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.