Showing posts with label failing at life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label failing at life. Show all posts

Friday, July 4

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:

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


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

 Girl Has Most Ironic Death Ever. 

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.

Sunday, August 25

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.

Thursday, March 28

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.

Sunday, April 29

Critical Drinking and other discoveries

I've been at my job for a month now.

These are some things I've discovered.

I wish we had one of those Antique Roadshow type shows so I could find out if these discoveries are worth anything...

1. Everyone is numb, and everyone's resigned to that fact.

Though there are no sad little cubicles and flickering fluorescent lights, my job's still at an office and there are still the hum of monitors, bored sighs and and furtive glances for managers followed by monotonous gossip*.

Back in the day, my young, impressionable, only slightly perverted mind saw Joe Versus The Volcano and believed that nine to five was just as may-as-well-commit-suicide-ish as Joe's experience at the beginning of the movie. But now that I know all about magical realism and have dealt with my crush on Tom Hanks, I know that it was ever so slightly exaggerated. But, like all bad-in-a-weird-but-kinda-good-way movies, it was based on truth, man.

Fuck yeah corporate life.
There must be some neurological speed camera that could measure how much duller I get throughout the week. On Monday I'm like Perky! Happy! Lunchtime already, woo! and by Thursday I'm like Oh. Hey. Yeah. No. Huh? No.

2. Pretending to work is even more tiring than actually working.

You would think I'd have learned this in varsity, but when you're working on an essay and decide to take a 'refreshing study break', you can sit on the couch, eat ice cream and put in a Friends DVD. At work, if you're not in the mood to put in that last 45 minutes of effort before home-time, you can't just grab your Kindle and go chill on the couch in the lobby. Firstly, because there are always weird ladies sitting there and they never talk to each other, just glare at people and judge their vending-machine choices. Secondly, did I mention there are CAMERAS EVERYWHERE?

So if you're not in the mood, the best you can do is sit at your desk and stare out of the window, wiggling your mouse now and then so that the screensaver doesn't come on. Yaaay.

3. I suddenly understand the appeal of going out every weekend and getting incredibly intoxicated.**

 I call this Critical Drinking, because it's as close to critical thinking as I've gotten over the last few weeks, and by that third tequila it feels pretty critical. Red-wire blue-wire big red numbers COUNTING DOWN kinda critical.

While I enjoy the odd party, I never really got clubbing until now: the loud music drowns out your thoughts, the dim lighting hides your flaws, and the alcohol makes you brave in a world full of limits. It's a strange alternate universe that serves as an antidote to the quiet, sensible sameness of what's become my everyday life.

You know what else I didn't get until now? Hangovers. I had my first bona fide hangover the other day, and it was so unexpected that at first I didn't know what was going on. I woke up (at like, two in the afternoon) and thought MAN WHO MADE THE WORLD LOUDER, COME ON GUYS. NOT OKAY. It wasn't cute. Don't drink, kids. And if you do, take painkillers and a big glass of water before bed instead of falling asleep drunk like a dumbass.***

4. I actually sympathize with people who want to DO STUFF in their spare time.

I still see myself as the mossy, fuzzy rock that rolls her eyes at all those rolling stones for having so much energy. But now that I HAVE to sit around and stare at a computer for most of the day, it's sort of lost its appeal as a low-impact hobby.

I actually want to feel alive in my spare time. I'm exercising. I'm steaming veggies. I've signed up for roller derby, ffs. Me. Doing a sport. That requires a mouth guard.

So that is the handful of unexpected discoveries I've made as I slowly morph into a tax-paying citizen. And they said it'd never happen because of my forearm tattoo!




*I feel like my writing's gotten worse. FMWC. (that's fuck my writing career, y'all.)
**I haven't been around cool kids in a while so I'm not sure if the term "wasted" is still in use.
*** Somehow I don't think that clause is going to make it onto many high school sobriety pledges.

Saturday, February 18

On Hiatus (and some Recommended Reading)


So I'm taking a break from this blog for a while.

I could tell you it's because I'm so busy with real life stuff, or that I have to focus more on my fiction writing, but that would be both dishonest and predictable of me.

Truth is I'm a damaged and broken human being who's started to genuinely dread the 'pressure' of posting*, and that's not fun for anyone. I'd rather take a break and get my inspiration back than keep forcing myself to post lifeless, mediocre stuff, you know?

I just need to be quiet for a while. Maybe a month. Or less. Or more. We'll see.

In the meantime, here are some amazing blogs to keep you occupied during my silence:



^Wow. Those are just the blogs I really like and keep up with. There's almost thirty of them - no wonder I don't get through many books! I was going to write descriptions of each one, but then I didn't. Suffice to say they range from personal blogs to writing blogs, some comedy, some fashion, some feminism, some by people I know well, some by people I would totally stalk if they lived near me**. If this list doesn't keep your brain occupied while I'm away, I don't know what will.

But anyway, thanks for reading. I have the best, smartest, funniest, kindest, wisest, sweetest, sexiest readers in the world. True story.

* #whitegirlproblems
** I'm a lazy stalker.

Monday, February 6

How To Suck A Little Less At Twitter

Have timeline, will bitch.

I'm hardly a social media expert, but I'm nothing if not a social media addict. There's plenty of advice out there on how to be great at twitter - be funny, be interesting, be a good curator, blah blah blah. But I've got a few pet peeves that I haven't seen mentioned on any of these lists.

Protip. (source)


This is by no means a definitive list on how to behave on twitter. The average user (myself included) probably does a few of these now and then, because we all sorta suck, right?

My mission is a small and achievable one: to suck a little less at twitter. Here are some fun tips to make that happen:

Stop detailing your bodily functions. If all you tweet is I’m so hungry! or I’m so full! then you may as well just name your account after your stomach. Same goes with I’m soooo cold. Following accounts from both hemispheres, I’ve constantly got someone whinging about being cold in my timeline. It’s dull. You’re giving me nothing. I want insight. I want a new perspective. I want frostbitten spirit-fingers!

Quit the TMI app. Specifically, abusing the TMI feature by making every tweet ridiculously long and drawn out. The joy of twitter is that it’s a series of short, readily available, self-contained messages. Usually I only click through if you’ve offered a particularly interesting comment on something you’ve retweeted, and I want to see the whole retweet. But if you start with ‘You know what’s wrong with the world…’ then I am so not clicking through.

Stop tweeting inane decontextualized song lyrics. Maybe you’re listening to this amazing song and it’s bringing your soul to delicious musical orgasm, but twitter is a text-based experience and all I see on my screen is ‘baby baby baby oh baby baby baby no’ - and I just don’t give a duck.

Limit the text speak. Perfectly acceptable for your average tweeter with three bots following them. But what blows my mind is when self-proclaimed writers use text speak when it's not necessary (we've all had to make sacrifices to save that -1 character.) But dude, you’re trying to sell me a book you wrote? You better damn well show me that you know how English works.

Quit being didactic or overly philosophical. Thinking out loud isn't always equivalent to making other people think. Being high-minded now and then is refreshing, but if every tweet is an abstract attempt at being deep, you're probably coming off pretentious (at best.)

For the love of pie, quit with the ever-so-unique nicknames for people in your life. You can’t just say my husband or Dave (if your husband’s name happens to be Dave), oh no! It has to be The Man, The S.O., Mister BetterHalfington, and all that shit. And kids become The Princess or Little Winner. You’re not being cute and creative. You’re being that married person or parent who makes all the other married people or parents look like lame, kitschy dorks.

Now that I've alienated everybody ever, here are some things other people say to stop doing, that I say keep doing on twitter:

Swearing. Apparently not many people like swearing on twitter, but I think if that's part of your personality, don't censor yourself to appeal to the masses. Fuckbuckets.

Drunktweets. Yup, it's an art, and completely depends on what kind of drunk you are. I happen to be a happy and inappropriate drunk, so my drunktweets are by far what gets me the most followers. Unless you're tweeting on behalf of your boss, or your parole officer is following you, I'd say drunktweets are harmless fun.

Oversharing. Twitter is beautiful because it gives you the freedom to post whatever you want. And if you want to post “The thing that bothered me about my ex is that he had really weird junk.” then I am totally gonna follow you and favourite that shit.


Did I miss anything? What would you add to the list, or take off it? Have you ever tweeted about a fire before fully evacuating the building? Share in the comments!

Tuesday, January 31

The Great 2 A.M. Wasp Drama

So on Sunday night, I'm casually headed to bed after a not-so-fun day at my job that I don't really love too much, and a night of far too much youtube, when I happen to see that there's a GIANT-ASS WASP on my bedroom wall.

I hate wasps. I really, really, really hate wasps. They're like the sick result of a three-way between a bee and an Orc and Satan. Usually I would just scream and slam the door and avoid the wasp-infested room for as long as humanly possible... but my bed was right there. I was tired. I was already in my pyjamas.

So I decided to be brave and went (okay, ran) to the kitchen to get what is possibly the most ridiculous weapon available for a war against the devil's spawn: a long-handled bright pink feather duster.

I had a vague plan to smoosh the wasp in the feather duster and then shove it out of the open window from whence it came, but as I stood at the door to my room I sorta lost my nerve. The more I stared at the wasp, the bigger and scarier it looked - I'm sure it grew from the size of my thumb to a decent-sized rabid terrier. What if the smooshing went awry? What if it escaped and stung me, or - even worse- GOT STUCK IN MY HAIR?!

This whole situation just crystallizes my plan that when I'm a grownup I'm going to have an industrial strength beekeeper's suit in every room. Actually, make that in every corner of every room.

So I figured the safest thing to do would be to gently shoo the wasp towards the window - but the bastard would not be shood. I'd fluff the feather duster at it and it would fly up and freak me out and settle down a meter away from where it was.

HEY LOOK, I drew you guys a picture of my epic struggle between woman and beast!


Accurate.

So every time I got it flying I would suppress a shriek and bolt out of the room. For something so obviously menacing, it didn't seem to have much forethought going on, because it wouldn't go to me and it wouldn't go out of the window, it just hovered around aimlessly like a big dork. Then it'd just settle down on another obviously-not-window part of the room. We carried on this stressful dance of lameness for a fucking hour.

At one point I got ridiculously hopeful because I saw it dart behind the curtain of an open window, heard it buzz a bit, and then stop. It MUST have flown out! Already feeling victorious, I gave the curtain a little prod to make sure it wasn't just sitting on the other side. Nothing. I started to relax, giving it one last sharp poke just to reassure myself. Out zooms the fucker, circling me (and I'm sure I heard its buzz go a bit higher in its waspy lulz) before sitting quite resolutely on the light in the middle of the ceiling.

The wasp and I had battled it out for the territory of my room, and it had won. I admitted miserable defeat and went to sleep on the couch in the lounge.

Now, you guys know I'm a sensitive soul, right? Here's another fun fact about me: I don't react well to sleeping in strange beds. Most times I'm not in my own bed, I don't sleep at all. And if I do, I have weird icky dreams and wake up feeling hungover.

Lying on the couch covered in blankets that smelled a bit like cat, I was prepared to have an uncomfortable sleep. What I didn't expect was the epic nightmare I had about evil ghosts that were eating my soul. I'm not even exaggerating, this was some trippy existential shit. And it had one of those awful patterns where you wake up and think everything's okay but then it turns out you're still in the nightmare, so you wake up again but you're still there, so you wake up again...

Eventually I woke up for realsies and decided no amount of scary wasps would make me stay on that couch for another second. So I got up, checked that I still had my soul, (just in case), and went to my bedroom.

The wasp was still sitting on the light, its wings closed. It suddenly looked small and unimpressive. It was minding its own business. I let it be.

I left the door open and climbed into bed. I'll admit I had the covers up over my head until I got too hot and tired to care anymore.

In the morning the wasp was gone.

HELL YEAH IT WAS. Apparently I'm most intimidating when I'm unconscious.