Domestic Emotional Terrorist

So I have this super awesome diagnosis of a super awesome disorder that makes my life fucking miserable. It's wonderful, it screws with every aspect of my life making shit way more difficult than it needs to. I think my favorite part is how I can be treated like complete shit by someone but I still need their approval to continue existing so I end up telling myself that I'm a terrible person and since I am a terrible person, I accept that's how I should be treated because it's what I deserve. It's SUPER FUN!

Actually just kidding, it's not super fun. It's a shitty way to live. Being the self-aware mental case that I am, I go to therapy where I try to hold in my feelings as she asks me to say out loud that I am a good person. Which I can't do. Actually, I can say the words but I refuse to because I don't believe it and I'm not a god damn liar. I'm not going to sit there and tell myself I'm a good person over and over in hopes I'll some day convince myself it's true. That is bullshit and fake. I'm a very honest person, I don't tell other people lies just to make them feel better and I'm not going to do it to myself. Homie don't play that. Real talk.

So I figured I'd write this. Not for your sympathy, not for you to turn around and tell me "but you ARE a good person!" I know you think I'm a good person but I have a rebuttal for that, I have a rebuttal for everything you're gonna say. You see, after living like this for so long, I know all the good comebacks. I'm writing this because it is important for people to understand that by the luck of the draw, some people live their lives feeling this way. And unfortunately, there is nothing, nothing, nothing anyone can do or say to change that mindset until the person in question can make that change for themselves. Frustrating, huh?

I would also hate for anyone who envies me (which sounds completely fucking ridiculous to say, do not envy me at all, I am literally a mess of a person) to read this and think, "Oh no! But she's got something going for her and if she feels worthless, then I should feel super worthless." For the love of all that is holy, I really honestly hope NO ONE says this to themselves but if for some crazy reason you ever think that, even for a second, STOP. You are not worthless, never feel worthless. I feel this way because I am blessed with a brain that hates me, there is something wrong with my gray matter, it's chemically imbalanced or has been somehow traumatize or I have a parasite eating away my brain. There is something wrong with the way I see myself, I know this but never let my opinion or anyone else's ever make you feel like you are WORTH IT. Because you fucking are. This is so incredibly important.

Do not put up with shit from anyone because they tell you or you tell yourself that you aren't worth it or you don't deserve happiness. BECAUSE IT IS NOT FUCKING TRUE. I feel like I just need an entire string of cuss words and caps lock because it is the only way I know how to emphasize the fucking IMPORTANCE OF WHAT I'M TELLING YOU.

You are good, you are full of worth, 

you are a beautiful person, you are smart 

and you are fucking worthy of love.

And if I ever, EVER heard you say otherwise I will come find you and beat the shit out of you, purely out of love though. There will be tons of heart behind my fists of fury and afterwards I will gently kiss the top of your head, wipe your tears and tell you you those 5 things. And then you will look at me and say, "Bitch you are literally crazy, this is the absolute worst way you could have gone about this. It was completely unnecessary and counterproductive. I honestly hate you." Then I will hold you close to my bosom while stroking your hair and say, "Hush little one, I'm coming down from my meds, it's about to get real weird up in here."

Am I Write Or Am I Write?

I've been distracted lately, weird I know, that's so unlike me. Besides being on my last week of the semester (thank baby Jesus), dealing with all that comes with life, hammering out the summer programming at work, among other things, I have a pretty full plate. So of course instead of blogging I decided, "Hey! I'm going to start writing ANOTHER book!" This makes five. I have started to write five books. This is only counting the ones I have starting typing on here, that doesn't include the random notebook pages where I scribble down a few paragraphs when I suddenly have an idea. I have completed writing zero books. Turns out when you start it, you have to come back to it and it's a lot of work. Maybe once one is finished, it will be easier but until then I'll just have my scattered chapters floating around in various stages. I'm alright with that.

What I like about writing, is that it's basically Sims without restrictions. You can come up with your own characters, make them look however you want, give them personalities, feelings, place them in different scenarios. You can write from any perspective you want, you can tell  a story from a third persons point of view, first persons, you can switch points of view, switch characters. There are literally no limits to what you can do. Write about something you hate, write about something you love. Write about the things you wish would happen to you or write about things that have happened to you. It is unlimited. THERE'S NO RULES!

It's evolved imagination. If I want to spend the afternoon getting plowed by a sexy ranch hand, I can do that. After our sweaty, erotic romp in the hay we decide to go out and disembowel a child predator, consider it done. Then we might run off to Fiji and relax in the sun while being served exotic drinks and watching the sunset. Sound like the perfect ending to a perfect day!

But Rachel, writing is boring. You just sit there and write. WHHHAATTTT? You are an idiot. You can write anywhere. You can go to the park, a coffee shop, sit in a tree. Better yet, I've never been to Fiji, how the hell am I supposed to know what it's like. I can't be writing a bunch of untrue shit. Someone who has actually been there is going to end up calling me out on it and I'll look like a dumbass. Solution: Better get my ass to Fiji and do some research. Even if you have no idea what you're going to eventually write about, go somewhere and just sit. Write down what you see, smell, feel, the weather, the people, what you hear, the overall vibe. That way, when you do actually pen something, its pertinent to setting. Like the smell of warm oranges on a sunny California afternoon, the fragrant aroma of spices in a Bangladesh marketplace or the tangy mix of disinfectant, latex and body odor at the local sexporium. Making someone feel like they are there, in that moment, is a critical part of composing a novel. My favorite books to read are the ones that give me a visceral reaction. If I feel like I'm about to die when I read your book, good for you! If I read something so perverse and depraved that I start seriously considering what the hell I'm doing with my life reading this shit, you get a gold star! Lookin' at you Palahniuk, you sick, wonderful fuck.

What I'm trying to say is, write something. Anything. I don't give a shit if it's a Facebook post or a post it. Take pride in it, use proper grammar and punctuation. Put your feelings on paper and look at them. You just made that. That paragraph came from inside of YOU. Look at you, my amazing little unicorn! You're a god damn writer. Now let's go fuck up the world together.

Insignificant yet life altering traumas: Party Pants

I really like blogging because it gives people a peek, in some cases an unsolicited full frontal, into my life. Most people can relate, others might not but they may still find it enjoyable to read. Unfortunately, when I finally get the urge to sit down and type shit out, it's usually because it's relevant to my life in the current moment. Lately my life has been full of a bunch of hard stuff and once I write it all out, it's kind of in my face and forces me to think about it and I like to avoid the reality of my life as much as possibly so I don't like that. But I need to write something because I miss posting crap. So I dove into the archives of my mind and thought of this story that I haven't told yet which is super embarrassing BUT I think it's been long enough that I don't really care if people know and I actually tell everyone this story anyways. Here we goooo!!!

When I was 17/18 years old, I worked at a gas station in my neighborhood. If you don't know this, most young adult girls are giant horndogs so of course I loved working there just for the fact I would get to see all sorts of good looking guys come through. One of our regulars was this very dapper young man who I had the BIGGEST crush on. Probably never said more than 10 words to him but seeing him made my day. He was a couple years older than me and I don't think he every noticed me much but I really didn't care, I just liked looking at him. I'm a visual person, I can have full committed relationships with someone and the only interaction I need is to be able to look at them. As long as they don't look at me too much, it makes me uncomfortable. You know, like any run of the mill stalker/peeping Tom. Not weird at all.

Anyways, he would come into the gas station, super hot, nothing ever came from it because I'm a creepo. One night a friend and I somehow ended up at a party. I felt super cool because I didn't know a lot of people so I felt real grown. Low and behold, there is gas station guy in all his glory. Not only do I feel super cool that I'm at a party in the first place but gas station guy is at the same party. I was basically living a teen rom-com. I'm a little intoxicated and I'm like, "Man. I really need to pee." so I ask where the bathroom is. I go to the bathroom and suddenly I feel like I'm going to puke. I did not have a lot of time to make a choice here so I risk it and decide to puke first, then pee. Mentally, my plan was solid but my brain didn't managed to get the message across to the rest of my body. I start to vomit in the toilet and thanks to my forceful heaving, I IMMEDIATELY pee my pants. Just to clarify, I was not wasted, I wasn't drunk, I was just a little tipsy and a complete amateur. Thankfully I had some kind of long sleeved shirt a hoodie. I was wearing a hoodie, I always wore a hoodie, I shouldn't lie about it. So I'm in full panic mode, luckily it wasn't like a LOT of pee but it was definitely noticeable. I tie my hoodie around my waist and go out to find my friend. I obviously didn't want to announce that I urinated myself so I just told her I was really tired and needed to leave. She didn't want to leave, I'm dying inside and suddenly gas station guy was like, "Don't you live up near me? I can give you a ride home...." *siigghhhh* There I was, a piss pants Cinderella finally getting her chance to interact with this magnificent specimen. Of course I took the ride home because it was that or call my mommy but I was so completely full of terror the entire time that I was leaving a huge wet spot in his front seat that it was not at all enjoyable. I quickly said thank you, strategically exited the car ass first (try that sometime, it looks SUPER ELEGANT) and sauntered backwards into my residence while doing that stiff handed beauty queen wave.

The next day I found out he moved away to Canada and definitely doesn't still live so let's just not ever talk about it again because even though he moved to Canada and is maybe a woman now, we don't know his life, we wouldn't want him ever finding out about this because I might die of embarrassment again because he is probably still super hot.

The End.

Decisions, Decisions

Life is effing hard sometimes. Actually it's not if it's just yourself you have to think about but once you throw in friends, family, spouses, kids, shit starts getting complicated. Suddenly the decisions you make start affecting more than just yourself. Even little things like breakfast. Maybe you just want to sleep in and skip breakfast but then you remember you have 14 kids to feed. Or it's payday and you feel like having a peaceful weekend, maybe blow your paycheck on hookers and cocaine. But you can't because your dog recently went on a self discovery retreat outside of Mesa, AZ and now wants species reassignment surgery. Once you involve others in your life, all those little things you once could do with reckless abandon take a lot more consideration.

It isn't necessarily a bad thing, you get to share your life with some great people and even though there are struggles, there are also a lot of good things too. Someday those 14 kids will split the cost and you'll end up in a nicer nursing home. I mean, they still probably won't visit but at least the food is good and the sheets are 1200 thread count Egyptian Cotton. Sure, you didn't get to spend your weekends going all Charlie Sheen but then again, look where he ended up. I mean any situation where you don't end up with HIV seems like a win. And at least your dog..err..tiny giraffe finally has a sense of true identity and stopped shitting in your shoes.

Sometimes it's super hard for me to remember that what I do affects so many other people in my life. Maybe I'm just really selfish or inconsiderate or maybe I have some kind of parasitic worm slowly eating whatever part of my brain is supposed to make me realize that. I'm impulsive, a little reckless at times and if something makes me feel good or happy, in that moment I lose sight of the consequences. Or I think to myself, 'Well idiot. You've already effed shit up, might as well go for the gold, you piece of garbage.' Just to clarify, I am not talking about like heroin or anything.

It's that horrible, horrible saying: Sometimes it's better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. Which I guess in some instances, it might make sense but usually if it involves other people, not a super cool thing to do. Because although most people do eventually forgive, they don't always forget. Or worst case scenario, the person you plan on pleading to for forgiveness is fed up with your shit and is gone before you can drop to your knees and start beggin'. And chances are that's not going to make you very happy. Or maybe it will. I'm not a psychologist so I don't really know all the science behind happiness in correlation to the choices we make, so definitely don't listen to me.

The fact remains the same, life is effing hard. And short. Sometimes you aren't always able to do the things that make you happy but that's just the way life goes, like stay in bed and Netflix all day. And sometimes you have to make tough choices. You have to be able to weigh the options with as much honesty and level-headedness that you can muster and seriously consider if it's worth it or not......One thing I absolutely an unable to do, so have fun with all the adult shit, I'll be over here ignoring my problems and crying on the inside for eternity.

Creative Writing

I'm currently taking a composition II course which you would think I would enjoy because, you know, writing. Well by the second week and I'd already managed to tell my book to go f- itself and I've been harboring just this side of hatred for the high school aged kids in the class who were already working way ahead of everyone else. Apparently these teens don't have any lives and they  just do homework all the time. Nerds. I mean, I also spend a ridiculous amount on homework but it just makes me anxious when people work so far ahead and I'm still on the first couple of assignments. I'm not bitter I just hope all their work is rushed and they fail miserably. That's all.

I never tried at school but when you pay for it out of pocket, it's a different story. I've also discovered that its really not that hard, you just have to read shit, remember it, do the work exactly like it tells you to and you get an A. Unless your instructor decides they hate you, even though they've never met you, and grades unfairly, which is exactly what my paranoid little brain thought was happening until I realized that I wasn't actually being graded unfairly, I just didn't read the question well enough and didn't write half of the answer down. And by realized, I mean I emailed the instructor to ask how I view the essay question part of my quiz because I wanted to see why I was deducted points.It may have been a little pointed...a little..maybe..

I've gone from not caring about grades at all to being a total dick and threatening to Rob last semester, "SHE WORDED THAT QUESTION COMPLETELY WRONG, I'M NOT A MIND READER. HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT SHE WANTED? GIVE ME A 97% WILL YOU! I'LL SEE YOU IN COURT, LADY!"

What can I say, sometimes I care. I promised to keep my shit together this semester but these little work ahead assholes are already throwing me off. Actually, it's really suspicious. How did they get all this stuff read and written in that amount of time? Cheating little fucks.

Something else I realized that I just can not handle is criticism of my writing. Actually it's not even criticism, it's literally someone through the tutor service telling me very nicely, "Hey! You're doing a really good job on your rough draft, but I noticed that you don't have a clear thesis statement. Here are some helpful tips on how to do that!" All they are doing is trying to help me correct my shit so I get a good grade but I'm sitting over here, off the rails, "YOU WANT A CLEAR THESIS STATEMENT?! HOW ABOUT THIS ONE 'SUCK MY BLEEEEEPPPP'". And then I snapped my laptop in half.

I mean I LITERALLY didn't even write a thesis statement, I KNEW I didn't write a thesis statement. In fact I made the conscious, semi wine buzzed decision to only follow like half of the criteria because I was aware that I had to re-write it anyways. I'm that stubborn and ridiculous. It's shameful, I embarrass myself in front of myself.

Luckily I managed to come away on that paper with 100% which makes sense considering I wrote it in like an hour about using Veet Wax Strips on my womanly bits. Yes, I'm that student. Don't worry, I noted I was a 29 year old adult lady so as to creep the instructor out even more. I also used an abundance of passionately written metaphors, like "causalities in the war to liberate my lady garden..." Not weird at all. I'm assuming I'll be getting a bill for his therapy any day now.

Let Me See You Work, Work, Work, Work, Work.

On average, we spend (enter percentage here because I'm not good at math) of our week at work. 95% of that is spent looking at the clock wondering when we get to go home. Maybe that's just me, I dunno, but if it's not just me then I want to give you some helpful tips on how to occupy your time to take your mind off the fact you are a prisoner in the jail called adulthood. Most of these things are easier to accomplish if you do a lot of busy yet mindless work. Such as stapling, cutting things out, being the director of a library, driving a school bus, surgeon, carpenter... You know, any of those kinds of job where you don't necessarily need to totally focus on whatever you happen to be doing at any given moment.

1. Learn the alphabet backwards and get really good at it. Once you're good at it, add in some hesitation in spots, but not too much, just a believable amount so it doesn't seem like you've memorized it. Throughout the work day, slowly keep adding whiskey to your coffee. Each time you gradually increase the whiskey to coffee ratio, take a drink, wait ten minutes and say the alphabet backwards. Continue doing this until you are able to get hammered and still say it. It's called tempering or something, probably. This will eventually come in handy. Trust me on this.

2. Sing songs in your head. Each time you get to the chorus, change one of the lines to something vulgar. Continue doing this until the entire chorus is made up of raunchy words. If you would like to, you can do this to the entire song but the chorus is plenty. If it's a fast song, feel free to slow it down a little, making it a heartfelt ballad about ass and titties. Try adding your own personal touch. Maybe try singing it like an opera person or a smooth jam. Just be sure to keep the tune and the beats the sameish otherwise you will sound like a total douchebag when you sing it later on for your co-workers.

3. If you aren't great at making up your own songs, utilize all those lyrics you have memorized. Try throwing in as many lyrics into regular conversation as possible. For this one I drew a beautiful depiction with MS Paint so you can fully grasp the amazingness of it:

So there are three things you can do at your job to occupy your time. Sure you always have the option to better yourself by learning new work skills or offering to help your co-workers but I promise that won't be nearly as rewarding. Enjoy!

Period.

Every once in awhile one of those YouTube videos of the guy being hooked up to the machine that gives the sensation of contractions during birth or whatever circulates around Facebook. These test subjects say things like, "I now have a greater appreciation for what women go through" and things of that nature. Yes, that's great. Women should definitely be appreciated for the levels of pain they are able to tolerate while pushing a baby out of their v-holes. So what's my problem? This:

While childbirth is very painful, so I hear, you usually get a baby out of the deal which makes it even more worth praise. But what about all the other stuff we women deal with? I want to see a guy experience the miracle of menstruation. The bloating, the heinous cramping that makes you want to crawl up into a fetal position, the instant terror the overcomes you when you feel a sudden gush and it's fully possible your ass has turned into a billboard for Target. I sneezed once, it looked like a crime scene. Super gross, right? We do this every month. EVERY MONTH. FOR YEARS. 40+ YEARS.

Let's also not forget the hormones. Everything is bathed in emotion. Suddenly the dishes not being done is the equivalent of finding out you've lost everything and you're being sued for malpractice. "I just.. don't.. know.. what... I'm going...to do..." A dirty sock on the floor makes burning the house down a rational solution. "WE WON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT SOCKS ON THE FLOOR IF WE DON'T HAVE A FLOOR, WILL WE?! BURN.IT.DOOOOWWNN."

And the mess. Oh God, it's so bad. Women actually own certain underwear to wear just during that week. And you don't get used to it. Ask my husband, every so often during that special time he will hear from the bathroom, "OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. HOW?! OH MY GOD. IT'S BAD. IT'S SO BAD. THERE IS JUST SO MUCH BLOOD. HOW AM I STILL ALIVE?!" Every month I get scared I might actually die from blood loss. It just seems like so.much. And that has happened, by the way, rogue periods cause women to go to the hospital all the time because the bleeding won't stop. Our bodies actually try to kill us.

Then there is the pain. I wish just once my husband would have to go through what it's like to have a period so he could feel what it's like to have a part of your own anatomy hate you. It's like carrying Satan's baby who once a month tries punching it's way out, forever. And it's uncomfortable. I mean you can feel it. Yes, feel it. I don't even know how to describe it to a guy. Imagine an egg white, but it's like body temperature and there is a whole lot of it and it seeps out of you. And sometimes a yolk comes out. Don't forget to add in the intense stabbing from the Satan fetus. Also you still have to got to work and do all your normal daily living shit too.

Even if it was just the few days of the month where you are actually going through literal bloody hell, I might handle it but even before all this happens, the PMS starts. There might be some cramping, for myself I get both front cramps and back cramps, it's super fun. Your boobs hurt, so you try to kinda cup them but then you're like, "Wow. I have some nice boobs. They are so full and supple..." You don't know if you to kill someone or do them. You want to cry a lot and you're hungry but that makes you cry more because you are bloated and can't wear sweatpants to work because apparently we live in communist Russia. So then you go on a 20 minute rant about how this is America, land of the free, until your husband reminds you it's Sunday and you don't work on Sundays.

So yeah, periods suck and I wish men had to experience the wrath of the red river just once in their lives. I think it would give them a much better understanding of why women are the way they are and maybe appreciate them a little more.