My Experience as a Lamb

The other day I stumbled upon the journal I kept in 8th grade. Have you ever been embarrassed in front of yourself? Reading that was like punching myself in the face repeatedly, and it would really destroy my street cred if anybody were to see it. One thing that stuck out to me as I skimmed the pages was my conviction; You wouldn’t think so, but at one time, I was a soldier for the big JC. I was honest in a way that I could never really be now. That book was my connection to God, and I used it faithfully.

One thing I prayed for a colossal amount that year was a set of boobs. I was already plucking my fucking lip hair, and I didn’t think it was fair that I could be confused for a prepubescent boy when I was supposed to be luscious and curvy.. or something. In almost every entry, I asked God for a pair of soupcans.

It was all very Judy Blume.

Except he didn’t deliver at the end of this coming of age tale. I turned 14 and entered high school as flat as the desks into which I had carved crosses and bearded men. I wish I could describe to you how angry I was, but there are no words to do so adequately. This is when the spiral of doubt entered my brain. Do you know what it’s like to come back over summer break and notice the girls sporting melons while you are stuck with mosquito bites?

That was another problem that accompanied this summer of booblessness:

Noticing girls…and there are an abundance of them at Christian summer camp. Girls had always just been fellow aliens to me, but that something about the heat that year made lips more than just lips. I saw dimples and collarbones and eyelashes. My brain was in a state of utter chaos. I think it would have been easier to absorb if we hadn’t been sitting around a campfire every night discussing the consequences of homosexuality.

The more I heard, the less welcome I felt. It seemed that doing right came so naturally to these people, while I was constantly fighting off urges to do things like steal small trinkets and then throw them out. I was certainly never pure in thought. That sneaky spiral of apprehension continued to grow inside of my soul until I thought it might burst.

I mean, C’mon guy. I can deal with the sunken chest, but if you don’t want me to like women, why’d you make ’em so cute?

I couldn’t tell you exactly when it happened, but I separated myself from the idea of an infinite spirit filled with unconditional love. It sure felt like a lot of conditions to me. In the end, I chose the life that I was guaranteed- this one. This one, where I swear colorfully, love tenderly, and feel unabashedly. I feel okay about that.

And, if I’m wrong, well, I guess I’ll be seeing most of you often.

My Life Be Like……Awkward.

Do you ever wonder if you’re well liked? I don’t.

More often than not, the people I meet look as if they’d like to knock me down a few pegs. I start talking really fast about rabbits or lint or Aaron Neville because I have NO IDEA what is acceptable in a casual conversation- it’s just something I’ve never been able to grasp. You know that weird girl in the corner that nobody talks to because they don’t know what she’s speaking about…ever? I’m that girl. I think we should just get that out of the way so that you know going forward what this is really about. (Absolutely nothing.) I have decided to share with you the tales of some of the most awkward things that have ever happened to me.

1) The first thing that you should know is that I DO NOT do the poo in public settings. I’m really cautious about the way I smell, and since I’m already the weird girl, I can’t really afford to be the weird girl with the odor. However, this particular instance was different, because it was an emergency. I was driving to the gym and thinking about how much I loathed my life at that very moment when I realized I had to lay down a steamer. (See?) I knew from the start that it was the kind of shit you don’t ignore, especially when you’re about to get all loosey goosey and physically active. I knew there was no fucking way I was going to make it home without an incident in the poo parlor division, so I parked and ran like hell.

My face was all like:

gotta poo

There was another moment of terror directly following the realization that I was going to give birth to digested food. And it was the moment that I remembered that the gym features those stupid fucking turnstile things where you have to scan your card to get inside. IT’S FUCKING 5AM AND I AM GOING TO SHIT MY PANTS RIGHT HERE! Through what I believe was divine intervention, I found my card, scanned it, and continued to let ‘er buck until I reached the change-room. And that’s when it happened.

I ran straight into a naked old lady’s titty. She basically breastfed me. The worst part is that her name is Linda and she was basically my only friend at the gym. By friend I mean that we sometimes put our shoes on next to each other. It would seem that we would not be doing that anymore. All I could think to say was “Linda, you’re naked!”  And then I proceeded to take the gnarliest shit in the history of ever. You’re welcome.

2) Remember those Mr.Sketcher’s markers? (What do you American kids call those? Coloring utensils?) More specifically, do you remember the CHERRY ONE?! Oh my God. The first time I smelled that fucking marker I was sure that I had reached Nirvana. Anyway, I decided that I wanted to smell that cherry bliss all day long. I had just moved to a new school and didn’t have any friends yet.( This incident would be the reason I didn’t make any for awhile.) I colored the inside of my nostrils with that marker and quickly came to the conclusion that it was the best decision I had ever made. Whenever I lost the smell, I would just color it again. It was like a sick addiction to my awkward, prepubescent being, and I found myself doing it more than was necessary or, well, normal. One on occasion I was coloring rather vigorously in the restroom when a handful of my female classmates came in to fix their lipgloss, or touch their boobs, or whatever popular girls do.  They saw me. I saw them. Nobody said anything. That’s the story.

3) I spend too much time on the internet. I’m sure that this will shock absolutely nobody since I am here talking about myself. Anyway, sometimes I pick up the lingo and attempt to use it in real life, which never goes over well because I can never seem to pick the right setting under which to reveal the brilliance that is the worldwide web. I had seen this really great conversation that featured the term “ditch pig.” I thought it was the most hilarious name that you could ever call somebody, even though I suppose that it is not socially acceptable. But, as we have established, I have the grace of a hippo at a rave. I was sitting at my brother’s house, and his girlfriend was sitting across from me. I don’t know why, but I felt this inexplicable urge to say it. So I did. I think it went something like “That’s because ____ is a ditch pig!”  The room fell silent and I knew that I had just done one diddle that couldn’t be undid. The silence was so awkward- it was like I had taken my boob out and laid it on the table or something.  Now, if you ask me, I think that it was evident that I was joking. If you ask her, she will probably tell you that I’m a twat.

This post is already too fucking long, but if you feel like hearing more, ask and ye shall receive. If you feel like shooting the shit with me, get at me on the Twitter….bitches!

The Glue

I feel strange.

I used to think I was the strangest person I’d ever met, until I visited Orlando and turned on the local news. There’s a lot of fucking lunatics in Florida, eh? Anyway, it isn’t long after I’ve met someone that I start feeling this powerful urge to walk right along the lines of social boundaries, always teetering as far over the edge as I can get away with. And I’m not a psychopath, okay? It’s my way of weeding out the weaker beings. I am genuinely pleased when I meet someone who loves the game as much as I.

Oh, if I could offer you one piece of advice about life, it’s to stop hanging out with squares who don’t appreciate you while you’re still young enough to laugh at yourself. I would guess that all of us know somebody like that- the person you’re only friends with because you’ve known each other for an eon?  That friend holds us back, man. We’re always evolving, and maybe one day we begin to notice that they are not “becoming” alongside us. There’s a certain comfort and fierce loyalty when it comes to an old friend, though, isn’t there? You just kind of wander around together, because it’s better than wandering around alone. And that’s bullshit, too. We have some of our most brilliant thoughts when we’re alone, don’t we? We lay there lost in our minds, and we are free from scrutiny. We’re honest.

I don’t know about you, but I always felt like I was busting out of my skin in junior high. I was all like “Who am I?” and “Why don’t I have any boobs?” I am saddened at the thought of how much time I spent going through my closet of personalities and putting on the one that seemed the most appropriate for the occasion. They say the clothes make the man, right? I absolutely disagree. No amount of fancy evening wear could hide the holes in my soul. It didn’t hide the awkward, uncertain way that I walked or the hesitance in my voice. I may have fooled some, but I was never convinced myself. I wish I could tell all of the 12 year old girls out there how to navigate their way through the total fucking mess that is high school, but I can’t, because I sucked shit at it. I guess what I CAN do is tell them that it gets better. The real world is tough, but the mirror in the girls’ locker room is tougher, if you ask me.

There is a feeling unlike any other when you finally meet one of your own. It’s this giant rush of relief. Once you’ve felt it, you realize that life before was actually just this throbbing wound that you grew to accept, and they came along with this giant scalpel and cut you open to remove the cancer beneath the surface. I firmly believe that this is all that it takes to light a fire because if there is one, there may be others. And you grow, and you grow, and you grow. And maybe you like yourself a little more because, well, they do.

Yeah, it’s awesome. Go on and get you some! It’s easier than ever to connect with the people that think you’re fucking awesome. Put yourself out there. Confide in someone. Allow them to confide in you. Have farting contests. Bond over pocket pens. Braid each other’s pubes. Whatever. It’s the best thing in life.

           DERP

Also, don’t take yourself too seriously. People are not as interested in you as you fucking think they are.

The Other Other B Word

I feel like people look at me like I’m a dwarf in a lamb costume offering them some almonds every time I mention that I’m bisexual.

This awkward silence hangs in the air. What is that? Is it really that odd? It’s like I’ve laid a rubick’s cube on the table and told them “Figure that one out.” Everything that comes out of their mouths next is completely and obviously censored so that they won’t hurt my half-gay feelings.

Here’s the thing, Ben Stiller: You don’t have to get all fucking awkward on me here. I’ll answer the questions that you cannot ask since your soul is burning with unnecessary humiliation.

1. Are you sure you’re not just gay?  

Answer: I’m pretty positive. I was just saying the other day that I found Gandalf to be particularly arousing. But that’s a separate issue.

 

2. But why didn’t you tell me earlier?

Answer: Because, quite honestly, it’s none of your business unless I make it your business.

 

3. Should I be worried? 

Answer: No. If I wanted to slay your vag, you would have known by this point.

 

4.  How do you know which gender you prefer?

Answer: I don’t. The human factor comes into play here. If someone tickles my mind and heart in just the right way, I’ll want to be with them simply because they are wonderful.

 

5. Do you think you’re going to hell?

Answer: If  I believed in hell, I don’t think I’d be overly concerned about ending up there. I’m not convinced that I’d be stuck down there with only murderers and rapists and people who enjoy starting fires for pleasure. I’d probably keep to myself and hang out with the unbaptized infants when I felt that I needed to socialize.

 

6. Do you drive a Subaru?

Answer: No. I’m not a full-on lesbian, remember?

 

7. Is being bisexual ever a struggle for you?

Answer: Since we’re being honest here, I’ll say that yes, it used to be a major struggle. I did feel that I had to hide it, I did feel afraid of it. For a long, long time. There is something very crushing about keeping such a major part of yourself concealed. And while I’m saying this, I feel that it’s important to tell you that I did not formally “come out.” I simply came to the conclusion that an attraction to beautiful women was part of my character, and I didn’t feel as if I had to warn anybody, you know?

So here’s my nub: Don’t be afraid to share with people the things that add up to make you a whole person. There is no reason to hide behind this mask of normal, because there is no normal. There’s no checklist for identifying as a bisexual, the same way there isn’t a checklist for the gays or for straight people. No story is the same, though we are all saying something similar. It’s okay to be curious, too. Maybe you don’t feel like you identify with any of it.  Whatever. All I’m saying is: Stop waiting for people to accept and love you, for it may never happen. Don’t let it make you bitter, because, let’s be honest, you probably don’t even like those people, anyway. Make a conscious effort to give yourself a little love every day; When you fall in love with you, you leave the door open for other awesome people to fall in love with you, too.

*Awkward Hello*

I sat here for like twenty minutes trying to come up with a way to begin my first post. During that twenty minutes I didn’t come up with shit about fuck, so…

 

I don’t know why I’m keeping this blog.  Maybe because I have no reason not to. What I’d really like to do is smoke a joint and walk around without pants, but apparently that’s not constructive. I guess I just have all of this time, and all of these thoughts, and it’s probably time to find a more productive outlet than arson. I’m not saying my thoughts are full of substance or anything- they’re pretty useless. If you like to discuss useless shit all day, this is probably the place for you. Maybe we could be friends. Maybe I’ll sew you a fuzzy chapeau. The possibilities here are really endless.

I struggle with bipolar mania, and I’m told that keeping a blog is therapeutic. I guess we’ll see. Regardless, I like to talk about myself, so here we are. I don’t know that anyone will ever read this, but if you do, and if you feel like getting to know me, here is a list of my favourite things to get you acquainted:

-The sample ladies at Costco

– Dogs

– Michael Jackson

-Bubble Wrap

 

 

JUST READ MY FUCKING BLOG. OR DON’T. I’M NOT YOUR MOM.