Found in this weeks New Yorker magazine:
We all have pesky spell check mishaps but what I saw happen today has convinced me that spell check actually had a mind of its own. And also preferred drugs.
I had relieved texts from both my brother and my boyfriend while I was away from my phone for about half an hour.
Here is the screen shot from the boyfriend conversation:
And here is Brothers’ conversation:
Spell check clearly has some drug addiction issues it needs to address.
I love being alone at night because it give me peace and tranquility and full bed space to spread my legs and cuddle with Payge.
I hate being alone at night because the darkness is like my own personal therapist making me open up about shit I don’t want to talk about.
Last night I had a session with myself and here’s what was accomplished:
I feel so alone and would rather not exist because I truly feel like I can’t prevent my inevitable failure. I won’t amount to be shit but a poverty level Spanish girl from Brooklyn. Girl. Now woman. I still can’t see myself as an adult. And yet, I keep meeting new people who are beginning their careers – not jobs, but actual careers. What they have a passion for. What they want to actually DO in life. And they’re fucking younger than me. I’m 28. I thought I had a few more years before I felt like I was missing my chance at succeeding.
I always want more. I want to be happy. I want to be happy with what I have but being happy with what I have is accepting failure. Or putting it in a better note, accepting my accomplishments at what they are. Two bachelors. And awesome daughter. A rent controlled apartment in Williamsburg that I only have because I am the first living child to come out of my mother who is no longer here. Whoopie.
I am struggling mentally and yet it’s all beneath the surface.
What do you want?!
I want to find my purpose and it’s taking too fucking long to figure it out.
You like art. You’re an artist. Maybe that’s your calling?
Yeah. Right. I don’t have my own distinct style. No imagination. And no patience.
You love reading. You should get back into writing.
What the fuck do you think I’m doing. Plus, this isn’t going to make me money or successful. Im tired of the fucking routine dude. I’m bored!
I’m tired of you yelling at me.
I’m tired of me yelling at me.
… I’m going fucking crazy. I just want some happiness and a little sanity to go along with it. Who am I? I feel like I need to do a little Eat, Pray, Love and figure it the fuck out but I can’t because I’m broke and I have a kid who needs to be in school.
I think I lost myself a few years back and now I’m struggling with only half my mentality, thinking about the future. And I’m lost there too.
Side note: Walking outside my house feels like such a task because I know I have to interact with other humans and while I look decent from the outside I really imagine myself looking like Oscar the Grouch:
This is what I’m truly thinking I look like when I smile and say Hi.
Sneakerhead. Sneaker addict. Hype beast. Fuccboii.
This is the ladder into the depths that is the sneaker culture these days it seems. Normally, in a society as materialistically wealthy as ourselves, it seems plausible to expect to be able to walk into a sneaker store for a pair of sneakers you want, wait on a reasonably lengthy line, purchase them and go home. Not to mention they should also be reasonable priced, scaled on the quality of the shoe, rather than the name.
But Nooooooo. How foolish that would be to even fathom such a thing?
No not at all.
If you want the biggest sneaker of the year, every sneakerhead/sneakeraddict/hypebeast/fuccboii dream,- the Yeezy Boost 350’s – then expect to wait on line,
in below freezing temperature,
in the snow,
for anywhere from 30 minutes to over two hours,
for a ticket,
just for the small chance that maybe, just maybe, you may be lucky enough to win a pair.
This is absolutely insane. With the technology we have there are much simpler, more convenient, cost-effective, and less frost-bite inducing ways to raffle off sneakers!
The big footlocker on 34th street had people entering 3 people at a time while 3 employees wrote down the information for each individual, as every other sneaker store did, but in a way which had much down time between each group of three, completely giving no fucks whatsoever, about all the people, mostly young adults, who were outside in the fucking cold for the slight glimmer of a fucking chance to get these sneakers and be the cool kid.
We are raising sheep. People should not be on line in these conditions for a product from a self-centered artist who makes millions while his fans suffer. Kanye’s such a genius, why doesn’t he raffle them off using his own personal app? Probably because he, along with big money grubbing, corporations like footlocker, don’t really give a shit about the people. They want to make us work, and suffer, for the holy grail of sneakers.
Well fuck you Kanye.
And fuck you even more footlocker.
“And you know the darkness beyond despair, just as intimately as you know the soaring heights. Because in this and all universes, there is balance. You can’t have the one without facing the other. And sometimes you think you can take it because the joy is worth the despair, and sometimes you know you can’t take it and how did you ever think you could?”
– Neal Shusterman, Challenger Deep
Challenger Deep is not just a work of fiction but a journey into a broken mind. One that many people can relate to, even if you’ve never been diagnosed with a mental illness, the deep disparity that is felt resonates with anyone who has ever felt lost, alone, depressed or utterly torn, either directly or as a witness.
It toggles back and forth between the reality that consists of friends and family and the reality that is born in the protagonists’ mind. Although at first mildly confusing eventually it’s as if the reader is a passenger on the ride into schizophrenia. While I’ve never been close to schizophrenia the darkness that envelopes the main character is something eerily familiar, like the creepy next door neighbor that never says a word but just stares into your soul. The illustrations are as lucid as the thoughts of anyone who has experienced being lost in ones own mind. The entire story speaks volumes, and it’s clear that the author has witnessed the destruction of mental illness first hand.
“Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.” – Neal Shusterman, Challenger Deep
Today is the day I’ve been waiting for since November 29, 2015. Not because I like to eat and since Thanksgiving had already passed I was looking forward to Valentines Day for the sweets. Or the hallmarkety trinkets. No. Not at all. Like most sane people I’ve been counting my breaths until tonight’s mid-season premier of the Walking Dead because, fuck yes, I love seeing people I truly care about die when I least expect it. Also, the comics have been dry for quite some time so to see how the rest of this season unfolds, and whether it follows the comics arc in terms of who gets killed off is so exciting! Although I hope they don’t. I actually don’t enjoy seeing people I care about die.
Also, if Darryl dies we riot.
One day after an uncomfortable situation my daughter asks me why women get their periods. The conversation went like this:
A: mom, why do women bleed? Like why do we get our periods?
Me: you already know this. You read it in the book I gave you.
A: that was like a year ago how am I suppose to remember?
Me: *sigh* okay, basically when a girl is born she is born with all the eggs she needs for her entire life. Once a month an egg travels down and if it doesn’t meet with a sperm then it comes out in your period.
A: *eyes opened widely* you mean to tell me my babies are dying?! Oh my god mom my babies are dying!!!!
She then hugs me in a dramatic way complete with fake sobs. I am so hysterical with laughter it’s amazing.
A child can truly be the best gift. They also so say the darnedest things!