two weeks

In about two weeks, I’ll be in the midst of a brand new whirlwind–one that I’m pretty familiar with, but new all the same.

I just fought my way out of a whirlwind, so…for now, I’m enjoying the view.

Two weeks sounds like a long time, but it isn’t.  When I was little, I remember being so bored when I had two weeks off.  That’s when I’d go on my adventures–when I’d find myself in Little Saigon, surrounded by labels I couldn’t read.

I miss those days, a lot.  It was easier to be invisible–to see people without the masks they put on–just as they are.  I wonder if we’re wrong to call children innocent.  Maybe we’re more innocent around them.  Maybe that’s not the right word, but it’s interesting to think about.

I keep wanting to fill up my two weeks.  I want to go–somewhere, anywhere.  But that’s nothing new.  I could be in forty different places right now.  I do have a pesky drug test to knock out, but–other than that?  I have nothing stopping me.

And yet?  I tell myself I do.

I mean…the cats need me.  I need to clean because who the Hell knows when I’ll have time again.  Because the roller coaster is starting.  And there’s school.  I have to have wifi, yea?

And then, there’s that little voice inside me that reminds me that I took this job–jobs like this one–so I could be free.  So I could be anywhere and still be stable.  Because, while I’m good at cube life, I hate it.  Because I’d like nothing more than to live out of a little camper and take pictures of every person I’ve ever met.

I’m not getting any younger.  I keep remembering that.  There’s so much to do, but life is too short to waste your time doing things.  It’s a conundrum, and I always feel like I’m walking a tightrope.  Kinda like decisions.  I decide and then I spend the rest of my time doubting the choices.

What’s right?  Who can say?

And all I’ve got is this: wherever I end up will make sense eventually.  And I’ll hold it like a baby and cherish it until I end up somewhere else.  Even if it kinda sucks.  I know I need it, and I don’t need to understand it.

So, I guess I’m trusting the Universe that I’ll get what I need.


I read the other day about an interview Keenen Ivory Wayans and his siblings gave to Oprah at the beginning of the month.  I meant to write about it then, but life got busy again.  At one point, Wayans mentioned that comedy is “a mask for pain”–that funny people are people who have a talent for translating pain into funny.  I’m not so sure this is universally true, but some of his thoughts did resonate for me and made me wonder about other things.

I don’t know that I see myself as funny.  I probably would never do stand-up.  I can’t be consciously funny.  But I have my witty moments.  People laugh when I say/do some things.  I don’t try.  It’s just how I see the world.  I have an innately dark sense of humor, but I can find absolutely ANYTHING funny.

The thing is–I don’t feel like it’s a choice.  It’s just part of who I am.  I learned the coping mechanism of laughter.  I didn’t do it for anyone but me–just to keep going.  You start to see all the absurd things just because you’re always looking for something.  Perhaps, that translation Wayans refers to is an automatic tool for surviving.  Kim Wayans said she thought comedic talent was something you’re born with–like any other talent…that it couldn’t be taught.  But I disagree.  If comedy comes from the ability to cope with your life through laughter, then it’s something we all have in us.  But perhaps, we aren’t aware of it.  Or maybe it’s only available to us at certain times in our lives.

I think the same thing can be said for any creative activity–whether it’s writing or painting or photography.  All of these things are available to us when we’re flailing.  And they can heal us and other people.

I think a lot of people aren’t open to it, though.  And maybe that’s what makes great talents different.  They allow themselves to drop their own opinions about their talent.  They don’t let self-loathing stop them because the thing they’re doing is more important than the need to be good.  And maybe that’s where pain comes in.  Because, when you’re in tremendous pain–at some point–you just stop fighting over the stupid shit society gave you.  About all those notions of who you are and who everyone else is.  And you just kinda let yourself be.


I read an article today on XOJane about super-breakups–the ones that happen when you thought this person would be yours forever.  It was probably helpful for some people, but it read like some weird self-help guru lining people up for Jonestown.

I’ve had a couple of these.  But then, the ones that weren’t like them are almost as painful–mostly because all of your romantic relationships SHOULD be like these.  I mean, if you’re with someone, be with them.  Yea?  And yet, we’re not.  Or they’re not.  That’s frustrating.  And figuring out the whys of all of the above can be maddening.

The mega break-ups suck, for sure.  With my last one, I spent hours in a dark room–listening to mantras and TED talks.  And talking to near-misses who loved me and listened to me cry in public.  And we laughed a lot.

But, mostly, they suck because they usually illuminate who you haven’t been.  Mostly, they make you question yourself.

I know I went through that.  And one day, I stopped listening to my gurus.  And I just kept laughing.  And bizarre, ridiculous things started happening.  And then, I bumped into someone else.  And this time, it really had sticking power.  And I knew the difference.  And it ended anyway, as quickly as it started.  But it reminded me that no one is my always–except me.

And that might be why I’m single.  I’m not willing to hand it all over again.  But I’m free, and for the rest of my life, I will never look back at a relationship again and know I gave up on myself like I did in that one.


I watched the finale of Girls on Sunday night.

I just don’t know.

I find every single character on that show just awful.  The one character I sorta liked was Shoshanna, and she’s now ruined for me.  I continue to loathe Marnie with every fiber of my being.  Hannah makes me die inside.  And most of the men piss me off.

But I think, after the finale, I’ve reached the conclusion that the men save this show for me–making it the most anti-feminist, annoying BS ever.  Or brilliant.  I’m not quite sure.  Maybe both.

Because the guys are the only ones with layers.  The women are just caricatures of idiots I don’t know.

I loved two episodes this season: the Hannah and the older guy affair thing (that illuminated what a tremendous tool Hannah is, but also made me feel compassion for her) and the Hannah/Jessa go to see Jessa’s father episode (one of the most heartbreaking and realistic portrayals of dysfunctional parent-child relationships I’ve seen recently).  And then, they screwed it up by making Hannah an OCD poster-child (one of the most annoying storylines EVER).

There was so much momentum and promise that I actually thought they were turning it around, and then–BOOM–back to inanity.

I literally yelled at my computer as I watched.

Those two episodes, though?  They felt nothing like the rest of the series.  So, let’s just start a new series with those episodes as starting points and forget about Hannah’s perforated ear drum.  For the love of God.

Still, I watch.  And it’s only because of ridiculous scenes like the end of the finale when Adam runs–shirtless–through the streets of NY to get to stupid coward Hannah…who won’t let him in.  Because she’s the jerkiest human ever.

This may be all part of some master plan to say something profound about young women, but–damnit, Lena–cut it out.  Because women are awesome, too.  They have layers and are actually funny.  And when done right, they kick guy ass.  So stop letting boys upstage girls.  It’s getting old.  And stop relying on gimmicks for laughs and emotion.  Go back to those two episodes you did right and realize they worked because the pain was real and that made your characters more than stupid stick figures standing in for actual people who matter.  You’re wasting time.


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