In the name of happy

In the name of happy I want to share a few great things with you that I’ve done lately.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of helping host two amazing artists from NYC.
You can view their work here and here
Artistic ability aside, the genuine spirit both of these guys posses is contagious and made for an amazing weekend. 
If either of you are reading this, thank you, please come back soon.
To dovetail off the feel of last weekend, I’ve picked up my life list again and I’m working on completing it.
Turns out I’ve done quite a bit on it that I hadn’t even realized.

  • On Easter I had one GLORIOUS bite of bacon for the first time in almost a decade.
  • I FINALLY quit my job at the coffee shop and I can say, for the first time, that I have a really great job that I love.
  • I have gotten back into Yoga, but not super seriously.

  • I have started writing letters. My very close friend, Josh, recently picked up his life and left the country.  He spent some time in Greece and now he’s posted up (for now) in Sydney, Australia. We keep in touch via letter writing, which is amazing. As soon as he starts a blog, I’ll be the first to let you all know.  

  • I did finally “finish” my children’s book and I’ve received my first rejection letter! So now, I need to keep badgering agents until someone picks me up.  Oh the joy of writing.
I also have an exciting announcement!
I will be joining my significant other, an amazing graphic designer, and his unbelievable girlfriend on a three week road trip across the US!
We’re going to be picking up some other really cool people along the way, but I don’t know them very well and I’m not sure if they have Internet websites so I can’t put links up for you to creep. 
Anyway, stay tuned for my musings from the road. 

I’m writing this because I was told my blog is a silent scream for help

I don’t often write about the happy things in my life because everyone knows about the happy shit.

As soon as anyone anywhere has a baby, gets married, gets a new job, they shove it in your face via every social media network since the history of the Internet.

Which is fine.

And I’m happy for all of you, seriously. (I’m really not being facetious) 

I write about the shit in my life because every time I get a new job, accomplish something great or just have a really good fucking day, there are two million people who want to tell me good job.

But when I’m low, really low, not wanting to exist low, there is almost no one.

I write for community.
I write so that I’m not alone, and you are not alone.

I write to give things like: depression, suicide, abortion and all the ugly realities of this world, a pretty face, because for some reason, a pretty face makes them easier to relate to.

You hear about depression, you think school shooting. You hear about abortion, you think slut. You hear about alcoholism, you think absentee parents. You hear drug use, you think street junkie.

I write to change perception.
Maybe sometimes I do a shit job, but at least I’m trying.

So, to those of you concerned about me: I’m OK.

With that said, I think I might write about some of the happy shit more often, because good things do happen, and it’s important not to diminish them because the good moments are important.

The price I pay for beauty.

Every once in a while I break down and drop 40+ dollars to allow someone to molest me. 

The whole experience is like child birth (or what I’m told child birth is like), you forget until you’re in the throws of it, how uncomfortable the whole situation is.
The scenario goes like this: someone posits the idea in my head and I’m all like, “that sounds so nice and relaxing!” Then, I push it off until one day I spontaneously go spend the money and it’s not until I’m sitting in the chair that I realize how completely not relaxing the whole experience is. 
I don’t think I’ve specified yet, but I’m talking about getting a mani/pedi.
I go in and I sit in the pedi chair and as soon as my feet his the hot chemical bath I lose my shit internally. I spiral into a panic that someone is touching my feet, clipping my dead skin and probably discussing the whole raunchy process in a mocking tone to the technician next to them.
I don’t like discussing my feet with anyone, I certainly don’t want anyone else discussing them.
After the wave of panic hits, then I start to feel guilty. 
Like, “Really Alli? You couldn’t paint your own fucking toes? You had to stick those nasty things in this poor girl’s face?” And then I start studying the feet next to me to see if they’re nicer than my own.
Don’t even get me started on the vaguely sexual hand massage they give you before painting your fingernails. . .
Long story short, I exit the who ordeal with my gut in a knot and feeling about 200% more tense than when I walked in.
I tried explaining this to Chris after he asked why I was so uptight when I got home, but he promptly shook his head and goes, “I don’t want to even hear this. You paid someone to make you feel like this.”
On a totally unrelated note, ever try to eat a grape with a fork?
Shit’s a game of roulette for whoever is sitting next to you.

Fucking People Man.

For those who don’t know, every other day I’m a very confident person.
On the off days, I’m myself.

I limit what I eat, I worry about my shoe size, I have straight panic attacks remembering that I published my own abortion story on the internet.

On my real confident days I just go to sleep really fucking tired because being someone I’m not is fucking exhausting and yet I work really hard to hide it a lot of the time.

I date a pretty successful and self made photographer with a lot of really successful and some mildly famous friends.
I constantly worry that I’m the shlep his friends wonder why he’s with.
My friends are all extremely successful in so many ways; successful (it just took me about 4 tries and spellcheck to get that fucking word correct)  entrepreneurs, happily married, accomplished musicians, world travelers and amazing writers/musicians/artists.
And then there is me.

It’s really hard for me to walk into a room full of people and not panic or freak out because I feel physically ill that someone might ask me any questions about my life. I hate when people want to know about my life, which is unfair because I’m pretty fucking nosy. But I’m am so afraid of being not good enough that I’ve actually locked myself in bathrooms at parties because the pressure of being around so many people has either made me cry or feel nauseous.

Small talk literally kills off a part of me.
I know that the answers I want to give are not what I’m supposed to give and so I end up faking it and feeling shittier.

“Where do you live?”
-My parent’s house. I lived in a cat piss/blood covered apartment for a year with a roommate who never cleaned so I stopped cleaning. And honestly I was poor as fuck because I ate too much take out and drank too much booze and had to unexpectedly self finance an abortion, so really moving home has been a vacation! Where are you from?”

I image this is where people at a party would either kick me out or, more likely, just walk away and not invite me next time.

“So I heard you’re a writer?” is probably my least favorite bit of small talk because in my head there are only two reasons they’re asking, 1. because they’re actually interested and want to read what I write, which is frightening because the topic of drunkenly breaking into a strip club is not usually a winning one at a dinner party.
or 2. they already know what I’ve written and think I’m a half baked version of some 14 year old trying to imitate the avant-garde style of the beat generation and they want me to talk myself up so they can laugh when I go to the bathroom.
Were the Beats considered avant-garde? I have no fucking idea.

“What do you go to school for?” is actually an ok topic because there is a 50/50 chance (I made those stats up) I won’t be talking to another english major, and upon hearing that I have a useless degree in word-smithing they either shift the conversation to their fascinating biowhatever’sprobablygoingtoendandthensavehumanity degree or they internally wonder how many of their tax dollars will eventually support my broke ass as they walk away suggesting I think about law school.

In the unfortunate event I get another English major it’s another crap shoot. I could get someone who wants to discuss how deep and feely Keats’ poetry is or the fascinating philosophy behind “On The Road”. In which case I start to wish I was illiterate rather than admit I have no fucking idea what Ode to a Grecian Urn is about and that I have developed an unfair and totally childishly biased hate for Kerouac who I think was a miserable bastard who avoided people probably for the sole purpose of avoiding the kind of bullshit conversations I’m writing about.  My god maybe we’re alike. killme.

If I’m lucky, in that room full of people ( this is a fucking metaphor for the world you Philistines!) I’ll encounter someone like me who just wants to be left alone and we’ll bond over that rather than discussing the useless bullshit that everyone else is using to measure how “good enough” we are for society.

Probably the most honest thing I’ve written in a while.

So it’s been a month.

I’ld like to blame that on being busy, finals, a new job, moving, break ups, and all the other bullshit that comes with being alive; but really it’s nothing.
I’ve been nothing.
Someone left a comment on my work telling me I need to question my writing.
And oh my fucking god was she right.
I wasn’t questioning because I wasn’t writing and I wasn’t writing because I was nothing.
I was realizing the other day while reading, Nicole Life Less Bullshit, that I am excited by almost nothing. 
Seriously. Stab my cat in the face or hand me a 2 mil in cash after taxes and the reactions will pretty much be the same. 
I do this because I’m totally mentally ill.
I can not handle any emotions so I block them in real life. Which was once upon a time ok because I would write in journals. But now I’ve dipped my toe into blogging and I desperately want to be fearless enough to live out loud.
Unfortunately the past month I’ve choked with fear.
I was so afraid to write because I had been writing so safely, but I had all these feelings inside but I couldn’t post them on the internet because I just started a new job and I want people to not read my blog and think I’m nuts.
Despite the fact I’m totally nuts.
Which isn’t even fair to get their hopes up that I’m not.
And I stopped writing honestly because it’s not cool to talk about how in love you are with someone who unknowingly breaks your heart everyday even though he couldn’t even possibly know that because you never tell him anything.
And you’re afraid to write because god forbid his family see this blog. 
God forbid my own fucking family see this blog.
Seriously, how disappointing would it be to find your daughter’s drugged, drunk, mentally ill and sexed up chronicles on the internet?
Plus then the fact I’m nuts would be something in writing.
Because today I’m in a straight panic that if I eat dinner I’m never going to fit into my pants tomorrow, but then tomorrow I’ll be drinking margarita’s care free and centered post yoga.
That kind of emotional 180 makes no fucking sense and I make no sense.
So why the FUCK am I writing this down?
It’s in part because I just picked up Jenny Lawson’s “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened”, it’s in part because I need to not feel repressed any more, it’s in part because I just bought my first Typewriter (the same one Jack Kerouac had my significant other tells me), it’s in part because a coworker admitting to creeping my social media and reading my blog telling me she could totally relate (and coming from a fellow writer that meant a lot) and partially because I just started a new job where I don’t know many people and I could be anyone I really fucking want to be me.
I’m not even editing this post because today I don’t give one fuck about grammar.
Talk to me tomorrow and I’ll probably lecture you on the absolute necessity of the oxfordian comma.