I’m writing now because I don’t think I will get a solid opportunity to do so later. While I know that Hedwig will be amazing in addition to being cathartic tonight, I have other thoughts that need to be released to the void.

I hate obituaries. Narrowing down someone’s entire life to a few paragraphs (if that) is ridiculous and frustrating. I also hate how for most women, the last words put in print about them usually dwell not on her accomplishments or her own mind, but on the offspring she produced, and their offspring. Creating life is cool and everything but other than her choice to have children allowing my own life to exist, she was so much more to me. Having her life boiled down to a few sentences about her kids and their kids…feels so empty.

A short list of things you were to me, Dorothea Veronica Mears (Zoltowski)

• taker of no shit
• giver of hugs
• brusher of knotted hair
• ear of endless listening
• believer in my weird
• laugher of my stubbornness
• encourager of my fight
• embracer of my ideas

You didn’t always agree with everything I did or said, but you let me have my say. From knee high to towering above you I was always able to speak my truth between your walls. Be me with no apologies or fear. Thank you for giving me the environment to be exactly who I am. Thank you for pushing me to be self reliant, self sufficient, and self motivating. Thank you for being a pain in the ass when you needed to be, speaking your mind, and making no apologies for your beliefs. You were a beautifully flawed creature, like all the best humans are. You changed over time as life changed with you, you were not the same human to me you were for your kids, but that’s just the way it is. Thank you for being part of my three piece mother set, my generational sounding board.

Yours Always,

Me

As a means to distract myself from the impending doom of dealing with my extended family for days on end I decided to finish playing the game, INSIDE, this afternoon. This is the kind of game you can’t really talk about without spoiling it entirely for someone else. I will just say, play it. Play it and get lost in the puzzles, the atmosphere, the possibilities of what it all means. Just play it.

The metaphors run rampant and the scenery is equally beautifully and terrifying. A bit like life itself. I needed that darkness today, felt right.

My grandmother passed away a few hours ago. I have so many thoughts spinning around this event but I can’t do them justice right now. I will write more in the morning. For now I will say this. Thank you, you tough old bird, I love you.

So, I almost forgot that I even wrote that I would do a post a day for the month of March. Ooops. Off to a great start, kid!

I listened to one of my favorite story podcasts on the way home from work tonight – Welcome to Night Vale. I was turned on to this podcast by a friend of mine who is also a weird science fiction fan a few years ago, binged about 50 episodes and have been hooked ever since.

One of the things I like most about Night Vale is the way their writers put a whimsical yet philosophical look at current events in our world through the lens of a world that resembles us, just enough, but with totally different rules. If you listen, start back at episode 1 because everything is linear.

There are many times I listen to the show and say that I will go back and grab a certain section to quote later. I never do this and I was thinking again how disappointed in myself I am that I fail to do so over and over.

Instead of trying to dig through my brainpan and find a slew of perfect quotes to share, I decided to share some art I found instead. These are some of the gems you find in Night Vale amidst creatures and entities you won’t expect.

Copyright PostSecret

Given I have the day off in recognition of Dr. Martin Luther King that particular secret from PostSecret yesterday seems appropriate. This article also feels equally important as we are still a people with flaws in the plan for all to be treated equal.

3 Reasons Why Calling Bigots ‘Uneducated’ Is Counter-Productive

I often find myself falling into this realm. Wanting to believe that is a lack of knowledge or experience that causes one to believe and behave a certain way. The unfortunate reality is that quite often, it’s a choice despite knowledge and experience.

Operant conditioning is a type of learning where behavior is controlled by consequences.

I am equally wanting to kick and kiss my dear old friends for lighting the last spark I think I needed to actually write this piece. Their seemingly lighthearted comment whilst we recorded last night resulted in something visceral in me that bears discussion. Handy that it also ties in with something I’ve been wanting to discuss for about a week now.

As we were talking, I (admittedly) steered something back to myself that didn’t make much sense other than trying to force myself into the conversation. The joke of ‘why you gotta make everything about you’ jolted something in me that I’ve been, for lack of a better way to put it, conditioned to do. I shut up, I felt small, unwanted, and selfish. That big dark word that has been branded into me as the ultimate sin.

Full disclaimer. Nothing I note here is meant as anything but a share of information with an artistic twist for comparison sake. My truths are not always pretty, but even less pretty are some of them in regards to other important humans in my life. I am not willing to edit out the ugly parts for anyone’s benefit. Least of all my own.

My parents are human. As such, they made choices in my upbringing that may have held the best of intentions behind them, but as the human living constantly on the other side of those decisions I have to say they were effective, but probably didn’t have the effect desired. The constant berating in my eardrums that any decision made without my parents desires met = selfish is something I struggle with to this day. I have less of a problem now living as I want to live, but there is always that little voice in the back of my head that assumes anything done in my best interest is wrong. Wanting a child to think of others is a great thing to do, but I disagree that wanting that child to always do what YOU want as the best option is the right one.

One of the things my parents wanted and followed through on was raising my brother and I as Catholic. At least until the two of us were in High School, Church and education provided by the church were what we knew. A project I decided to embark on while I was on my sick-cation was to digitize the plethora of VHS tapes from my parents house. Those tapes included every year of Christmas plays that myself and my brother participated in throughout our grade school years.

I did not listen to each in their entirety, but in the few moments I did stop to listen some items became crystal clear to me in a way that they certainly did not when I was initially participating in those plays, lo those many years ago.

I can’t recall now exactly what year it was, but in between set changes our principal made a quick speech that just slapped me across the face. She spoke of how saddened the parish was that schools in the public sector had started to refer to Christmas vacation as the Winter holiday instead. She reiterated that here at Queens we will always speak the truth of what the season is really about. Jesus.

Here’s where my adult critical thinking bell started ringing and stinging. I’ve read enough history of my own accord in addition to in educational settings to know full well that Christmas has a significance to many faiths. I also know full well that many of the traditions and rituals associated with Christmas that have been adapted by those faiths have origins in other religions and appropriation of those in addition to snuffing them out.

Her words got me thinking about how many rituals we were exposed to in school and how little our small minds actually knew about the meaning or purpose of them. We were quite simply conditioned to say ‘and also with you’, to shake hands, to hold our hands certain ways, to say certain words. Beyond that, I have realized now just how much of the belief structure in religious organizations of all kinds can be likened to operant conditioning. If you find comfort and solace in faith, I don’t take issue with that at all, I think faith does good for many people, but does just as much total crap to others for being ‘non-believers’.

What strikes me most is the realization that the golden rule we were so often presented with seems to have had a little fine print all along. I see it now, especially as a kid with parents who go to different churches.

Treat others as you wish to be treated. *

*As long as they believe the same thing as you.

This is something I have more depth to, but I’m still working through it. Let’s touch on this one again sometime?

I’m feeling a bit like toasted crap on a cracker these last few days. Spurred by the passing of Carrie Fisher and in true ‘I am an adult’ fashion I decided to rewatch Star Wars and Carrie Fisher’s Wishful Drinking yesterday. Continuing the trend, I read her book of the same title and am watching Empire and Jedi which should end just as 2017 hits. For the record, 2017 hit just as Luke was lighting Anakin’s funeral pyre. Perfect.

Watching Jedi, there’s something that is annoying me about the storyline now that I don’t think ever has in the past. Luke tells Leia who she really is and instead of training her and taking on Vader together, he’s off to take on Daddy Darth alone. So much for power in numbers.

I’ve been really hit by the passing of Carrie, she was an enjoyable presence for me anytime she showed up on film. She seemed a kindred spirit, I only much later came to understand the many layers of why.

I probably could have powered through hanging out last night but my head feels like a bowling ball and my heart…well it hurts. The past two years have been so trying for my parental and personal health that I am struggling even this morning to find that silver lining in it all. Especially as SHE is telling me over and over ‘see, it didn’t matter at all that you weren’t there. you see how easy everyone keeps moving without you?’ She’s a liar, and I know that, but she’s a loud little bitch when there’s a little FOMO in the air.

My head feels big, is it big? Ugh, fucking cold why you gotta hit me when I’m on vacation. Such a dick move.

What I meant to say in all this before I got tired and went to bed and gave up after the layer of why comment is that despite not knowing them personally, we all attach some level of understanding and kinship to the people we admire. For me, especially lately, the people I admire are my fellow depression-eers. Like a little micky mouse club of fucked up neurons. Helps to know I’m not alone, and that there is a great deal of our clan that write to soothe the savage beast within.

That’s what I want back in my 2017, I want my words back. That’s been a struggle for so long now that I have to just do it. Just write. Even if it’s total shite, get something out. On paper, in 1’s and 0’s, it really doesn’t matter. I just need to do it.

Someday my words will be all that is left of me, I want to make sure they say something accurate, funny, and true. Sometimes if you have the right perspective even the worst moments apply.

I hope Josh wakes up soon, his presence and first hug and kiss of the year will make her shut up a little bit. For a little while anyway.

Like every muscle in my body that goes without purpose at times, my writing muscles feel oh so close to atrophy. What was once a respite, a release, writing has become an adversary. An enemy I cannot defeat. Each attempt to release my thoughts failing again and again.

I don’t think this was ever easy, I’d be lying if I said it was. I remember fighting with keyboards for years, only letting the ‘best’ pieces grace the 1’s and 0’s of the information superhighway. Pages and pages of scribbles paint pathetic pictures of my life in stages.

I have to do this in practice again or I will lose what little ability I have remaining. The thoughts remain the same, but the fingers cannot grace the keys in the same pitter patter as they once did. The flourish and rhythm once music to my ears. Tap, tap, tap and out come a fraction of the ponderings held up in my cranium.

I so wish that I could get that power back, but has it been too long since this was my go to? Is that why now what could be done in mere minutes takes close to an hour? Pausing over and over because the words simply don’t come anymore.

So many things I haven’t written about because the thought of having those moments solidified in writing seemed too much. Writing them down makes them no only real, but then leaves the burden of proof on me. How do I give proper description to some of these moments that seem to defy description to me entirely despite that I lived them and can see them in my mind almost as clear as the moments they first took place. Do I avoid writing them so that I don’t have to remember them two fold? So I don’t have to answer the questions, or is it just the eyes I want to avoid. THOSE eyes, the peering eyes I never wanted on my words but happily imbibed them anyway. Judging me more, giving more fuel to the belief structure that seems to permeate my DNA.

Going to have to do this little by little, maybe even day by day before it’s something more than drivel. Get the craft back, then write about the things that actually matter.

I’ve spent so much of the last week and a half adding paragraph upon paragraph to a draft I started post election. Pouring over the words again and again hoping to make something short, sweet, simple out of it to express my distaste for humanity and the glimmer of hope I am clinging to and trying to spark a fire from in others.

Hello, run on sentence, have we met? Clearly.

I’ve had some really wonderful and some rather surprising conversations as a direct result of current affairs. That excites this little infantile part of me that’s been missing conversation about the big things, the big thinks. Dear (possible) lord give me something more to talk about than the god damned weather and whatever shit happened on The Walking Dead this week! Granted, that is coming out of a girl that spends a great deal of her life listening to people talk into cameras on the internet, I get it. We all have our things, beebs.

All I can do, in however many years I have left on this earth is to try to be the best version of myself I can be. I want to experience, I want to learn, I want to grow. What I think makes me so gutted and angry about the current state of things (or at least that these things are given more attention right now) is that so many people don’t want that. So many people are content to be complacent in the world they live in. I want to believe it’s because they are uneducated or inexperienced or simply haven’t been granted the time and luxury that I have to do things on that level (Maslow is real y’all). Maybe? Maybe not? Maybe it is easier for people to just keep following the lifescript. Check off those accomplishment boxes like it really means anything to the earthworms and bumble bees.

I’m a dark ass cynic at heart, and with that it is extra difficult for me to find the silver lining. I so willingly seek the darkest parts of the world seeking to understand. Yet, I am so weak in that regard as well. What I seek to understand wounds me deeply. I cry reading words no one will ever know I’ve read but me. I cry for people I have never met. I cry for places I have never been.

The constant observer.

What these past few weeks have shown me is that I can’t make change by observation. Nut up or shut up, it’s time to do.

Be creative.

Use your words.

Use your voice.

Give your time.

Give your assistance.

Do something.

Or be nothing.

I can feel her creeping in again, and the question arises that always does – do I even bother keeping her at bay or do I let her in for awhile? Logically I should be calling/texting my therapist to make an appointment, but I hesitate. I haven’t had that option in the past and I’ve come through the other side relatively intact.

Something seems so clear to me at times when I should feel surrounded in love. Am I thing that has to die? Am I the thing that holds these people back from their true potential because I cannot reach my own? Am I the anchor that keeps you tethered to the past, the old version, the fail wheel?

I read Jenny and Wil and the words become a mantra as I try to break through the fog – “Depression lies, depression lies, depression lies”.

After all these years though, what remains so painfully true to me is that, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe not for me. I seem to be the most creative, capable version of myself when I’m clawing out of the well with her just a few feet beneath me and gaining.

Yet at these moments it is also so easy to add another tick-mark to the list of reasons why it’d be OK.

Look how happy they are, and you’re not part of that conversation

When’s the last time someone besides Marty/Josh/Brianna/Katie texted you when you didn’t text first

Dad’s right, you are a selfish little bitch

If they could survive Aaron, they sure as hell could survive you

Another week and you couldn’t be bothered to get the the gym? You’re pathetic

He doesn’t love you, you’re a convenience, you fucking idiot

You don’t deserve love

You deserve the judgmental eyes you disgusting pig

They don’t love you

They don’t love you

They don’t need you

You deserve to be alone

With me

There has been so much going on in my daily life the past year, I can’t fathom attempting to make something digestible here to even remotely come close to what I’ve felt. What I’ve witnessed. I’m not even entirely sure I want to.

What I do want and need to do is figure out what the point of this venture is going to be. Am I going to keep this at all? Will this, like all my other projects turn to internet dust?

As M and I venture further into this co-host world, I am met more and more with the reality that what I do day to day isn’t want I want to be doing ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. I miss being creative. I miss spending hours trying to craft a sentence in just the right way to pull at someone’s memory. I miss feeling like I was a part of a special little niche world. I miss running my Daria fan site. I miss talking about the pop culture things that I hold so dear and how they effect and act as a mirror to the real world – even if there’s vampires and monsters.

I want the fire back, but where do I start to get it?

I started a playlist project well over two years ago at this point I’ve entitled “Great Loves”. Here’s the snippet of journaling that spawned it, followed by some updated thoughts.

Thanks to social media I often find myself looking back in time wondering…was I the asshole? All those people that show up in my ‘you might know’ section on Facebook are like a knife at times.

Awhile back I started an entry to discuss how music is so entwined with emotion and memory for some. For me, it led to thinking about a song that I could associate to the ‘great loves’ of my life. That eventually spawned into a playlist now containing upwards of 100 songs, each very clearly tied to someone I have held affection toward at some point in my journey across this great big rock.

I initially started this project as a way to remember the people I have held romantic inclinations toward. Ultimately though I’ve expanded it to include the folks I have considered soulmates at one time or another on my path through this little garden of life.

As new songs enter my life, or old ones revisit thanks to a road trip I happily add minute after minute of other people’s words to that list. Each note pulling at the heartstrings of my past, sometimes bringing warmth to the chest or to the eyes.

I thought I’d share that list here from time to time, because I like having backups of my backups, really.

This has been a shit week. This is also going to be one of those stream of subconscious posts wherein I will contradict myself endlessly. Given the circumstances, I’m willing for forgive myself that humanity.

For the sake of my knowing what all this is about in 10 years (not the title shouldn’t make it obvious) I will say this much. Grandma M.

So much of my brain ends up with the same sentiment – what is the point? If this is the inevitable endpoint, are we all just so selfish and focused on our own moments we don’t care what happens at the end of everyone? The lack of compassion, the complete ‘who gives a fuck’ of all this angers me to no end. Everybody dies, not everyone apparently gets to do so with dignity or self intact.

My heart aches knowing full well that this is exactly the end she did not want. She was so at peace with going whenever the good lord would have her (her words). She was ready to be with her husband again, and simply wanted her body to expire, leaving us without becoming as she and so many others put it ‘a burden’. A human you love is never a burden. Not to me. Not as I dress you, and fight with you as you swear you are not in your own home in your own bed. You are not a burden, you are still my grandmother, even if your brain is playing keep away with that fact.

There’s so much about this process that is not known to anyone until the time comes where you have to know? Why do we refuse to talk about this, share knowledge about this. Feels very much that this is yet another instance in life where we like to put our fingers in our ears and claim ignorance of the reality we all face. The reality of what we all may experience multiple times as we ourselves age closer and closer to being the one on their way loose the mortal coil.

I simply want you to be able to pass without being in a place foreign to you and selfishly I cannot help but now want to ensure somehow that I myself do not meet a similar fate.

So many thoughts swirl as I now try to recall all the things I said when on the phone with M the other day. So many of the bingos I am given for not wanting children are swirling because in the end, you’re all alone. The anger and pain in my family because this that or the other person didn’t seem to care or arrive fast enough is ridiculous. The whole thing just makes me want to bitch slap everyone. All of this is not about you fuckers, it’s about her.

Who will take care of you?

The end is he end is the end, when you go perhaps is better left to your control to some extent. Maybe Aaron being gone so soon is for the better. The alternative of slowly expiring seems the crappier side of the coin.

A post! A timely post!

Today on the interwebs, many ladies I love to read/watch are posting videos to their teenage selves under the hashtag #dearme. Within they answer a not so simple question - If you could go back in time and give your younger self some advice, what would it be?

Full disclosure, I haven’t actually watched any of these as I am at my place of work, but given the authors I have zero problem assuming that they will be brilliant, funny, heartwarming, and just generally amazing.

Felicia Day
Grace Helbig
Hannah Hart
Laci Green
IISuperwomanII
Lindsey Stirling

Given these, I have to ask myself that very question. So, here’s my short because I’m only on lunch break answer. For better or worse.

Teenage T, you’re not a worthless chunk of human being. You are not unlovable. Your brain is going to tell you those things, and worse, for many years to come. Don’t believe it. You’re going to have your heart broken. More than once. You’re going to be angry, you’re going to say stupid things because you are angry. You will write things because you are angry that will both amuse and gut you to the core. This is kind of your thing. You will hide behind humor like a shield. The best people in the world will laugh at your terrible self-deprecating blend of words and carry on with you anyway. The world will be shitty. The world fucking sucks, dude, but you really will meet people who make it so much brighter than you know right now. Let people know you, the actual you. She is flawed, she is a walking contradiction, but she’s pretty awesome too. Make mistakes, ride the pain, strive to be better. Own your weird!

More later, work now…

I suppose there is some comfort to be taken in knowing you became the man I always knew you could be. Just a bit sobering to know that I was a spot of roadkill on that journey.