Realizing New Year's Is Meaningless and Offers No Hope: A Timeline

7:00 a.m.
YES! It's 2014! Clean slate! Freedom from all the ways I screwed up my life and the horrible person I became in 2013. From now on it's going to be nothing but gym gym gym all the time eat nothing but vegetables be stellar at work love everyone never say negative things be best girlfriend ever have clean house reconnect with friends do more freelance work plant trees not suck anymore save money use free time wisely get new job in the city and make a budget and be responsible and awesome and happy and always wear sunscreen.

9:00 a.m.
It's ok. I'll have a better workout tomorrow. Now, to interact with people.

12:00 p.m.
I am really struggling with this not sucking anymore thing.

1:00 p.m.
I am a complete mess. I think I am missing a very important part of what it takes to make someone a functioning human being. Why am I saying and doing these stupid things? It's like watching a train derailing. I am grounding myself from social functions until I can fix myself somehow.

2:00 p.m.
I don't think it was 2014 EVERYWHERE in the world yet when I had that minor breakdown. Tomorrow will be the first FULL day of 2014. And you know what that means...
gymgymgymallthetimeeatnothingbutvegetablesbestellaratworkloveeveryoneneversaynegative...

I've never been good at keeping people in my life. In a journal I wrote a few years ago, I said I hated being in the Momence/Bourbonnais/Kankakee area because "it's full of ghosts." Some of the people are still there, but most are gone, and there are all of the places and all of the memories.
I'm no longer so terribly averse to going back there to visit, but I'd never want to live there again. I'd live anywhere else first. I would never want to move back to any of the towns where I've lived previously. If I got a job in Plainfield, I'd deal with an hour commute not to live there.
But there's one place where you can never get away from the reminders of how things have changed and that's Facebook.
A few years ago one of my friends shut down his Facebook account. I remember his last post before he deactivated his account was how he felt so free, and it was like graduating high school all over again. I didn't understand it back then. I didn't see how it was such a big deal. Maybe I do now, because I'm about to cancel my internet (by October 1, if I can get in touch with AT&T) and I feel free. Granted it's more than just freedom from Facebook, it's freedom from all my internet vices. I decided to cancel when my one-year promotional price ended, meaning the cost doubles, but I'm realizing that even aside of financially this will probably change my life for the better. There will be no more wasted evenings (I don't have TV either), no more hours on end spent reading comedy sites, and I can put some distance between myself and the ghosts.
What am I going to do with that time now? I don't know. But it'll have to be different from what I've done before. Maybe the simple act of cutting off internet will finally prompt me to make positive changes in myself that have been needed for years. If you make changes you can control, maybe the things in your life that have changed beyond your control won't hurt so much anymore.
"The world changes. We do not. Therein lies the irony that finally kills us." -Antonio Bandares, Interview with the Vampire

You watch the actions, you hear the words, and you wonder who this person is because she disgusts you. You can't reconcile your feelings with the fact that she is yourself, and somehow you have something to do with this unredeemable blob spewing her constant streams of stupidity. It would be better if she were always alone, when she's alone she's paralyzed, and just sinks into her couch, every minute getting closer and closer to becoming nothing. You feel like she might want to change, but that emotion can't possibly run very deep. It's just something that flickers across the surface. Because beneath, it's just empty.

The best emoticon ever

Last night, while watching Sweeney Todd and being somewhat intoxicated, I felt the need to text my boyfriend an emoticon that was expressive of great angst. However, my phone's library of smileys had nothing that suited this need. I realized I was going to have to put on my creative hat and invent my own angsty emoticon.
My first attempt was kind of on the right track:
:-[
But it wasn't quite angsty enough. My second attempt, however, was even more uninspired:
:/
Finally, at 2:32 a.m., enlightenment found me and I produced the absolutely stunning masterpiece below:
Love yo:-[:-[angst
This is effective on so many levels:

• Double the faces for double the angst
• Actually incorporates the word "angst" into the emoticon
• Tricks you by making you think it's going to be an "i love you" text and then BAM, you're hit with the angst

Aaron either was busy or had the discretion to ignore these texts, which is fortunate, because I don't really know what would have spewed forth from my phone if he had asked for any kind of explanation.
Good lord, I suck. I'll never drink again, probablypossiblymaybedoubtfulnevermind.

Strange Things My Brain Does

I'm sure there are plenty. But in this post I'm going to limit it to three.

1) JUSTIFICATION OF PAIN
Whenever I hurt myself (stub a toe, bump my head against something, trip and fall), the first thing that goes through my mind, other than the pain, is a short and frantic list of reasons I deserve it. Yes, I see papercuts and bitten lips as justice, and I find absolution in bee stings. For example, yesterday I slammed my knee so hard against the handlebars of an exercise bike at the gym that it is now swollen and turning varying shades of red and purple. When this happened, I froze there on the bike for a minute, jaw clenched and eyes filling with tears as the pain pulsed through my leg, and what was going through my mind was:
That's what you get, Mandie, remember that really socially awkward conversation you had with your coworker yesterday, and that muffin you ate from the gas station even though you're supposed to be giving up gas station food, and last night when Aaron wanted to watch a movie but you just fell asleep, and God your car is a mess, and you have fat thighs, and there was that one time you drunk texted your boss.
(I should note that I think I believe on a subconscious level that drunk texting my boss is the worst thing that I've ever done, because when I'm feeling bad about myself or like a complete failure, I always encourage myself by telling myself, "At least you didn't drunk text your boss... today." It always works. If I can go the rest of my life without drunk texting my boss again, maybe I can actually work my way toward building something akin to self-esteem.)
I do appreciate the exercise bike and its swift, effective justice. I feel like that was supposed to teach me a lesson. The lesson was probably one about adjusting the seat height before I ride the bike, but my messed-up brain holds out hope that pointless pain will actually make me a better person on some deeper level. I'd been screwing up a lot lately. That handlebar was sent to keep me in line.
Along these lines, my dentist thinks I should get my lower right wisdom tooth out. She actually wrote me a referral for all three of my remaining wisdom teeth, as a better-safe-than-sorry kind of thing.
I am considering the surgery as a means of keeping myself in line. If I could somehow get them taken out separately, in different operations over the course of a year, that would be AWESOME. I mean, no matter how bad I screw up, having oral surgery every couple of months would definitely be enough to even out the universe.

2) FOOD PURCHASE SHAME
I feel extremely ashamed when purchasing food. I feel ashamed going to grocery stores, though at least I can tell myself they might be thinking it's for other people, and there is the glorious refuge of the self-checkout aisle. But despite these reassuring factors, the grocery store is still terrifying because it usually contains LOTS of people to witness my shame, so I have an empty fridge most of the time.
I feel ashamed buying food at fast food restaurants if I'm by myself. If I'm with another person, it's ok somehow, but you will never see me in a McDonalds or Wendys solo.
But the absolute worst shame comes from gas station food purchases. I hate myself more when I'm in a gas station than I do at any other time. I kind of feel like instead of crappy burritos and clif bars, I'm buying clown porn. I hate the fact that some of the gas station clerks recognize me. I hate the look in their eyes, the knowing smirk, as they ring up my purchases. They can tell when someone's addicted to clown porn. No matter how many times she tells herself she's clean now, she'll ALWAYS be back for more.
My goal when buying gas station food is to get in and out as quickly as possible without anyone making eye contact or conversation and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD do not comment on what I'm buying or ask if I'm hungry. You wouldn't try to guess my mood based on the type or volume of clown porn I was purchasing, at least not out loud, and I see this as a vice just as bad, so LET ME DESTROY MYSELF IN PEACE.
I actually boycotted a gas station for a while because the clerk commented, "Hey, you don't look like your usual self today. Everything ok?"
She was just being nice, but the fact that my "usual self" would be registered at the place where I hurriedly buy my clown porn and scurry out as fast as I can just kind of shattered me. I wasn't even capable of buying anything. I just said, "I'm fine," forced a smile, and left the store with no string cheese. (I did buy string cheese later at a Walgreens to make up for this deprivation.)
But, you know I'll always be back. I lasted several weeks but finally found myself in that gas station again, and guess who was working.
"Hey, I haven't seen you in a while!" she chirps as she rings up my porn.
"That's probably a good thing," I utter, my eyes darting back and forth as I clutch the bag tightly to my chest and prepare for the sprint to my car.
On that note, I swear that starting tomorrow I'm giving up gas station food. This time really for good... I mean it... why don't you believe me...

3) BOWLING
I don't bowl often, and it's been years since I read the Dark Tower series, but every single time I step up to throw the ball, this phrase goes through my head: "I do not bowl with my arm. He who bowls with his arm has forgotten the face of his father."
I really can't make it stop. It's probably a good thing I don't bowl often.

Bridal Shower Review

So, I know I said I wanted to write a blog for every day in April, but I am experiencing a period of low-even-for-me self esteem currently, and I kind of hate everything that comes out of my mouth and fingers, so most of my posts were deleted shortly before or after publication. I guess also I am more comfortable with failure than success because it's what I'm used to, and if I ever actually accomplished a goal, it might cause me to have some kind of identity crisis, possibly followed by a dissociative fugue, and all resulting in me wandering the streets in a homemade gladiator outfit, occasionally pausing to curse people in Latin or eat things off the ground. Anyway, despite my fear of success (yes, that's what I will blame for all my failures from here on out), I am going to go public with this blog because I SPECIFICALLY said that on the sixth, I would write a play by play of Maryam's bridal shower, and, maybe one time out of ten, I am a woman of my word.

Anyone who points out that today is actually the seventh is a jerk.

The Bridal Shower (initial points = 0)

+1 point: Bridal shower is held very close to Cool River
-1 point: Bridal shower is held early in the day, prior to Cool River being open
-1 point: Bridal shower not catered by Cool River, even though it would have been SO easy
+1 point: Bryan actually in attendance at shower
+1 point: Bryan wearing spiffy pink shirt
+1 point: Maryam wearing pink dress that matched Bryan's shirt (I can only assume she planned her wardrobe to match his choices)
+1 point: Meal was saturated with cheese but also contained enough vegetables that I could convince myself it was healthy
+1 point: Cookies with frosting
+1 point: Cupcakes with frosting
-1 point: I think I gained five pounds in one sitting
-1 point: Maryam stating that Green Day and Coldplay are the same band
-1 point: Maryam stating that Green Day and Coldplay are the same band, even AFTER she and I were like front row center as Green Day played a two and a half hour set at Lollapalooza and I thought it was a magical experience we shared that would be etched in her memory forever, but, hey, maybe not, whatever
+1 point: Really pretty centerpieces at each table that were vases with flowers and lots of orange bead things in them
+1 point: Because my birthday was closest to Maryam and Bryan's wedding date, I won the centerpiece at my table
-1 point: I then had horrible visions of orange bead things filling my car, my apartment, and my cats' stomachs
+1 point: I gave the centerpiece away to someone hopefully less accident-prone who was enthralled by it, and therefore I accomplished my good deed for the day
+1 point: Maryam gave very touching thank you speech for the gifts
-1 point: None of the gifts was a new puppy

TOTAL POINTS: 4

Now, that may not seem like a lot, but you see, this works kind of like the stars assigned to movies where 4 is actually a pretty high rating, and unless your bridal shower earns the Cool River bonus or the new puppy bonus, you really can't hope to do a whole lot better than this.

If I made a mistake tallying up the points, anyone who points that out is a jerk.

Autobiography of a girl destined for fast food employment

I was looking for some notes from my "Writing for Television" class so I can brush up on the basics as I attempt to help a friend write a screenplay for a short film. Needless to say, I haven't found the notes yet but am reading all kinds of other things I wrote in college. Most of them make me cringe, but I still much enjoy some of them, including a reflective essay I had to write on "my history as a writer and my future in the publishing world." So, I'm going to force a small portion of it on my blog audience. I think this is a fairly accurate account of my formative years and sums up why I am doomed in pretty much every way.

            For literally (no pun intended) as long as I can remember, I’ve loved books. What kinds of little girls love books? I can’t speak for all of them, but when I was growing up I thoroughly, passionately resented the stereotype that little girls who love books are typically quiet, spectacled, mousy-looking, pastel-wearing, extremely unathletic types who get excellent grades and are afraid of just about everyone and everything.

            Perhaps this is because in elementary school, I was a quiet, spectacled, mousy-looking, pastel-wearing, extremely unathletic type who got excellent grades and was afraid of just about everyone and everything.

            You might pose a “Which came first, the chicken or the egg” type question here, but, I would like to believe my love for books was unrelated to any of those qualities, because while my lazy eye was corrected and I finally gave into team sports and basic black, I continued to cultivate a passion for literature—reading and writing it. Looking back, I can’t remember a time that I was reading books and not writing my own. I filled a plethora of spiral notebooks, was allowed to graduate to my father’s typewriter when my parents feared that my hand might end up deformed, and, when my family got a computer my freshman year of high school, I took up more memory space than anyone else in the house. Whenever I was bored, my mind would be working out the complexities of one plot or another. The other kids in my carpool might only see the bleakness of a Momence morn, but I saw midnight excursions into an enchanted forest! A creepy cave whose floor is a vortex leading to another century! The protagonist’s heartwarming reunion with her long-lost dog!

            The rest of my family may have assumed I’d be a writer. Or they may have been humoring me. When kids are young enough, there’s not really a whole lot of difference. Regardless, I remember, at age ten, giving my parents what I thought to be the opus of my career, 60 pages of typewritten and painfully historically inaccurate Little-House-on-the-Prairie style melodrama entitled “Wolf Moon.” They read it. They loved it. They gave copies to aunts, uncles, even a few unfortunate coworkers, and started talking immediately about how this could be published. Published? I solemnly agreed that I must have created a masterpiece and would inevitably be a published author one day.

            Here’s what made “Wolf Moon” good:

1)      I was ten.

2)      It was grammatical and neat and spelled right and had all the components of a story, including characters, conflict, resolution, a beginning, middle, and end.

3)      Did I mention I was ten?

Basically… “Wolf Moon” was “cute” at best. It will also forever be remembered as the best thing I ever wrote, because I didn’t really show my writing to anyone after that, and, on the occasions when I did try, it had gotten too complex (a.k.a. weird) to really be appreciated, especially now that I was too old to be a child prodigy.

I chose to major in English, and as soon as I dove into college writing courses, I learned something I’d kind of suspected all along: my writing was bad. I mean, really, really bad. I shall forever remember the day my creative writing professor shared with us the Seven Deadly Sins of fiction writing. I’d committed just about all of them but the one that sticks in my mind the most was the Twist at the Ending. Stripped of my twist-at-the-ending powers, I was absolutely useless at writing fiction. The way my mind generally worked was to come up with the twist at the ending first, and then work my way backwards. If not a twist maybe a kick? A small shuffle? No. We are not writing choreography or Twilight Zone episodes. We are learning to write literary fiction. Well, that shouldn’t scare me. Surely I’ve produced something literary over the years… wait… no… I definitely haven’t. If the Seven Deadly Sins of fiction writing really do come from an authoritative source, all my fiction will have to go through purgatory at least twice.

And so, college taught me that everything I’d ever written was trash. But that was okay, because now that I knew what literary fiction was, I was armed with the tools to assess and critique all the literature around me. While I didn’t entirely cross the line that divides the literary snobs from the rest of the reg’lr folk, I could tell my father why his Michael Crichton and Dan Brown books would do little for our culture and explain to my mother why E. M. Forster would call Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander a romance rather than a novel. My parents hoped that I would use my English degree for something other than offending them and finally become a writer.

“A writer? But I’ve never written anything publishable.”

“You wrote Wolf Moon.”

“That is definitely not publishable. Do you actually remember anything about that story?”

“Well, there was a family, and… um… you were ten.”

I’d cast away my dreams of being a published author. Well, perhaps not cast away so much as buried. No matter how disillusioned I become by my lack of talent, by the decline of the publishing industry, by the fact that getting a book published is a far more complicated process than my parents had me believe, by the fear that everything that could possibly be written already has been written, part of me still idly toys with the idea of writing a novel someday. That part becomes alive and engaged (though keeps a somewhat protectively detached perspective) when I read the work of my writing class peers, or of my friends who religiously observe National Novel Writing Month. Because I can still remember the thrill of spinning stories and breathing life into characters, the giddy rush when you manage to plug up another plot hole (and my Twilight Zone-esque tales had lots of them). I think everyone should experience this high.*
 

*Note: It has been a couple years since I penned this endorsement for getting high. Write fiction at your own risk.