A whole new world

Hey there, blog wanderer!

Thanks for visiting, but if you're looking for something a little fresher, go visit my new site ThatDasia.com.

Here you'll find my YouTube videos, new blog posts, reviews, social media insights and even my freelance offerings.

See you there!

Here's the thing about being an oddball

I'm pretty weird.

I don't say that in a twitter-bio "I'm soooo crazy!" kind of way. My weirdness is a practical part of my everyday life. For the most part, I'm a fan of my eccentricities, but they do come with a stock standard amount of bullshit.

I can't take credit for some of my weirdness: my ridiculous name, or my Russian heritage. Some of my weirdness is intentional: the way I sometimes dress, the things I choose to say or post, my hair (which was between purple, blue and green for the better part of the past year.) Still other bits of me, I'm not even sure of: my accent, for example. Did I choose not to acclimatise to the other kids' way of talking in Grade 1, because I'd decided I was a special BAMF whose cartoon voice was totes adorbs? I don't remember. I just know if I try to do a South African accent now, I sound like I've had a stroke.

I also walk funny. I walk a little splay-footed, and apparently I have a 'bouncy' walk. And I walk on my tip toes a lot of the time. I DON'T KNOW WHY. STOP ASKING.

Ahem.

Just for the peace of mind of those who actually know me ( so 98% of my blog audience [the other 2% is google traffic looking for naked Misha Collins pictures]) I don't feel seething hatred every time you ask me about my idiosyncrasies. People are naturally curious and I get that. I get hella curious about other people. But I only ask them about their weirdness once I've put in the time to get to know them.

What does inspire seething hatred is this:

People who think, because I am strange, that they're entitled to a performance.

"Pronounce your name for me?" is a constant one. I mostly get it from people behind computers needing to fill out forms. They can see it clearly, all they need to do is type it in. But no. They want me to say it. Because it's weird! Wow! Here I am, saying my own name over and over like a fucking Pokemon.

See, just because I disrupt your sense of order doesn't mean I'm a fucking exotic bird you have to interrogate (who the fuck would interrogate a bird anyway?) to find out its origins and reason for being. You are not a customs official at the aviary border patrol.

"Why is your hair purple?" It's genetic. No seriously, what am I supposed to say? Because I'm protesting the abuse of lavender fields? Do other people have compelling reasons for dyeing their hair? Not one single fucker asked me why my hair was red. Or brown. Or blonde (though somebody should have, that was a bleak couple of months.)

"You're Russian? Say something in Russian!"
Okay. Dance, monkey! Dance!
"That was English..."
Yeah.

"Why are you walking on your tiptoes?" BECAUSE THE FLOOR IS LAVA. No seriously, I have no idea why I do this. And. It. Doesn't. Matter.

Seriously. None of this matters. It's all just different flavours of the same uncomfortable one-sided conversation. "You're disrupting my sense of order! Explain yourself so I can categorise you!"

I'm still working on a not-ridiculously-rude way to opt out of these interactions. Like, maybe pulling my shirt over my head and hovering away?

Suggestions welcome.

How to give up on things

So much for a month of bloggery right?

At least I have an excuse this time - I'm back in the real world as a full-time worker bee person.

I'm at a very exciting and forward-thinking company now, and it's getting me thinking about all sorts of new ideas for my own writing / creative pursuits. Problem is: following through. It's a bitch.

So if you have any ideas on how to NOT give up on things, leave them in the comments. Which I will totally read all the way through. Promise.

Poltergeists vs. kitchen scissors

"You're all gonna die in there! All of you! You are gonna die!" - Kane, Poltergeist II.

Poltergeist II was a really bad movie.

I pulled that poetic quote from IMDb because I have almost no memory of Poltergeist II. I watched it when I was about seven or eight years old. It was a textbook case of I-wanna-watch-this-because-I'm-brave-no-wait-dear-God-this-is-traumatizing-I'll-stop-watching-before-I-get-scarred-forever-too-late.

Fast forward almost two decades, and this is what I've spent my late evening tweeting:

I could never live alone. Coming home to an empty house = murderers in every room until inspection proves otherwise.
— Dasia (@awkwardoptimist) July 3, 2014

Full disclosure: I started tweeting to distract myself because by then I needed to pee.

I am currently in the well-lit lounge looking at hedgehog gifs on my phone, working up the nerve to go down the hall / face demon murderer
— Dasia (@awkwardoptimist) July 3, 2014

In my mind, murderers and demons are interchangeable and equally plausible threats.

So I got home 15 minutes ago, if there were psychos here they would've come out by now right? I even asked them to
— Dasia (@awkwardoptimist) July 3, 2014

My exact words were, "Uh, so if there are any murderers or rapists around, could you make yourself known? Thanks..." and then legitimately waiting for a response. Holding kitchen scissors. I went for kitchen scissors because I felt like a knife was just overly dramatic, and if someone walked in on me I could always suddenly pretend to be making a salad or something.

Man if I really do get murdered tonight, these tweets are SO getting me on Buzzfeed
— Dasia (@awkwardoptimist) July 3, 2014

 Girl Has Most Ironic Death Ever. 

Now I feel like I should keep tweeting to prove I'm not dead. Oh wait, that's how I always feel!
— Dasia (@awkwardoptimist) July 3, 2014

Aaand we're back to regularly scheduled programming.

Poltergiest II probably didn't break my brain and turn me from a rowdy, confident kid into a ball of anxiety who couldn't be left in a room alone. But it certainly didn't help. Something about the way a normal big-haired 80's family had their everyday life invaded by unexpected, sticky, horrible things definitely stuck with me.

And today's Writers' Boot Camp prompt is "one of my greatest fears."

So my biggest fear - well, besides the existential stuff like never making a mark on the world - certainly my biggest-by-volume fear is the strange intruding on the familiar. A sudden grab, an unexpected voice, a pair of blinking unfamiliar eyes looming in the dark. Typical Stephen King stuff.

You know they say people spend most of their lives worrying about stuff that'll never happen? Maybe. But come on. If there were a psycho in my shower, I'd rather slam on the lights and walk confidently into the room holding kitchen scissors than just kinda assume everything will be fine.

Psychos are shit-scared of kitchen scissors. Everyone knows that.

And when I see how sad you are, it sorta makes me happy

Long-time readers of this blog may remember that I've discussed my favourite words before, which led to a tiny meme, hilariously odd offshoot posts and my blog ranking quite highly on Google for the keyphrase "Benedict Cumberbatch weequashing."

But it's been two years since that post, and my Writers' Boot Camp challenge today is to list my top five favourite words. So, putting aside Benedict Cumberbatch weequashing in crisp twilight (for just a minute) here they are. In no particular order.

Just

Just like, just let me tell you this one thing. It's just that I just love the word just and I just can't help myself when I'm just writing or whatever to just slip justs in wherever they just might be.

Editing for me is just about 80% just-removal. And 15% wondering why I didn't just study engineering so I could just have a real job by now. And just 5% actual work.

What is it about the word 'just' that's so appealing to my unconscious brain? Is it a verbal act of minimizing, making my words and ideas smaller and less significant, (it's not an idea, it's just an idea)? Or maybe it's about justice, stating that my words are fair and just and RIGHT.

Whatever the root, it's just annoying.

Direwolf

Yes, I've been watching a lot of Game of Thrones. And I'd probably be a Stark because I enjoy bulky layers and I'm really rubbish at staying alive. But come on, doesn't the word direwolf send a shiver down your spine? Doesn't it instantly invoke fear, respect and awe?

Who's a bloodthirsty puppy? Who's an awe-inspiring fluff? You are! Yes you are!

Also, you can buy a direwolf now. Okay, you can buy a giant grey Alsatian, but STILL.

Facetious

Means "treating serious issues with deliberately inappropriate humour." Which is what I do best. I was never quite sure what this meant until about a year ago, and now it's one of my favourite words. It feels really fun to say. FUH SEE SHUSS. You could definitely incorporate that into a killer rap. Also, it's fun to just drop it into casual conversation when you can tell the other person isn't QUITE sure what it means but just kinda rolls with it and pretends that they do.

Schadenfreude

Just listen to this. I can't really make a stronger case for this beautifully cruel German word. The title of this post is from the opening lines of this song. I'll be forever grateful to Ali for introducing me to Avenue Q.

Monkey

Pet names are gross, aren't they? Love is gross. Gross and awesome. (Don't worry, I have an equally ridiculous pet name for him.)

So I guess my favourite sentence would be something like "Not to be facetious, but I just get schadenfreude when that monkey just rides his direwolf."

THEY CALL HIM THE YOUNG WOLF.

A blogging challenge and deathbed confessions

It's July! I'm still reminding myself to buy 2013's Christmas presents. How is it July even.

The lovely Roxana, with whom I used to work, has invited me to join Writers' Boot Camp this month. That means 60 minutes of blogging for every day in July.

I'm not usually up for these meme-like challenges, but looking through the posts people have already put up today, I got all inspired and I figured - why the hell not? (Which is obviously how all great creative ventures start.)

So here goes. Day one's topic:

Even if you know me well, you don't know this.

I have freckles!

Wait...

I'm awkward!

Um...

I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die?

Sorry internet, I have no deathbed (blogbed?) confessions. I'm incredibly lucky to have a handful of truly close, loving relationships and if you know me well - then - here I am! (Don't tread on me.)

But obviously, I'd like to share something in this post. So here it is - not a confession so much as a question mark, a parallel universe, a what-if.

I've always wondered if I could have made it in the performing arts. 

I understand if that dorky little thought made you chuckle. If you know me, you know I'm one of the most awkward, self-conscious people in the world. I can barely make eye contact with people, and I can't remember a time when anxiety wasn't my constant companion. That's why I love writing! You can backspace, edit, and construct a confident tone even if you actually feel like your insides are being microwaved.

So you might wonder why on earth I'd think performance wouldn't be my worst nightmare.

You know what's weird? Probably my favourite memory from high school was being a co-MC of our grade eight play. I was on stage for maybe a minute, I messed up, and afterwards someone told me I sucked - but it was SO MUCH FUN. I felt completely at home on that stage. I laughed off my mistake and a hall full of bored parents even cheered for us! I mean, how cool is that?

If some angelic sponsor descended into my life and let me go back to varsity for another degree, I'd study drama or music. Maybe it's the compelling secret urge of every insecure introvert to be the centre of attention. Maybe I would just love more storytelling skills. It's probably a little bit of both. With a massive wad of Gen Y entitlement to fame and fortune stuck in the middle.

So there it is, something you probably didn't know about me! It's not so much a regret - I don't honestly think I would be incredible at acting, or singing, or stand-up - but it's a little something about me that I don't usually share.

I've always toyed with the idea of having a youtube channel, and discovering Anna Akana has re-ignited that urge. But I honestly don't know what I could do with video that I couldn't do better with writing. Except maybe karaoke. And drunk makeup tutorials. And drunk karaoke.

Wait, all karaoke is drunk.

Nevermind.

HappyThankYouBeerPlease - a sneak peek at Beer House Fourways

You know the old adage, "Don't go to Fourways on purpose"? No? Is that just something I say to myself? Right.

Well, Fourways has never been my favourite place - it's crowded, the drivers are mean, and the fake sky at Monte Casino gives me Truman Show anxiety.

But the other day I was invited - in my capacity as Dasia of Dasia Has A Blog, monger of puns, slayer of webseries, queen of the scandals and the first Ben - to the roof wetting of a new Beer House establishment in  - you guessed it - Fourways.

And so, to the not-so-old adage of "Don't go to Fourways on purpose", I said, "Screw you - FREE BEER!"

One of my favourite things under the sub-category of FREE STUFF.

Beer House, like most cool hipsterish things, is originally a Cape Town brand. How will they fare in heartless, stingy Joburg? Pretty well, I think. They've got a brilliant location - big and airy, it used to be a Keg apparently - in Pineslopes Centre, right next to Stones. With Billy The Bum's in the same centre, Beer House is the prime spot to chill away from the randy teenagers of Stones and the bad decisions of Billy's. Or at least get the night going at a place where you can actually hear your friends talk. (God, I'm old.)

This isn't even the free beer talking (anymore) - I seriously can't wait to go to this place once it opens. They have a huge selection of craft beers (99 bottles on the wall, 20 on tap - it's like a beer fest that's on ALL THE TIME) and though I've got the refined palate of a raccoon, the sheer variety gets me giddy. The people who run it are super friendly and very knowledgeable, sending me straight to a brilliant brew after my nearly-useless hint of "Um, I don't hate Amstel? I drink Corona on pay day?"

No, of course I don't remember which one I had. It was the tap on the left, okay?

Don't hold me to that. Might've been on the right.

So 'roof wetting' is one of those weird terms that nobody really knows the origin of (I googled it and the closest answer I got was "In Bermuda, they used to wet the roof..." wow, internet, you're the best.) But basically it was a first peek at the unfinished venue. They're planning to open mid-July 2014. You can keep up with Beer House on twitter @BEERHOUSE4ways and on Facebook for burly beerly goodness.

My night at Beer House was such fun, I've decided to do more reviews of eateries and drinkeries around Joburg (it's part of my plan to blog more in general.) So keep up with me by liking my Facebook page for new posts.
And comment below or drop me a line with suggestions for places I should review!

*Images used in this post belong to Beer House, but I totally got permission to use them because I'm "press", bitches :)

3 Fun and Easy Ways to make Social Media Managers Hate You

You might think a big business’ social media just happens, like rain or Saw sequels. But there are thousands of disgruntled Humanities majors who got swept up into the role of brand bitch social media manager because their life’s biggest achievement is their facebook profile, and that’s something you can put on a CV now.

Here’s how to make them hate you.

#1: Assume the social staff own the company

CEOs spent their time racing radio controlled sharks and rolling gold blunts, right? Wrong. They’re painstakingly replying to every single dumb question on their company’s facebook page.

#2: Be in a demographic that can’t spell

I’ve worked on brands who try to speak to the youth of the world by saying ‘da’ instead of ‘the’. Sadly, these brands often have no idea how anyone actually talks, so writing with their style feels less like a dialect and more like a speech impediment. 

#3: Be a sore loser. And a sore winner.

Brands love running contests, it’s the easiest way to get the unwashed masses valued consumers to engage with them.

Sadly, most people who enter contests on social media are not usually… well… they’re not the kind of people you’d nominate to be humanity’s ambassadors to an alien race. Unless the aliens came over because they heard Human Nuggets were delicious and nutritious.

Sore losers love to cry foul because no fair and just universe would keep them apart from that random thing they want for free.

And if you think losers are bad, you should see the winners

Never like your own post. It's like high-fiving yourself in the mirror while taking a selfie.

And here's a pro tip if these don't work: if you really, really want to make a social media manager hate you, just remind them that they'll probably never make a living from their scathingly witty blog. :(

"How dare she be fat and unashamed?" A note to haters.

Today, this showed up in my facebook feed:

Here's the criminally accepting post: "It's okay to be fat. No, really." by the beautiful Tess Munster.

I see body-positive posts in my news feed now and then, and it's nice. The comments, however, are not usually that nice.

It wasn't long before a comment sprung up that said, "But being fat really is unhealthy!" 

The comment thread went downhill almost immediately, going from "I disagree" to "You don't know my life, fuck you!" in a couple of minutes. I didn't participate because, well, I was eating all this popcorn...

OKAY I'M READY FOR INTERNET CATTINESS NOW

I started typing a comment though, and it turned into the post you see here.

And this is what I want to say to everyone who jumps from "obesity is linked with disease" to "NO FAT GIRL IS EVER ALLOWED TO LIKE HERSELF, GROSS!"

Sup boo. Just because obesity is linked with disease doesn't mean every fat person's unhealthy. Just like alcohol is linked with disease, but not every person who drinks is going to die of liver failure.

So before you get all "OMG, Adele or whoever can't just go around being fat and happy because she's PROMOTING AN UNHEALTHY LIFESTYLE" just take a breath. Ask yourself how much of that response comes from your culture's innate belief that every woman's worth is based on her looks. Why you feel every woman's body is in the public domain, up for debate. That just by existing she's "fair game" to hateful, baseless criticism. Why you feel she needs to be controlled and put in her place (the chubby corner of shame.) Why it's a crime for a woman to be fat and okay with herself.

DAMN IT ADELE YOU'RE BEING UNGOVERNABLE

When was the last time a plus-size blogger told all her followers to go binge at McDonald's?

Oh, you don't follow plus-size bloggers? You just saw a picture of a gorgeous lady showing her belly that ISN'T CONCAVE OR CUT WITH ABS OMG EW and decided you know everything about her?

How much of what you assume about her is based on the negative stereotypes that INDUSTRIES have put in your head? The black-and-white "before" shots of sweaty, unhappy fat people in baggy clothes eating greasy fries in infomercials. Is that reality? Or is that a caricature that's meant to create an emotional need for the ThunderThighZapper 3000 or whatever?

Infomercials ≠ real life. Srsly. 

So who is that belief serving exactly? Does it make you happy to be judgemental and alienating? Maybe. Does it shame your fat 'friends' into changing? Nope.

Does it make you more likely to reach for Green Tea Slimming Pills when you're at the pharmacy? More likely to buy LuluLemon yoga pants? More likely to sign up with a personal trainer at the gym?

Ding ding ding. You've just let consumerism swallow your empathy.

But wait, there's more!

Maybe you CARE. Maybe you're worried for them, lying awake at night freaking out about all these not-skinny people. How can they walk around and be okay with themselves when they're just so... WRONG?

Maybe you used to be bigger, and losing weight made you happier, so you're just spreading the love? Mm hmm, except that having a personal weight loss experience doesn't make you a doctor, or a psychologist, or suddenly give you the holy scrolls of truth about every fat person ever. It doesn't give you the right to try shame and silence those who have different bodies from you. It's the equivalent of "But I have black friends, so I can't be racist!" and it doesn't work.

Be honest. How much of your "concern" about fat people - fat women, really, because nobody ever debated James Gandolfini's right to exist and be okay with himself when he was alive - is a habit? A mindless carrying on of society's mission to view women as objects. If those objects aren't built right, it makes sense shame them into conforming or at least shutting up, right?

I suppose each person is going to answer these questions differently. The important thing is to question yourself, question your beliefs, research your facts, poke holes in your own arguments before you present them to the world as absolute truth.

And while you're doing that, all the happy fat girls are just going to be out there in the world, frolicking about with their ungovernable thighs, having way more fun than you.

My Sherlock Season 3 Feelings

Mediocre as fuck.

I can't even with this shit. So I'm gonna express myself through gifs.

[Disclaimer: I watched each episode once before posting, so this isn't going to have spoilers because I can't even remember WTF pissed me off. BUT THESE ARE MY FEELINGS.]

So I guess the writers just looked at the style, the characters, the quality of the show and said 

And I'm just sitting there watching like 

So this is what I have to say to whomever's fault it was that this season was horrific:

yeah, you, assbutt.

Just because you have Benedict Cumberbatch strutting around all like

And Martin Freeman making me feel all

Doesn't mean you can do a half-assed version of a script that has so many plotholes in it, it may as well have been crocheted. That leaves so many questions unanswered, it may have been a - uh - a QUESTION PARADE.

When I could keep my eyes open, the only thing I kept thinking was

And WHERE THE HELL IS PAUL McGUIGAN. The phenomenal director made Sherlock the most eye-fuckable show on TV ever. And he was nowhere to be seen. By the end of the season, the show doesn't even LOOK like Sherlock anymore. UUUUGH.

I just.... man. I feel like everyone phoned it in. 

Sherlock was the ONLY show that could keep me enthralled for 90 goddamn minutes. But by the half hour mark of each episode I was just like

Well, I guess it's better to have a BRILLIANT  show deteriorate into mediocrity than to be cut off in its prime. Right? I guess it's a bit pointless to criticise it now, because they're going to keep making it until it gets so bad that the cast refuse to perform the terrible scripts (hey, that happens.) So this blog post is one big moo point.

But hey, even though I pretty much hated the third season, the first two are still my religion. And Benedict Cumberbatch is still made of sexual rainbows.

So if you're gonna call me a hater, go ahead

And anyone who tells me that Elementary is better? My reaction is, and always will be:

And yeah, of course I'm going to keep watching until this show goes down in flames. If only to blog about the fall.

Because why? Because BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH.

Yup.

Hey internet, what should I do with my life? No, seriously.

It's been a bit of a mad year. I started driving, changed jobs twice, met a human, moved out of home and in with said human, and LOOK PURPLE HAIR!

PURPLE HAIR IS PURPLE AND IT IS ON MY (ALSO STAINED PURPLE) HEAD.

(Sorry for the terrible webcam selfie, but my camera was stolen and I don't know how to internet anymore.)

This year has been exhausting and uplifting and good-weird and bad-weird. I was diagnosed with chronic fatigue, which came from a combination of stress and anaemia. While taking iron supplements took the edge off (pills are the best!) I was still all uuuuugh, you know? Moving from spammy copywriting to being a downright content mill to doing social media full time - all within four months - was intense. And all that moving didn't make me happy, because I kept moving AWAY from stuff - horrible management, crazy output goals, soulless companies. The usual.

After a year of changes, I now realize something BIG needs to change. Not just the thing I do every day, but how I feel about it, you know?

I don't want to be stressed every day. I don't want to cringe or roll my eyes when I think of my job. I don't want to sit in the same chair for hours, browsing Buzzfeed and waiting for the work day to end so my life can start. I want to be doing something that matters, and moving towards something rather than treading water and paying rent, man.

And maybe it's immature, unrealistic, selfish and arrogant to want more than that  - after all, I am no special snowflake. I recognise this. I'm just another mildly talented, undisciplined twenty-something with a caffeine abuse problem.

But, despite all my grumblings, I'm an optimist. And I'm going to at least TRY to find fulfilling work. So I started researching what makes people not hate their jobs. The fabulous Brain Pickings directed me to this imperfect but helpful book. And it has an exercise in it that I can't do on my own, boo!

So this is the part where I ask for your help.

Oh wise, clever, sexy internet, please take a few minutes to read the thing below and tell me what you think.

This is basically a personal job ad - like a dating profile but less for finding suitable grope partners and more for finding a career path that doesn't make me want to cry in the office bathroom.

What I'd like you to do is read the thing, give it a bit of a think, and suggest 2 or 3 specific careers that you think match the description. (You need no qualifications to give your opinion - I just need may different voices with many different points of view.) It doesn't matter if I have the experience or education to actually do that job, just that you think it'd suit me.

Comment with your suggestions and it'll help me SOOO MUCH in deciding what the hell I want to do with myself next year.

Okay, enough foreplay, here's the thing: (that's what she said)

Slightly nuts young woman seeks fulfilling employment. 

Talents include:

• Writing
• Critical thinking
• Events organisation
• Doing tomahawk stops on skates

Job seeker is passionate about:

• Music
• Damn good TV
• Feminism
• Puns
• Roller derby
• Communicating with the written word
• Sleep

Her personal qualities include:

•  A love of learning
• A desire to make a difference in the world (she strongly believes in the healing, restorative power of art)
• A love of animals
• A dislike of direct sunlight
• A binge/purge approach to productivity
• Problems with authority
• An editorial eye
• A loathing for half-assed work
• A dislike of herding cats (aka telling people what to do)
• Limited physical and emotional energy
• Misanthropy
• A playful nature
• An internet addiction (she would prefer work that doesn’t involve staring at computers – she’s sick of that)
• Crazy hair. 

She’d love to make enough money to be independent, buy nice food and not have to seek dental treatment in back alleys. 

What would be a great job / career path for Slightly Nuts Young Woman? Comment below!

Why the fuck should I care if anyone thinks I'm pretty?

I was at a pub with some awesome people - five girls and one guy. He said he didn't really feel like 'one of the girls' so I lent him my alice band - which had a big black bow on it. (He totally worked it, for the record.)

We had a few laughs and a little while later he handed it back. 

Then some random middle-aged man came up to me and said, "Give him back the bow - he looks much cuter in it than you. No offence, hahaha!"

Naturally, I smiled. I do that when I'm nervous. Then I told him to fuck off. I do that when I'm not happy. And then, because he thought I was joking, I ignored him until he went away.

The conversation in our group was a bit stunted by that rude and awkward encounter, but it started to flow again. More jokes, more shots, more silly stories.

But I wanted to take the bow off.

I couldn't WAIT until I could take the bow off. 

In fact, the only reason I didn't reach up and pulling it off  right away was anger. Anger that some fucking random douche in a bar thought he could a) tell me what to do, b) insult me in front of my friends and c) make me feel like shit because...?

Because what? 

Because I let my mood - nay, my entire self esteem - be dictated by the whims of a random stranger.

Because it's normal for someone like me to feel completely collapsed by a smidgen of negative attention from someone like that.

Because he thought he - as a male or a white guy or king of the universe or whatever - believed he had the right to dictate how I should look. 

Because every single day, society tells me that I'm worthless unless someone thinks I'm pretty.

And what the fuck is up with that?

I don't think I'm really under the thrall of mass media. I roll my eyes when big media posts a picture of a woman existing, and declares that she's flaunting or bravely baring her body. Like every moment of a woman's life is spent trying to project her hotness to the general public. 

Like the idea that a woman might just fucking BE instead of obsessing about how she looks is inconceivable.

But clearly, some of those messages stick like splinters in my subconscious. From Seventeen to CNN, every institution tells me: 'To justify your existence, you must be beautiful."

It's also something that bothers me about the fat positive* movement. Of course, as a fat girl I appreciate the acceptance and understanding that fat positivity brings. BUT it bothers me that so much fat positive stuff boils down to "Look -  fat girls can be beautiful! Fat girls can be sexy! ALL THESE MEN approve of plus-size women! Yaaaay!" No. Not yay. Boo.

Boo for "but at least SOMEONE thinks you're pretty" being the bottom line.

Boo for that raw inner nerve that's still struck by a random man being rude to me. That tiny belief that if only I were beautiful, I'd be safe. 

That nerve that's still there even though I know I am smart, talented, and loved. Even though I know in my head that I am a valuable human being who has a right to exist - no matter what I look like.  

Confession: I thought about ending this post with a picture of me in the offending big-bow alice band. It's tempting to end on a note of "But that guy was wrong, I DID look totally cute!" 

But I won't.

I don't have to prove to anybody that I'm pretty.

I don't have to care.

I don't have to give my power away.

And I'm going to keep telling myself that, until that raw nerve is healed up by my self respect.

*Obviously this is only a single facet of the fat positive movement - and I do think it's important as a whole. I just think the "don't worry - fat girls can be pretty too!" thing is misguided.

Today in Things You Didn't Want to Know

I'm at a new job where I have to scour the internet for news - and I come across some pretty weird stuff.

Like this shit:

• Waste disposer's remorse is no joke, son.
• Gay guys should get the HPV vaccine so they don't get butt cancer.
• Bad guys have a shitload of cyanide in Pretoria. I really don't want to stop and think what they're going to do with it, but isn't this how shitty cop movies start?
• Fifty guys watched some porn in an MRI machine and now you can diet better. The research isn’t groundbreaking, but it’s weird to think that somewhere out there, there’s a research assistant whose job was to cross-classify porn according to kinks and hotness level.
• The Arctic is holding in a burp that'll speed global warming 35 years ahead. RUDE. 
• And two weeks ago, a man in Israel was peeing when a snake jumped out of the toilet and bit him on the penis.

Beat that, FML.

Tortured Nicolas Cage Puns > Work

So this all started when my worky-friend Robyn went off on holiday with her boyfriend and didn't even take me with. Rude!

As is customary with our dorky awesome group of worker bees, we had to do something silly to her desk before she got back. As an example of the incredibly high standards at my office, here's what happened to my desk when I took two weeks off back in February:

Yes, that's a disco ball.

The plot thickened when Robs announced that she got engaged on the last day of her holiday - now, her desk not only had to say "We're bitter that you went on holiday" but also "Congrats, dude!"

And then, a beautiful pun was born.

Congratulations on your enCAGEment!

Every inch of her workspace was diligently covered with a frighteningly enthusiastic Nicolas Cage! So simple yet so effective. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm more proud of this project than any of the actual work I've done at this company. Well, maybe I'm a little ashamed. But I'm a copywriter, shame is part of the job description.

After the big reveal and the explanation of the pun and then the dawn of realization and then the laughter, Robyn's desk went relatively back to normal, but there was one glaring problem.

What does one do with around a hundred Nicolas Cages?

A question many prank-inclined philosophers have battled with.

At first they all got stuffed in the bottom drawer of my desk. But then... something started happening.


It started off simply enough...

birdCAGE

Then it got kinda abstract...

enCAGE... or N*Cage, if you prefer

Then it got kinda meta...

CAGEbirdcage

Then it got confusing...

birdCAGE in a CAGEbirdcage

I took some requests...

A glass CAGE of emotion

The glitter glue and rolly-stamps did not go unused...

Nicolas RAGE

I'm sad to say I found this amusing for much longer than everyone else. The thought the magic had faded. BUT THE MAGIC WILL NEVER FADE.

Not with the mighty powers of Nicolas MAGE

 Okay, maybe I went a little crazy there.

Do forgive me.

It's just a Cage I'm going through.

Lifehack! How to Break a Habit

As I've said before, I'm a loser who's bad at life (not as bad as some people, but still pretty bad,) and that's why I read books with titles like The No-Moving 100% Ice Cream Law Of Attraction Diet and Chicken Soup for the Twitter Addict's Broken Husk of a Soul. I've probably read upwards of forty of these sorts of books and here is one of the three* that have actually changed my life in a tangible, positive way.

It's called The Power of Habit, and it's AMAZING. Not only is it impeccably researched and well written, but it offers a fascinating combination of the science behind habits, and how to apply those lessons to make everyday life more awesome.

The Power Of Habit by Charles "the shiz" Duhigg.
I just made that nickname up but here's hoping it catches on.

There are so many fun facts in this book it makes me want to cry, and Charles Duhigg's clear and engaging style made me fly through the 300-odd pages. I mean, when I learned that at least 60% of our behaviour is driven by habits rather than conscious decision making? It blew my mind. The conscious 40% of it anyway. The other 60% was eating a cookie at the time.

So here's the coolest part of the book: the habit loop. Every habit comes in this structure and learning it basically lets you break habits and hack your life and win at everything!

How does it work? Basically, every habit consists of three elements:

1. Cue: that thing that triggers the habit, like a certain time of day makes you want to have lunch or a looming sense of anxiety makes you want to check your phone so your hands look busy.
2. Routine: the actual habit you act out, like smoking a cigarette or unlocking your phone and navigating to facebook (I do that so automatically I can be halfway through replying to a message before I realize I'm even on my phone.)
3. Reward: what you're getting out of it, whether it's as vague as momentary distraction or as powerful as the dopamine rush of someone proposing to you on twitter.

As a rule, the cue will trigger a craving for the reward, and the routine is the flexible part which you can alter to make real, lasting changes.

It's really interesting to take a behaviour you want to change and dissect it into these three separate parts. Some habits are easier to analyse than others: if your cue is thirst, your routine is getting a glass of water and your reward is relief from dehydration. Bam!

Of course, nobody wants to break the habit of water drinking so let's go with something more interesting: incessant phone checking.

Dopamine may stain some fabrics.

Our cue here is a nagging little anxiety, which creates the craving for that happy little rush that social media provides. It's that craving that gets the habit loop rolling through the routine of checking your phone, and of course once the habit is established you're not in conscious decision mode anymore. The cue comes along, and just like a zombie, or a lab rat, or a soccer mom who's been sleep deprived for eight years, you automatically act out the routine in order to get your reward. In fact, the cue gets you excited about the reward so you get a pre-rush just starting the habit. It's like a little shortcut that your brain takes to save time. Isn't that amazing / terrifying?

Now that we've identified the habit, we have the power to break it - well, actually 'break' isn't the right word, because this habit's structure will always be in place: anxiety will always trigger a craving for relief and distraction.

It's the routine bit that we can manipulate to get a better result. See how the routine has a little dotted line surrounding it so you can cut it out? That means you can replace it with something else. The important part is that the new routine is triggered by the same cue, and offers the same reward. To mix metaphors, you're putting a different train on the same track in your brain! You're rewiring your powerful unconscious networks! You are the one, Neo!

It's fun to experiment with different routines until you find just the right one to hit that reward in the nuts. For our example, an alternative to checking your phone might be:

• Having a glass of wine
• Taking three deep breaths
• Popping a happy pill
• Pulling out a Moleskine notebook and writing a haiku about your feelings

As you can see, some of these solutions are better than others. But I included stuff like having a glass of wine to illustrate that the routine can have negative consequences but still serve to satisfy the craving. That explains why people who quit an addiction often replace it with another - because the craving has to be satisfied and the habit loop's already in place. But if you become conscious of it, you can replace the routine with something healthier and better for your liver.

And of course after you've changed the routines in your existing habits, you can create wholly new habits that have a much bigger chance of sticking around because you know how habits are structured. Your brain wires this stuff the same way every time: get yourself a clear cue, plan a sustainable routine and give yourself a powerful reward and see how much easier it is to make changes than when you're just white-knuckling it and hoping for the best.

Obviously this post is only scratching the surface of this cool concept but I hope it helps a bit and piques some interest in this whole process. If you dig it, I highly recommend The Power of Habit if you want to level up the train tracks of EXISTENCE.** Or if, like me, you just want to stop pulling your hair out or checking your phone so much.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a glass of wine while breathing deeply and writing a haiku about my feelings.


*If you're wondering what the other two are: Follow Your Own North Star by Martha Beck, and A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle. Both brilliant.
** Yes, I've mixed so many metaphors I seem to have ended up with a metaphor salad. All it's missing is the avo of truth.

Sail: An Open Letter To Myself

(Disclaimer: I have never been sailing, nor do I have a clear idea of what a boat looks like. But just go with it.)

The more I stay here, the more I see that destiny is only the direction of the breeze.

It's up to you to hoist the sails, get on the water, build a fucking boat.

You could go your whole life procrastinating, letting your nerves and doubts keep you safe and sad.

Moving forward, getting something done, creating something worthwhile, is not something that happens to you.

It comes from hard, unsexy, uninspired work. It's about choosing a sense of accomplishment over comfort.

Comfort is lovely.

Comfort is a dangerous narcotic.

You must work on something that makes you happy, otherwise the work will exhaust you.

Everyone is built for something. Everyone has that thing that pushes all their happy buttons at once - being a stay at home parent, a game ranger, an entrepreneur. 

But finding that thing doesn't mean being high all the time. It doesn't mean that confusion, frustration, or fear will never return.

Finding it just means that the wind is in your sails. That's a big deal, a big relief, a big chance to be the best person you can be.

But it's just that: a chance. Not a promise or a money-back guarantee.

Actually doing it, choosing the forward motion instead of fighting with your crew or bobbing around the water in a place that looks good enough.... that's up to you.

So go.

Sail.