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.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Thursday, August 15, 2013
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.
"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.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
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.
See you around, Eleven.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
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...
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...
Monday, May 6, 2013
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...
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...
Saturday, April 27, 2013
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...
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...
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