I read this article on Jezebel yesterday: http://jezebel.com/5856145/geeks-get-eating-disorders-too. And then I read it again. And again. And each time I got to the line, "No geek has ever looked at me, puffy and red-eyed, or bony thin, or exhausted from exercise and asked 'are you okay?'" I lost it a little bit more. I spent a good portion of last night crying for this anonymous woman; in fact, crying for the entire geek community.
Because if this woman, this fan of geek culture, feels abandoned by her own kind, and destroys herself because of it, is not "OK", then, really, not one of us is OK.
I admit that I have a revulsion to geek culture, similar to my revulsion of religion. I'll happily discuss details of either with individual followers, but if I have to step into a chapel (gaming/comics store), I get sweaty and nauseous. And I will never EVER step into a Cathedral (convention) lest I get identified as a Heathen/Witch (non-geek/ugly chick) and burned (burned).
I can hear everyone piping up: But X convention is completely different! There's, like, hundreds of women there! It's fan-run! Blah blah blah.
I'm here to tell you, it isn't. Hatred of women is endemic in gamer culture. And it's what keeps me from being a geek, no matter how much I would love to participate. And I know I'm not alone. There are tons of women who are terrified of participating because of this. The brave few who manage to get there without having been affected by rampant sexism, harrassment, or even assault have my admiration. Because I cannot and will not enter into that hell. I'd sooner go to Boot Camp.
So, gents, and ladies, too: how do we stop this bullshit? Well, it starts with this: If you want your peaceful, Advanced Society, you have to be a better person.
The take away lessons?
1) Preferences are not norms. Alright. Everybody's got a type that gets them going. That is not news. But only going with one type is not an attraction, it's a fetish. Don't believe me? Look at Hugh Hefner. Guy's a creepazoid. Admit that you have preferences, but don't disparage what's outside of them. Because one person's 4 is another's 10. And don't make that 10-lover think he or she's wrong for it. There's room for us all here.
2) Don't become the bullies you hated. I know, you don't even realize it when you insult someone. But when you call out someone based on their looks alone, you are rendering them two-dimensional. They aren't people anymore. And we need people in this society. Real, three-dimensional people. Not avatars.
3) Stand up for your friends. Loudly. You know, in all those inspiring teen comedies, the one sweet jock who stands up for the pipsqueak nerd and keeps him from being beat the fuck up? You can be that sweet jock, too. Everyone's going to josh each other, that's what gamers do. But you know when it goes too far. It's well within your power to tell someone who's being a jerk that they need to stop it. And if that jerk continues? Well, you don't need to hang out with him or her. Simple as that. Nothing teaches a bully to quit what they're doing than saying so straight to their face and taking away their power by playing without them.
4) Assume that they know. And then ask anyway. If you see one of your friends going through a hard time, don't pepper them with Know it All bullets, but ask how they're doing and how you can help. And keep at it as gently as you can until you can get an answer. If someone isn't the chipper person you remember, there's a reason behind it. Help them. You could be saving their life.
Geeks: you want to be Professor X. You want to be Gandalf. You want to be Superman. By lifting us all up instead of tearing some of us down, you will be.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Devil looks at 10, 20, 30, 40, and 70 (ish)
Today's Lesson: Age IS a number.
Corollary Lesson: Fuck numbers.
I know. You have a birth date. It's written on your driver's license, you often use it as your password (note: BAD IDEA), and it is the one thing about you that will absolutely NEVER change. I mean, as you get older, the things you find important fall away, you get new friends, new hairstyles, you change your height, weight, skin care regimen, but you never change the day you came into existence into this world.
As of a few weeks ago, I have completed 40 revolutions around the sun in this meat shell. I took a moment - in between swigs or smokes or songs or slurpy smooches - to think about what I was doing at the other decade markers of my life.
In 1981, I turned 10 years old. I had finished the third grade, and it was my favorite grade year of my adolescence thus far. This was largely due to a teacher I had whom I absolutely loved. She was single and zany and wore smoky glasses and hippie skirts and laughed every day. She became friends with my grandmother, and she attended my dance recitals and plays. She encouraged me to sew and sing and read and just try everything out. A few years later she adopted a girl and became a single mom. She was my first exposure to second wave feminism, and the concept that a woman could be kick ass independent and still find joy in every day things. I needed that. I was a stressed out little girl. I was the defacto "adult" in my family when it came to things like administering medications to family members (both human and feline), keeping everyone's schedules, running from class to dance rehearsals, packing every week to shuttle between my house and my grandmother's...it was a lot to deal with. I don't even remember having a birthday that year. At that time, all the birthday parties kind of meshed together. I remember cakes, and pool parties, and my cat killing a snake and gifting it at my feet as I opened presents. But I don't remember specific years.
In 1991, I turned 20 years old. How the times have changed. I had quit school. I had left home. I was holding down two part-time jobs, neither of which paid very much. I was living in Allston, having just moved into my first solo, one-bedroom apartment, after spending 16 months with roommates. Over the course of those 16 months, I had delved into massive alcohol and drug abuse, risky emotional and sexual behaviors that on the surface described all the markers of low self-esteem, but which I called "exploration of consciousness". I was having the best time I could under the circumstances. I was nowhere near "rock bottom", but at that point in the early 90s, we in Generation X wanted to party our way right down there, just to prove we could climb the fuck back out the next day. I knew that this spot, this new place that I would call my own, would be the turning point. Having to take care of myself, even if I wasn't fully ready, was what I needed to do. By the time I turned 21, I had a full-time job that more than doubled my yearly salary. I had started a writers group/salon that fed our souls once a week. My demons were still very much there, and I still risked way too much in that first apartment, but I now had the tools to deal with it, because I just had to. There was no net, and I needed to take control.
In 2001, I turned 30 years old. I recall when I was very young, when I learned how to read calendars, calculating the year that I would turn 30. I'd always kept 2001 in my mind. However, when it arrived, it wasn't cause for a celebration. I was, again, unemployed. I had spent the better part of six months acting like a celebutard, staying out very late in the evenings (often into the next day), with other folks who had the summer off or generally didn't do the day job thing. I had spent the last few years "on a break" from all things artistic - no music, no theatre, nothing. My life was sleeping in and going out. It was my way of coping. My father was diagnosed with cancer earlier that year, and by the summer he needed someone to be there for him. Luckily, I seemed to have some free time on my hands. I spent 10 days in August with him, hanging out, having pancakes and milkshakes for dinner, drinking shots with beer backs at Vic's, smoking, all the things you aren't supposed to do when you're dying. He got upset when we were driving somewhere and he forgot his hat. He was now bald and looked much older than 62 (he would turn 63 three days before I turned 30). We talked football, watched a lot of TV, and I had started making a bedazzled shirt to wear for my upcoming birthday party. It was a black and grey baseball shirt with a large "30" on the front and back. A few days after my 30th birthday was the attack on the World Trade Center. I was still wearing the "30" shirt. Six months after that, my mother and sister called to tell me my dad was not going live much longer. We made a plan to head to Hospice to be with him in the morning. I went out and got thoroughly wasted. My dad died that night. I put his hat in the coffin with him.
In 2011, I turned 40 years old. I am employed, gainfully, in a job I truly enjoy. I have been living on my own for two decades. I have allowed theatre back into my life, and am doing pretty well with it, even having stood on stage in front of people without accidentally vomiting on them. The demons are still around, but they've been a bit domesticated. They don't get to go outside without me keeping them on a leash. I have fantastic, caring, artsy friends, and my family is closer than ever. I can truly say that, right now, I'm at the best point in my life so far.
I say so far, because just a short time after my 40th birthday, my sister and I joined our mother for her (very belated) 50th high school reunion. My mother, to me, has always been the spitfire. The ageless one. At 73 years old, she runs circles around people half her age (including me). So we were expecting my tiny dynamo mother to be the only one walking unassisted to the reunion, whereas her classmates would be sporting the latest in Hoveround technology and oxygen tank fashion. Jesus, we could not be more incorrect. The class of 1957 was kicking! I mean, mostly. If there is one statistic to take, it's this: my mother's high school had recently gone co-ed, and thusly, there were 12 male gradutes. Of those 12, 8 had passed on. Whereas out of the 140 or so female graduates, only about 20 had passed. (note: there were still about 40 "missing", so even if the total number of deceased is 60, it's still a far lesser percentage for the ladies than for the gentlemen).
But, getting back to the kickin' ladies and gentlemen of '57. They were fit and frosty. Stylish. Wearing heels and appropriate makeup and hip hair cuts. They are retired, they are traveling, they are working, they do theatre and films. They are grandmothers and great grandmothers. Some are going through their late-life crises post-divorce (ahem, gentlemen of '57). They laughed and reminisced and relayed all the stories that my mom used to tell us of her wild days in high school. We met her high school sweetheart, whose heart she broke when he wanted commitment and she wanted college.
As my sister and I were looking through the dance cards a classmate had saved, and reading about how all the kids stayed out until 1:30 AM after the dance, one graduate mentioned, "We stayed out late, but we didn't do anything crazy. We all just went out with each other and had so much fun together. It's not like today, everything's so serious."
I was so glad to be a guest at the reunion, to get that kind of rare perspective. The reminiscing of the earlier generation to a time that I can also relate to, and to think about the decades afterwards and the ones still to come. I think back to when I was younger, and honestly believing that for some reason, be it my own mistakes or some horrible tragedy, that I would not see the age of 40. But now that this number is realized, I can throw all the others away and start counting again.
Corollary Lesson: Fuck numbers.
I know. You have a birth date. It's written on your driver's license, you often use it as your password (note: BAD IDEA), and it is the one thing about you that will absolutely NEVER change. I mean, as you get older, the things you find important fall away, you get new friends, new hairstyles, you change your height, weight, skin care regimen, but you never change the day you came into existence into this world.
As of a few weeks ago, I have completed 40 revolutions around the sun in this meat shell. I took a moment - in between swigs or smokes or songs or slurpy smooches - to think about what I was doing at the other decade markers of my life.
In 1981, I turned 10 years old. I had finished the third grade, and it was my favorite grade year of my adolescence thus far. This was largely due to a teacher I had whom I absolutely loved. She was single and zany and wore smoky glasses and hippie skirts and laughed every day. She became friends with my grandmother, and she attended my dance recitals and plays. She encouraged me to sew and sing and read and just try everything out. A few years later she adopted a girl and became a single mom. She was my first exposure to second wave feminism, and the concept that a woman could be kick ass independent and still find joy in every day things. I needed that. I was a stressed out little girl. I was the defacto "adult" in my family when it came to things like administering medications to family members (both human and feline), keeping everyone's schedules, running from class to dance rehearsals, packing every week to shuttle between my house and my grandmother's...it was a lot to deal with. I don't even remember having a birthday that year. At that time, all the birthday parties kind of meshed together. I remember cakes, and pool parties, and my cat killing a snake and gifting it at my feet as I opened presents. But I don't remember specific years.
In 1991, I turned 20 years old. How the times have changed. I had quit school. I had left home. I was holding down two part-time jobs, neither of which paid very much. I was living in Allston, having just moved into my first solo, one-bedroom apartment, after spending 16 months with roommates. Over the course of those 16 months, I had delved into massive alcohol and drug abuse, risky emotional and sexual behaviors that on the surface described all the markers of low self-esteem, but which I called "exploration of consciousness". I was having the best time I could under the circumstances. I was nowhere near "rock bottom", but at that point in the early 90s, we in Generation X wanted to party our way right down there, just to prove we could climb the fuck back out the next day. I knew that this spot, this new place that I would call my own, would be the turning point. Having to take care of myself, even if I wasn't fully ready, was what I needed to do. By the time I turned 21, I had a full-time job that more than doubled my yearly salary. I had started a writers group/salon that fed our souls once a week. My demons were still very much there, and I still risked way too much in that first apartment, but I now had the tools to deal with it, because I just had to. There was no net, and I needed to take control.
In 2001, I turned 30 years old. I recall when I was very young, when I learned how to read calendars, calculating the year that I would turn 30. I'd always kept 2001 in my mind. However, when it arrived, it wasn't cause for a celebration. I was, again, unemployed. I had spent the better part of six months acting like a celebutard, staying out very late in the evenings (often into the next day), with other folks who had the summer off or generally didn't do the day job thing. I had spent the last few years "on a break" from all things artistic - no music, no theatre, nothing. My life was sleeping in and going out. It was my way of coping. My father was diagnosed with cancer earlier that year, and by the summer he needed someone to be there for him. Luckily, I seemed to have some free time on my hands. I spent 10 days in August with him, hanging out, having pancakes and milkshakes for dinner, drinking shots with beer backs at Vic's, smoking, all the things you aren't supposed to do when you're dying. He got upset when we were driving somewhere and he forgot his hat. He was now bald and looked much older than 62 (he would turn 63 three days before I turned 30). We talked football, watched a lot of TV, and I had started making a bedazzled shirt to wear for my upcoming birthday party. It was a black and grey baseball shirt with a large "30" on the front and back. A few days after my 30th birthday was the attack on the World Trade Center. I was still wearing the "30" shirt. Six months after that, my mother and sister called to tell me my dad was not going live much longer. We made a plan to head to Hospice to be with him in the morning. I went out and got thoroughly wasted. My dad died that night. I put his hat in the coffin with him.
In 2011, I turned 40 years old. I am employed, gainfully, in a job I truly enjoy. I have been living on my own for two decades. I have allowed theatre back into my life, and am doing pretty well with it, even having stood on stage in front of people without accidentally vomiting on them. The demons are still around, but they've been a bit domesticated. They don't get to go outside without me keeping them on a leash. I have fantastic, caring, artsy friends, and my family is closer than ever. I can truly say that, right now, I'm at the best point in my life so far.
I say so far, because just a short time after my 40th birthday, my sister and I joined our mother for her (very belated) 50th high school reunion. My mother, to me, has always been the spitfire. The ageless one. At 73 years old, she runs circles around people half her age (including me). So we were expecting my tiny dynamo mother to be the only one walking unassisted to the reunion, whereas her classmates would be sporting the latest in Hoveround technology and oxygen tank fashion. Jesus, we could not be more incorrect. The class of 1957 was kicking! I mean, mostly. If there is one statistic to take, it's this: my mother's high school had recently gone co-ed, and thusly, there were 12 male gradutes. Of those 12, 8 had passed on. Whereas out of the 140 or so female graduates, only about 20 had passed. (note: there were still about 40 "missing", so even if the total number of deceased is 60, it's still a far lesser percentage for the ladies than for the gentlemen).
But, getting back to the kickin' ladies and gentlemen of '57. They were fit and frosty. Stylish. Wearing heels and appropriate makeup and hip hair cuts. They are retired, they are traveling, they are working, they do theatre and films. They are grandmothers and great grandmothers. Some are going through their late-life crises post-divorce (ahem, gentlemen of '57). They laughed and reminisced and relayed all the stories that my mom used to tell us of her wild days in high school. We met her high school sweetheart, whose heart she broke when he wanted commitment and she wanted college.
As my sister and I were looking through the dance cards a classmate had saved, and reading about how all the kids stayed out until 1:30 AM after the dance, one graduate mentioned, "We stayed out late, but we didn't do anything crazy. We all just went out with each other and had so much fun together. It's not like today, everything's so serious."
I was so glad to be a guest at the reunion, to get that kind of rare perspective. The reminiscing of the earlier generation to a time that I can also relate to, and to think about the decades afterwards and the ones still to come. I think back to when I was younger, and honestly believing that for some reason, be it my own mistakes or some horrible tragedy, that I would not see the age of 40. But now that this number is realized, I can throw all the others away and start counting again.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Lesson Six: Hit (on) Me With Your Best Shot
LESSON: ACCEPT THE COMPLIMENT.
ANCILLARY LESSON: THAT DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT THE OFFER.
SECOND ANCILLARY LESSON: IF YOU DON'T REACH OUT, YOU CAN'T GRAB IT.
You know, for a...person who is considered...uh...nontraditionally attractive, I sure do get hit on a lot. Most of the time it's someone who is passing by on the street who comments on something obvious: my adorable boobs or my gigantic booty. A few compliments on my hair. Great. Nice. Whatever.
But then there's the actual propositions, like in a bar, where someone is obviously trying to get you to go home with them. In the last two weeks, I'd gotten demands from dudes to give me their number, requests to join them in a hotel room in ten minutes, and queries as to whether any one of the dudes in the band is "my fella". (Note: that last one, the guy was, like, 60, super creepy, and said this of every woman in the bar).
Now. I'd be lying if I said that pickup lines have never worked on me. Because they HAVE. But as always, it's timing and context that separates whether I'm leaving or if I'm leaving with you.
So, what's the difference? Easy.
1) Remember how you should Be Nice to everyone? Goes both ways. If someone lays it on for your benefit and you're not into it right now, be nice and say thank you while you refuse kindly. If dudeman doesn't take no for an answer, he's not being nice to you, he's now harrassing you. Find the bouncer you're tight with and have him taken out. You don't need that, and you'll be helping the next woman he'll be an asshole to.
2) Remember the golden rule: while a 1:45 am effort is adorable, an 11 pm effort would have been amazing. Are you worth a pre-11 am pass? Yep. Will you give this 1:45 am attempt your time? Well, that's your call. You've got 15 minutes before your kicked out of the bar. That's plenty of conversation to make a judgment call over an exchange of digits.
3) You want to know what the best pickup line is? "Hi. I'm ____________." That's it. Put yourself out there first, be nice, introduce yourself, and talk. A brief and terribly amazing time was had with a gentleman who asked me if I was a reader and what books I was into at the time. Another gentleman and I bonded over sports talk. And then there's those that you don't really have a clear tipping point, but more of just the right feeling.
4) If it's not your night tonight, that's OK. You have the right to accept the attention that someone is paying you, but you don't need to accept the offer right away. If you're not feeling it for whatever reason, then just don't do it. But if it's more of a "not right now" rather than a "not in a million years", then you have the option to set up something for later on. Again, if dudeman is looking for a this evening situation, then he can find it somewhere else. (and quite honestly, he probably will. No disrespect to you).
Okay, so the above is how to accept or politely decline a hit. But what if you're the one who wants to do the hitting? Well, not surprisingly, the reverse is also true. Be nice, and set yourself out there. Introduce yourself and have a conversation. And listen for Pete's sake. Your love interest might not respond, but then again, they might. And if you find you're ready to close the deal, all you need is three words.
"Leave with me". Swift. Decisive. Works every time. When you're ready, try it.
ANCILLARY LESSON: THAT DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE TO ACCEPT THE OFFER.
SECOND ANCILLARY LESSON: IF YOU DON'T REACH OUT, YOU CAN'T GRAB IT.
You know, for a...person who is considered...uh...nontraditionally attractive, I sure do get hit on a lot. Most of the time it's someone who is passing by on the street who comments on something obvious: my adorable boobs or my gigantic booty. A few compliments on my hair. Great. Nice. Whatever.
But then there's the actual propositions, like in a bar, where someone is obviously trying to get you to go home with them. In the last two weeks, I'd gotten demands from dudes to give me their number, requests to join them in a hotel room in ten minutes, and queries as to whether any one of the dudes in the band is "my fella". (Note: that last one, the guy was, like, 60, super creepy, and said this of every woman in the bar).
Now. I'd be lying if I said that pickup lines have never worked on me. Because they HAVE. But as always, it's timing and context that separates whether I'm leaving or if I'm leaving with you.
So, what's the difference? Easy.
1) Remember how you should Be Nice to everyone? Goes both ways. If someone lays it on for your benefit and you're not into it right now, be nice and say thank you while you refuse kindly. If dudeman doesn't take no for an answer, he's not being nice to you, he's now harrassing you. Find the bouncer you're tight with and have him taken out. You don't need that, and you'll be helping the next woman he'll be an asshole to.
2) Remember the golden rule: while a 1:45 am effort is adorable, an 11 pm effort would have been amazing. Are you worth a pre-11 am pass? Yep. Will you give this 1:45 am attempt your time? Well, that's your call. You've got 15 minutes before your kicked out of the bar. That's plenty of conversation to make a judgment call over an exchange of digits.
3) You want to know what the best pickup line is? "Hi. I'm ____________." That's it. Put yourself out there first, be nice, introduce yourself, and talk. A brief and terribly amazing time was had with a gentleman who asked me if I was a reader and what books I was into at the time. Another gentleman and I bonded over sports talk. And then there's those that you don't really have a clear tipping point, but more of just the right feeling.
4) If it's not your night tonight, that's OK. You have the right to accept the attention that someone is paying you, but you don't need to accept the offer right away. If you're not feeling it for whatever reason, then just don't do it. But if it's more of a "not right now" rather than a "not in a million years", then you have the option to set up something for later on. Again, if dudeman is looking for a this evening situation, then he can find it somewhere else. (and quite honestly, he probably will. No disrespect to you).
Okay, so the above is how to accept or politely decline a hit. But what if you're the one who wants to do the hitting? Well, not surprisingly, the reverse is also true. Be nice, and set yourself out there. Introduce yourself and have a conversation. And listen for Pete's sake. Your love interest might not respond, but then again, they might. And if you find you're ready to close the deal, all you need is three words.
"Leave with me". Swift. Decisive. Works every time. When you're ready, try it.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Lesson Five: "Dehydration", "Exhaustion", and other euphemisms for Rehab.
Sometimes, the life, it gets too much. You try to squeeze every little drop out and find that all you've done is nearly put yourself into a coma. And then you get sick. And then you sort of feel better so you dive too quickly back into the craziness and you get even MORE sick. Finally, as you use the sleeve of your crusty sweatshirt to wipe the crud out of your nose for the 46th time that morning, you feel like you've disappointed everyone by needing to take an extended leave of absence to get healthy again. Preferably in a spa with full time nurses and massage therapists and chakra re-aligners and whatnot. Y'know, one of those fancy new age Rehabs that work for a few months and then you're walking into the Chateau Marmont without panties again.
Okay, most of us don't have LA Celebutard money to throw around on Bentleys that will get bounced off a curb or designer dogs that will inevitably be saved from starvation by the Help. But for most of us, there comes a time where we have to balance too much all at once, and it runs us ragged.
So, here are this week's takeaways to avoid a Promises-style "vacation".
1. Get to work on time. Go to the party late.
If you have to choose to spend your hours on working or playing, remember that your job is what gives you the money to party. And, hey, if you need time off to party, that's what vacation days are for. So have even a bit of responsibility and show up on time ready to work, when you gotta work.
As for the party - yeah. Show up late. Always show up late. Really late, if you can swing it. Relax for a bit before going out. Believe me, it's so fun walking into a crowded room of your drunk-ass friends who are excited to know you came to their shindie. Who cares if they don't remember you were there tomorrow? All the more reason to party down with your bad self. Everyone's too hammered to take incriminating pictures that late, so you don't have to hurriedly untag yourself in the morning.
2. If you can't say no, make fake plans and keep them.
I definitely value alone time quite a bit, and don't really have an issue refusing invitations, even if I really want to go. See, here's the thing: there's always going to be another gathering, and everyone's going to be there next time. Mix it up and be a little mysterious. You don't have to tell anyone anything as to why you're not showing up to stuff. It's your time, no need to justify. But if you feel like you need to share, but you don't want to tell the host that you have an awesome evening planned with a hot bath and a bucket of Chinese food, tell them you have a work thing. Or a dinner thing. Or a date. Or any number of other excuses. Keep the excuse boring and don't embellish. Or just fucking sack up and say you're taking a night off and you'll party down next time. If these people are your friends, they know that you're this close to a Winehouseian breakdown, and they'll give you the night off.
3. If you're going through hell, keep going.
There are those times that your calendar is legit full with stuff you can't get out of. If you've cleared out everything that's unneccessary and still find your days are crammed with stuff, then just get through it as best you can. Drink plenty of water. Eat as often as you can, even if it's just a Powerbar and a vitamin water as you're running from one place to the next. SLEEP. Take vitamins, even if you don't normally do so. And know that when you're week or two of hell is over, you are going to be sick. Guaranteed. Give in to it, lay down for a few days, and have someone bring you soup and gatorade. And give yourself at least one full week, hooker.
4. Find your way back.
I have one really hard-and-fast rule, with extremely few exceptions: I always go to sleep in my own bed. It is incredibly rare that I find myself asleep on someone else's couch or floor or bed if I can somehow get my ass home. I do not do the walk of shame. EVER. I always have enough cash for a cab, even if I'm an hour away from my place (I've done it. TRUST). The reasons are simple: Home is safe. Home is health. Home is where I can hang out in my altogethers, chug a quart of water, take a few Advil, eat a banana and come down to an episode of "Sunrise Earth". Home is where I can regroup and start over. You should think the same way of your home. It should be somewhere you want to stay, somewhere you want to come back to. If it isn't, fix it so it is.
So, my little Hilhanshians, remember to work hard, play hard, and rest easy. Keeping the balance is the way to stay amazing. Now go and find someone to take you home.
Okay, most of us don't have LA Celebutard money to throw around on Bentleys that will get bounced off a curb or designer dogs that will inevitably be saved from starvation by the Help. But for most of us, there comes a time where we have to balance too much all at once, and it runs us ragged.
So, here are this week's takeaways to avoid a Promises-style "vacation".
1. Get to work on time. Go to the party late.
If you have to choose to spend your hours on working or playing, remember that your job is what gives you the money to party. And, hey, if you need time off to party, that's what vacation days are for. So have even a bit of responsibility and show up on time ready to work, when you gotta work.
As for the party - yeah. Show up late. Always show up late. Really late, if you can swing it. Relax for a bit before going out. Believe me, it's so fun walking into a crowded room of your drunk-ass friends who are excited to know you came to their shindie. Who cares if they don't remember you were there tomorrow? All the more reason to party down with your bad self. Everyone's too hammered to take incriminating pictures that late, so you don't have to hurriedly untag yourself in the morning.
2. If you can't say no, make fake plans and keep them.
I definitely value alone time quite a bit, and don't really have an issue refusing invitations, even if I really want to go. See, here's the thing: there's always going to be another gathering, and everyone's going to be there next time. Mix it up and be a little mysterious. You don't have to tell anyone anything as to why you're not showing up to stuff. It's your time, no need to justify. But if you feel like you need to share, but you don't want to tell the host that you have an awesome evening planned with a hot bath and a bucket of Chinese food, tell them you have a work thing. Or a dinner thing. Or a date. Or any number of other excuses. Keep the excuse boring and don't embellish. Or just fucking sack up and say you're taking a night off and you'll party down next time. If these people are your friends, they know that you're this close to a Winehouseian breakdown, and they'll give you the night off.
3. If you're going through hell, keep going.
There are those times that your calendar is legit full with stuff you can't get out of. If you've cleared out everything that's unneccessary and still find your days are crammed with stuff, then just get through it as best you can. Drink plenty of water. Eat as often as you can, even if it's just a Powerbar and a vitamin water as you're running from one place to the next. SLEEP. Take vitamins, even if you don't normally do so. And know that when you're week or two of hell is over, you are going to be sick. Guaranteed. Give in to it, lay down for a few days, and have someone bring you soup and gatorade. And give yourself at least one full week, hooker.
4. Find your way back.
I have one really hard-and-fast rule, with extremely few exceptions: I always go to sleep in my own bed. It is incredibly rare that I find myself asleep on someone else's couch or floor or bed if I can somehow get my ass home. I do not do the walk of shame. EVER. I always have enough cash for a cab, even if I'm an hour away from my place (I've done it. TRUST). The reasons are simple: Home is safe. Home is health. Home is where I can hang out in my altogethers, chug a quart of water, take a few Advil, eat a banana and come down to an episode of "Sunrise Earth". Home is where I can regroup and start over. You should think the same way of your home. It should be somewhere you want to stay, somewhere you want to come back to. If it isn't, fix it so it is.
So, my little Hilhanshians, remember to work hard, play hard, and rest easy. Keeping the balance is the way to stay amazing. Now go and find someone to take you home.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Lesson Four: Escapade or Escape?
In general, I am one who subscribes to what Dan Savage calls "The Campsite Rule" when it comes to lovers: leave them better than you found them - no emotional or physical trauma, no disease, no paternity scares. Take nothing but photographs, leave nothing but fond memories. In the brief, passionate affair arena, this is actually quite easy to do. Your emotions aren't really invested, and two (or more) people who have agreed to a good time while pantsless can make even the stingiest of us turn into givers. When it's time to part ways, whether it's the next morning or a few weekends later, you can keep your wits about you, acknowledge the good time had by all, and go about your business.
I know. But you have emotions, and you want connections, and if this person is good enough to have his/her head in my lady/dudeparts why isn't he/she boyfriend/girlfriend material? Why don't they just call me and tell me they're in love with me and we can be in love forever and MYFEELINGSGODDAMMIT.
That, right there? That's the cray cray coming out. You're taking liberties with another person, and you don't even know them. Listen. If you want to have a forever relationship, I really can't help you, because that's not what I'm about. But what I can do is put you back on track to quit the cray.
Luckily, what helps with the cray is taking control of the mundane things in your life. When you feel that your body is in control of itself, you find that your mind also snaps into place, and helps control yourself as well.
And now, the tips:
TAKE FUCKING CARE OF YOURSELF.
Every day. If you need three squares and eight hours each day, give that to yourself. If you need quiet time to read or meditate, make sure you've got it. See your doctor, if for no other reason than to get a complete panel of STD tests to make sure you're ready to rumble. If your meatshell is in relatively good working condition, you'll probably do less to fuck that up.
BE PREPARED.
Check your drawers. No, the ones in your bedroom and bathroom. Whatever your preferred method of birth control is, have it handy at all times. And then use it, hooker. Otherwise you're spending another $40 copay at the damn clinic getting another STD panel drawn. That would have been, like, a dozen more condoms and that crazy organic vegan lube.
IF YOU WANT TO, WALK AWAY. IF YOU NEED TO, RUN.
Yes. At some point, a dazzling person such as yourself will encounter someone who, on the surface, seems amazing. And then things start going awry. If you're full up on the cray, you will internalize this and think that it's something you've done that's causing this person to treat you like crap. And if you do a/b/c differently, s/he will respond in kind.
Hmm. Written in black and white right in front of you, can't you see how ridiculous this is? I'm not saying toss out the relationship with the bathwater, but you know if there is a fundamental wrongess with the person with whom you're with. I mean, really. You treat yourself well. You're protecting yourself. You've got on good underwear, people who support you, and your tarot is telling you to Protect Your House. You are fully versed in your own Campsite rules - leave them better than you found them, and they are just not reciprocating. You deserve better than this situation. As Mr. Savage so eloquently puts it, DTMFA.
FOR FUCK'S SAKE. DEFAULT TO HAPPY.
We're all going to be alone at points in our life. All of us. So you're not the only one who isn't paired up. And, OK. Maybe you will be. Maybe you won't. But you need to be happy with who you are, because these toy crises of confidence are so BORING.
I'm not saying you can't change things you don't like about yourself. Absolutely improve what you want, whether it's eating better or joining a gym, changing your hair color, having a spray tan, getting regular mani/pedis, what have you. But know that who you are is more than OK. In fact, it's wonderful. Your life itself, pitfalls and all, is fucking amazing, because you're still in it, you motherfucking rockstar.
Now go out and find your own site to camp in for a while.
I know. But you have emotions, and you want connections, and if this person is good enough to have his/her head in my lady/dudeparts why isn't he/she boyfriend/girlfriend material? Why don't they just call me and tell me they're in love with me and we can be in love forever and MYFEELINGSGODDAMMIT.
That, right there? That's the cray cray coming out. You're taking liberties with another person, and you don't even know them. Listen. If you want to have a forever relationship, I really can't help you, because that's not what I'm about. But what I can do is put you back on track to quit the cray.
Luckily, what helps with the cray is taking control of the mundane things in your life. When you feel that your body is in control of itself, you find that your mind also snaps into place, and helps control yourself as well.
And now, the tips:
TAKE FUCKING CARE OF YOURSELF.
Every day. If you need three squares and eight hours each day, give that to yourself. If you need quiet time to read or meditate, make sure you've got it. See your doctor, if for no other reason than to get a complete panel of STD tests to make sure you're ready to rumble. If your meatshell is in relatively good working condition, you'll probably do less to fuck that up.
BE PREPARED.
Check your drawers. No, the ones in your bedroom and bathroom. Whatever your preferred method of birth control is, have it handy at all times. And then use it, hooker. Otherwise you're spending another $40 copay at the damn clinic getting another STD panel drawn. That would have been, like, a dozen more condoms and that crazy organic vegan lube.
IF YOU WANT TO, WALK AWAY. IF YOU NEED TO, RUN.
Yes. At some point, a dazzling person such as yourself will encounter someone who, on the surface, seems amazing. And then things start going awry. If you're full up on the cray, you will internalize this and think that it's something you've done that's causing this person to treat you like crap. And if you do a/b/c differently, s/he will respond in kind.
Hmm. Written in black and white right in front of you, can't you see how ridiculous this is? I'm not saying toss out the relationship with the bathwater, but you know if there is a fundamental wrongess with the person with whom you're with. I mean, really. You treat yourself well. You're protecting yourself. You've got on good underwear, people who support you, and your tarot is telling you to Protect Your House. You are fully versed in your own Campsite rules - leave them better than you found them, and they are just not reciprocating. You deserve better than this situation. As Mr. Savage so eloquently puts it, DTMFA.
FOR FUCK'S SAKE. DEFAULT TO HAPPY.
We're all going to be alone at points in our life. All of us. So you're not the only one who isn't paired up. And, OK. Maybe you will be. Maybe you won't. But you need to be happy with who you are, because these toy crises of confidence are so BORING.
I'm not saying you can't change things you don't like about yourself. Absolutely improve what you want, whether it's eating better or joining a gym, changing your hair color, having a spray tan, getting regular mani/pedis, what have you. But know that who you are is more than OK. In fact, it's wonderful. Your life itself, pitfalls and all, is fucking amazing, because you're still in it, you motherfucking rockstar.
Now go out and find your own site to camp in for a while.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Lesson Three: Into the Mystic
Follow One Ridiculous Thing.
Everyone should have one ridiculous thing that they absolutely put their faith in. But this thing is not to look cool. In fact, it is the fundamental opposite of cool. It is not something that is shared with the casual acquaintance (but to the Good People you're doing Bad things with, it's hilarious). It is not something that you would advertise on a T shirt (although you can write it on your good underpants). But it is something that, deep in your heart, you believe with every fiber of your being.
I'm talking pop-psych mystical bullcrap like horoscopes, tea leaves, tarot cards, fortune cookies, past lives, and the like. I fuckin' LOVE this shit. In particular, I read and diligently follow Rob Breszny's Free Will Astrology. As a Virgo, I'm supposed to be super rational and shit. And for the most part, I am. So reading Breszny's horoscopes gives me an outlet. Not to mention that these particular horoscopes are practically invitations to behave with good-hearted mayhem and funky mischief. Be my guest. Read a few of yours from the past few weeks and see how you may have acted differently, had you taken a horoscope to heart and just followed it.
Believing in the ridiculous accomplishes two very important goals: 1) that you can indulge your baser, funkier, slightly airier person by putting aside that more staid, rational person; and 2) that you can take the blame off yourself if things don't work out like you want them to. This, my friends, is amazing rockstar behavior. Indulge the fabulous, ignore the mundane, and never apologize for a bad time. It's just the way the universe worked itself out, man. Do the same next time and it could be a whole different outcome.
It worked for Led Zeppelin. They're the coolest motherfucking rock band of all time and they wrote songs about Hobbits, for fuck's sake.
With this, my sexies: a challenge. Have your palm read, get some tea leaves, read a horoscope or twelve. Take the best parts of them and internalize it. Allow yourself to be a little bit Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, with a dash of Stevie Nicks and Siouxie Sioux. Be a little mysterious - like all someone needs to do is ask you the right question and you'll divulge the secrets of the universe..if they're worthy, of course.
Go forth, sexies, and report back to me from the other side of the galaxy.
Everyone should have one ridiculous thing that they absolutely put their faith in. But this thing is not to look cool. In fact, it is the fundamental opposite of cool. It is not something that is shared with the casual acquaintance (but to the Good People you're doing Bad things with, it's hilarious). It is not something that you would advertise on a T shirt (although you can write it on your good underpants). But it is something that, deep in your heart, you believe with every fiber of your being.
I'm talking pop-psych mystical bullcrap like horoscopes, tea leaves, tarot cards, fortune cookies, past lives, and the like. I fuckin' LOVE this shit. In particular, I read and diligently follow Rob Breszny's Free Will Astrology. As a Virgo, I'm supposed to be super rational and shit. And for the most part, I am. So reading Breszny's horoscopes gives me an outlet. Not to mention that these particular horoscopes are practically invitations to behave with good-hearted mayhem and funky mischief. Be my guest. Read a few of yours from the past few weeks and see how you may have acted differently, had you taken a horoscope to heart and just followed it.
Believing in the ridiculous accomplishes two very important goals: 1) that you can indulge your baser, funkier, slightly airier person by putting aside that more staid, rational person; and 2) that you can take the blame off yourself if things don't work out like you want them to. This, my friends, is amazing rockstar behavior. Indulge the fabulous, ignore the mundane, and never apologize for a bad time. It's just the way the universe worked itself out, man. Do the same next time and it could be a whole different outcome.
It worked for Led Zeppelin. They're the coolest motherfucking rock band of all time and they wrote songs about Hobbits, for fuck's sake.
With this, my sexies: a challenge. Have your palm read, get some tea leaves, read a horoscope or twelve. Take the best parts of them and internalize it. Allow yourself to be a little bit Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, with a dash of Stevie Nicks and Siouxie Sioux. Be a little mysterious - like all someone needs to do is ask you the right question and you'll divulge the secrets of the universe..if they're worthy, of course.
Go forth, sexies, and report back to me from the other side of the galaxy.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Lesson Two: On Indulgence and Making Merry
Do very bad things, with very good people.
Alright, sexies. Underpants on. We're going out.
One of the weirdest times in anyone's life is when you find yourself without a regular group of friends. I felt this way after I'd moved into my new neighborhood. I was living by myself in a one-bedroom apartment, and everyone else I had known, hung out with, and spent the majority of my time with all lived an hour away in Allston. Going out with them suddenly required a lot of planning, and staying in watching TV show after boring TV show was not my shot of bourbon, if you know what I mean. I had no one to just call up and say, "hey, I feel like grabbing a drink, want to go out?"
After indulging the old group for a while, planning for days, spending hours on the T and even more money on cab rides home, I decided to just get over myself and go out on my own. I started by going to a bar close to my house on an uncrowded off night, just to sit and drink a beer, write in a journal, hash out set design plans or otherwise just listen to the guy playing cover songs on an acoustic guitar. A few weeks into my regular "quiet" evening out, I got to chatting with the bartender, the door guy, the musicians, and the other folks who also spent their off nights out at the same bar. Very organically, over a little while, I had landed into a group of friends. A group of fun, downtown, late-night, funny, caring friends. With whom I still do very bad things. And even more good things, too.
It's good to have friends who want to do bad things with you. Everyone makes questionable decisions when they're out and about. That's what nights out are FOR. But having awesome people for terrible merry-making means that you'll keep an eye on each other, and will back you up if necessary. They'll put you in a cab if you need it. They'll order you another drink if you want it. They'll escort that asshole out if they're making you uncomfortable; but only after you give them the sign that it's gone too far. And they'll never tell you that what you did was wrong or talk shit about you later, because you were all in it together.
So: how do you find those people? It's easy: BE. NICE.
Yeah. Be nice. Be nice if there's a line outside the bar. Be nice if there's a cover at the door. Be nice when the bartender is harried and hasn't gotten to you yet. Be nice when you put down your tip. Be nice to the guy clearing your glass off the table. Be nice to the other regulars who want to chitchat about some sporting event or whatnot. Be nice to the dudes playing music for you five hours and getting a few bucks at the end of it. Be nice to that group of girls who are tipsy and dancing. Be nice to the guy who shouts out "CLOSING UP EVERYBODY FINISH UP AND GET OUT!" Because in a very short time, you'll find that the cover is waived, or that you get a hug and a wave in from the door guy instead of a spot at the end of the line, or that the bartender comped you a beer and other regulars bought your other ones, or that you get that tap on your shoulder and the bouncer says, "take your time, guys" as he's ushering everyone else out the door, and you get to hang with your very good people, once again, doing very bad things.
So, folks, Go Out and do Very Bad Things. But make sure you do them with Very Good People.
Alright, sexies. Underpants on. We're going out.
One of the weirdest times in anyone's life is when you find yourself without a regular group of friends. I felt this way after I'd moved into my new neighborhood. I was living by myself in a one-bedroom apartment, and everyone else I had known, hung out with, and spent the majority of my time with all lived an hour away in Allston. Going out with them suddenly required a lot of planning, and staying in watching TV show after boring TV show was not my shot of bourbon, if you know what I mean. I had no one to just call up and say, "hey, I feel like grabbing a drink, want to go out?"
After indulging the old group for a while, planning for days, spending hours on the T and even more money on cab rides home, I decided to just get over myself and go out on my own. I started by going to a bar close to my house on an uncrowded off night, just to sit and drink a beer, write in a journal, hash out set design plans or otherwise just listen to the guy playing cover songs on an acoustic guitar. A few weeks into my regular "quiet" evening out, I got to chatting with the bartender, the door guy, the musicians, and the other folks who also spent their off nights out at the same bar. Very organically, over a little while, I had landed into a group of friends. A group of fun, downtown, late-night, funny, caring friends. With whom I still do very bad things. And even more good things, too.
It's good to have friends who want to do bad things with you. Everyone makes questionable decisions when they're out and about. That's what nights out are FOR. But having awesome people for terrible merry-making means that you'll keep an eye on each other, and will back you up if necessary. They'll put you in a cab if you need it. They'll order you another drink if you want it. They'll escort that asshole out if they're making you uncomfortable; but only after you give them the sign that it's gone too far. And they'll never tell you that what you did was wrong or talk shit about you later, because you were all in it together.
So: how do you find those people? It's easy: BE. NICE.
Yeah. Be nice. Be nice if there's a line outside the bar. Be nice if there's a cover at the door. Be nice when the bartender is harried and hasn't gotten to you yet. Be nice when you put down your tip. Be nice to the guy clearing your glass off the table. Be nice to the other regulars who want to chitchat about some sporting event or whatnot. Be nice to the dudes playing music for you five hours and getting a few bucks at the end of it. Be nice to that group of girls who are tipsy and dancing. Be nice to the guy who shouts out "CLOSING UP EVERYBODY FINISH UP AND GET OUT!" Because in a very short time, you'll find that the cover is waived, or that you get a hug and a wave in from the door guy instead of a spot at the end of the line, or that the bartender comped you a beer and other regulars bought your other ones, or that you get that tap on your shoulder and the bouncer says, "take your time, guys" as he's ushering everyone else out the door, and you get to hang with your very good people, once again, doing very bad things.
So, folks, Go Out and do Very Bad Things. But make sure you do them with Very Good People.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Lesson One: On the Importance of Solid Foundations
Wear Good Underpants.
I know. Your mother always said to wear CLEAN underwear, in case you got into an accident. Sure, clean underpants are always a good idea, but if your only criteria for underpants is "clean", then we've got a long way to go. Underpants are foundation garments. And, thinking tangentially, one's foundation plays a big part in one's direction, stability, and ultimate longevity.
So, your underpants should be clean, well-made, and befitting of who you are. If you want to have a better, more confident exterior, you gotta start at the bottom. Literally.
1. Find out what type of underpants look good on you. Some people can rock the fuck out of a thong. Some make granny panties look amazing. We have tons of different underwear options because we all have different parts of us to fit. Personally, I'm a low-cut boyshort girl, due to my short torso and enormous booty. This is something I learned after I turned 30. Up until then, girlfriend here was trying hipsters and bikinis , which gave me ridiculous panty lines and tons of uncomfortable moments. I felt so crappy in those panties that I eventually just stopped and went commando. (hey, if commando's your thing, then sashay out with your vajay out, gurl).
2. Make sure your underpants FIT. I mean, how awesome can you be if you're picking out a wedgie, or tucking down the top elastic after they've ridden halfway up your back? Again, look at what your body looks like, and what your pants/skirts/etc look like, and that'll give you an idea of what's going to look good in between. Again, it's your body. You know what feels good and what looks good, and you can have both if you invest the time in finding it. And guess what: your body changes over time, so what wasn't good before may be awesome now. But you HAVE to try it.
3. Don't spend a ton of cash, unless you want to. Sure, you can throw down on some lingerie. But, honestly, most lingerie is meant to be worn for a very short time and then just as quickly taken off. Wearing that crap all day? UNCOMFORTABLE. And if you're about to get down with someone who enjoys seeing you be uncomfortable? That may not be the right person for you right now. I can tell you that I've gotten far more play from when I'm wearing the $4 cotton panties from the Gap than from anything silken, lacy, gartered, or what have you. Again, you can't look sexy if you feel wrong in what you're wearing.
4. Stop being boring. You know, for the most part, the color and pattern of your underpants never shows. So why not wear fun ones? I have a pair that says "DRAMA CLUB" on the butt. I wear it to opening nights at the theatre. I have a pair that speaks French, a pair that's sequined, some with ruffles, some with buttons, in lime green, nautical stripes, black, nude, violet; even a few with condom pockets. Those are fun and useful!* For Pete's sake, have a little fun down there!
5. Out with the old. You know what I mean, because I am SO guilty of this. I don't even know why we hang onto panties that, if they were a pet, we would have mercifully put down long ago. But we hang on to those "three strings and a prayer" garments, because a) we need period panties, and b) we want "bad panties" that we can wear out, as insurance so we don't turn into a slut all of a sudden.
Okay. a) I'm with you. However, you will actually need no more than two pairs of period panties, seriously. And also? Keep track of your cycle. For so many other reasons than your panty schedule. But b)? Come the fuck on, a holey pair of no-longer-tighty-nor-whities is NEVER going to stop you, and you know that, because you've been there.
I know. You aren't even to the point yet that you're sticking your hands down the pants of the cutie you met twelve minutes and two shots prior. Underpants aren't going to make a difference, right? Nope. You start with the good underpants, all the time, even if nobody but you and your dog see it. Because you have to start at the bottom. I mean, how can you even make a single step toward your dream if you're spending the first five minutes picking your bum?
Just get into the habit. Wear good underpants.
* NOTE: The heat of your body breaks down latex and lessens a condom's effectiveness. So the condom pocket is really for when you're pretty much ready to do the do, and not for long-term storage.
I know. Your mother always said to wear CLEAN underwear, in case you got into an accident. Sure, clean underpants are always a good idea, but if your only criteria for underpants is "clean", then we've got a long way to go. Underpants are foundation garments. And, thinking tangentially, one's foundation plays a big part in one's direction, stability, and ultimate longevity.
So, your underpants should be clean, well-made, and befitting of who you are. If you want to have a better, more confident exterior, you gotta start at the bottom. Literally.
1. Find out what type of underpants look good on you. Some people can rock the fuck out of a thong. Some make granny panties look amazing. We have tons of different underwear options because we all have different parts of us to fit. Personally, I'm a low-cut boyshort girl, due to my short torso and enormous booty. This is something I learned after I turned 30. Up until then, girlfriend here was trying hipsters and bikinis , which gave me ridiculous panty lines and tons of uncomfortable moments. I felt so crappy in those panties that I eventually just stopped and went commando. (hey, if commando's your thing, then sashay out with your vajay out, gurl).
2. Make sure your underpants FIT. I mean, how awesome can you be if you're picking out a wedgie, or tucking down the top elastic after they've ridden halfway up your back? Again, look at what your body looks like, and what your pants/skirts/etc look like, and that'll give you an idea of what's going to look good in between. Again, it's your body. You know what feels good and what looks good, and you can have both if you invest the time in finding it. And guess what: your body changes over time, so what wasn't good before may be awesome now. But you HAVE to try it.
3. Don't spend a ton of cash, unless you want to. Sure, you can throw down on some lingerie. But, honestly, most lingerie is meant to be worn for a very short time and then just as quickly taken off. Wearing that crap all day? UNCOMFORTABLE. And if you're about to get down with someone who enjoys seeing you be uncomfortable? That may not be the right person for you right now. I can tell you that I've gotten far more play from when I'm wearing the $4 cotton panties from the Gap than from anything silken, lacy, gartered, or what have you. Again, you can't look sexy if you feel wrong in what you're wearing.
4. Stop being boring. You know, for the most part, the color and pattern of your underpants never shows. So why not wear fun ones? I have a pair that says "DRAMA CLUB" on the butt. I wear it to opening nights at the theatre. I have a pair that speaks French, a pair that's sequined, some with ruffles, some with buttons, in lime green, nautical stripes, black, nude, violet; even a few with condom pockets. Those are fun and useful!* For Pete's sake, have a little fun down there!
5. Out with the old. You know what I mean, because I am SO guilty of this. I don't even know why we hang onto panties that, if they were a pet, we would have mercifully put down long ago. But we hang on to those "three strings and a prayer" garments, because a) we need period panties, and b) we want "bad panties" that we can wear out, as insurance so we don't turn into a slut all of a sudden.
Okay. a) I'm with you. However, you will actually need no more than two pairs of period panties, seriously. And also? Keep track of your cycle. For so many other reasons than your panty schedule. But b)? Come the fuck on, a holey pair of no-longer-tighty-nor-whities is NEVER going to stop you, and you know that, because you've been there.
I know. You aren't even to the point yet that you're sticking your hands down the pants of the cutie you met twelve minutes and two shots prior. Underpants aren't going to make a difference, right? Nope. You start with the good underpants, all the time, even if nobody but you and your dog see it. Because you have to start at the bottom. I mean, how can you even make a single step toward your dream if you're spending the first five minutes picking your bum?
Just get into the habit. Wear good underpants.
* NOTE: The heat of your body breaks down latex and lessens a condom's effectiveness. So the condom pocket is really for when you're pretty much ready to do the do, and not for long-term storage.
The Overview
Good morning, heroes.
If you open your textbook, you have already failed this course. You should have hocked the textbook for beer money, after you've ripped out about 100 pages to write your number on, and used the rest as a paddle on some willing young thing.
So, here we are. The practical, useful lessons one will need to learn in order to become...your own rockstar superhero. You can be a virtuous gospel angel, or a seedy heavy metal vixen. It's your choice, but you should have the background before you make any of those kinds of decisions.
OBJECTIVES:
I. Sack Up Ho
II. Grab It
These are the only two rules you will ever need. These statements often come couched in different language: "Do one thing that makes you afraid", or "go confidently in the direction of your dreams", or "keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars". Any of these. They're cool and all, but I'm a fan of angry brevity in my life-guiding tenets. I mean, when you watch those medical procedure dramas, and something is all life-and-death, you don't hear flowery prose. It's all "200 cc's of HVLCT STAT and get me a portable chest! Charging to 160! CLEAR!" Otherwise the guy dies on the table.
So think of me as your Dr. McGrabIt, and you are NOT going to die on me today, you hear me, ho?
So, without any further ado, we will start with Lesson One, next.
If you open your textbook, you have already failed this course. You should have hocked the textbook for beer money, after you've ripped out about 100 pages to write your number on, and used the rest as a paddle on some willing young thing.
So, here we are. The practical, useful lessons one will need to learn in order to become...your own rockstar superhero. You can be a virtuous gospel angel, or a seedy heavy metal vixen. It's your choice, but you should have the background before you make any of those kinds of decisions.
OBJECTIVES:
I. Sack Up Ho
II. Grab It
These are the only two rules you will ever need. These statements often come couched in different language: "Do one thing that makes you afraid", or "go confidently in the direction of your dreams", or "keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars". Any of these. They're cool and all, but I'm a fan of angry brevity in my life-guiding tenets. I mean, when you watch those medical procedure dramas, and something is all life-and-death, you don't hear flowery prose. It's all "200 cc's of HVLCT STAT and get me a portable chest! Charging to 160! CLEAR!" Otherwise the guy dies on the table.
So think of me as your Dr. McGrabIt, and you are NOT going to die on me today, you hear me, ho?
So, without any further ado, we will start with Lesson One, next.
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