Sometimes the Anger Is Necessary

And what I have learned is that the fire is necessary. The flames, the heat, the burning away of things that no longer serve; it is the fire that encourages life. It is the collection of debris and undergrowth that stems from negligence and the allowing of too much time to pass which creates destruction—an unbalance—when the fire comes at last.

And what I have learned is that when the fire touches my own skin, the flesh bubbles and chars. It is evident that too much is perilous, but the lone burn blisters and scabs over, the dead skin eventually flaking away to reveal something shiny, pink, and new.

And what I have learned is that when the fire touches my own soul the world glows an orange that shrieks, sight painted red from the inside out. Too much, I already know—I already know—threatens to swallow me whole. But the searing licks of fury that alight the outer rings of my many lives, ashen and crumble them to dust. The sheathing cleared to expose memory: a center, a core, a heart.

Nano Meditations on Loss

---

1. What are you?

My great grandmother in Mexico was the first to call me gachupina. I don’t know why I spoke that way, or where I got it from; I was two, maybe three—a baby. It was an accent no one else had, not even my mother. Perhaps the blame can be placed on Spanish ancestors, whispering soft instructions into my ear from an unseen dimension in their hushed and slithering consonants: “Asssi, asssi.”

At my most relaxed—when I’m not concentrating on pronouncing words with the inflection that goes here, and not here—when I let the chemistry of sounds roll and melt into each other in the way they crave to be fused and molded—you can hear the undercurrent of my first language push up against the blanketing English that smothers it; the colorful, lilting, sing-song cadence threatening to bleed through and stain the monotones that have drained all color from speech.

My relatives tell me I speak with a different accent now, but it’s one that’s not placed.

2. We were writers.

There was a lankiness to Patrick that made him move like he was dancing through the world. Thinness does not automatically grant you grace, but his did. His lean body, I’m sure, was partially the result of genetics, but could also be attributed to the cancer he had once battled, and which he told me about over beers at a bar on University Place. 

“I didn’t want you to think I lacked depth.”

I snorted, inappropriately. “Does cancer give you depth?”

He shrugged and took a swig from his glass.

He dressed like an old man, and somehow this only made him appear more youthful: tapered slacks; blazers; moc drivers; thick glasses; a Burberry scarf. He didn’t take the world seriously even though it weighed heavily on him. When I search for “patrickpritchard@gmail.com" in my inbox, the numbered results list “1-50 of many.” They are mostly chats. The penultimate exchange is dated January 29th, 2010 at 5:33pm.

4:29 PM 

Patrick: do you know who john waters is?

5:09 PM 

me: the dude who did pink flamingoes?

5:28 PM 

Patrick: yeah

i had a dream that i had to hang out in his weird fantasy world

5:29 PM 

it was exhilirating and gross

5:30 PM 

me: oh man

i've never seen that movie

but i've always heard it referred to as outrageous and somewhat disgusting

Patrick: oh yeah

i'm writing a short story about it now

me: niiice

5:31 PM 

Patrick: it's fucking peculiar

i can tell you that

5:33 PM 

me: cannot wait to read it

The last search result is an email sent a year later on January 29th, 2011 at 4:47pm, that has not, and will not, receive a response.

“we were in your apartment in new york – in your tiny, dimly lit room – and you were talking to me about 'the master and margarita' because somehow you’d found out margarita was my middle name. you had music playing in the background and this song came on. you stood up and grabbed your wiffleball bat that was propped up in a corner and started swinging it, very slowly, observing your follow through, so beautifully aware of your stance and technique, and it all just synced: the music, your movements, your demeanor. in that moment it seemed that you transcended any universal rule about time or space or gravity - none of it applied to you. it was just you, your bat, and this song. a perfect moment, so distinctly yours, the memory of it still so vivid in my mind.

love you always, p2rd.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3Lnt0DN2fBQ”

3. Let me tell you about the time I got micro bangs. 

You never take into full realization the quickness of a blade until it’s put into action—against paper, against skin, against hair. Do you know how difficult it is to control eyes that want to go wide?



“Pretty.” She grins, lightly brushing away the fringe of hair bangs that now extends no farther than an inch past my natural hairline. The scissors in her other hand snip a rogue lock that dared traverse the nape of my neck. She is so proud of her work. 

“Well, thank you for letting me practice on you! I hope you’ll stop by the salon again. Oh—no! No, put that away, there’s no charge.”

What else is there to do but return a smile of gratitude?

I straighten my hair and my boyfriend stifles a laugh. “You look like Prince Valiant.”

A friend sends me a picture she snapped of a poodle-triangle-haired Halle Berry in her most recent movie: “Daniela, es tu?”

A coworker cranes her neck over our cubicle partition to tell me her mother saw a picture we took together on Facebook, and thought I looked like a cute macaroon. 

Hair grows back, but my god does it grow back slowly.

4. Reality isn’t a simulation, but it is tethered to a very thin string. 

I once went through a breakup that sent me into a tailspin. Up dove down, inside flipped out, day dawned to night, that sort of thing. And after several weeks of this—of the topsy turviness that inevitably results in not eating or sleeping—I felt something in my head pop and release.

Do you know what it’s like to dream while you’re awake?

Somehow anguish had made the world beautiful: Slow and melodic, ultra saturated and bright, but no place a person can exist for long before the ignored undertone of energy vibrates to a feverish trill and you feel the edges burn hotly and close in. 

On a Monday night I found myself alone in a bar, staring through my drink at the woodgrain counter and ignoring the only other two patrons who were dancing on an empty floor. 

“Hey!”

The man must have been in his late fifties, the woman his age or slightly younger. He didn’t wait for me to respond or acknowledge him.

“Isn’t this life beautiful? It’s tactile!”

And they spun, and spun, and spun.

5. The most expensive crepe in the world.

If ever flying out of Charles de Gaulle airport, please take note that the employees at the check-in counter will not be sympathetic if you miss your departure due to a miscalculated estimate of how long it would take to travel to the terminal, nor be very interested in how said error was what allowed extra time for the detour you made to purchase and consume one final cheese-filled crepe.

6. Remember me when you’re finally ready to heal . . . 

I watched a TED Talk about sound therapy. The woman giving it said there’s a healing quality to the perfect fifth commonly found in baroque music. I don’t know anything about baroque music—or music in general, despite decades of exposure to it—but a search for “perfect fifth” on YouTube provides a video with ten hours worth of one uninterrupted chord. Listening to it brings up the memory of your hospital room. I remember how smooth and unresponsive your hand was, still warm. Abuelita. Lucila. Lila. There’s something about the whirring and pumping and beeping against silence that makes one—or maybe I’m projecting, maybe it was just me—cling to lingering humanity in a room like that. Crazy that at the end of life we look to a series of startling robotic noises to give us hope; desperate ears trying to find reassurance in mechanical monotony. We listen for the sounds: Our paths of life. Climbing. Falling. Climbing and falling. Smoothing out. The journey settling into stillness and peace. Ten hours of a perfect fifth stretching out into light filled eternity. Yours. A parting gift from the world, streaming from your hospital room.  

7. . . . And once you have, please try to find your way back.

The twenty-two year old version of me used to wear a bright yellow silk maxi dress with a black leather moto jacket, and strap her feet into multi-colored five inch platform shoes to explore New York on a spring day. With time I got older and the temptation of sensibility settled in: the gravitation towards a uniform of unaggressive neutral and earth tone colors so streamlined and tailored and simple and effortless and chic and refined and beautiful—and it is so beautiful—but maybe it isn’t me? Has never been me? Because I miss her. The twenty-two year old who would stop after twenty minutes of walking to peel the jacket from her slick skin that stood at attention as a spring breeze blew across the tiny beads of sweat, and the exchange of heat for cold came as such a welcome relief. And she would drape the jacket over her arm, or tie it around her waist, or put it in her bag that was too big but—now, look at this foresight—had room for it, and she’d travel slowly onward so as to avoid blisters, but mostly so that she would not trip over her impossible dress in her impossible shoes while carrying the weight of her impossible jacket in her impossible bag, and she was happy despite all of this. Messy and all over the place and happy. Life was disorder. Inefficient and impractical. Not streamlined. Not uniform. It was disruptive and uneven, punctuated by moments of brightness and color. It was sweaty and dirty and smelly and cumbersome. It was scattered everywhere. And perfectly so. 

On the oppression of productive downtime (by modern standards)

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

equal seekers of sweetness.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect?

Let me keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to

be astonished.

—Mary Oliver

I wish I could say I harbor the intelligence and sophistication a person interested in, and curious about, everything has, but I do not. The ideas and occupations that capture my attention are so banal, there are moments when I find myself trying to enjoy them and instead feel the wash of guilt and shame that I’m not training my energy on something “better,” and consequently, that I am not the sort of individual to be naturally drawn toward doing so. It takes real effort. Even extracurricular activities that could flirt with having value—or, whatever—carry some element of the mundane. Personal enrichment is often the accidental but happy byproduct of a goal I set my sights on that had no substance whatsoever.

But I suppose that depends on how the definition of substance, and for that matter, personal enrichment, is being used. Increasingly it feels like to earn the currency of substance, there must be an equitable exchange: A trade-off that would qualify the spent focus and attention as worthwhile. There must be evidence of something having been produced or obtained—perhaps increased knowledge or experience, a material object, or even an anecdote. Personal enrichment is the reward, and the more substance the activity of choice has, the higher it will be. I will, somehow, be a better and more interesting person by the end of it.

As mentioned above, I struggle with this a lot. I do not typically enjoy engaging in pastimes that will give me this type of personal enrichment, and rarely do I want to do them. There is complete sincerity in the statement that I prefer to spend long stretches of time doing nothing but staring into space, or passively observing the world. I am happiest in those pursuits, and the peace they bring is only interrupted when restlessness goads me into finding a way to make their experiences transmutable.

“Faulkner sat on a park bench and watched the world, but he used that to write novels that earned him the Nobel Prize.”

 “Emily Dickinson was a literary recluse who primarily occupied the inner sanctum of her imagination, but she became such a celebrated poet that they’re still making movies and television shows about her.”

And there, I think, is where this anxiety originates: It is born from a preoccupation with legacy. What will I leave behind? It is a quiet but pervasive current of existential dread that motivates our species. Humanity has been around long enough to witness the endurance of greatness tested: How lengthy its reign can be, and how quickly it can crumble. The question that looms, therefore, is not so much how will we be remembered, but will we be?

Many of us won’t, even the most famous among us. I am certain total erasure is my fate. Whatever bequest I make to our species will last a generation or two at best before it is forgotten or rendered useless. If that strikes as bleak, let me give assurance that it’s not. Understanding the perfect and absolute futility of working against impermanence is where I believe true grace is found.

Let me take a moment to clarify I have not acquired that grace. Nothing could be further from the truth. When someone parades their accomplishments, I still feel the wriggle of envy in my stomach. Not because I don’t want good things for that person, but because I want good things for myself as well. I want recognition that signals a lasting contribution or impression made on my behalf. And it is of course preposterous to think good things haven’t happened to me already, but I have yet to kick the addiction of chasing the amorphous ideal of TheLifeFulfilled ™. The greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing us we could have it all.

Because “all” is a mythical concept. It’s a specter of happiness. Frequently I’m called back to Late Fragment, the final poem Raymond Carver wrote as he was dying in a hospital bed:

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

Through watching my mind the better part of this last decade, I’ve noticed a shift in how memories are presented to me. They are less and less literal playbacks of events or interactions, and more snippets of emotion that serve as radar to help me navigate my connections to existence. It’s only when I’ve located that essence—when I can recall how it felt to move and be in the world at that specific point in time—that history unfolds itself and I can remember fully, as if everything were working in reverse.

I struggle, as we all struggle, to live in our reality. The confusing and chaotic battle over what matters and what doesn’t is an ever-present threat. But I am increasingly happy to just be. To have felt. Against judgement and criticism, I am enamored with being passive and observant in this timeline. I am enamored with only beginning to glimpse the honor of bearing witness to life, and to feel its ebb and flow around me, in me, through me. I don’t think anyone could argue it isn’t miraculous we’re here. With every passing year that appreciation transcends all others in importance. There is air that sweeps across my face and fills my lungs. The sky holds the energy-giving sun, radiant and magnificent in its brilliance. I lay in the grass and feel the blades between my fingers, the traces of nourishing, rich earth nestling underneath my nails. I close my eyes and open them again, and the world, as simple or complex as we make it out to be, is still there. And every time, I’m so happy that it is and that I can be a part of it, unimportant and insignificant as I am, for as long as it will have me.

Should You Need It.

There are days when I walk through the world alone and think to myself, “Remember the inflatable raft? The one being pulled by a speedboat at full tilt on Lake Travis, and the objective was to hold on for as long as possible—to shift your weight from side to side in anticipation of where gravity might falter—gripping the yellow, turgid plastic as it hit crest after crest of deceptively gentle wave until one of them would collide at just the right angle, and just the right speed, so that the force propelled you into the air, then back down into the water, tumbling. Do you remember the fear? It ballooned your heart. The disorientation of panic felt like a needle grazing the surface of it, threatening to increase pressure the more you flailed and rolled through the murky, aqueous environment. So you stopped struggling. Do you remember that? Do you remember that you stopped fighting? You let yourself be still. Your arms and legs ceased their frantic movement on a command that came through you from somewhere else. Your body rotated gently, righting itself. And when it found the light, you floated up. You lifted your head and there was the air; there was the sun; there was the world.

Do you remember what it was to trust letting go?”

hhhwat the fuck is this: *NSYNC edition

What: *NSYNC's music video for It's Gonna Be Me. Otherwise known as the one where Justin Timberlake and J. C. Chasez are dolls, and those other guys, too. 

Why: Because it's May, and I'm 31 and obviously have nothing better to do.

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"Self-care, y'all. Treat. Yo. Self."

First of all, what's this chick doing just wandering around in a toy store without a purse, or a sweater, or keys, or a cellphone, or sunglasses, or anything? Is this normal? Do grown-ass women do this? Do her pants have deep pockets? They look a little tight, so I'm skeptical. Me, I'm a nomad when I leave the house. Does this woman host workshops? Does she blog? Can I get on that wavelength? Or subscribe to her newsletter? Can I be about that life? My back hurts so bad. My shoulders basically sit on a slant. 

Second of all, why is she wandering around aimlessly in a toy store? She obviously ain't buying shit for anyone, so what is she doing there? Is she de-stressing? Do the toys have magical powers to do that? Does she have a grown-ass woman doll collection at home? Are her walls pink? I want to assume she does, but she's in an *NSYNC video so that's most likely not the case because, ~image~. 

Third of all, where are all the employees? Are they on a three-hour smoke break? Do their employers not care about work ethic? Are they hiring? Is this Toys R Us? That might explain a lot. #RIP

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"Hey girl: I do my own hair and makeup, and dress myself. It's gonna be MAY. Yeah."

Let's take a minute to discuss what's going on with J. T. doll, because . . . hooooooo, boy.

The other dolls in this video look fairly normal, so I can't really figure out what happened here. Maybe the makeup artist was like, "Fuck this guy," due to her clairvoyance and knowledge that J. T. would BETRAY US ALL. Nevertheless, his face looks like mine does when I make a sincere attempt at doing my own makeup, and that is saying a lot. I'm getting severe PTSD flashbacks to the time I tried applying tinted eyebrow gel with a fancy brush. 

I would also like point out that his hair looks like spray-dyed yellow ramen noodles. When I was in middle school and didn't feel like washing my hair, I'd take globs of Herbal Essences hair gel and run it through my own curls in an effort to make them smell nice and disguise the grease, and now, thanks to Justin Timberlake doll, I know exactly what I looked like and understand why I had no friends. 

Also: HOOOOOOOOOMYGOD THAT STUDDED ACID WASH JEAN JACKET. HHHNNNNNNNNGGGGGGH WAT.

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"NOOOOOOOOO, NOT MY PATENT LEATHER SNAKE PRINT PANTS!!! WHY DOES THE ARMY HATE MEEEEEEE????"

Y'all: I don't even own a pair of patent leather snake print pants. BECAUSE I CAN'T AFFORD THEM. Celebrity bastards. 

As for these toy soldiers, I'm not sure how patriotic it is to gang up on J. C. Chasez and his pants, but I'm going to chalk it up to not very. 

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"If I jump up and down hard enough, no one can deny my youth and vigor, or rightful place in this band."

So I googled Chris Kirkpatrick because for years and years I'd wondered to myself, "What was that guy's deal?" I also don't have a lot of mental stimulation in my day-to-day, so you know, PSA time: Read, kids, or else you'll think about Chris Kirkpatrick and what his deal was for literally almost two decades. 

I discovered that he was not insignificantly older than his bandmates—information that lends understanding to his behavior in this video: He is taking great measures to fight the natural inclination of not giving a fuck that comes with age. This is something I know a lot about. Not the fight, the submission. I don't give a shit about anything. It's really wonderful, and in retrospect actually makes me feel for the guy. 

Bonus hhhwat: In googling Chris Kirkpatrick I was presented with a suggested search for A. J. McLean, who, I am happy to report, now looks like a Puerto Rican Paul Giamatti.

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"No one puts baby in a box."

I would really like to know if this store is hiring. I'm picking up on a severe lack of diligence in how this shit-show of an establishment operates, and as a professional who is always on the lookout for the next step in her career, I firmly believe I would thrive there.

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"FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!"

My favorite part of this video is the brief Limp Bizkit cameo. The early 2000s were a magical time.

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"I just found a mole that wasn't there two hours ago, haha!"

True fabricated story, I was at my dermatologist's office and saw this hanging as a poster in her waiting area. It was unusual, so of course I inquired about it when I was called back for my examination. As the question, "What's up with that, you a big fan of *NSYNC?" popped out of my mouth, I watched the expression on her face erupt into fury. "FUCK those guys. All those girls are DEAD from stage four skin cancer. *NSYNC can burn in hell." And I was like, "Wow, that's a really intense reaction. I was expecting nothing of what just occurred in any way, shape, or form. Also: who lied to you?"

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"Grown-ass woman who shops for dolls with no money who?"

MMMM-HMMMMMM. THE PATRIARCHY.

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*Ralph voice* "HA-HA."

Well, turns out Barbie's an asshole, but I think we all suspected as much.

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"OMG KA-YOOOOT."

Listen. This is not the appropriate reaction to seeing boy band dolls come to life and perform for you. 

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The conclusion I've come to is that the cashiers employed at this particular toy store DO go on smoke breaks, but not for cigarettes. 

It all makes sense: Disappearing for hours at a time, scanning whatever shit is handed to them without question, not looking even vaguely horrified or perturbed by the fact that a doll grew into a human man in the span of 0.5 seconds . . . I mean, duh.

So I will ask one more time: ARE. 👏 THEY. 👏 HIRING? 👏

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"IT'S GONNA BE MAY."

Man, look at this epic foreshadowing. J. T. with his spray-dyed yellow ramen noodle hair and studded acid wash jean jacket. We should have known. 

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"Everything's fine. You were all trapped in doll form for an undisclosed amount of time, and who knows how you ended up that way, but it's fine. You could have pissed off a witch who got her revenge by hexing all of you, and though it would be prudent to know what you did and if we're still in mortal danger, I'm just going to laugh it off! Haha! Positive affirmations, guys! Life is beautiful! Hey, do y'all want to come over to my place? I have really great pink walls. We'll have to shimmy in through the doggie door, though, because I don't have any keys. Hey, I like your pants. And your jacket! Who are these other guys?"

There's something wrong with this girl.

What I talk about when I talk about the Sunday Scaries

What I talk about when I talk about the Sunday Scaries, is not so much an internal dread of commencing a new work week, but rather, an internal dread of commencing a new work week that feels like walking the wrong direction on an escalator that is the physical embodiment of my life and time.

So when I say this year has felt like one long Sunday Scary, you’ll have a better understanding of what I mean.

It’s not the work itself. It’s not the job. The job is the dream; the job is the personal amusement I get in telling people what I do—for money, to pay my bills—on a day to day basis, and then watching their eyes go wide, even if only for a second, before hearing some variation of, “I’ve never met one of you before.”

It’s not the work. It’s not the job.

It’s the routine. It’s the recognition that there are two hours out of every Sunday that have been the same for the past seven years. Two hours I set aside to mentally assemble a week that also hasn’t varied much since I entered the workforce full-time, and had to make peace with the fact that my years were no longer to be thought of as neatly packaged chunks of time, one completely unique from the other, divided by gulfs of repose.

The Sunday Scaries Monster, who is actually kind of adorable.

More than the routine, it’s coming to terms with the fact that no matter how strongly I adhere to my practice, it and I do not live in a bubble of safety. No amount of preparation on a Sunday can shield me from a bomb the world wants to detonate at my feet.

But let me backtrack here, because what I really talk about when I talk about this year having felt like one long Sunday Scary, is not even so much an internal dread of repeating ad infinitum a new work week that feels like walking the wrong direction on an escalator that is the physical embodiment of my life and time, but rather, not quite being able to figure out how to jump off without severely hurting myself.

Or before someone, or something, comes along and decides it’s time for me to shove along. As they have. As they’ve done.

Like getting a call on Mother’s Day—a Sunday, my day of laying groundwork, groundwork that forges the path I strategically map out as assurance for a hassle-free, drama-free, and painless existence—with the news that my abuelita has taken a sudden turn for the worse, her battle with cancer quickly winding to an end, and the window to say goodbye estimated to close in the next 24 to 48 hours.

To stumble and fall on an escalator is a terrifying thing to have happen to you. What if the metal teeth eat at the hem of your pants, or the sleeve of your sweater? Even worse: a finger, or your hair?

You lose a part of yourself, I suppose. Hopefully something that’s replaceable, or can grow back. If it can’t, you hobble along and adapt to a new way of being.

The real question is, how many times does adaptation occur before finding that your evolution is no longer suited for the escalator? Then, how long until you realize it never was?

“Ser lo. Haz lo,” fills the space of remembrance when I think of my abuelita. Be it. Do it. These are not suggestions. They’re commands.

I now feel them constantly in the process of my evolution: aggressors in the air, goading the chemical reactions in my body and brain, mutating me into something I’m not yet well acquainted with—mutating me into something no longer equipped to repeat ad infinitum a new work week, a new work month, a new work year that feels like walking the wrong direction on an escalator that is the physical embodiment of my life and time.

Mutating me into something no longer equipped for the complicity of it.

Everything Is Illuminated.

If you ever tumble down a Wikipedia rabbit hole that opens to a page enlightening you on Murphy’s Law, keep in mind all stories are double-sided.

Murphy’s Law, for those unfamiliar with it, is an adage warning, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”

Enter 2016. I won’t list the grievances, as any person with a semblance of cognizance is familiar with the relentless stream of terror the year produced. It was, quite literally, Murphy’s Law incarnate.

It made facing the holiday season difficult. How could one muster cheer and goodwill when those global reserves were so depleted? By Thanksgiving, anticipating fresh bad news had become a perverse morning ritual served alongside my coffee and bagel.

Spiraling trends of disarray entice to shell out for a first class ticket on a handbasket to Hell, because, shoot: if you're going down, at least the trip will be indulgent. Despair is a savage plague—it riddles the mind with viral negativity. Hope and possibility become lingering wisps of a specter all but vanished.

And so the first holiday, Thanksgiving, was spent in tame merriment with my brother and his girlfriend in their Jackson Heights apartment. We ate, drank, talked, played board games, and watched movies. One of my highlights was seeing Interstellar for the first time, during which the reminder of Murphy’s Law struck me.

There’s a scene when Matthew McConaughey’s daughter quizzes him over the choice of her birth name, which from her perspective, was done as a cruel joke: out of an entire list of options, her parents settled on "Murph."

Young Murph: Why did you and mom name me after something that’s bad? 
Cooper: Well, we didn’t?
Young Murph: Murphy’s Law?
Cooper: Murphy’s Law doesn’t mean that something bad will happen. What it means is whatever can happen, will happen. And that sounded just fine with us.

Reddit threads and blog posts argue against Christopher Nolan’s artistic license of this reinterpretation, but I think he makes a fairly strong point. 

In keeping an open mind about the trajectory of universal events, it is not enough to combat Murphy’s Law with its inversion, so as to state everything that can go right, will go right. Most of us know life doesn’t work that way.

But it doesn’t work the other way either. You need a healthy dose of each.

At the risk of sounding like a pseudo-wise millennial, I’ve discovered a shift in perception when allowing to expose my vulnerability for the hope of “yes,” while simultaneously preparing myself for the risk of “no.” Room has to be made for both: whatever can happen, will happen. I'll never know what million, billion, trillion—and whatever numbers come after that—forces of the universe are working against me, but I'll also never know what million, billion, trillion—and whatever numbers come after that—forces of the universe are working with me. The operations of the subatomic, quantum world are still largely mysterious to us. However, Nikola Tesla is quoted with having said, “If you want to find the secrets of the universe, think in terms of energy, frequency and vibration.”

All of this may beg the question, “How does any of it correlate with 2016 having been awful, especially now the year is over?” The answer is: In a significant way. As 2016 draws to an end and 2017 begins, I reckon many of us have fallen victim to a pattern of surmising the worst. After all, there hasn’t been mounting evidence against why we shouldn’t. But like Tesla said, you have to think in terms of energy, frequency and vibration.

What you put out into the world will return to you. I’m not referring to juju, karma, vibes, or anything that could be written off as a hippie mantra. It’s simple physics: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. If we send anger and mistrust into our environment, with anger and mistrust we will be met. There are forces that remain outside our domains of influence, but we exert control over more than we think, or maybe even want to believe.

It's easier said than done. Of course it is, especially when confronted by the atrocities, disappointment, and sadness pervading our existence. But it’s important as we go into a new year, to remember shadows only exist in the presence of light. And those wily photons, you never know what they’ll do. 

The 2016 Half-Assed, Last Minute, Holiday Gift Guide

Well, it’s Friday, December 23rd. So I guess it’s time to go shopping and stuff.

1. Movie theater gift cards.

Y’all, going to the movies is so damn expensive, it’s unreal. Every time an intriguing film premieres, I think to myself, “Cool, look forward to catching that in a year or two or three, or whenever it makes its way onto the joint family Netflix, Amazon Prime, or HBOGo accounts.” How great would it be if you didn’t have to wait that long, and thus not have Interstellar ruined for you because two loud-mouthed girls in the gym locker room wouldn’t shut up about how Matthew McConaughey goes back in time and discovers he is his own ghost?

Also, if you haven’t seen Interstellar yet, I sincerely apologize for what just happened.

BUT YOU SEE?

2. A book about how to make cocktails.

Listen, anyone can go to Trader Joes, buy a flourless chocolate cake, take it out of the packaging, and place it on their own dinnerware so as to give the impression of the pastry being homemade, but you can’t do that with an Old Fashioned, now can you? Or a Manhattan, or a Gin Fizz, or a Mojito, or whatever other cocktail that requires effort. Not only are you gifting your loved one with a new set of skills, but you are also giving them the ability to be the most popular person at a party, so long as the alcohol is in stock. After that, it’s up to their personal charm and wit. If they have none, I am very sorry—but if they were a successful bartender, all the partygoers will be drunk by that point, and thus charm and wit will become irrelevant. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

3. A pasta maker.

Ok, fine, homemade pasta is bomb, too.

4. Clean their apartment while you send them to get a facial.

A gift for both of you, in which they get to relax and have their life tidied, while you get to snoop through their naughty drawer. Don’t forget your hand sanitizer.

5. A box full of pictures of their favorite things, decorated with a lid of Julie Andrews saying, “These are a few of my favorite things.”

And then put pictures of their favorite things in it. You know, like, Paris, Starry Night, a bouquet of flowers, a macaron, their favorite perfume, that one spot on Delancey where they found a $100 bill, the earring they found in the back of their couch after it went missing for a year, that white t-shirt where you can only very barely make out the ghost of a red wine stain you victoriously helped them get out, that dude with the name whose drunk selfie you discovered on your phone, your hairy toes that they like to make fun of, etc. 

Or go out and buy their actual favorite things, if you want to get ambitious about it.

6. A puppy.

Because we all want one.

7. A small horse disguised as a unicorn.

Because we all want one of those, too.

8. A rabbit wearing a bow tie, a monocle, and a top hat.

Same as above. Or maybe that’s just me.

9. Chocolate? Candy? Cake? Cookies? Cupcakes? Ice cream? Teddy Bears? Babies? A cat? A flying squirrel?

Man, I don’t know your life, I’m trying here.

10. A hug.

Because 2016 sucks!

And that about wraps it up. My apologies if I misled you to think this was actually going to be helpful.

Exercise for people who don't want to exercise. Like me.

I started working out seriously when I was eleven. I don't really know why; my brain rationalized things differently than other children's, and that just seemed like something an eleven year old should do. I exercised almost every day for an hour or more, and continued that practice for nearly twenty years. Then I turned thirty and became . . . tired. Not because I turned thirty, but because, you know . . . life stuff. There was just so much of it. It was hard not to end my days feeling drained. Visits to the gym certainly didn't help the situation. Not to mention injuries I had ignored for so long were finally seeking their revenge: thirty isn't old, but it ain't spring chicken status either.

Then someone told me about this genius program called the 7-Minute Workout, and my world changed. I don't know the science behind it, but the New York Times broke it down in a blog entry. The gist is, you can get an hour's worth of treadmill time packed into seven minutes—albeit intense and uncomfortable ones—by rigorously performing key moves that target specific muscles, with very little rest time in between.

I've practiced these seven minutes consistently for the past month, and they work. Like, well. I don't tend to do just the seven minutes and call it a day, but the addition compliments my fitness routine and has allowed me to drastically reduce gym time. But on the days when I can't make it out, or I'm really tired but feel like I need to do SOMETHING, this workout still leaves me feeling good. While you can find several free variations of the app, I prefer the one from Wahoo Fitness. It not only gives you the standard 7-Minute program for free, it also includes a revised complimentary workout from Glamour magazine that I personally think is even more demanding.

So good news: you can work out even when you think you can't or don't want to!

Shit, wait, that was supposed to be good news, not unfortunate news. Sorry.

In the land of milk and honey.

Cold weather is coming and that means dry skin. Or at least for me it does, I don’t know about you. But if you, like me, suffer from this seasonal ailment, there are a couple of remedies you can use to placate your angry dermis. Best of all, the ingredients can be found right in your pantry, so you can have your facial and eat it, too. 

I’m just kidding, please do not eat these recipes, you will probably get violently ill/die from salmonella, or E. coli, or listeria, and I do not want that on my conscience. 

*Disclaimer* : I am not a licensed dermatologist, or cosmetologist, or aesthetician, or really licensed anything other than driver (and barely at that). These are simply home recipes I’ve made for myself and have worked.

Honey scrub

This scrub is particularly great for getting rid of dry, rough patches. In a small bowl, take one tablespoon of raw honey, 5 drops of freshly squeezed lemon juice, one tablespoon of baking soda, and mix well together. Apply the scrub to your lightly dampened face and exfoliate gently for 1-2 minutes, using small circular motions. Leave the mixture on for an extra 5-7 minutes, and then wash off. Refrigerate any leftovers if you so please. Like other scrubs, this should be used only once a week, twice max. Exfoliation should be done before applying your mask. 

Kefir mask

This is a great mask to use for dealing with moderate acne, as it dries up zits without drying up the rest of yo' face! In another small bowl, mix two tablespoons of plain kefir, one tablespoon of raw honey, one teaspoon of olive oil, and one egg. This will result in a super liquidy mixture, but no worries, you’re only going to apply a thin layer all over your face. Let the mask dry and sit for 15-20 minutes, then wash off. If you so choose, you can refrigerate the leftover mask (but not for too long, as there are raw ingredients in it; if left for too long, it could do the opposite and cause you to breakout). Unlike the scrub, this mask can be used daily.

And that’s it! Angry skin no mo'. 

(Recipes found on XOVain, LA Healthy Living, and Always Healthy Living, and modified slightly here.) 

How to keep your shit together on the precipice of an existential crisis.

First things first: Wake up from a weird dream that shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but, you know: it does. Lay in bed for a good while staring at the ceiling. When your alarm goes off for the third time, roll over and stand up, because now you definitely have to get moving. But before you do, sigh—because you already know today is going to be a long one.

Miss the train by literally one second. Stand on the platform as the doors close in front of your face, and blank stare at the passengers inside, who are blank staring back. Think about how getting your key briefly stuck in the door actually cost you an extra eight minutes on your commute. Feel annoyed as you hear people swipe their cards at the subway entrance, knowing that every beep detracts from your personal square inchage on the train.

Make yourself as small and uncomfortable as possible when the train comes, as a courtesy to the other people cramming into the car. Commit to this and grow more frustrated as the people around you do not make themselves as small and uncomfortable as possible. Wonder what you are even doing here. Wonder what your life even is right now. Eagerly get off the train when it pulls into the station, moving with such agitated energy it borders on savagery.

Pass by a wine store on your way to the office. Stop and seriously consider going in. Then, stop considering and go in. Make a beeline for the boxed wines. Complete your purchase and get a straw from somewhere.

In the office, take a large Post-it and scrawl “POWERJUICE, PROPERTY OF _________, DO NOT TOUCH,” and stick it over the wine label. Tape it down. Maybe decorate it if it needs to look more convincing. Open a few documents on your computer to toggle between, mouse in hand, then lean back in your chair and work on none of them. Think about that photography class you didn’t have the patience to waitlist for in college, or the trip to Cappadocia you decided against because there was “this one purse you’d been eyeing for a while, and besides, Cappadocia will be there.”

When the powerjuice begins to warm your stomach, go on Facebook, even though you know you shouldn’t. Scroll through the pictures and statuses of people getting engaged, people getting married, having babies, graduating from medical school, buying their first houses, paying off all their debts, quitting their jobs and traveling around the world. Close out of the window once you’ve had enough. Sit with your eyes shut, and pinch the bridge of your nose. Breathe very slowly.

It might be lunchtime by this point, so take your powerjuice and venture outside. No, this was a mistake. Look at all these people milling around. Do they not have work to do? Do they not have places to be? How are they able to simply sit and enjoy a cappuccino on a sunny day? Nope, you and powerjuice are going back upstairs.

Sit back down at your desk. Oh, but this might be worse. Why are you here? What are you doing? How has every day been the same for the past five years? How have you aged, but not grown? Wait, wait—don’t put your head down on your desk, you need to look alert. Open the new email you just got. Sift through the saccharine message from your boss to find the words of passive aggressiveness: “Hi! Just wondering if you think you’ll be able to finish that project by today. No worries if not, just keep me posted!” Ask yourself why she can't explicitly say she needs the assignment finished. Respond with too many exclamation points. Almost use an emoticon, but think better of it.

With your headphones on and scowling, finish the assignment. Honestly, it shouldn’t have taken you as long as it did—you know that. But working on it physically hurt your soul. Actually, it’s hurting your soul so much you need to leave early. Start coughing: not so much at first as to be unconvincing, but gradually escalating in severity until coworkers start looking over at you. Tell your boss you’re taking a sick day.

Gather your belongings, and most importantly, your powerjuice, and fake cough your way on out of the office. Head towards the subway with a plan to go home, but my goodness, the sun really is so beautiful and bright today. Maybe walk a little longer to a different stop. Walk slowly, though. There’s no need to rush. Look up at the buildings. When was the last time you looked up? Oh shit! Is that a gargoyle? When did they put that there? Oh snap! Look at that bird! Where did all these trees come from? Oh wow, how long has this park been here? Is that bench open? Well, it’s not like you need to be anywhere, why don’t you pop a squat for a minute or two? My goodness, it really is a lovely day. That man over there is singing so nicely. That squirrel is really cute, too. And aw, look at that little boy running around, having a grand old time and absolutely loving life. Oh, you know what would be really good right now? A cappuccino.

Originally appeared on The Collecteur.

How to dress like a million bucks when you're broke.

Are you broke? Cool, me too. If you’re even more like me—which, hopefully you are not—you’re constantly reminded of this because you spend a lot of time scrolling through Instagram, lusting over the feeds of “lifestyle” bloggers. 

You know who I’m talking about: the gals who are always everywhere but home, dressed lavishly, eating fabulous meals captured in perfect light, while surrounded by flowers, décor, and furniture that makes you feel sorry for your own butt that currently sits on a threadbare sofa, as you sad-scroll through a stranger’s beautiful existence. Suffice it to say, I picked up quickly that “lifestyle” is synonymous with “lots of money,” of which I have none.

That revelation bummed me out for a while; really bummed me out. Until I remembered that, while I may not have freshly picked Amazonian wildflowers delivered to my house daily, I can use my creative frugality to look like a million bucks. Or at the very least, a quarter of a million. Fine: one-sixteenth of a million, at the very, very least.

And the way I achieve that is by repurposing thrift store items! And now that you know my secret, you can too! Amazing! Eco-friendly, often charity-friendly, and always budget-friendly, thrift store shopping is one of my all-time favorite hobbies. Thrift finds have life. They’ve been out in the world, they’ve had experiences, and once they reach a store, they’re ready for reincarnation. There’s just one snafu: reincarnation doesn’t always come in your size or fit. Never fear. There are simple ways to make any piece work. For this lesson, I’m going to use examples from three items I recently purchased at Junk in Williamsburg.

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Belt It

Put a belt on it! And if it’s a bird belt, you get extra points. 

Outfit details: Urban Outfitters belts, Forever 21 necklaces, H&M shift dress and collar, Zara earrings, Prada heels (purchased for $50 at Housing Works).

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Tie It

WHADDUP, 90s? 

Outfit details: COS shorts, Zara jewelry, Alberta Ferretti heels (purchased for $25 at Housing Works).

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Pin It

Nothing like a strategically placed safety pin. 

Outfit details: Zara heels and earrings, vintage collar (purchased for $25 at Retropolis in Houston).

So there you have it: three examples of how to make thrift store items work for you. Now it’s your turn! Remember, the key is to think outside the box. Everything can be anything, and other vague platitudes. Also, keep in mind that clothes can be professionally altered. This option provides the best of both worlds, in that you save money on your wardrobe, and also have the potential of creating a design that is truly unique to you. Alterations are my recommended course of action whenever sewing or cutting fabric becomes involved, because I personally do not trust my hands. They are wily, wily things.

One issue I failed to discuss is the challenge of falling in love with something slightly unorthodox. All I have to say about that is, it’s New York: no one cares. I once saw a man roller skate down St. Mark’s Place in nothing but a pink-sequined bikini, and not a single person batted an eye. I did because it was a hot day and mine were very dry, but no one else. If happiness is found in a gorilla suit that lets you run around the city like a real life King Kong, go ape wild (haha). If you get heart eyes for an 80s prom dress that leaves a trail of glitter in its wake, and has shoulder pads so high you can’t turn your head without difficulty, get your Pretty in Pink on. Put a belt on it. Life is short. Have fun. 

Sparkle Jump Ring Earrings!

This DIY is so easy I don't even know what to do with myself. First things first: you'll need super glue, two large jump rings, fish hook findings, and two sparkle beads.

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Separate the jump rings and slide the fish hook findings on. If the metal is soft enough, you can do this with your hands.

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Next, dab one end of the jump ring with some super glue, and attach a bead. Hold together until the glue dries. Repeat on the other jump ring.

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Squeeze the ends together, and tah dah! Again, if the metal is soft enough, you can do this with your hands. You may need to get your rustic metalsmithing on to make sure the ends are flush, but twisting the rings in and out a bit should get you there. Just make sure not to snap the metal! If you want, you can add glue to the other end of the bead to make it extra secure, but this isn't necessary. Personally I find this step gets a little messy, because I have the dexterity of a five year old.

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Speaking of bumbling child hands, if your super glue cup does happen to runneth over and desparkle your bead, a little nail polish remover will take that right off. Hook those babies into your earholes and you're ready to go!

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Sorry about the pores.

The View From Up Here

I turned thirty this month. The proximity of this birthday was brought to my attention a little over a year ago, during happy hour with some girlfriends, who enthusiastically instructed that my thirtieth be a big celebration. “Big,” they said: “Like, really big.”

Over the course of a year I fluctuated between excitement, sadness, and apprehension when considering this birthday. My twenties were a shit show; not unappreciated, but really all over the place. I remember the eve of my twentieth birthday, awaiting midnight with the anticipation of severing my teen nomenclature. I would finally be an adult. That’s laughable now; I was a child. In many ways I still am, even with the acquisition of fine lines and gray hairs. Thirty years is not actually that long. It feels lengthy, but it’s three sets of ten. The first set of which you don’t remember half, the second which is dictated by expectations others set for you, and the third trying to undo the mess caused by those well-meaning expectations.

In the week before my birthday, I stayed home to get my affairs in order—to undo some of that mess, so to speak. I cleaned my apartment, organized my finances and work to the best of my abilities, and set in motion the filing of an LLC for a small business. Explained plans for my staycation were met with confusion, and maybe even pity, both sentiments which were easy to understand. But there was a pressing need to fulfill these duties that I couldn’t explain. What became more important to me as I approached my thirtieth was not to go into it celebrating, but armed with clear-headedness and stability to conquer what I need to accomplish in this next decade.

Ironically, in the same week that I attempted to bring my personal world together, the world outside me fell apart. It’s been difficult to look on the incidents of the past months and feel any sense of hope or optimism. But I tell myself repeatedly it’s there. Not too long ago, my apartment was frequented by a number of beetles, all in different shapes, colors, and sizes. While I don’t typically look to symbolism as a way to decipher encrypted messages the universe is trying to deliver, I felt moved to investigate what these beetles stood for. What I discovered is that they are emblematic of strength and purification, but more importantly, surrender to change. Beetles engage in metamorphosis for development and growth. They embrace the flow of life and all its transitions without question. 

I have learned that an open mind is the greatest asset a person can have, for that is what leads most directly to compassion and kindness. Both are qualities the world needs more of. It is essential to have unique principles and values, but it is more essential still to be aware of the principles and values of others—to be respectful of them, even if disagreement arises. I don’t believe, however, that surrender to change means not working within it. I accept that this life is hard, and that the world, right now, looks ugly. But with that knowledge, I will work to make it not so hard, and to leave this world just a fraction more radiant. All I can do—all any of us can do—is move within these channels, widening them so that others can travel more easily.

There are many other things I’ve learned in the past thirty years, but they have mostly changed over time. And while I could write a bullet point list of my current truths, I’d prefer not to, knowing there is a very good chance they will evolve into something completely different. In fact, it seems more and more every day I realize how little I actually do know. I expect that if I make it into old age, I’ll be a compete imbecile by that point. Which is fine by me, because after all, ignorance is bliss. So if tomorrow introduces one more stone being paved on that road to happiness, then by all means, let it come.

Originally posted on The Collecteur

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Stranger than Fiction

Here’s a confession: I don’t play video games because I’m not good at them. It’s true! I admit it; that’s the only reason. But is that such a crime? I just don’t know what I’m doing; my characters run into walls, drive off the road—they’re all hot messes. None of which actually concerned me until a few days ago, when I was watching my boyfriend play a video game on his phone. Or, to state it more accurately, watching him watch a video game being played on his phone, his characters running wildly around the screen, out of his control. 

“Fhack! I’m getting pummeled.”

“Why don’t you do something? Why are you just looking at it?”

“I can’t, I already provided their defenses. It’s up to them now.”

And at that, a terrifying thought descended upon me, rendering me speechless as I stared out into space in sheer horror.

Quite recently during an interview, Elon Musk came out with a theory he holds that humanity as we know it exists in some advanced civilization’s video game. Meaning that our world, our solar system, or galaxy, our entire universe, is all, in essence, an illusion. Which is discomforting, but I can get over it; I just look at it as being in a weird dream or something. However, one thought haunts me:

What if my super being is a bad gamer?

Like, what if this thing controlling me is as shitty at video games as I am? Which, if I may reiterate, is very shitty. It’s a troubling notion. Is its inability to maneuver a joystick the reason I always bump into things and hurt myself? Is that the reason I jump the curb on right-hand turns? I can only imagine a creature resembling Doctor Manhattan studying the buttons on a controller, pondering, “A is go straight and B is turn? Or . . . ?”

And what about the issue of levels, of advancing within this game? Is there a point system? I, without question, will have zero brownie points. In fact, I may even have negative brownie points, due to an unfortunate character trait that compels me to act in the opposite fashion of which I am instructed or requested to. I may find redemption if we’re on a karmic system, but let’s be real, I live in New York: keeping up with karma here can be like watching a pyramid scheme unfold. 

On a related note, are there bosses to defeat in this video game we’re living? Our own personal Bowsers? A lot of video game characters use the aforementioned point system to garner special powers that are instrumental in defeating foes. To date, the only skills I’ve acquired through my negligible brownie points and suspect karma points, are crying very easily and passive aggressiveness, which I deploy against enemies such as mean yoga instructors and passengers who sing loudly to themselves at 8am on crowded subways.

Or perhaps this is a strategy game, in which case I’m absolutely fucked. Though, it would explain why I squander my resources, i.e. paycheck, on shoes rather than say, oh I don’t know, food. What gives me most pause, however, is when I mull over the possibility that I, we, are in a role-playing game. To be more specific, a massively multiplayer online role-playing game—another civilization’s World of Warcraft where dragons and sorcery have been replaced with airplanes and Wi-Fi. One in which our purposes are to go on quests and accomplish tasks delivered to us by non-player characters, or computer-controlled characters. But who are these NPC’s? How do we identify them? And how can we be sure they aren’t sending us on wild goose chases (read: dreams not realized *sob*)? The truth is, we can’t. Or at least I can’t. Yet I find an odd comfort in this, because I haven’t given up. That is to say, my super being hasn’t given up. As shitty of a gamer as it may be, it continues to play, and continues to grow. I continue to grow. So maybe it knows something that I don’t.

I’m crossing my fingers really hard that it’s the winning numbers to the next mega lottery. But honestly, I’d be content with just learning how to drive straight.

Originally posted on The Collecteur

What if I just stop trying?

I was told—I won’t use the collective “we” here because I don’t know who all this applies to—almost all my life to put 110% into everything I do. Which was fine for the first few years when “everything” wasn’t really anything, but that's become a different story.

So as I sit at my desk drudging through the work I’m obligated to do, I ponder on the things I’m not obligated to do but drudge through anyway, and a thought occurs to me: What if I just stop trying?

To cease trying here not being synonymous with giving up, but rather, conserving energy. Because who can put 110% into everything they do, really? Who has the time?  I mean, I guess some miraculous people do, but I'm not one of them. What a plague the idea of “having it all” has set upon our society. The world’s a fucking big place and a lot of shit goes on in life, you’re never going to have it all. And why would you want to? Can you imagine how boring existence would become? Not to mention, resigning yourself to someone else’s idea of happiness and success creates a greater risk of never truly finding your own. Because it could be that you have it all right now, right this very second, but aren’t aware of it because you’re supposed to think something is missing.

And similarly, the idea of "not trying" does not simply mean refraining from work or goals that do not interest you, but laying to rest the idea of having absolute emotional consistency. I’m not saying indulge in manic-depressive behavior, but if you’re feeling sad, let yourself feel sad. If you don’t feel like being funny today, don’t. If you’re angry, go punch a pillow. Let yourself feel things. My perception has often been that people see jarring emotions as black holes where productivity and well-being go to die. I couldn’t disagree more. Obviously certain restrictions apply—for example, if you’ve been holed up in your apartment crying for the past three days, that’s probably not the best thing in the world—but speaking as an incredibly lazy person whose greatest interest is taking the path of least resistance, I find that going through the Forest of Feelings rather than circumnavigating it, gets me where I want to be much quicker and, sometimes surprisingly, with less effort. Can you imagine how efficient we’d all be if we didn’t dedicate focus to keeping up with appearances? And perhaps, overall, happier and healthier?

Like, if I could kick off my shoes and pants, and take a nap freely under my desk right now, that would be incredible. But no: I have to be “professional.”

Whatever.

Maybe just wear what you want to wear.

On the mornings, afternoons, and evenings I don’t feel like working—which is usually all of them—I often gaze out the window that is Instagram to see what the liberated people of the world are up to.

I follow a lot of fashion accounts that alert me to trends, dos, and don’ts for the current season. And what this usually translates to is being tsk-tsked about something that is wrong with my wardrobe; a giant digital finger being wagged at me through my phone screen. 

But I hate authority! If you tell me to do something, I will engage in the opposite just to spite you! So please, for future reference, keep me safe and tell me to play in traffic. 

Fashion authority, however, aggravates a particular strain of contradiction within me, usually because the death of hot trends are followed with an obituary chiding, “Oh LAWD, I can’t believe you actually wore that. HA! Idiot.” Take for example the recent craze over culottes. You couldn’t read a fashion editorial without some mention of them. It was as if someone had discovered an Amazon-sized warehouse full of gauchos they forgot to sell, and freaked out like, “Fuck! What to do with all these gauchos? Ah yes, call them something French and insist they’re completely different.”

I couldn’t wear culottes because they fit me like normal pants, so I was forced to sit that trend out. LIKE AN ASSHOLE. But now? Now I keep reading about a fancy pajama trend? Mesh? Something called a paper bag waist? A few years ago wearing pajamas out of the house got you written up as a hot mess train wreck, like, immediately. And mesh was reserved for activities outside my scope of athleticism. And a paper bag waist? Man, last I checked that was called just playing it cool when you had to tie a belt around your pants and the waist got all bunchy and weird, because they were thrift store pants four sizes too big, but they had a neat print on them that made you go, “Oh but maybe.”

Trends are annoying because they swallow themselves and get thrown back up again, and then re-swallowed. Gross. So here’s a novel idea: maybe just wear what you want to wear, regardless of what is in or out, what is a faux pas and what is not. If that’s pajamas, great. If that’s mesh, great. If that’s pants that are too big for you, great. And then carry that style for as long as you please. Adorn yourself in things that make you feel good and happy, because that looks a billion times better on than anything spewed out of a glossy mag.  

Little ways to rise like that damn phoenix.

Hint: It's not all at once.

I hate what the Internet has done to us. Don't misunderstand me: I'm not saying I hate the Internet itself. I think that in many, many ways it is very, very wonderful. But I'm unsettled by how it has altered our perception of reality. Want to see that movie right now right now? Done. Want that thing you just bought shipped out right now right now? Done. Want the answer to something right now right now? Done. We've become acclimated to immediate gratification as something expected.

So what about when we can't download the body we want, or the lifestyle, or the career, or the skill, or what have you? We become frustrated. And we give up. Because if we can't have it right now right now, welp, then it's probably a lost cause.

But it doesn't work that way. I mean, you can try; but in my personal experience, any attempt I've made to have it all, all at once, has only resulted in an overwhelmed and broken down me, probably ugly crying on the floor. 

I come from a family with a strong presence of mental disorders on both sides: depression, anxiety, and bi-polar tendencies from one half, and extreme ADD/ADHD from the other. While there are many people in the world who consider these traits a weakness, I've come to accept and appreciate them for making me stronger than others perceive me to be. Those in my family have had to learn to maneuver this world while avoiding mental obstacles their brains like to set. And failure has never been an option.

Yet, failure is something we've learned to redefine. Does it mean perfect enactment the first time around? Does it mean never slipping up? Does it mean a lack of setbacks? Does it mean total accomplishment in one fell swoop? Does it mean NOT feeling like you want to give up? No. That's stupid.

One thing I've learned from watching my mother, who hails from the ADD side, is to break everything down into little chunks. I set microgoals to accomplish. It's tempting to tackle a goal head on and lay it flat, but if you're like me, you get eager about doing everything all at once, find out that you can't, feel defeated, leave the task to fester, and grow increasingly anxious about it's unfinished state. My problem is that I obsess over a need to do something completely in order to consider making headway on it. But this isn't the Internet. I can't torrent that shit. And that's okay. While it may take a little longer, dividing goals into manageable fractions to be brought together one at a time, will make them more likely to stick as a whole. Believe it or not, you'll also feel a lot better about completing one little chore than you think. Below are ways you can apply this to different facets of your life.

Food: Is your snack of choice Doritos? That's okay. The reason Doritos have been around since 1964 is because they're incredible. You want to eat healthy, but Doritos are like mana, so what to do? Well, one small thing you can do to snowball a trend of healthier eating is substitute an apple, or some carrots, or some kind of fruit/veggie during one of your snack times. Just one. It may not be as satisfying at first, but try it out for a while. See if you start to crave this fruit or veggie. Then maybe substitute more. Gradually, test if you can redirect your hunger so that it circles a diet that includes more (natural) greens, reds, oranges, yellows, blues, all those good colors, that not only influence your snacks, but all your meals.

Exercise: Same idea here. Never exercised before? I don't recommend going out and trying to run six miles. You will return tired, hungry, angry, and so put off by the idea of working out that you won't try it again. A lot of people equate physical activity with misery, but it doesn't have to be that way. Let your body get used to the idea. Try doing some pushups, or squats, or crunches, or jumping jacks, for ten minutes. Just ten minutes. But do it everyday. It won't feel like much at first, but you will be doing so much more for your body than you think. As you get stronger and more comfortable with this routine, you will go harder and longer. You will feel better and more encouraged to keep going, because you'll realize your own potential. Most important of all, do something you ENJOY. You don't have to suffer the gym if that's not your thing. So many activities will get your blood pumping, like dancing, or basketball, or boxing, shit, even walking. Walking is the best. Learn to have fun with it. I've mentioned it before, but PopSugar Fitness has great videos you can do at home. That's not a sponsored shoutout, the people at PopSugar don't even know I exist. They just have a lot of great material that I use myself.

Chores: This is a tough one for me, because I always come home with interest in little else but sleep. The problem with that, however, is that household chores pile up and become overwhelming. So I motivate myself to do just one thing that will help keep my space somewhat organized and decent. That can be anything from sorting the mail and throwing out what is junk, to vacuuming the living room, or even making my bed. Just one thing that, in turn, becomes one less thing I have to do the next day, leaving room for something else. And then something else, and something else, and something else . . . and you see where I'm going here? It adds up.

Skills: I have a big problem with comparing myself to other people. Like, huge. I look at what other people can do, contrast it to what I can do, and end up being like, "Bummer." So, numero uno thing to remember is this: You are not that person and they are not you. And numero two: That skill or talent you're so impressed by, probably took that individual a hell lot longer to master than you imagine. Almost anyone who performs a skill with absolute ease probably put a lot of time, blood, sweat, and tears into it. Again, improve yourself with increments. Now, the issue that pops up here is the matter of time. Most of us have hectic schedules that leave little room for even a tad bit of chillaxing. Finding space in your daily agenda may take some creativity and discipline. Have a lengthy commute? Learn a new language while you're sitting on the train. Have a lot of errands to run? Practice your dance moves while your traveling between destinations. I mean, you may show up on Gawker as the shuffle-ball-changing pedestrian, but you'll show up as the shuffle-ball-changing pedestrian BADASS who DGAF! Remember to let yourself grow and become better. Again, the key here as with everything else, is to stick with it.

Finances: Honestly, I don't feel entirely confident tackling this subject, because by now most of us have seen my wardrobe, and we know that shit is bananas. However, there are still some tidbits I do for myself that I can share with you. One important thing to do is open a savings account, if you don't already have one. Elect an automated withdrawal that deposits the sum of your choice every month. I'm not going to tell you what that figure should be, because everyone's situation is different. If that's $50 a month, great, if that's $5 a month, great. But once you deduct it, do not touch it; consider it money you no longer have access to. Another good practice is investing. Now, this probably sounds scary, because it was definitely over my own head, but there are apps to make it easier. The one I've been using is called Acorns. With this app you create a portfolio made up of six ETFs that are chosen and monitored for you. Aside from making monthly investments, you can link your financial accounts to round up purchases of your choice and contribute that spare change to your portfolio. Thus, supporting the idea of building everything up a little at a time.

These are just some suggestions to help get you on the track you want to be. Is there a possibility that you'll get derailed it up, have to take a breather, and reassess? Yup. The other thing I've learned from my dad's side of the family, is that that's okay. Life happens, and shit gets messy. You learn and get wiser. You may be thinking about how that goes against the idea of rising like a phoenix, but do you know what happens to that fucker when it dies? It goes up in flames. It is burnt to a crisp, totally disintegrated. But that doesn't stop it from being born again. In fact, it's a process that's absolutely necessary. Because it speaks of resilience and regeneration.

So if you feel discouraged, remember that even mythological creatures feel the heat before they come to glory. And of course, wherever you are in the world, whatever your situation, you'll always have someone cheering for you. 

I mean me. I'll be cheering for you. Probably from my couch. Where I'll be basking in my about-to-get-shit-fired-up phoenix-ness.

Let's make a ghetto pom pom necklace.

Do you want to make a ghetto pom pom necklace? Sure you do. Will it feels silly? Of course it will, it’s a ghetto pom pom necklace, but who cares! Here’s what you’ll need:

-Heavy twine

-Pom poms

-Wire

-Glue (industrial strength or hot glue gun)

-Findings (jump rings and clasp)

Cut three pieces of twine approximately twenty inches in length. Glue the ends together for extra reinforcement.

Wrap your wire around the ends. If the wire is thin enough, you can use your hands, if not, use tools! Make sure to leave enough space between one of the wire wraps to loop through your findings. There’s no accurate length of wire you need to wrap, just enough so that you can attach your findings securely. If your wire is thin enough you can probably use regular scissors to cut it, if not, use tools!

Next, glue your pom poms onto your strings. I like to spread mine out a bit sporadically, but you can arrange yours as you please, and you can also use as many pom poms as you’d like (I used nine). Let the glue congeal/cool.

Finally, in the space you left in the wires, loop through a jump ring on one end, and your clasp on the other. And your ghetto pom pom necklace is done! Ah, so ghetto. So pom pom-y.