Bullshit, huh? Lemme tell you a little about bullshit...

Today is one of those days that makes me want to quit teaching.

End of the third quarter, kids are begging for second and third chances, or demanding them in some cases. Three kids told me me today they were taking the test Monday--after the three day weekend-- because they were not going to be here tomorrow, and they had not studied.

One kid told me making him take the test today or take a zero was bullshit because had had not studied.

Really... hmmm. Bullshit, huh? Let me teach you a lesson about bullshit then...

No, kid, bullshit is all your classmates having to take it tomorrow and rewarding your laziness by giving you almost four extra extra days.

Bullshit is telling me this the day before the test when I gave you a calendar with the test date weeks ago.

Bullshit is expecting me to cater to your every demand and giving nothing in return.

Bullshit is losing review time in class today because I have to deal with you having an outburst.

Bullshit is the expectation that you dictate to me what you need when also asking for a huge favor.

Bullshit is the fact that even though I have spent weeks preparing and delivering the material in this unit, you haven't even expelled the energy to retain a sentence of it.

Bullshit is treating my class like playtime on a daily basis, distracting and antagonizing others, wasting precious instruction time, and depriving others who give a fuck and want to be here.

Bullshit is following the rules, setting high expectations, devoting time and energy you lose for things you feel actually have a productive result more than a fraction of the time, and being told to give more.

Bullshit is having a kid do something wrong, get in trouble, and the parent tearing apart everything you did wrong while completely ignoring the fact that the situation resulted from their child being a disrespectful little ass.

Bullshit is having accountability for teachers being raised every year while the accountability, independence, and responsibility of students wanes.

Long story short-- life is bullshit. Deal with it.

The Five Stages of Fangirl Grief

My Doctor is gone, perhaps not forever, but for a few years until they manage to work him into a special. Now I enter the mourning period that lasts from character death until I meet the new guy and can assess Peter Capaldi for his worth as the Doctor.

I'm thinking about buying a black veil. How very Madama Vastra of me.

Being a Fangirl is a thankless job. We support our beloved characters and the writers that created them, putting them up on pedestals. We find ways to defend bad episodes or books or movies. We engineer arguments that validate actions out of character when writers just miss the mark, because we obviously know these characters better than their creators-- Why else do you think Fanfiction exists? We buy merch, pre-order tickets and books, and construct meticulously accurate costumes to wear to overpriced conventions where meeting the actor that plays your favorite character shatters your world at their level of douchebaggery. I'm talking about you, Bruce Campbell. And, we completely lose touch with reality. We can't ever accept it's just a show, a book, a movie, etc, because some part of us is weak, and craves the satisfaction we receive from our chosen fandom. For some girls, it is romance. Actually, for most girls that is the case, I'm sure. For that, I blame the way girls are conditioned by society, but that is a whole other argument, and I am getting sidetracked. For some girls, it is escape, and in that way they are also kind of falling in love with the idea that this life can substitute the terrible one they are currently living. Then, there are the mental cases like me-- I like to use the words creative, but hey, whatever, everyone knows we creative types all have alcohol and mental disorders. That's what fuels our art. But, for girls like me, it is not that my life is terrible. It's that it's just not enough. The limitations of this life, or of this universe, are stifling. I have an over-inflated sense of importance and purpose, and the only way I can live out my dreams of accomplishing impossible, super hero, mad genius, worship worthy endeavors is to live vicariously through science fiction. For the record,  I am the worst type... in case you were wondering.

It doesn't matter what type of Fangirl you are, or what kind of deprived satisfaction you receive from your fandom, you need it for a reason. It fills a void, no matter how stupid or silly it is. For all my constant and delusional detachment from realty, my fandoms are probably the only thing that keeps me out of an institution, because once I fill the vacant well of my uncalled chosen one depression with a good episode, or a new book, or an excellent fanfiction, I can do normal, mundane human things like hold a job or operate a moving vehicle. Trust me, you think I am bad now, this is the best of a potential bad scenario people.

The one variable that balances the entire Fangirl equation is consistency. As long as we know that all is right in our fictional universe, we are at peace. We can function fine, even in periods of hiatus between releases or seasons. Unfortunately, I know as a writer that the problem with fiction is that consistency is boring, and a good story needs chaos an upheaval to remain compelling-- to remain the reason we choose it to live vicarious through it. That is why I hate fanfiction authors who write stories just to marry character or have kids-- that shit is so fucking pedestrian! I can do that in real life! If I was capable of functioning in the real world, would I need write fanfiction about Dean Winchester--emotionally misunderstood bad ass with freckles-- to get me through from week to week? Would I have learned the word fernweh  just so that I could properly describe the emotion of being homesick for the planet Gallifrey, a place that does not actually exist (or, might just be trapped in a bubble universe-- jury is still out) or that I have never been? Fuck no! As long as we know our favorite character-- the one we relate to, admire, dress like, change our slang and speech to emulate-- or our fandom is coming back, that is what keeps us in balance.

The problem with living off the fumes of someone else's creativity is that that no matter how much we love, need, worship our chosen fandom, the outcome is completely out of our hands. We did not make it. It is not our brainchild. And, because fiction needs upheaval to have compelling plot, characters die. Sometimes it is just to keep the plot riveting, and sometimes it is because actors leave. Sometimes it is not the death of a character, but the cancellation of a show or the disappointing release of a book or movie dooming it to end. Regardless of the end result, the fact remains that you can't do anything to stop it.

Fangirl grief is differently ordered in its experience than regular, normal, emotionally stable, sane person grief, but the stages are the same.

Stage One: Anger

Normally, the first stage of grief is grief. You're just inconsolable. You are miserable, and you isolate yourself. But, in fandom, it's different. It is personal, even though it really isn't. But, feels personal. It feels like you're dying. Then you throw the book across the room or the remote through a window.You blame the writer or the production company or the actor. Then you hate them.  Then you curse them with the fury of a thousand burning suns that they will never work again after creating this abortion of fiction! This is also any intelligent fangirl's assessment of a Twilight book. Twilight fangirls are a whole other level of fucked, and we do not include them in regular fangirl community. But, I digress, you're just in a rage fueled passion that cannot be sated because it is out of your hands, and you must find some way to seek revenge. Some do this by abandoning the fandom, or maybe just taking a break. Long story sort, some shit it probably gonna get broke.

Stage Two: Denial

Ahh, Fanfiction, the slut of fandom. She makes you feel good. Tells you what you want to hear. Makes your dreams come true. But, in the end, you know none of it really counts. Fanfiction can keep a fandom or a character alive after death. It is what Fangirls are relgated too to find any way of keeping that vicarious outlet going, and feeding that satisfaction until they can properly mourn, and move on, hopefully finding a replacement character or fandom. When anger is still fresh, Denial and Anger can blend into reading or writing fiction that completely corrects the problem, resulting in new head cannon-- or, what you think should have happened, erasing the terrible tragedy (because, once again, we fangirls know so much better than the creators), by ignoring it ever happened and continuing to operate like nothing has changed.

Sometimes denial comes in the form of spoilers. Fangirls don't always find out about the tragedy of cancellation or character death in the moment. Occasionally, we'll just be on Pintrest updating our nerdly boards with pictures of our characters and memes with inside show jokes, when we see "Going to miss you, so and so". WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK! NO! NO! <hyperventilation> NO! THIS IS NOT HAPPENING! We deny like a motherfucker, telling ourselves it is not true, until we find proof that it is not all a hoax. We immediately launch a full frontal search assault on Google to get to the bottom of this, which more than likely will tell us what we loathe to hear: the truth.

Stage Three: Bargaining

You know what will fix this? A PETITION! Let's all get online and start a petition that we will send to the write's agent or the production company. We can protest too! Just, fix this okay. Don't take this away from us! YOU CAN'T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM US!

Stage Four: Depression

Pajamas for days, unchanged. A full body blanket cocoon. Junk food, after starving yourself of course, because you would rather kind of die at this point. Hysterics and tears ensue. This could be temporary, if the Fangirl has several fandoms which she can focus on and take comfort in, but until she finds a replacement fandom or character, this could be her life now. What does she have to live for at this point? If it was her primary fandom, this could be a long period of turmoil, during which people in her life are just going to have to accept that yes, she is going to keep being this fucking ridiculous over a television show. Keep making fun of her, that will help. Good idea. She probably already felt very accepted and safe and confident, which is in no way is the reason she had to turn to a fictional creation to find life satisfaction.

Stage Five: Acceptance

While the scar will never fully heal, and can be ripped open with ease at any future point, she will muster the strength to move on. Her mourning period will end, and she will find a new outlet. She will eventually be able to re-read books or re-watch old episodes and movies. She will pine for the good old days, and it will be nostalgic. The point is that, for whatever reason, she needed this thing in her life at this very point in her life. It got her through. It gave her comfort, or confidence, or emotional fulfillment. She will always look back on her fandom and remember what she was going through then-- relationship trouble, depression, trouble with a job, financial hardship, maybe all of the above. People don't disappear into fiction because their lives are perfect. But, fiction might the the thing that kept them from hurting themselves or from giving up or from having a complete mental collapse.

I will always remember when you were the Doctor. Thank you for showing me that even a square peg in a round hole like me is capable of being brilliant, courageous, strong, important, and beloved, is capable of being the Doctor.

Solidarity, Food Workers, or Why You Should Not Fuck Over Those Who Serve Your Food

Solidarity to Food Workers across this nation standing up and demanding that profitable, multi-billion dollar corporations pay them a living wage and provide health insurance.

As a former Food Worker I know your pain, and while I left to teach after getting a degree, it's unacceptable that our country preaches for you to go college a "get a real job". No one should be forced to go into enormous debt just to earn a wage that can support a family. There will always be jobs that require degrees-- Medicine, Education, Business, Law, etc, (as they should be) but, I don't want to live a country where unless you have a fancy piece of paper you can't support a family. Not to mention those unfortunate saps who were told they could not get a good, well paying job without that fancy piece of paper, and ended up with both a Bachelor's degree, thousands in student loan debt, and a McJob that will never reap the kind of wages needed to pay off that debt thanks  in part to high unemployment and retirees clinging to jobs with death grips because of miserable pension and retirement systems.

Your job is no mentally or physically easier than mine. We both deal with hundreds of people on a daily basis which we have to handle delicately with a smile and grace, that often take their frustration out on you because you are a convenient target. We both stand all day without real breaks or a proper lunch or dinner hour. Be it a technical glitch that ruins a lesson, or a typo on a food order that leaves you short ten boxes of fries, you have to be able to adapt to disasters and think on your feet. Your job is not glamorous, but it serves a need made by a demand in our consumer driven economy that we expect cheap, fast food at our convenience served across a counter, through a window, or by the hands of somebody other than us because we to busy and important to make a meal ourselves at our own home.

And furthermore, those who want to continue to criticize bartenders and servers and burger flippers about having an easy job--Why don't you try it, asshole? Life happens, and sometimes you have to take a job-- trust me, I have been there. Other people genuinely love serving drinks or waiting tables or being the assistant manager of Taco Bell, and good for them that they found a job they love. It took seven years and  $40,000 in debt just to be eligible for the job I love, so who is the real idiot here? When my parents graduated there was no unspoken mandate you had to go to college to get a decent job you could work for your entire life. My mother for instance has worked almost thirty years at reputable insurance company that provided a decent wage and benefits with nothing more than a high school diploma. If I applied for the same entry level job today, it would most likely require a Bachelor's Degree.

And, the most frustrating part is that despite the overwhelming amount of shit given to people who work in the food industry (not to mention hospitality and retail, because I know you guys get raped too), these are the same jobs people are praising as fueling a wave of "job creation". Over half of all jobs created in the last three years, according to a study by the Royal Bank of Scotland, were low paying,  no benefits included service jobs.(http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/13/low-paying-jobs_n_3266737.html) So, when you need it to look like America is rebuilding her economy, these jobs count as "real jobs", but when those same employees demand to be justly compensated for their labor intensive, public dealing service jobs, they suddenly become "not real jobs", and the people who work them are labeled as lazy and stupid.

These are the same people who will go to work sick because they can't afford to call off and miss whole days pay, because there are no paid sick days for fry cooks and pizza delivery boys. The same people who will be forced to use Dayquil to fight that same serious illness because they can't afford a trip to the doctor or a thirty dollar prescription for anti-biotics. These are the same people who not only work on Xmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Memorial Day, and the glorious high holy day of Capitalism known as Black Friday without overtime or holiday pay, but are threatened with termination for not doing so.

That's just fucking bush league, America, and we're fucking better than that. "Land of Opportunity (Bachelor's Degree required)" was not part of the deal, you greedy, profit guzzling ass-clowns. When you pull the kind of profits that McDonalds, Starbucks, and Subway make in just a single year, there is no excuse for not paying hard working people a fair, living  wage, especially when profit margins that large would allow for it with a virtually unnoticeable cost change for the customer and the corporation still pocketing unfathomable amounts of little green greed sheets.

So, even though your protest was over shadowed by another fucking news story about Syria, my heart goes out to all of you who will get up tomorrow, put on a unflattering uniform you hard to purchase with your first pay check that now smells like old grease, only to be treated like a sub-human for eight to twelve hours to collect a paycheck that is so small you need food stamps to feed your own family.

A job is a job, period. I will not degrade any human being that tries to make an honest living by working in fast food, or retail, or hospitality-- not when there are so many people who would rather milk the system. No person who works for a multi-billion dollar corporation should have to be on welfare.

My Week Being a Fresh Crop of NoOb (Yet Again)

Yesterday I posted as my facebook status:

"Nothing makes an educated adult feel like a bumbling idiot quite like Orientation."

Which prompted one of my former Braintrustees to ask, why? 

Oh, Poncho, the glory of being you right now... so blissfully ignorant of how unfathomably shitty the real world is across the threshold of adolescence. Enjoy your senior year, because it is the last taste of childhood you're ever going to get. So, because I love you and your fellow Braintrustees, I am going to drop some knowledge on you that you're not going to be told about. It won't protect you, but at least it may help you brace for the initial impact.

There are very few experiences worse than the first month at a new job. 

I mean, it's up there on the list with things like dismemberment and Justin Beiber concerts.

Sure, don't get me wrong, there are plenty of upsides-- new friends, new opportunities, yada yada, optimistic statements go here. But, starting a new job is lot like moving (unfortunately, they often go hand in hand).
Getting through the first month is akin to torture. 

First of all, you don't know anyone, or perhaps you're lucky enough to know a few people, or perhaps only one, but it seems like they are never around when you need them. In my case, I did not know a single person prior to entering the building and shaking their hands. Now, I love meeting new people, but it's also a very anxious process for me. I'm eccentric, and it ain't no secret. So, when meeting new people, I have to really dial back on my Professional Weirdness. And, it's fucking hard, man. Trying not to talk is the hardest thing-- it's like my brain wants to make jokes worse than any other inappropriate time in my life. Humor is my defense mechanism, and sarcasm is the default setting on the 1986 model Bekki, so it's like my brain goes into overdrive and I can't shut it off. Then, it gets to the point where all I want to do is hear my own voice because it is the only thing familiar to me in this situation, and fuck, we're off to the races ladies and gentlemen. But, if you're not a complete mental case like myself, you're just going to have to deal with the problem of remembering a hundred new names and faces. In the case of being a teacher, I have to learn all my co-workers names, and then next week turn around and learn a hundred plus more when I meet my students. Name remembering is exhausting. Plus, in the case of my own name, I am going to spend the next three months correcting my misspelled name from "Becky" and "Rebecca" to it's proper spellings.

Then, there is the fact you don't know anything about your new job-- the atmosphere, the protocols, where the hell ANYTHING is located. It's a whole mess of uncertainty wrapped up in a tortilla frustration. Throw on top of that hours and hours of tedious yet necessary paperwork setting up insurance and direct deposits, and you end up having a million questions. You start to feel like the neediest, most impatient person on the planet because you don't have anything you need yet and you have to ask for it. And, even though everyone is super gracious, throwing out offers of help from every direction and telling you to come to them if you have any questions, some part deep, deep down inside of you believes there is a max cap to their kindness that is going to be stretched to the limit by your needs. 

And, just when you don't think you can sit through another meeting or sign your given name one more time, because of the mind splitting migraine pulsating through your cranium, in comes the gut-wreching fear you can't handle this job. This feeling is usually immediate precedes any discussion of your expectations and responsibilities. Suddenly, submitting lesson plans once a week or updating eligibility on Thursday mornings seems like a an insurmountable task. How can you possibly fit that in on top of all the OTHER new crap you have to remember? If you can remember that, what are you going to eject from your brain to fit it in-- the secretary's name, your parking spot, the password you just wrote down six times? Who knows if it will even be work related? Remembering to come fifteen minutes early once a week for hallway duty might push out the date of your parents anniversary or knowing the 3rd Amendment! 

Now, let me be very clear-- I am not venting because I feel I have been unfairly treated or neglected. That could not be further from the case. My admins, support staff, and colleagues have bent over backwards to get all of us newbies settling in comfortably. I have a really good feeling about my place there. It's just that I am exhausted. All the terrible that comes from starting a new job compounds into a soul crushing weight of fear and awkwardness that just hangs off your shoulders. It's mentally and physically exhausting, and yet, keeps your mind from settling enough to get a decent night's sleep. My brain and body are running with the gas light on at this point, and if I sleep tonight like I have during the last two nights, I'll be lucky if I have fumes left to run on tomorrow. 

In conclusion:

(Awkwardness + Fear) x Sleep Deprivation = Temporary Stupid Mode

There is nothing in this world I hate more than looking and sounding like an absolute idiot. But, that is exactly what Orientation turns a human being into, sadly.

So, that, my dear Poncho, is why nothing makes an educated adult feel like a bumbling idiot quite like Orientation.

Failure is quite an acceptable option.

NEWSFLASH! I did not finish my novel this summer, nor will I.

 But, I made a lot of progress on it! I even know how I am going to finish it, finally. I did a lot of editing and re-plotting and made some interesting discoveries along the way-- isn't it funny how these stories find a way of writing themselves, taking you down paths you never knew you would walk? I will finish it eventually, and it was not from lack of wanting to finish or writer's block.

The real reason I did not finish my novel is simple: I got a teaching job.

When I first decided I was going to finish and epublish my novel I was in a dark place. My job was winding down and the pressure of unemployment was weighing heavily. I was not going to fall into another bout of clinical depression though-- I was going to take all that trauma and turn it into something positive. I was not going to twist myself into the emotional wreck that was so characteristically me. I was going to tread this sea of uncertainty with grace and dignity. Joblessness seemed like an unavoidable obstacle, and applying to teaching jobs seemed more like a duty and a formality. I sent out packets to schools in every direction, and for months I heard nothing. Resigning myself to the fact I would just have to find something to fill time, and more importantly my checking account, in the fall, I instead saw this an a wonderful opportunity to focus on rediscovering my creative, imaginative self. If I did not have a teaching job I find some temporary, bullshit job, and just focus on writing, right? At least if I had a terrible job, for the first time, it would not feel like it might be my fate forever. I had options now-- I was educated and certified, and icing on the cake, slightly experienced. And, it would not be a terrible job compounded by full time schooling. That was almost a new experience for me to think that even if I spent all day at a crappy, thankless job, I could at least come home an decompress instead of annotating the readings and typing papers. The whole plan seemed brilliant!

For so very long, I had denied what is clearly an inherent side of myself. I am always writing, whether the words actually hit paper or blink into existence on a Word document, or not. Not a single day goes by that I don't catalog a name, a place, an experience, a color, an event, a word, a song, a feeling into my head for later use. What I believe makes me a writer, prevents me from not being a writer, is my incessant observation. I take in everything, and for the most part I remember it. I love words, and I love forming them into feelings and expressions. It makes me whole. It's how I dissect and comprehend the world-- by breaking into down into digestible pieces and explaining my impression of it through words. The fact that it can be interpreted and appreciated by any other sentient being is extraordinary to me, because it almost feels like I am the only person for whom I am writing.

So, I got serious about writing. I have been studying and honing this craft for so long, now I was going to actualize it. I made a weekly schedule and I stuck to it. I wrote in shifts every single day. I fixed old, junky, terrible passages and I wrote new, astonishing pieces. I woke up early, stayed up late. I found inspiration in unknown places. I went once a week to my favorite coffee shop, pressing pen to paper, sipping coffee and tea, and people watching.

It was a glorious month. And, it would have continued, and I might even have finished my book if something happened that I had convinced myself was an impossibility.

After months of silence, I got a phone call about an interview.

Then, I got two more.

Three interviews in five days totally through off my schedule.

Then, I got another phone call offering me a job.

Suddenly, the objectives of my entire summer shifted. Now I had to think about planning for classes, preparing my room, buying supplies, and most importantly, expanding my teacher wardrobe! How would these new kids understand my spunky, quirky nerdliness if I did not express it through adorable plaid dresses with tights and polka dot cardigans! There was no time!

Next week starts my tenure at Beardstown which I hope will be both long and satisfying. I don't even feel like a failure about not finishing, because I feel like I am just trading one delayed success for another. Either way, one of my dreams would have been deferred-- whether it was furthering my teaching career or starting my writing career.

I know that eventually I will accomplish both-- I am to stubborn not too.

Goodbye, and thanks for all the Fish Sticks and Custard.

Matt Smith is leaving Doctor Who.

Old news, right?

I know that being a Doctor Who fan comes with the unique challenge of accepting change, despite the fact that Whovians are ironically terrible at accepting change. The only thing worse than losing a Companion is losing the Doctor. Your favorite Doctor. Your fucking role model and soul mate, and the despite the fact he doesn't exist and you have a real life husband, is the ONLY PERSON YOU WILL EVER REALLY HONESTLY TRULY LOVE.

I joke about Eleven being my soul mate A LOT. Like, on an unhealthy level of muchness. But, it's true... being my soul mate, I mean. If you don't believe me, here is evidence in writing. http://primaimperatrix.blogspot.com/2011/10/river-song-must-be-capricorn.html. So, why, as the hours tick away, eeking closer to the moments when I will discover the new identity of the Doctor, do I love him so much? Why am I putting myself through an emotional black hole? Well, thanks to therapy, I can explain to you why.

I was a weird kid.

Like, really fucking weird.

Not in the way that all kids are weird, but in the way that you take bets on whether or not I was going to be a functioning adult, or end up in an institution hearing voices-- SPOILER ALERT: Neither so far. I realize now, people never knew what to do with me, what to make of me. My family, my teachers, my friends-- every one just decided rather than to try and sort it out, they would just get out of my way and let me do my thing. That's great, but fuck, that was lonely. I was just this precocious, curious kid who made people feel uncomfortable, so eventually they decided to sort it out by repressing me. 

Stop asking questions, Bekki. Stop talking, Bekki. Sit still, Bekki. Stop doodling, Bekki. Stop playing, Bekki. Don't run off, Bekki. Focus, Bekki. Grow up, Bekki. Be serious, Bekki. Don't be naive, Bekki. Stop being radical, Bekki. Accept your limitations, Bekki. Stop dreaming, Bekki. Calm down, Bekki, and just relax.

 I guess it was a lot easier to make the weirdness stop than to spend energy on trying to understand it. 

All I have ever wanted is to try everything-- taste exotic foods, jump out of planes, get lost in a place I don't speak the language and make a friend in the process, immerse myself in a foreign culture, sleep under the stars in the middle of nowhere, see something rare and magnificent that few to no others ever have or will... and that is just page one. That is my ONE wish-- try everything, see everything, experience everything, feel everything. 

Basically, I have wanted to run away my entire life. Why stay? I don't fit in here. I make everyone uncomfortable. I waste my and others time and energy trying to explain myself. I'll just leave. I'll find some place I belong, or maybe I don't belong any one place, so I will just keep moving. I have always been on my own anyway, so doesn't matter if I do this myself too. But, I don't have the means to do any of that, do I? So I'm just kind of here, being a professional weird person.

I can't be too melodramatic-- there were people that I found along the way-- Wyatt, Dankoski, Doc, Greg, Jess, Linda, my Braintrust. They encouraged me to embrace my talents, convincing me that I was dynamic and clever and important and loved without strings attached. They praised me so much, and could never figure out why I was so pessimistic and hard on myself. But, I was so broken by then, I could hardly believe anyone could genuinely believe in me.

Being a nerd kind of fixed that. I think Science Fiction saved my life on several occasions, because having some place that was not here to go was awesome and a huge relief. Books, comics, movies, shows, fanfiction, all of it-- it took me to a place where weird was a prerequisite and a commodity. Being clever and brave and curious could save lives. Having an innate feeling of importance and duty was not strange in Science Fiction-- that's what made you the protagonist. I lost myself, a lot, and I got to the point where I did not care if I came back. Living in my own head was a million times better than living in the real world, so I lived in my head and I vacationed in the real world, like for paychecks and bills and required, expected adultness.

So, when a girl like me finds a show like Doctor Who, you feel incredibly cheated that everything you ever wanted and thought important is fiction, and it's just not fucking fair. At first I wanted to be a companion, but then I realized they get lost or left behind. Then, I realized what I really wanted was to be the Doctor. A cosmic nine year old with a box that could take you anywhere in the universe? A person who felt so outcast that he ran away... Yeah, I could relate to that. A person who was feared, loved, or respected everywhere but his own home, but the loneliest being in the universe. No one ever stays. People just float in and out of his life, and he keeps traveling on his journey. Just a boy, and his box.

That's what my life started to feel like. Just a girl, and her imagination. In the end, it was always just me and my head universe, getting through the day, alone.

I was designed to love a character like the Doctor, but there is just something about Eleven. The hazel eyes, the floppy hair, the facial expressions, the frantic nervous gestures, the unrestrained curiosity and enthusiasm, the loyalty and protectiveness he has for his traveling family, his self sacrificing bravery, his steadfastness, his darkness, his cleverness, his sarcasm. He's the manifestation of everything I want to be and the life I want to have, even if it is fiction. I have always believed that your true love would be the person that you are equal with, a real partner, so who else was I going to fall madly in love with? My husband? Right.

Boil us down, fiction or real, we're essentially the same person. Look at how loved and accepted the Doctor is-- look at how much loss people feel that he will be gone. My entire life I was made to feel unaccepted as I was, and here is someone just like me, loved by millions. That is so affirming and validating.

When I say that the Christmas Special is going to be the worst day ever, I am deathly serious. Think of the person you love most in the world-- how much do they mean for you? How much have they done for you? Now imagine watching them dying. Now, times that by infinity. That is how I am going to feel watching Eleven regenerate.

Let the teasing commence... I expect nothing less.

I dearly miss you already, Eleven, but River taught me that  if you truly love someone, you say goodbye like they're coming back.

See you around, Eleven. 

Living the Courageous Dream of an Overly-Ambitious Wordslut

That was the day she realized she had written the very words she wanted etched into her tombstone... and, when they were scratched into the stone, they would be true because she had actually done it.

Last week, I decided I was going to start living my life. I am sick and tired of never appreciating my accomplishments. I never celebrate my little victories by rewarding myself-- I just keep dreaming, thinking someday I'll earn this, have that, be one of those people. Well, I made a straight up decision to say fuck that shit. I'm incredible accomplished and I am tired of being humble, denying myself, and never having fun or being happy with the state of my life.

I am a teacher, so much that it is impossible for me to not be a teacher. Many of you know me as one of those "Did you know" people. I've got random facts coming out of my ass, mouth, ears-- any orifice from which I can spew knowledge (now, that is one hell of a visual), all accrued from college, books, discussions with some astonishing human beings, and years upon years or watching educational television. And, when the country finally realizes the economy won't get better if they keep cutting state funded jobs, like teaching, I'll be a teacher again. It will happen. I don't have the first fucking clue how long that will take, but I know it will happen eventually. I will be a teacher again, if not next year, another year after that. People have to retire eventually, or perhaps die of a heart attack when they comprehend how many years they have to work before they retire-- regardless, jobs will open eventually... But, for right now, I am going to finally work towards a dream that lives in my heart, and is not born out of responsibility and financial need.

I am here and now setting a goal of finally finishing this foresaken book I have been going on and on about for five years, by the end of summer, and self-publishing it as an eBook. And, now that I've typed it, posted it, and you're reading it, I have to do it. The interwebs will hold me accountable. You will hold me accountable. By my twenty-seventh birthday, I want to be able to call myself a published author, and hopefully, be cashing royalties checks.

More than likely, it will suck, and flop, and I will make no cashy-monies. But, if I don't try to do this one thing, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. I'll die having not accomplished the one dream I never realized I wanted until I thought I might never get it. Even more than being a teacher, I am a story teller. I love to write. It's the only other thing in this world that is impossible for me not to be. It just comes out of me, whether I want to do it or not. I used to think I was pretty good at painting pictures, but I never recognized how exceptional I could be at painting with the written word. The more I do it, and share those words, the more I am told that I'm doing a damn fine job at it, and even I am starting to believe it now.

Even as a kid, I was writing stories. No one ever knew about them, but I had notebooks and word documents full of (in hindsight, awful) stories, completely devoid of character development, literary elements, and discernible plot lines (and yet, still better stories than Twilight). It was never anything I thought about pursing-- it was for me, to live the lives and fantasies I would never be able to live. There were very few days in junior high or high school I was not living in my own head, imagining the worlds and people I was inventing. I have always been the victim of an insatiable over-active imagination, and now I understand why--  I am a writer.

When I look back on my old stuff, from both the recent past and my childhoos, I am amazed by how much I have grown as a writer just in the few years I have been actively working on my craft. And, while I feel confident I can create a work worth publishing, I know I still have a long way to go. Knowing that, I will work on building my skills in areas I still need to strengthen (as long as it isn't the technical part of writing--  that is why they invented editors), and rely on the strengths that I know I possess, like description and character dialogue. And, I am going to write my book they way I want, because that is what one of my literary heroes, Neil Gaiman, gave me permission to do, and frankly, I don't feel the need to apologize for that.

I don't care if you don't like my word selection or my genre or my dialogue-- I need to learn to deal with criticism now anyway. I have a story in my head, and I think its a pretty damn good story. The thing is, I am the only one who knows and can tell this story. I'm going to lay myself bare, and write my story. By the Autumnal Equinox, I expect to have a book for sale on Barnes and Noble, even if it kills me. At least then I can die happy. Hell, I already figured out what to put on my tombstone...

Nineties kids lived like savages...

At least before the new Millennium, anyway.

Despite my best efforts, technology has become heavily integrated into my life. I take so much for granted these days, and the sad thing is that I'm not even the worst offender I know. I have thus far resisted and forbid myself to have internet on my phone-- there are just some things I can live without and refuse to pay the price of a first born child for, and this is one of them. Plus, I don't want to turn into one of those people. Ya'know who I mean... cough, cough, Darryl, cough. I'm already almost as bad as one of those people. I swear, half my conversations these days start off with, "I saw this thing on Pinterest..."


This weekend the DVR crapped out thanks to a busted fan, and while when I am bored I watch TV live, I have almost forgotten a time when I couldn't save a show for later. Last night, I had to leave myself notes to go watch Mad Men in the bedroom at nine, or else I was going to miss it.

I felt like a fucking savage. I was so tied down. How did we function when our lives revolved around a television schedule? I vaguely remember as a kid having to rush home to catch air times, or leave note reminders, or for fuck sake, use a VCR to record something I had to miss! Do even remember those antiquated things? We have it so good now! Going to bed was damn near impossible. Why did they have to play a bunch of American Gypsy wedding shows I could not record to mock later and as a result feel immensely better about my choices and integrity as a human being?! A fifteen year old was marrying a 28 year old! AWWW, MAN. They were having a trashy gypsy ball in Memphis, DAMN IT! Someone brought a gun!? SON OF A BITCH, I QUIT. Fine, I'm up, I'm watching... Fuck work I guess, because I have to watch a sixteen year old high school drop out, dressed as a prostitute, fight her mother in law.


Everytime I lose the function of a piece of technology I have become unconsciously dependent upon, I feel like an invalid. I notice it worst when I lose the internet. Google has ruined me. Having instant, accessible knowledge at my fingertips is sickly addicting. One time I lost the internet, and I start to start a list of things I thought of in the course of the day I needed to search on Google later. In course of just a few hours, by the time the internet returned, I had written down fourteen things. Seriously? Wow. That means that if we had internet, I would have walked over to my computer and Googled (yes, it's verb now) fourteen different things in a couple hours, and thought absolutely nothing of it. I even caught myself starting towards the laptop, even though I knew it was out-- like hitting that damn light switch out of habit when the power is out! But, this was not even counting the questions that might have been spawned by the result of my searches, causing other searches to be put forth.

Which leads me back to what I have decided on behalf of the world is man's greatest contribution to civilization-- Pinterest! This, even more than Google makes me realize the half life I was living before its inception.

My average day lost on Pinterest goes a little something like this...

(After trolling the Geek pages, because honestly, it's where I spend most of my time these days. I also don't know what I did before the invention of the meme, most specifically, the Fandom Meme)

Hmm, let's look at Food & Drink... 

...scroll, scroll, that looks good, click, pin, scroll, oooh yum, click, pin, scroll...

GREATEST LEMON COOKIE RECIPE EVVVAAAAAARRR!

What! Greatest EVVVVAAAAARRR? Really? I didn't even know I wanted that! Now, I cannot live without this vital information! Shit! CLICK CLICK CLICK...

And, before you know it, you're in a downward spiral headed straight for an ensuing Pinstrosity.

It gets you thinking though-- how did we live before technology got this important? I think my generation might actually be the last one who had to write a research paper using books, or owned a CD. Now that us Nineties kids are out in the world as adults, making contributions as part of the work force, the older generations give us a lot of shit. But, if they think we're bad, then they honestly don't have a fucking clue about the whiny, useless shitstorm that will follow us. Have fun with, the iGeneration, you poor, unsuspecting fucks. You'll be missing us by 2020, and I will laugh the glorious laugh of the told you so. The kind that goes Wah hah hah, good, good...

Prima Impertrix of Braintustencia

I'm going to lose my teaching position, and that really, really blows.

It's not because I did a poor job-- I did an excellent job. It's because the lawmakers in this state suck at their jobs. Pension reform, or their complete and utter lack resolving the aforementioned issue, has created a massive shortfall in education funding. So, long story short-- in which I save you from my anger filled rant-- I am going to lose my job, and set sail into a sea of unemployment rocked by a stagnant economy and budget cuts at schools across the state, amid the already established attitude that Social Studies is useless because it is not tested by federal or state tests. Unfortunately, this has not prevented absolutely everyone and their brother, sister, uncle, and aunt from getting certified in secondary Social Studies.

... and, all I can think about is how much I am going to miss the hell out of my kids.

I call my kids, because to me they are my kids. They have all gravitated to me for what I think are two reasons:

1) In me, they see someone who is nerdy, liberal, atheist, socialist, and curious-- all traits they feel in themselves, but are not encouraged in their small corner of Central Illinois. They are my beloved outcasts. In me they have found a kindred spirit who says, "That belief in you is worth believing - don't question it just because others don't understand it." I am a product of this same area, and I got out-- so will you.

2) They all have some form of parental issues, be it from being the product of a broken home or just being dysfunctional, they have all had to grow up just a little faster than they should have. In that, they share my pain.

So, I call them my kids because I feel like I am nurturing their minds, and serving as a stand in for a parent that does not meet a need that I can meet for them-- encouragement, discipline, engagement, understanding... the list goes on. Whatever it is that I have done that compels them to seek out my guidance and attention.

The worst part of leaving is feeling like I'm losing them, and they are losing me. We need each other, because  they meet a need for me too. Since having started therapy-- did I mention that? Oh, yeah, by the way, I started therapy-- I've been working on my need to achieve, and be recognized for that achievement. I'm slowly realizing that my self worth does not have to be wrapped up in my accomplishments. But, for some time, I have aspired to be one of those creative geniuses, like Whedon or Roddenberry, who created a universe. I fantasize about having a booth at a comic convention, and signing books and posters and headshots and other forms of swag with my creations emblazoned on them. I can hear the squees of joy as they approach my table, and I scribble my name across their most precious object with a felt tip pen. For so long, I wanted to create a universe of science fiction characters and stories that would envelope people, that I could use to spread my message. Basically, I wanted to be a cult icon.

And, then I was sitting at my desk after school, my feet propped on my desk and telling a story, my Braintrust circled around me in pulled up chairs, listening intently... and I realized, I am already somebody's hero.

My therapist wanted me to work on phrases that I could repeat to myself-- things that would calm anxiety or  lift a depressed mood. And, now I have one-- I am already somebody's hero. Whenever I get upset about anything, I can just repeat that phrase because I have now achieved my life's ambition.

I have achieved a cult of personality.

... This may be the closest I ever get to being Joss Whedon.

Wow... and it's not developed around my my intellectual property, it's around me. It's like a giant validation that everything I am is acceptable and in no way broken like I have become accustomed to believing. That's a pretty powerful revelation.

 Every day after school is like holding court-- I sit at my desk, my kids gathered around, and we tell stories and nerd out. And, they look forward to it. Hell, they page me on the intercom when I am not in my room right after school.

Now, it makes me sound pretty shallow, and I'm still going to aspire to creating something other than myself for people to worship, but still... damn, that's fucking cool.

I have to admit, I have gotten a little addicted to the attention and praise. But, I feel like whatever I have gotten out of this, the kids have gotten much, much more. I'm their safe place, and a small taste of stability in their lives. And, the fact that I'm leaving scares me for their sake.

If nothing else, I know that I have at least established my demographic and fan base.

It's going to be all tears and feels my last day of school.

While I call them my Braintrust, one of the kids-- and, this speaks to their brilliance and nerdliness that it is in Latin-- started refering to me as Prima Imperatrix, or in other words, the First Empress. It all started when we decided to form a micronation. Now, I am the brave and wise leader, Prima Imperatrix of Braintrustencia.

I cannot express in words just how much I am going to miss these kids...

And, just when I wasn't looking, back in the dark slithered.

Right now, I am low.

I am dark and fragile and anxious... and low.

How did this happen? I had a remarkable day going on an adventure with my dad. Something it has been far too long since I did. I came home from our motorcycle road trip excited and happy. But, somewhere around nine o'clock, it hit like I broke inside.

I burst out into tears over the silliest thing, and even why I was sobbing I was asking myself why am I doing this? How did I get to this point? Where did my happy from earlier scatter?

Then I opened my work email for the first time in a week-- I am on break, I am entitled to check out. An angry parent letter just set me off, and I haven't been able to keep it together since.

Something broke, and I don't know why or how.

This is the first time since I got my dream job that I have even felt remotely depressed. That is the ultimate happy I have ever experienced. At the moment I got my first teaching job, at a school with all the perks I could ever hope for and a class schedule that was my ideal, I was positively jubilant. Things shouldn't be like this anymore, at least not without provocation.

In the back of my head, I think I felt this building. Break was approaching and I felt the burn just like every other teacher and every student, so I know that it is not just work stress. Last week, when I said I check out, I meant that literally. I just stayed in my house and did nothing. Mostly, because I couldn't find the motivation to do much more than get up out of bed to move to the couch or to the computer.  Then I had a burst mid-week and cleaned the ENTIRE house. Then, I lost all motivation, period. I have taken three days to grade one set of tests when I was knocking out assignments to be graded in pairs daily.

The urge to create struck, and I wanted to write so badly! I got two pages of writing on my novel done, and I was extremely happy with them, and then... it was gone again. Nothing was there! I don't even have writers block-- I know exactly what I want to write. I know the next thing I need to do, and where to go from there. I just can't physically accomplish the task of getting the words onto paper. It's like my imagination has been kidnapped and held for ransom.

Why did this have to happen now?

I guess, at least I still have the majority of the week to find whatever I need to fix this funk. But, I have got to get my ass in gear because I have evals on the 22nd.

Right now though, my little world feels small and bleak, and I fucking hate this shit. If achieving the paramount of my ambition is not enough to suffocate and wither the darkness, where can I possibly go from here?

Perhaps, I'm just a cold, heartless bitch... Or, Why I won't wear pink to support the fight against Breast Cancer

I hate the color pink.

I have never especially enjoyed the color for the same reason I don't like my hair blonde. I feel like someone expected it of me, like I was told that is the way I should look as a woman. I feel like girls that buy pink things or dye their hair blond are subconsciously adhering to some expectation held for us.

Historically, pink has been the color of femininity, and thus it is regarded as a sweet, delicate, precious color. It's why we slather it over bachelorette party accessories and baby shower decorations. What frustrates me the most is when they slap pink on some ordinary every day thing just to target women consumers-- as if we would only purchase this item because they make it acceptable now that it is pink, and thus feminine. I realised the extent of the idiocy involved in this line of thinking the first time Wyatt and I considered buying a gun. I facepalmed when I saw the line of pink rifles and shotguns displayed behind the glass. What is even worse about the idea of a pink gun is that it says "Hey little lady-- hunting's a mans hobby, but since you insist on tagging along with him to go deer hunting, we'll make sure you have a special pretty gun make it acceptable for you".

Blue on a boy doesn't bother me at all. But pink on a girl makes my skin crawl. It damn near makes me angry. I mean, really, god damn, another one? We lost another one? It's 2012!

I went garage sale shopping a few weekends ago, and a overheard some kids talking. One little boy proudly held up an entire grocery bag of small toys and exclaimed to his friends "I got all these for a quarter!" The two girls in the group peered into the bag and one asked, "Didn't they have any girls toys?" Does it make me a deplorable human being if I can admit I wanted to bitch smack a seven year old? Just play with the fucking toy! I had legos, water guns, hot wheels, and a ton of other "boy toys" when I was a kid and I played with them just as much as my dolls and stuffed animals and my kitchen set. And why the fuck are all the girls toys cookware and cleaning equipment!? That's what every little girl wants! A toy vaccuum so she can learn how much house cleaning blows early.

This is the kind of dumb ass thinking they have programmed in our brains.

Now, before you even start, yes, I do traditionally "feminine" things. I wear makeup when I go out and to work and I wear the occasional dress because I love my calves, but look stumpy in shorts. I paint my nails every color of the visible spectrum-- EXCEPT PINK! Never pink.I just can't bring myself to do it.

The whole blue is for boys and pink is for girls is one of these lasts hold outs from the older generations of gender inequality. And, the fact that breast cancer was given the color pink pisses me the fuck off. As a woman, I know that breast cancer is a devastating diagnosis. Losing a breast would be unimaginable-- not because I feel that my breasts define me as a woman, but more that after carrying around these meat sacks for fifteen years it would be the equivalent of losing any other appendage. It's a part of your body, and I would be as depressed about losing a breast as I would be about a finger or an eye. Especially, when you consider the investment most women have made in buying overpriced tit slings to keep them from flopping around under your clothes.

It's just the idea that we have to associate pink with breast cancer because it primarily effects women. I mean, with that thinking, why is testicular cancer lilac, and not blue? I mean, if we have to be that fucking blatant about it, why aren't we just as stereotypical when it comes to boys?

I don't care if it makes me feel like a heartless bitch. I will not wear pink, even to support my breast cancer stricken aunt. It's just continuing the cycle of expectations held for women. I am respectful of all those afflicted or in remission, and I will keep hoping for all those women-- hoping, not praying, because what sense does it make if you believe that god has a plan for you, and every thing happens for a reason, that he would he take away the cancer he obviously gave you? That's why I don't pray. Because it makes that much sense. But, I will keep hoping... just not while wearing pink.

Signs You're at a Small Town Bar

Recently, I made the twenty five minute trek home to Dawson to spend time with my family in what has now apparently become the only way we can socialize-- drinking at one of the many taverns in the tri-village area. Every time I do this I ask my self how I once again ended up in this situation... and yet, I return time and time again for the sake of the happiness of my clinically depressed grandmother who I love more than life itself, and cannot bare to disappoint.

I digress...

In no particular order--

Sign #1-- Suddenly without realizing it happened, it's like a high school reunion where the only people invited are of all the kids that you avoided in high school.

There are two types of people who go to the small town bar:

1) People who for the grace of some benevolent force in the universe escaped, and have returned merely for the entertainment.
2) The entertainment, or better known as "the regulars"

I went to college for many reasons. One reason was so I did not have to live in Dawson. So, when I return home, and we go out, and suddenly I am inundated by a flood of rejects who during my high school experience were drug dealers, homophobes, rednecks, illiterates, alcoholics, baby-daddies, baby-mommas, drop outs, criminals, and/or any combination there of or unmentioned, I am astonished that these people attempt to converse with me. Once I show up, in comes the parade of derelict people whose lives suck so much that the ONLY thing they have to look forward too is getting shitfaced on Bud Light bucket specials or Crown and Cokes.

AND THEY INSIST ON TALKING TO ME!

I have a college education. You have a certification in cosmetology from CACC.

I am married and have a job. You have a baby daddy and a drug addiction.

I went to Europe to witness the ruins of the ancients, and it changed my life. You went to the river bottoms to get drunk on a raft for your bachelorette party.

WHAT THE FUCK DO WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT!? We didn't talk in high school when I was ignorant and uneducated about the world. What makes you think we could possible have a conversation now?

Now, I'm not insinuating I am better than these people....

I am flat out telling you incontestable facts that prove I am better than these people.

Sign #2-- Any of the following dress code violations:

A memorial T-shirt that reads "Loved but not forgotten", with the picture of the deceased loved one holding any type of dead animal, that has been haphazardly sheared of its sleeves with a pocket knife. Because this is how uncle J.R. wanted to be immortalized by his remaining family...

A forty year old woman wearing a Harley-Davidson shirt that is at least one size too small, worn so tightly it gives her a muffin top over the low-rider, bedazzled jeans she wears to look like a teenager, AND to complete the look, is tucked in to further emphasize the beer gut she is trying to grow to hide her c-section scar under the flap.

A camouflage hat with a fake fishing hook on the brim... because when I think fashion icons to be emulated, I think Larry the Cable Guy.

A white kid wearing a flat billed hat, sagging jeans, pristine white tennis shoes, and a wife beater accompanying his underage girlfriend, who's is herself wearing a dress that would make a hooker exclaim "Damn girl!", with a pair of cowboy boots to "dress it down", or perhaps even to "class it up" in their fucked up world view.

Any man wearing over-alls.

Sign #3-- A single toilet bathroom with a broken lock.

Who decides to build a bar with single toilet bathrooms? I do not enjoy playing the game where I have to attempt to twist the handle ever so gently as not to actually open the door, because the music is so fucking loud you couldn't possibly hear a knock from inside. Either one of two things will happen: there is no one inside and you'll stand outside like a damn idiot waiting because you could not get the handle to turn, and assume it must be locked, or you'll barge in on the bitchiest woman in the bar.

Last but not least...

Sign #4-- A karaoke night that some white trash girl thinks is the birth of her country music career.

Have I been known to drunkenly sing country music on karaoke night in Dawson... unforunately, yes.

Have I ever advertised this event as the fucking social event of the season this side of Uncle J.R.'s memorial poker run? Fuck no.

And, furthermore, as a moment of side-bitching, why is it that every girl who sings country songs during karaoke suddenly develops a Tennessee accent? Look chick, I know that Dawson and the surrounding area has a certain level of redneck drawl, but unless you make moonshine in the hills because the black lung took yo' daddy, you should not sound like a Appalachian.

Then again, I'm not sure which is more tragic-- the barely drinking age legal bimbo, or the twice divorced if at all married mother of three who may or may not still have a drug habit who uses karaoke to fill the void in her life that was created as a result of a landslide of bad decisions. While it may not be possible to answer this question of who is more tragic, I know one thing about each of these women-- they both think they are the next Carrie Underwood.

One million other things I could be doing...

...But fuck it-- I'm going to blog. I'm not going to prep. I am not going to grade anymore papers. I am just going to do a personal, completely necessary thing right now... write, be sarcastic, blog.

I need to do this. I have to find some semblance of creative normalcy. Here I am, fully jobbed and living my teaching dream. Which, any of you who have known me for longer than a minute know this was incredible, nearly impossible achievement. But, all I can focus on is the fact that this job is eating my life because stupid ass me wants to do it right, and it may be all for nothing if my job gets cut... which is pretty likely since America experiencing a high speed come apart, the likes of which have not seen since my wedding when it rained on my outdoor reception.

For months I have been observing things and thinking in my head, "This would make a great entry". But then I get home and think I have to put other things first. Well, my break is coming up and I don't care how much I have to do right now. I'm never going to get it done if I don't take a rest and refocus, because my brain will protest in some melodramatic... way like a aneurism or a seizure or randomly forgetting how to speak English or an inability visually process color.

So, this is me, entering randomn wisdom in my irrational and absolutely peculiar observational way.

Read, and enjoy while it lasts.

Fuck you, Stephanie Meyer. This is all your fault.

I have been going to my writer's group on Saturday mornings for about a month now. I look froward to it every week. When a few of the group members flake, it disappoints me because I take this seriously. I'm a hobbyist when it comes to writing. I have no published works. What gives me the right of honoring myself with the title of writer? What have I done to deserve it? Going to group makes me feel like I'm working towards being a writer-- a serious writer, with goals and ambition, who wants to hone the craft and not just slap words down on paper and proclaim it's a novel.

In my opinion, I consider my book a Science Fiction book, because I try and bring elements of actual science into it. People aren't immortal because of magic or supernatural reasons. There are no undead, no curses, no people who morph into animals. I try to explain immortality through a scientific means, with present day scientific theories. Things I have read about and learned from documentaries on aging and longevity for humans. But, because it has to do with immortality, it's going to be lumped into the dreaded genre of "Supernatural", and eventually, be lumped with every other bandwagon jumping teen novel.

Today, one of the members, who I respect the opinions of because they work as a professor of this craft, was critiquing my exercise for this week. I knew it was going to be severe. He does this as a career-- it's his job to dissect a piece of writing down to the bones and scatter the entrails across the paper for inspection. He pointed out all the mechanical failings, but nothing really about the imagery, or characters, or a lot of the literary elements that make a story compelling. I guess that is what I am looking for from the group. Mechanics can always be tweaked-- otherwise, Editors would be unemployed. I want to know whether I can write something worth reading? Does it capture humanities best and worst qualities? Is it allegorical? Does it have literary themes like redemption, perseverance in the face of great adversity, finding a family to call your own, revenge, or a journey of discovery and mystery? Will it make you question things like morality, or what is truly right and truly wrong, or what vindicates blurring those lines?

To me, without those things, the best mechanical writer in the world would write a shitty story. Sure, they may have great language and grammar, but is that story worth reading? I want my story to be about consequences. About how we as humans treat each other. About the lines that divide us. But, it seems like all people see when they read it is word choice and contraction usage, or [insert any mechanical problem here].

Anyway, after it was thoroughly murdered with read lines and notes, I defended what I could. He was right. I will give him that. He's a COM teacher, and I'm not saying I can't improve mechanics... but that is not what really upset me. I asked him later about going to the Thursday night Writer's Workshop at the Pharmacy. I told him I was hesitant because of my genre. I don't want people to think it is some supernatural, flash in the pan novel...

His response, "Well, that's kind of what it is."

Ouch. Excuse me a second while I pull your fiery, literary sword from my heart, professor. Really? Is that all people are going to see? Why can't anyone read between the lines anymore?

On Wednesday I watched a documentary called Trek Nation about Eugene Roddenberry, Jr., and his quest to understand the life and work of his father. In the show, there was this quote:

"Science fiction, today, is one of the last places a philosopher can operate." -Gene Roddenberry

I really put a lot of thought into this universe. The entire reason I even began writing this story was to take and idea I had living in my brain for years, and prove that Stephanie Meyer was a fucking hack. And, now, because of her, I'm typecast and stereotyped. Like Randall Graves, I'm taking this genre back. My story isn't supposed to be something everybody wants to read, but I aim to make it something everybody should read. It isn't just a bunch of shallow, white, privileged teenagers running around dealing with like, this totally hard life stuff ,plus superpowers. My characters are all adults. Hell, half of them have been adults for around a century. There is one teenage kid in the whole damn story, and she is there solely as a person for Max to mentor. A way of showing that she has grown as a character, and has life lessons to offer now that she has finally gotten over herself. In fact, Dare, my teenage character is based on some of the students I have met at observation. She's supposed to represent a lost generation underprivileged kids people overlook and dismiss based solely from first impression. She's struggling to overcome the limitations life is trying to set for her. Drew, on top of dealing with family betrayal, is gay. While not the main issue his character is dealing with, he has to deal with the prejudices that come along with being an outed man. Violetta is my Lizzie Bennett archetype- the educated woman when woman should not be clever, they should be pretty and quiet. She's my feminist who questions society and her place as a woman. Max's dad, Gabe, was imprisoned on a deserted island for almost twenty years, and must deal with merging into a digital, fast paced, unfamiliar world. The entire group lives off the grid to avoid detection-- a lifestyle that makes you question our dependence on convenience shopping, electronics, and a myriad of other things that we take for granted as comforts we have come to expect. Not to mention all the atheist propaganda I not so subtly throw in there. And questions that arise from the motivations of the characters. Are their horrible acts justified when you understand their true motivation? The entire idea that death is a limitation that can be overcome with enough money puts the whole idea of Capitalism into perspective.

It's dark, and scary, and meant to put our world in perspective. It's not written for teenage girls to read, and make T-Shirt marked "Team Finn" or "Team Ridley". It's for adults, or in rare cases, though few and far between despite the fact I know these kids exist, teenagers mature enough to get it. It is supposed to make you feel a little unnerved. Make you rethink the way you look at things. These characters are extremely flawed. Nothing happens to them because they are popular, or pretty, or smart. They're fates are the result of a genetic lottery. You're either normal and you die, born without a soul which will allow you to live forever, or born with a soul and, Surprise!, a super power and immortality thanks to a genetic mutation. But, superpowers and immortality aren't all great. Being an empath turns Max into a selfish, alcoholic. Having the power to remove a person's soul turns Finn into a smug assassin who doesn't question the ability to choose who lives forever and who dies. Being immortal turns Dethridge into a psychopath with delusions of grandeur, stemming from his desire to make his human wife wife immortal. Which brings me to the greatest question of all-- if you don't die, does that even make you a human being anymore, or something greater, more evolved? Is a life that never ends worth living?

Granted, I am making a big fucking deal over one guy who read one excerpt of my story. Who knows how he would feel about the big picture? I can't say. But after some bitching to Craig, who I thank for letting me vent, I realized that I'm losing my own perspective. Who am I writing this for, really? Is this my manifesto of sorts? Is writing a novel my own way of combining three of my loves-- science fiction, history, and social commentary? Is it a window into the world I grew up, and the world I live in now? Or is it about pleasing people? I will never write a novel every person in the world loves. I have no illusions about that. But, if I ever get published and walk into Barnes and Nobles, and see my book sitting the recently created "Teen Paranormal" shelf, I may swallow a bottle of pills.

I'm not claiming to be some undiscovered, unappreciated Mark Twain or anything. It just pisses me off how quickly people are prepared to put everything in neat, labeled boxes. Sure, my story is about people who are immortal and have super powers. But, Star Trek was about a group of space travelers. Did that make it any less noteworthy? The network cancelled it. They didn't want a show that made you think, they wanted a show with explosions, creatures of the week, and fist fights. It was referred to as a western in space. But, the fans got the message. They read between the lines. They related to characters, some even found reasons to live in this silly little science fiction show. And, now Gene Roddenberry is a science fiction titan. He used that genre to open people's eyes to the world around them-- expose prejudice, injustice, and ignorance. That is all I want to do. Leave some impression on this planet that proved I existed, that I had a mind and a voice, and a story I thought was worth telling. Maybe it was about silly things like super powers and love and revenge, but fuck, can't it be more than that? Can't that just be the vehicle I use to paint a bigger picture?

People are going to hate this story. Others are going to love it. The majority of people aren't going to bother to even read it. Most people won't even get it. To them, it's going to be face value for them. But, somewhere, someone on the planet may pick it up, and appreciate the effort I put into it. And, it may change their mind about something hey thought they were sure about. If a story I write can do that, it is all worth it. Of course, that is all if I can even get someone to publish the damn thing.

In the end, I have to remember, I am the one devoting my life and time and money and energy into this endeavor. I am the only person that needs to matter. Everyone else can join me, or they can go to hell.

The Accidental Threesome

Last night, a cursory search of the new additions to NetFlix revealed that they had finally placed How I Met Your Mother on Watch Instantly. So, I added it to the Instant Queue, and waited for Wyatt to get home from Jam Night at Kyle's so we could watch a few episodes of the last season, which we have yet to see. A few episodes turned into ten or more, and we didn't end up going to bed until after four in the morning. Nothing really for Wyatt, working third shift, but I had woken up early that day and was approaching twenty-four hours of straight awakeness. I was beginning to get a headache when we laid done. I did not take anything for it though because I figured it was just my body trying to tell me, "Hey Lady! This sharp pulsing pain in the middle of your brain is a warning alarm. Your brain will shut down in approximately ten minutes if you don't go to fucking bed." That being said, I was approaching a point we will call... cranky... yeah, that's the word we'll go with.

While lying in bed, I made the mistake of asking Wyatt a question. It was a mistake for two reasons. Reason 1-- I already knew the answer. Reason 2-- I knew the answer annoys Wyatt, but he refuses to do anything about it, because Wyatt is the guy that just sits back and lets shit roll. Shit that should not roll. Shit that should be addressed by adults, because we are mature-- well, that is a malleable term in my case, but I digress-- and sometimes you have to say things to people that they need to hear. Things that they don't want to hear, and sometimes, that you don't even want to say. But that is part of what being an adult is-- doing stuff you don't like or are uncomfortable with. It builds character and makes you stronger, even if you whinge about it a lot.

Well, I tried to make this point, and Wyatt took the route of just picking on me as a response. For some unknown to me reason, he thinks this is cute. He thinks this is flirting. This is not flirting. Trying to annoy someone to the point they fight with you is not flirting. Flirting requires wit.

My response to his taunting, "If you're going to pick on me, can't you at least try to be flirty about it? Why can't you be clever with your brain?"

Yes. There is no need to point out the irony in that sentence, because as previously stated, I had been up for almost twenty-four hours. Did I mentioned we had done a little drinking? No, I forgot that. We had been drinking. My brain was flushed with two drinks and deprived of sleep. No one was expecting me to be clever with my brain. I wasn't the one on trial here-- Wyatt was.

I don't want to be picked on like some third grade girl. Wyatt seems to have digressed from when we were first dating in his affection and flirting ability. He used to do amazingly romantic things, like the time he drove all the way from Bloomington-- sixty miles-- in a fucking blizzard to follow me home from school and make sure I was safe. Um. Sploosh. Flash forward seven years later, and Wyatt thinks flirting and romance is pissing me off to the point I want to punch him, because to him it is fun. I think we are both past the "I pick on you because I like you stage". If we are going to pick on each other, can't we at least be sexy about it? Can't we banter? I don't want Calvin hitting Susie with a water balloon type of flirting. I want the Doctor and River kind of flirting. Back and forth, tit for tat, clever with your brain kind of stuff. Sure, that might annoy me a little, but it also hot.

Doctor: River you have that face on again.
River: What face is that Doctor?
Doctor: The he's hot when he's clever face.
River: This is my normal face, Doctor.
Doctor: Precisely. (Sexy smirk)

SPLOOOSH! Hot. Take some notes.

But, because he is Wyatt, his response to Why can't you be clever with your brain? was to, without a word, simple roll over on top of me to squish me until I could not breathe.

For the rest of my life, I will always be Susie I guess. So, as I laid there, under hundred of pounds of my husband, oxygen squeezing slowly from my flattened lungs, using up whatever excess I had to kind of struggle, blinded by the sleep mask I could not remove because my arms are pinned under his weight, I hear:

"Are you licking my shoulder!?"

WTF? "No. My mouth is close to your shoulder, but I am definitely not licking it!"

Still blinded, I hear, "Damn it, Moe!"

A that point Wyatt lifts up, and says "Look."

Finally able to move, and breathe, I removed my mask to see that Moe had silently hopped into Wyatt's spot on the bed that he had vacated to squish me. While Wyatt laid on top of me, Moe was licking him shoulders from behind.

Last night I discovered my dog is better at flirting that my husband.

In which I'm pretty much over it.

Simultaneously, I love and hate this time of year, or rather, since I am stuck in a perpetual carousel of never ending classes, this time of the semester. This is the transition period that moves me from the over-zealous optimistic student who was ready and willing to finish assignments and readings early, to this dark, cynical, pessimistic student who is ready to start committing to the minimum.

And, this semester, I really feel like a bitch about it, because I actually really like both of my teachers this fall. Both my social studies methods and quantitative reasoning teachers are awesome. They are both a credit to their profession, and I enjoy going to class. Both are very dedicated to our classes, and find lots of interesting and fun things for us to do. I'm not really bored with either of the subjects, it's just that this is what happens in the last stretch, when I start counting down the days until Thanksgiving Break and calculating how long I can effectively put something off before it's procrastinating.

The worst part about this problem is that for some unknown reason, that should really have no bearing on this but remains oddly attached, whenever I slink into this pit of educational loathing I seem to find my creative zenith. I can't seem to force myself to sit down and knock out a writing assignment, but I can spend nearly whole day plot lining and drafting rough scenes. This makes absolutely no sense. But, the fact remains that this week I have been more inspired and flirting with the muse than I have been in a long time-- which if I could measure would probably come out to about this time last semester...

So, as in usual procrastinator's fashion, I spent the majority of my day validating that if I was going to put off my homework, I didn't have to feel bad about it if I did two things:

1) If I did PART of my homework (a.k.a. the reading necessary for making my online post), it wasn't really procrastination, it was moderation.

And, as the wise Aristotle once said, "Seek moderation in all things." In this line of thinking, after reading my chapter and taking note as a preliminary outline, taking the next step to actually type it up and post it was just overkill.

2)As long as I was doing SOMETHING productive, I didn't have to feel bad about not doing something else.

Now, this reasoning comes from the fact that the last couple of days I have made major movement along the plot line of my novel. After yet another inevitable creative dry spell following a sudden inspirational assault on my imagination, I hadn't managed to make a lot of linear progress. After three years, I've discovered my process best works by taking advantage of these massive blocks of inspiration to work on Singularity, what I deem as "Part I" and which I have been writing as linear as possible. It never lasts long though. Inevitably, I find myself at a point where I feel like I barely have enough talent and momentum to write a complete sentence. In these periods where I need to write something, anything, I find myself free writing scenes about later parts of the story-- ones that might come in the later books ( Infinity and Relativity), about characters that I haven't introduced in the linear story yet or incidents that have not occurred, but have been set in motion, or scenes that explain the causes of the events that have been addressed.

It's mid-semester now though, so I'm not trying to squeeze my imagination like a dried out sponge in the meager hope of a little idea I can spin into something substantial. I'm so fucking full of ideas I can't leave the house without taking a notebook or go to bed without one on my nightstand. All I want to do is read, read, read, and I'm searching for new books like a dehydrated man in the desert looking for water. But, I can barely make it through a chapter of my methods book or find a valid reason to work on my math homework, after all, the test isn't for another week.

Which is why my storyboard went from this--



-- to this --



Hey, it doesn't look like much, but I added five new scenes. And, even more exciting is that as a result of this recent surge I have drafted seven written scenes from ideas previously posted on the board to be written. Considering I've just completed forty hours of observation which I put a lot of energy into, and outputting a medium level concerted effort towards my classes, not to mention combating executive level incompetence on the part of my University in trying to complete my application for student teaching... I'm pretty damn proud of this level of progress.

The only problem now is that I don't have the energy to type up the stack of drafts I have completed-- ten all together since I had three previously in the cooker, waiting in a binder marked "draft notes" where all my hand-written notes go until I can use them.



Here they are-- ten stacks of paper, just waiting to be typed up... as well as my Moe-dog, who sits suspiciously eying them, sniffing them until they reveal their secrets. Inside my brain is that little voice encouraging me, saying "Just get them typed up and add them to "Part I", and then do a happy little dance when you see the total number of words and pages that will result. Hell, it might even push you well over 50,000 words!". But, then I say, "What they hell Little Voice? Why can't you ever get that excited when I have a writing assignment?" And, at that point all hope of getting anything done gets thrown out because that little voice goes to the room inside my brain where she lives, to pout.

All I want for Xmas is my GOD DAMN SECOND BATHROOM FINISHED!

Dear Wyatt,

You know I love you very much, right? And, I know that you are beyond annoyed by my "nagging about the bathroom", which is why I am blogging about it-- mostly because I know you aren't interested enough to actually read anything I put on here, and you don't even really understand the point of a blog... but I need to bitch about this to someone... again.

For our anniversary, I asked that the only present I wanted, for our FIRST wedding anniversary, was that you finish the half finished bathroom. In February of 2009, just a mere five months after we moved into our first home, you decided to spend the majority of the $7500 refund we received for our house purchase on gutting and remodeling the bathroom. Now, despite the fact that one of the major things I was most excited about when we bought this house was the fact that my entire life I lived in a house with one bathroom, I allowed this. I grew up in a world where it had become acceptable for the other females in my family to walk into the bathroom while I was showering, and sit down to take a crap. Actually, my mother liked to use this time for bonding-- taking the time to talk to me about my day and any of the problems I might have been having. This is the world I grew up in. This was an everyday occurrence in my most formative years. Knowing this, how can there be any mystery why I am absolutely fucked up.

With this in mind, the idea of the luxury of a second bathroom seemed like a glorious move up the social ladder for me. Sadly, I only was able to enjoy this luxury for a few priceless months before Wyatt destroyed all functionality of my second bathroom, and left it a naked husk; a shell of what was once a bathroom. We spent the majority of that refund money on that bathroom-- three different kinds of tile, new fixtures, a new sink and toilet, exposed aggregate concrete counter top, shower shelf, and shower bench that look like beautiful replicas of the remains from Pompeii that my father in law made himself...

But, alas, my beautiful bathroom sits half finished because someone whose idea it was to start this fucking project got pissed halfway through because laying tile "is frustrating" and, now has lost all the will and motivation to finish it... for almost three years.

So what happens? I have to wait when Wyatt is in the bathroom, whether I need to shower or dry my hair or even just brush my teeth, for up to a half an hour some times. When we are getting ready, and a sudden "urge" hits, I am forced to blow dry my hair in the hallway with the dryer cord pinned in the door frame or put my make up on in the bedroom or brush my teeth in the kitchen sink... of course, that's if I am lucky to catch him before and am able to retrieve the things I need before he goes to do the deed. SO, when I don't catch him in time, and I have to wait to use the bathroom, I get yelled at for "always taking to long". Well, you know what? Maybe if I didn't have to wait for the half life of that radioactive waste you just dumped in the bathroom for it to be safe to enter, then maybe, just maybe, we could leave the fucking house on time.

It's always my fault. I'm the bad guy. I annoy him and nag too much. I need to drop it. I'm getting on his nerves.

All I ask for as a my FIRST wedding anniversary present was a finished bathroom-- a gift that would have been completely free being as everything for the fucking project has been bought and paid for, and sitting in my damn dining room for three years... or at least until I made him move it into the unused space of the bathroom so I didn't have two totally useless rooms in my house. But, I guess that being "frustrated" by tile is just too much of a hassle to please your beloved wife on the anniversary of the day she chose to spend of the rest of her life with you, and only you until death. Poor Wyatt. I am such a horrible bitch, aren't I? I am amazed he hasn't left me yet for being so demanding and unreasonable...

Now, both Xmas and my 25th birthday are coming up in December, and you know what? I'd even let him off the hook for presents for each holiday-- because, yes, my birthday is a holiday-- if he would just get over himself and finish that god damn bathroom. I am begging at this point. If he thinks he is tired of hearing me bitch, then he obviously has to idea how tired I am of bitching about it. Just make it happen, and wouldn't you know it? I would shut the hell up! Please? PLEASE!? Do this for me and the sake of the stability of our marriage. I've even offered to do it myself if he would just help me, as I have never tiled before. God forbid I fuck it up and hear about it forever.

What more do I have to do? How much longer can I stand this? How much longer can he honestly keep putting it off? Really?

If you want everyone to stop giving you shit, me to stop bringing it up, and if you want to have a happy wife... Please... FINISH THE FUCKING BATHROOM BEFORE I FINALLY SNAP AND TAKE YOU OUT WITH THE TOILET LID.

Love,

Bekki