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...