NaNoWriMo - See you in December

Sometimes I get myself into messes that even I can't explain. November will be one of them. 

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, a contest that urges both amateur and professional writers alike to bang out a first draft (at least 50,000 words) of a fiction novel. That's 1,667 words a day. That means I have to write. On. The. Daily. 

It also means I have to write fiction, which I admittedly suck at. I can write ad nauseam about eating mint chocolate chip ice cream for the first time. I once wrote 19 pages on the non-existence of aquifers, peer pressure and grape soda. 2,500 words on green markers? Done. But fiction? I have to just make shit up? Oh hell. It comes out clunky and contrived. And it does not please me. 

But luckily that's kind of the point of NaNoWriMo. It's all about quantity over quality; this exercise forces you to write now and ask questions later. I won't be able to spend hours agonizing over plot threads and character revelations like usual. I'll just have to go with it, no matter how bad it is. 

There is no "prize" for completing your 50,000 word draft, just mad bragging rights, which I plan to exploit for years. And realistically, I will have a rough draft that I can laboriously tinker with, should I try to get it published in part or in whole later.  

My friend Mike (this is his blog) is doing this as well. As you can see from his post (read it after mine, you A.D.D. sons of bitches) he's all about the community that NaNoWriMo offers, he wants to go meet the other people in Tampa who are subjecting themselves to this, and I bet he'll be all over the forums asking for and offering advice. I think he compares NaNoWriMo to boot camp- bonding through a stressful environment- which I think is stupid. This can be done solely online, there is no physical labor, no abuse, no eating and showering and bunking together, no isolation from friends, family, pop culture, etc. 

Now that I've called his point stupid, something I strive to do on the daily, I will say I understand it. It will be stressful, especially for us perfectionist types. But I'm not interested in meeting new people and building creative relationships. I want to sit in my room, writing, ignoring my phone and friends and family. I want to lose track of days, I want insomnia to consume me. I want to forget what the outside world looks like. I want to emerge on November 30th, pale and confused and wild-eyed. I want to mutter "it is finished" before collapsing. 

That's if I don't give up on November 10th.  

Here's the Super Official website for NaNoWriMo.

See you in December.

By the way, because I am sometimes a spoiled princess, Fiancé bought and built me this desk and chair from IKEA. Because I totally "needed" it for NaNoWriMo. I am in love with it.

And he says if I don't finish 50,000 words by November 30th, he will take the desk and awesome chair away from me. I swear, there is no justice in the world.  

On Being Rejected By My College Crush

I develop "crushes" on people of a purely intellectual nature. I have no desire to sleep with these people, but I become consumed by the frantic urge to know them, to befriend them, to find out what makes them tick. People are my addiction, and when I stumble across someone worthy, I binge to the point of overdose. From the other point of view it must be kind of creepy. In fact, I've been told that I'm creepy. That's okay with me. You don't have to fall in love with me. You just have to let me in, let me poke around for a while. It doesn't hurt, I promise.

I developed one of these crushes on a college professor once. I had him for Social Philosophy and I thought he was just the bees' knees. So after I'd earned an A in his class, I asked him if we could get drinks and I could pick his brain for a while. I think I told him I was thinking of being a Philosophy major. My boyfriend at the time was in the class with me, and as we were both good students and cool people, Professor obliged. I think my exact request was something like "we think you're cool, and we wanna hang out outside of class. Will you go on a date with us?" See, I am creepy.

It was incredibly exciting sitting and bullshitting with him. His "professionalism" kind of melted away and he became this metal rocker who only shaved because capitalist society dictated social norms and hierarchy based on appearance... or something. He introduced me to IPA. He reached across the table to light my cigarette. More than ever, I was smitten. We hung out a few times, always at the same cute restaurant. He said he invited me out for good conversation, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was anything besides vapidly idiotic.

I went to his house once after drinks once. It was a creaky old bungalow in a cute historic area of Tampa. The hardwood floors moaned with my every step, his couch cradled me as I lounged in the heat. His air conditioning was broken, and the open windows offered a modest breeze that only served to fill the living room with waves of humidity. I remember how my cheeks felt flushed.

Over a bottle of wine and many more cigarettes, we talked about music, argued whether or not punk was dead and compared venues and bands we'd been to and seen. I noticed that night how his smile curled up and then over when he is genuinely amused. His hair fell in messy disarray, such a stark contrast to his slicked back appearance in the classroom. Our conversation was easy, ebbing and flowing gently through stories about teachers, students, family, lovers. I was desperate to know everything about him in a few hours, I demanded to know his opinion on anything from The Food Network to Marx to the New York Dolls. He obliged, and I devoured all of it, drunk not on wine, but words.

He got up from the couch a few times to turn the TV off or get us glasses of water, and when I watched him weave around boxes of books and stacks of ungraded papers, I found myself wondering what it would be like to be naked with him, moving to the bass line of some obscure metal band we both saw months ago at the Brass Mug. He caught me in my reverie and I blushed fiercely. I hoped he attributed it to the sweltering Florida summer or the alcohol, anything but my ridiculous (and looking back, obvious) school girl crush. Of course, part of me, a very deep down secret part, wanted him to notice and pounce on me, our bodies tangled and sticking to the leather couch. But Professor was a gentleman and I was undoubtedly, severely awkward, so nothing of the kind happened.

I learned about his family, his upbringing and his love affair with academia. I asked questions that made him wince, but he answered with eloquent candor. I toyed with his real sense of humor, something I'd only seen glimpses of before. I saw him as a real person, not just Professor, but a man with strong ideals and wide-ranging opinions, a passionate man with confidence and charisma. He was hopeful, but jaded at the same time. I relived some of his heartbreaks as he retold them, and seeing both the smug playful Professor along with the bitter broken Professor was what sealed the deal. I saw honesty and balance and misguided ambition that made no apology for itself. I could have loved this man forever.

We met for drinks and good conversation a few more times before he moved out of state to teach elsewhere. We kept in touch through Facebook "likes" and links and casual posts, but it was nothing like we had before.

Last weekend he was in town for a conference, so we exchanged numbers on Facebook (I still had his, and I can't decide if that's endearing or pathetic) and planned to catch up. I was ecstatic. I sent one text message which garnered no response and fell into tragic self-loathing. I cursed myself for wanting to see him again so badly. I hated that being ignored perturbed me so deeply. I felt that our short but intense friendship demanded respect and a nostalgic drink for old time's sake. I listed to Clapton's "Layla" on repeat for the better part of an hour. The unplugged version. Yes, it was that bad.

Fiancé tried to console me, urging me to call him and when I refused, he made logical excuses that the conference ran late or Professor was catching up with colleagues. I pouted, made plans with other friends and got over it.

But I can imagine my 45 minute drive to St. Pete, my mind racing with anticipation and anxiety. I can picture walking into a strange bar, sipping on a beer, making awkward small talk because it's been three (or maybe four) years now and it's hard to just jump back into things sometimes. I would have had fun, but I also would have resented that we weren't sitting on his couch in the summer heat, drinking wine and making sweet intellectual love for hours. I would have driven 45 minutes back home, only to cry on Fiancé's shoulder about how Professor was different and I am different and everything is different and now it's all tainted and I'm stupid for thinking anything could be as perfect as that one night a few years ago when I was innocent and curious and a man I fell for pretty hard didn't take advantage of that.

I'm glad now that I didn't go. Trying to chase something that once was might have also shown me what it really wasn't, and what it will never be. I am still irked that I got blown off, but this way I can keep some fond memories of a guy I thought the world of safely intact.

This way I can love him forever.

Open Letter to My Doctors

Dear Doctors:

For the most part, I think you are jerks. Maybe not all of you, just those of you I see on a regular basis. If I had to take my car to a mechanic as many times as I have to come see you, I'd get a new car or a new mechanic. I am stuck with my fickle health. And no matter how many second opinions I get, I seem to be stuck with you. And I hate you for it.

I have done everything you've asked of me. In return I am just asking you to do your job.

I show up early to appointments and wait in a room full of cranky looking sick people. I don't complain when Donna, the vapid "nurse" behind the desk kick starts my dreaded appointment with her painted on smile and dead-behind-the-eyes look. On three separate occasions she has typed my birth date into the computer incorrectly, thus yielding no results for my name in your system. I have gotten into the habit of telling her "01-26-88" instead of saying "January" because I have a feeling that the conversion is too hard for her to do in her head. I don't know why you haven't fired her, but I'm sure it's because she owns her own highlighters or gives really good blowjobs.

When a real nurse takes me back into the exam rooms I make small talk. When they ask "How are you today?" I respond with some frivolous pleasantry because it would be rude to say "I'm here, you moron. Something is terribly wrong with me and instead of living my life I came here to have you poke around all of my orifices. Your lube or mine this time?"

Sometimes you tell me to wear that paper dress and I do so without protesting even though I'm sure you don't need to check my vitals while I'm naked. Once I think you forgot about me back in Exam Room 4 so I walked to the water fountain with my ass hanging out the back. I wasn't thirsty, but I wanted to announce that I was still naked and waiting. It didn't really work because I still sat naked for half an hour on that table with tissue paper over it. However, I think you must have written something in my chart because that's the last time you made me wear the paper dress. I hope it says something like "Patient is not to be naked. Will cause a scene."

I don't self-diagnose because it probably irritates you and will be wrong anyway. I trust that your education and the fancy equipment that you don't let me play with is enough for you to tell me what's wrong with me. Every once in a while you tell me not to eat before an appointment because of some test that you don't explain to me. I stop eating at midnight even though I get an intense craving for an omelet about twenty minutes later. This does not stop you from seeing me at 1:25 when my appointment was for noon. From now on, I'm eating the damn omelet at 12:20 because with your ultra-considerate punctuality I know it won't affect the test.

When you ask me questions about how much I drink or smoke, I tell you. When you ask about my sex life or diet or sleeping patterns I give you detailed answers because even though I think it's weird, I assume that my answers may lead you to discover what freakish disease I have. (I secretly hope it's something so new and freakish that the medical community is forced to name it after me.) So far this has not worked, but when you ask me how many stuffed animals I had in the third grade or how often I eat hummus (often, because it's delicious) I will tell you.

But one time I asked you why I couldn't drink grapefruit juice with a certain medication. You curtly replied "I don't know" and moved on. I think that's a really dick move because I was just trying to be safe and I happen to have the curiosity of a toddler and you could have just told me the answer instead of being a dismissive prick. When I saw you next, you asked me how the iron supplements were working. I replied "I don't know" because I was still holding a grudge, but I know you didn't get it because you just looked at me like I was crazy.

And about the iron supplements - once I told you I had been excessively tired and I couldn't attribute it to insomnia or alcohol. You laughed and said "well, that's unfortunate, huh?" and didn't really address my problem. Three months and some bloodwork later, you told me I was anemic and iron supplements would help me be less tired. Thanks for listening. You owe me three months of good sleep, asshole.

In the short respite that comes after my visit and before the clusterfuck frustrations of the pharmacy, I want one thing and one thing only. A sticker. I want a dinosaur sticker or a Disney Princess sticker. I would prefer a princess riding a dinosaur sticker, but I realize those may only exist in my imagination. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop judging me when I dig through the sticker box like a frantic junkie on a dumpster dive. Once you told me that the stickers were just for the kids. I told you that my insurance pays for my visits and all the fruitless tests you order for me, I always pay my co-pays and the amount of kickbacks you get from drug companies by recommending their brand of synthetic dope is more than enough to afford buying stickers a tad bit more often. In fact, I'm convinced that the revenue I alone generated last year paid for your ungrateful child's cello lessons or your two week summer vacation in the Poconos.

I don't need an ass-kissing every time I grace your office with my greasy hair, unwashed face and sweatpants. I don't need a TV in the waiting room or every issue of Good Housekeeping from 1993-1996. I just want you to fix me so I don't have to see you again.

Oh, by the way, do you remember the time you found about two dozen penises fashioned from cotton balls, tongue depressors, some crude Sharpie details and medical tape in the drawers of Exam Room 6? Yeah, that was me. That's what you get for being such a dick.

On Being an Asshole

Do you ever want to rip someone's face off? I mean no holds barred, total annihilation, bitch slap them so hard their grandchildren will feel it kind of thing? I am often overwhelmed with this urge to completely ruin someone's day. I've been told I have anger management issues. I prefer to think I am a normal human being. Well, "normal" might be a stretch, but I think wanting to lash out and verbally rip someone to shreds, either because you can or because they deserve it or both, is typical human behavior.

Moving, Orange Juice and Shame.

I think moving is the worst thing in the world. Moving, and the associated packing of things, make me a neurotic mess. I would rather have a root canal than move. I've never had a root canal; I hear they're painful but I understand they come with drugs. Not that bad of a deal if you ask me. I would rather have a pap smear than move. I have had a pap smear, and they are outrageously uncomfortable, but I'll take half an hour of awkward over three days of stress and panic.

Do these genes make me look like an asshole?

My friend Eric recently shared a link on his facebook to this article about 'survival of the kindest'.  It's an interesting read, but it's what I call "scientifish" simply because of the way it's written. Although it comes from Berkeley's website, it's still a human interest piece written to be informative to a wide audience, not just people in lab coats with a vernacular specific to a certain field of study. It describes how maybe people aren't born as selfish assholes after all, and that being nice is healthy and good for society at large. Awesome. While vaguely referencing a few studies, the article asserts that a variation of the oxytocin gene receptor (OTCR) could be responsible for empathy and keeping one's cool in stressful situations.  The following line in the article irked me immensely: "One recent study found compelling evidence that many of us are genetically predisposed to be empathetic." And then this really pissed me off. "'The tendency to be more empathetic may be influenced by a single gene,' Rodrigues said."

Ummm... no. Given my very shallow background in genetics, my recognition of connotative diction in journalism and my overall skepticism concerning linking genes to everything from drink of choice to whether or not you'll enjoy a Dickens novel, I immediately called bullshit.

"This is war. Every line is about who I don't wanna write about anymore" - Brand New

I get off on good song lyrics. Wrapped up in a driving bass line or a haunting melody, concise lyrics that nail my thoughts exactly will stick with me forever. I can't help it. I think most people match music to their moods; I tend to match up the lyrics to what I'm feeling, no matter what the song sounds like. It all builds up to that moment where I sing someone else's words and it says what I feel better than I can and in that moment I feel this connectedness with people and pain and love and loss and victory and release and joy and then I feel okay about whatever is going on. Because someone else gets it too. And I'm not a shitty person for thinking it first.

"Nothing? Nothing?! Tra la la?" (Bonus nerd points if you can name the movie)

If you know me or follow this blog, you know I lost my job. If not, let me explain: I lost my job. Well, the company went bankrupt and I was left out in the fucking cold, but that's neither here nor there. Well, if you're interested, it's all documented here. Anyway... 

I spend a lot of my time doing very unproductive things that still interest me even though I know it's a rabbit hole of procrastination and idle despair. Play ball in the house for an hour? Done. Fix all the uncatalogued songs in iTunes? Done. Name each one of my toes? Did it twice. Update my resume? Go fuck yourself.

Video Killed the Radio Star

On my "about me" page I wrote the following: "I host the Thursday Night Threesome on The Sports Explosion Network on 1010 AM CBS Sports Radio. I talk about sporty things and I like it, but that show and this blog don't really have anything to do with each other. I guess they're like half-siblings who don't get along but play nice at Christmas and Thanksgiving." I will be deleting that after I post this. And this post is pure TSE.

"Please remember that it's flesh and bone"

Have you ever been into a pawn shop? I went into one for the first time ever today and it was quite possibly one of the most depressing experiences ever. Those barred windows and glass cases held a museum of unwanted items, sacrifices, and promises of return that went unfulfilled. Maybe it's just a pawn shop. But then, why did I start crying?


I guess to tell that story I have to tell this story: my room is a constant mess. The rest of my house maintains a steady level of presentable at all times (I frequently throw last minute parties or have unexpected yet always welcomed guests, so I like to be ready) but my room is pretty much always in chaotic disarray. And you know what, I fucking like it that way.

"All this happened, more or less." - Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

Last Wednesday I found myself unexpectedly free.  I had no meetings scheduled, no conference calls, no time booked at the studio, no ad campaigns to be drafted, no family obligations, not even a full load of laundry to shackle me to productive adulthood.  So I bolted for my favorite me-time playground: the mall.  Any good mall is just as socially schizophrenic as I am.  I can bounce from a salon to a Sports Fan Attic, breeze into an accessory store to grab a new pair of earrings (I like shiny things) before heading to FYE to pick up another Tarantino DVD (I like confusing things).  I always save my favorite stop for last: Books-A-Million.

As I walked around in search of a new good read, I realized that outside of recommendations from friends I don’t really have a trusted source for finding new books.  I don’t read reviews based on the notion that if I want to have an opinion about something I should probably check it out for myself first.  Crazy, I know.  And I don’t read book blogs or keep an eye on the New York Bestseller list.  And above all, fuck Oprah’s book club.

Stepping on toes of the hipster gestapo

The only downside I’ve ever encountered to being spontaneous is that I’m often times ill prepared for whatever adventure I embark on at a moment’s notice.  This happened last Friday when I found myself at the Orpheum in Ybor for a metal show. My younger sister invited me last minute, so after veering off I-4 in a relatively unsafe manner, I made my way to one of my favorite local music venues.  Even if the show sucked (it was ok, check out Stick to Your Guns here) I could definitely use a beer.

5,000+ words

I often see the quirkiest things when no one is around to laugh with me. Cue cell phone camera (and every once in a while, some unsafe driving techniques).

This little gem comes from Stetson University while on a campus tour with my sister. Just seems a little counterintuitive to me.

 Jay Smith provided me with this hilarious caption: "Now serving poorage, beef welfarington, and humble pie."

Lucky Number Sestina

I have a new writer friend. Writer friends are always interesting because once I read their stuff (stalk their blog) it forces me to take a harder look at my own style.  Writer Friend writes like I do in that our content and thought processes are vaguely similar, but our execution is vastly different. Interesting how you can get the same answer with two different equations as it were, but I digress.

We recently talked about what we write when we aren't writing writing. Yes, we writers still have to write even if it's not for a specific purpose. Crazy, I know.  Most of us can just jot down ideas and scribbled musings in a quiet corner at home.  Others have to don their most indie hipster cardigans and horn-rimmed non-prescription glasses to type on their Mac at Starbucks or Panera, all the while sipping some soy milk fair trade bullshit and nibbling on a strawberry scone like a complete fucking tool.  I am not of the latter group, but again, I digress.

I Gots a Problem With This...

I work in advertising. Beyond that, I have a basic grasp of the English language. I understand general sentence structure, syntax and diction. Word choice really is everything when you have a limited space or time frame to get everything across to an audience.

I typically work in thirty second increments when writing commercials. I have a mere half-minute to convey a specific message, the who-what-when-where-why aspects of the business at hand and a strong call to action. Thirty seconds is frighteningly minuscule if the information is assembled coherently and depressingly endless if the information is poorly written. Maybe there isn't a right or wrong way to write advertising, but there certainly is an effective way. A good way, if you will.

Proof that 5 hour energy shots can be substituted for sleep almost successfully.

Have you ever thought about the fact that what you say does not always align with what you mean, but you say it anyway because you are caught up in the colloquial quagmire of the English language? For instance, you might announce to your friends that you need to take a shit, in the same way that you might take a piss. But are you actually taking anything in these activities? No. You are actually giving something away, losing it in fact. Yes, these resources are easily replenished, but there is no taking done on your part. And why don’t we take a vomit? It is a similar action to crapping or peeing, as you are depositing a substance into what is hopefully a toilet, but we do not take vomits. I think this has to do with the undesirable nature of vomit, but then again, who wants shit and piss?