked "Why aren't you married?"

I could've said "I'M NOT ALLOWED TO IN THIS STATE!" but that's misleading, because it implies I have someone I could marry if only our love was recognized as valid. Also this lady was wearing a headscarf and sometimes I just don't want to come out, especially if I've already had to explain something weird about myself, like why I'm chalking at 9 on a saturday night. So I said "I don't know."

And she said "You're a pretty girl, don't worry. But you could wear some makeup."

But shit, I have been in BAD romantic relationships. Maybe there are some people who can't manage to participate in those things, because I've never been happy in one. And you know how you can tell I'm not happy? Because I am screaming at you. Then you accuse me of a lot of character flaws because I'm screaming, and I believe your opinion of me, then I have to go to therapy SOME MORE once you leave. The whole process is overwhelming and exhausting. I mean, I can't even really remember what the good parts to being in a relationship are. Sharing a bed? I used to really like that, but now if there's someone in the bed I grind my teeth so bad I have to use Sensodyne toothpaste for weeks.

But I guess I'm thinking about this because someone likes me (well, in a VERY initial way, she doesn't really know me) and honestly I'm thinking, "My life just got good again a WEEK AGO!" I don't want to share anything. And it's like, ok, when life is finally ok someone likes me, but no one was trying to share a bed with me when a dog was peeing on said bed. That's when I needed to be held. We could've used the couch.

She'll read this. I mean, she's nice, this isn't about her. It's about ME. And I would like it to continue being about ME for a long long time. Other people and everything they need make me resentful because I JUST got what I need. I don't want to entertain anyone or watch what I say when I'm in a bad mood or talk things through. I want to do my comedy and look forward to grad school and save for a nice mattress for me, for me, for me.

I just don't trust you motherfuckers. I know you're all selfish and want convenient people who don't get in your way, and want to have sex exactly when you do, and will let the world know there's nothing wrong with you. (Yay projecting!) Or you want a sparring partner.

Now you say, you're jumping the gun! Just hang out with people and have fun! Yeah, like how your first couple times doing meth are fun. Then your teeth fall out. SO FUN!

Sage Wisdom Your Idiot Friend is Paraphrasing

Ok, I'm not gonna let this blogging blitz end, we're gonna push through, because my pain is also the font of creation.

You heard about my breakdown. Then I recovered.

Pema Chodron says it's not the ways that we fall apart that are the problem, it's the ways we put ourselves back together. Thus, I approached putting myself back together with a great deal of trepidation. I had put myself back together 4 times already. The first time resulted in my almost marrying the wrong gender. The next time resulted in me moving to Chicago to do comedy. The next time resulted in me working a do-gooder job which could not have required a more different personality than the one I had to work with. The next time again resulted in dating a boy.

So when I moved back to Cleveland I didn't want to try to fix myself in a way that would spawn it's own crisis. There are only so many times you can tell your friends you've fixed everything. My friend Megan had already told me I was too intense about beginnings. (And she's intense like a camper.) The doctors I saw thought I might be bipolar when I described these cycles of "YAY I WIN AGAIN" and "fuck i fucked up again" repeated over and over.

(Get it? Intense sounds like 'in tents.' That's what I did there.)

So when I was in Cleveland I didn't really want to fix everything. I did want the ear infection gone, because that shit HURT. SO BAD. I'd walk in circles in the living room opening and closing my mouth and also humming to myself trying to get through that pain. And I knew I needed a job, because I needed that credit card debt gone, and I needed a therapist. Otherwise I just wanted to lay in my childhood bedroom and have my mom come in and hug me.

And my parents were/ continue to be great about it. No rent. Lots and lots of food. Food my mom would make, whole crockpots of stew. Oh god. All I wanted to do was eat.

I went to yoga classes, because my body hurt in weird spots, like my lower back. Yoga helped so much. I got into it and I was like, yeah dude, yoga forever, I'm gonna take care of myself like this for always. I don't do it anymore. And my lower back is killing me.

I got the waitressing job I have TO THIS DAY. Which is a great job. I eat delicious food and I work with lovely people. And I make a good amount of money. It was like a revelation to be making good money while not minding going to work. Some days I even look forward to working.

I got my therapist through the LGBT center, and I highly recommend all you Cleveland LGBT-ers hit them up for therapy, cause the lady I saw was awesome.

Pretty much I came back home and every day for the whole fall I felt so grateful to be alive. Things were bathed in a golden light. In the winter I got grabby and restless again, but that fall was great.

It's harder for me to reach that gratitude right now. Which is sort of nice because it means I'm getting farther away from the time of crisis. But man, was it great to realize how great a family I have, and how wonderful it is to have a steady job, and how great it is to be rescued. Being rescued is awesome!

Also I went to New Orleans to see Megan with Mary that fall, and it was just fucking magical. That whole fall was magic.

Since that recovery I've tried to change how I talk to the divine. I've noticed when I feel grateful I thank the goddess, and when I'm freaking out I plead for help from the god. God. Since that fall I've tried to thank the goddess more. Because I really do think that works better. I do think the world is giving you everything you need, even when what you need is a whole bunch of total bullshit. And when you're being grateful, you're probably viewing your options and possibilities in a clearer way.

What about people getting MASSACRED by their next door neighbors and STARVING TO DEATH? Folks I don't know. I don't know why that happens. All I know is what feels sane in my life. I'm not trying to say child soldiers need to think positive. I'm not even really a fan of thinking positive about the future, I'm not gonna say you should believe things are gonna get better. Things will keep changing, so maybe there's a 50% chance some situation will get better? Is that how math works? It's not like last fall I was thinking "Oh yeah, everything's gonna work out, I'll be just FINE." It just felt good to think "I'm so lucky to have this place to fall into, and I'm so lucky to have this family and job, and thanks goddess for taking care of me."

I seriously have no advice for people getting massacred or starving to death or being forced into armies- not one recommendation.

Um ok, but back to gendered representations of the divine. I just noticed whenever I was pleading with some higher force to go easy on me it was that Catholic God Dad from my childhood. And whenever I was being grateful it was that Mother Earth Let's Get in A Drum Circle This Tree is so Bee-yoo-ti-ful character. Guys, I love that character. I love that all these life cycles we're a part of can be conceived as this Mom who will give you everything you need, but not really even most of what you want, and also someday when it's your time she'll cut you down to make room for some new kids.

This is funny and stereotypical and new age-y and you're all laughing, but it feels good.

I'm trying hard not to be all the put back together. It's not that hard. The grad school thing is AMAZING but I'll also believe it after I've taken my finals. I'll believe it when I'm licensed. Saturn Returns don't end till you're like 32.

There is no normal. There are great times, there are in between times, there are terrible times. I don't know why it works this way. I try not to know too much.

I Beat It!

My chronic illness, depression! I beat it! It's gone! People say you need to be on pills for the rest of your life with depression, but actually you just need to get into grad school and know what you're doing with the next two years of your life. Getting into grad school solves every problem you ever had.

(I'm still taking my pills, concerned friends.)

It reminds me a lot of the time I didn't get into grad school. Would you believe that was a real blow to my self esteem? Also because it wasn't even an impressive program. I got that wait list letter and I was like, "Oh you mean motherfuckers." But now that I've gotten into grad school I can say with great peace and wisdom that the world works in mysterious ways. I have been guided onto my path. And it just took almost killing me over and over and over. Thanks for that Universe.

(No, really, thank you Universe, don't take this away!)

That happened during the worst month of my life, which would you believe happened 2 months after I had decided I would definitely not kill myself. You would think after a decision like that the universe would reward you with some money for food or something. No. I went 2 more months without ever getting a spare 20 dollars for a grocery trip (it sounds like an exaggeration, but it isn't!) Then I finally applied for food stamps, which meant I waited in this line that wrapped around the building the food stamp office was in before the office opened. Then when they did open, they made us wait in this big empty room with motivational posters where all the chairs are turned in the same direction. It took 3 hours altogether. I got 60 Link dollars from that meeting, after meeting with a nice lady who I have no complaints about.

I blew through that 60 dollars in 2 trips. (Tip: Do not buy fruits or veggies when you're poor. Stick with pasta.) Luckily Nellie was letting me crash on her couch, because she lived by my work and work was a 45 minute bike ride away from where I lived, and I just kept getting flat after flat after flat on my bike. I would lock it up at night and in the morning I'd have a flat.

Also, I had bought a breakfast sandwich at a 7-11 near my work, and had already heated it up, and then when I went to pay my card wouldn't work. I told the guy I would come back with the money, but no, my account was deep in the negative, and I never ever came back with the money. This was extremely disheartening.

So in the midst of this I get the letter saying I'm wait-listed, and if I want, I can be on some kind of priority list for the next year. But it was already clear if I stayed in Chicago I would not be alive in another year. So I'm like, ok, let's make the date with my mom to move me back home to Cleveland, where there is food a-plenty, and I'll just hang out at Nellie's until that happens.

While I'm at Nellie's I get some really weird emails from a friend of mine, who I know has a family history of schizophrenia, and I'm like, cool, I'll do the responsible thing and track down his family and they'll get him care. That didn't work out. Instead he killed himself. And when I called his mom and she told me, it didn't even register. I said something about being glad to know him and how she should take care of herself, and all the while my voice is getting higher and higher and higher. THANK GOD NELLIE WAS THERE WHEN I MADE THAT PHONE CALL. I got off the phone and everything was so normal, except my friend was dead and because I had tried to help him. And literally I thought, "I can't think about this now. I'll think about it in Cleveland because I don't even have the necessary caloric intake to process this."

So then rent is due in the apartment that's 45 minutes away from my work, and I don't pay my phone bill so I can pay rent. Oh, and as background this ex-boyfriend of mine, who I had had a terrible tumultuous shitty relationship with (largely because I'm actually gay and I was incredibly poor while we dated and he wasn't, and that shit will break you up) asked if we could meet before he went to Europe for two weeks because by the time he came back I would be moved away. And he wanted to give me a card.

Reader, I was not in a mood for any damn card. I did not want any fucking cards. I wanted money for groceries, and a bike that worked, and my friend to not have killed himself, and to have gotten into fucking grad school. I did not want a card commemorating this shitty relationship and the many poor decisions that had led to this spot in my life. So I said, let me think about it.

I biked to the old apartment to drop off rent. I'm there for 30 seconds before that guy walks in the door. Because my room mate had gotten him to come over to walk her dog, which normally I would've done but I'm at Nellie's now, and my room mate can't give me a warning he's gonna come over because my phone's dead.

Oh reader. He gasped when he opened the door and I called out "Hello?" Then he said "I'm sorry," and I said "Just take the dog." They left and I left the money and I gathered up a bunch of clothes I wanted to get rid of before I moved, including a sweater of his that was soaked in dog pee. (Other things in my room that were soaked in dog pee: my bed. That was the other reason for camping out at Nellie's. That dog loved me in a vindictive, controlling fashion.)

So then I get the FUCK out of there because I want to be LONG GONE before he comes back. Because I am so GODDAMN FURIOUS. I'm furious that I am so humiliatingly poor, that my bed is soaked in dog pee, that I have no money left on my Link card, that I'll never pay that guy at 7-11, that I'm not going to grad school, that someone turned to me for help and I did the wrong thing, that the only friends in town I have left are Nellie and Mary because they're the only people who can handle what a mess I've become, that everything ever has gone to TOTAL SHIT. Oh I didn't mention also I had pink eye and an ear infection.

Yes. I had pink eye and an ear infection all through this. Nellie had to buy me an eye patch. That was actually sort of a highlight.

But this guy doesn't know what's good for him, and as I'm walking quickly down my street to the clothing donation bin with his dog pee soaked sweater he's walking back to my apartment. (By the way, I do feel bad about putting a really nasty sweater in the donation bin. I hope that's not an official crime. But it should be.) And he says something to me, it might have been another "I'm sorry," and I say "FUCK YOU YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN A FUCKING BASTARD" and let me tell you, I meant it. Every shitty thing he'd ever done, and every shitty thing I'd ever done, and especially every stupid, stupid decision I'd made I wanted off the memory books. I wanted to blow us up to pieces and have us rain down in flaming bloody chunks all over Logan Square.

In retrospect, I made a lot of stupid decisions in order to be in that relationship, but they weren't really for him at all. The relationship mattered because it was proof I was lovable, but I didn't really ever do much for him. The whole time I resented him, because the thing about him was he was a boy. Which was clearly his fault, he should be held responsible for that, no doubt, but what I'm saying is it would have been a terrible shit storm of a relationship no matter what boy was in his place. It would have been more accurate to yell "FUCK YOU YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN A FUCKING BOY."

And you know, I wrote him an apology email for that, but I never really regretted it. That's weird, it could be because of the antidepressants. Or maybe any semblance of a friendship did need to be blown up. Maybe you go through shit with people and what you really need after is to have a tall, strong wall with spikes at the top up between the two of you for a long long time.

Or maybe I've just gotten more comfortable with my innate asshole nature.

Then I went to Cleveland and there was food everywhere and I chatted with Nellie every day and I paid off my credit card and volunteered at the gay center and took some classes and now I get to go to grad school. Actually there were still some bad times to go through, but nothing, nothing like that month.

Thank god for Nellie, amirite?

How to win me over

1) Be funny. I don't want to hear your 5 and 12 minute sets. That you can transform a conversation into an improv show, complete with act outs, is important. That you will carry a joke years into the future, so that when we live in a squalid home together we have a cast of character voices to use is important.

2) Be available. I've finally figured out I don't like feeling confused. Some of the tests I've taken have been doozies, and I know the appeal of a challenge, of thinking "oh yeah, the wheat is being separated from the chaff with this one!" Unfortunately I've also experienced finding out I'm chaff. Being challenged is overrated.

3) Appreciate and comment on things. Food especially. Music, soft fabrics. Cool outfits. Smart books. Funny jokes. Talk about how good they all are. Be happy at how good they all are. If you can do this with a variety of people, you maybe are a saint, and I will appreciate and comment on that.

4) Cut it out with the makeup. I mean, I guess if you LOVE it you can go ahead and put whatever you want on your face. But if you think you need it, we're gonna fight about it, because faces are much more attractive when you can see them.

5) Be a smartypants. Smart enough to know when you don't know things.

6) Be able to lift heavy things.

Oh, I see what you like.

Gay stuff. You want me to write about gay stuff, even though you have no reaction to it worth leaving in the comments. Well, I'm happy to comply. I am in a much different place than two years ago, when I started and quickly ended my gay nightlife blog (what was that, two entries?)

I'm a little more assured nowadays that if the first impression anyone gets of me is "gaywad!" that that's ok and pretty accurate. Sure, there may be other facets to me, but the gaywad facet is really the biggest, shiniest facet. I also have some opinions about how to treat waitresses, but I don't feel the gaywad impression will deter important people from reading those opinions.

Readers, I have found the process of differentiation from my parents a particularly tough one. My parents are admirable people. Catholic, but liberal, willing to do a lot of research, smart, they've got lots of opinions with a lot of credibility behind them, my dad at least doesn't appear to have an attention span issue. (My mom is ADD like a squirrel on uppers, but she denies it.)

But it's taken me a long, long, long, so long it's not over yet time to accept I'm not my parents. For one thing, neither of my parents are gay. Secondly, neither of my parents like to perform, unless there's a hidden past I don't know about. (Well, my dad likes to play guitar. Because he has the attention span for that kind of thing.) Neither of my parents have a compulsive need to defuse stressful situations. No, they can operate in stressful situations for years and years if need be. If we were all dog breeds, my dad would be probably a german shepherd, my mom would be a lab maybe, and I would be this dog:

And for me, all this stuff feels connected, the attention span problems, the need to defuse, the performer part, and the gay part. I don't know HOW exactly the gay part is related, maybe only in that I was gender non-conforming enough as a little girl to constantly ask for a lot of attention from my teachers and classmates. Ask? No, it was more coercive than that.

But I have so many moments where I wish I was more like my parents. People say I'll scream at my kid someday and have a chill run down my spine and a howl will rip through my brain that I am like my mother! But I find any shared perspectives with my parents very comforting. If I could've ordered what kind of person I was I would just straight up be them. I would be straight, I would be some kind of saint activist who spent a lot of time in Catholic Worker houses, I would have the attention span of a redwood. Also I would speak spanish even though they don't. I would have a lot of posters with Oscar Romero quotes around. I would have some very serious and credible opinions on banking regulations. (Uh, and if you knew me right out of college you'll recognize that is exactly the kind of path I was trying to forge.)

But you know, at least by this time, and I'm no spring chicken anymore, I am much more interested in show tunes. And all those things on the same spectrum as show tunes. You know, dance music, having sex like it's some kind of political thing, small talk, parsing the hidden content of tv shows. Jokey jokes. Small talk.

But if as I grow up I become more like my parents I would be very proud of it.

An Ethical Dilemma

So one thing that sucks about being both a woman and a public figure is that no matter how far you go to not present yourself as a sexual object, someone ends up judging you on those grounds. So Rachel Maddow's hate mail consists of her being called ugly, as if you need to be good looking to be on the radio. (Also, Rachel Maddow is just about the sexiest thing since mountaintop orgies.)

Which brings me to the flipside I find myself on: when is it ok to talk openly about a lesbo-tastic crush on a hot lady who is not trying to make a living as a hot lady, but rather make a living as a talented lady?

Now there is a blog I, and many, many others, enjoy reading called tigerbeatdown.com. It's creator is a very funny and smart lady who goes by Sady Doyle on the internet, whose writing I have enjoyed for a couple of years. Sady Doyle writes about a lot of things, and every once in awhile she may write about dating, but the bulk of her writing is politics and pop culture.

Everything's cool, right? Here is another woman, who I respect, who has gained a modicum of success with her ideas and talent. Great! Go comrade!

Until New York Magazine publishes this photo of her:

(record scratches)

WHAT. Sady Doyle is a hot lady? WHAT. WHY DIDN'T I KNOW THIS?

Oh. I didn't know this because she's a political blogger, and is thus not trying to be known for any aesthetic appeal she might have.

And she has quite a bit.

If a straight man wrote a blog post about how hot this woman is, it would be forgivable, but still offensive. Cause it's like, don't reduce my sister to that! Listen to her ideas! But for reals, I am very aware that this lady is not my sister.

As dykes build our own culture, with our own visions of what constitutes sexiness, how can we talk about it without engaging in the inevitable objectification of women in straight culture?

Because I don't want to get in the way of anyone reading tigerbeatdown.com and taking Sady Doyle seriously. But a slightly lesser concern of mine is getting to talk about my own version of hotness in a lady, to offer up some competing standards from the hetero version. (Since that version requires you to be a gigantically tall 13 year old.)

Any crushes you feel like maybe you might be a patriarchal creep for having?