I’ve been thinking of myself as Jason Statham in Crank, which trust me is not something I ever thought I’d be saying. (Okay, look, I adore Jason Statham and his British thug routine, but oh my god someone needs to give me back the 90 minutes I wasted watching that movie because I could have spent that time drooling on myself or something more productive.) I keep trying to jolt some serotonin or whatever it is my brain lacks back into my system. Drink too much, jump up and down until I feel dizzy, jab the palm of my hand with a pen, listen to my favorite songs and sing along as loudly as I can. Anything to stave off the lethargy for another hour.

It’s hard to explain anxiety and depression, although I suppose everyone has had it to some extent or another. I hardly think I’m special. It’s like watching a train wreck sometimes and not being able to do anything about it. “Don’t say anything stupid.. don’t say anything stupid.. don’t say — oh, fudge.” And then you berate yourself for being stupid and depressed when everyone else in the world seems to have it together, and then you have to lie on the floor for a while, and suddenly it’s a year later and you wonder why your hair is so long.

Sometimes when I’m riding home I look at the apartment windows as they roll by and wonder if they’re living life any better than I am. Do they know something I don’t? I imagine their rooms as being quiet and sunny and a little dusty and very peaceful. Somehow they’ve figured out the secrets I haven’t, the unseen inhabitants of this imaginary apartment. And here I am, brain the size of a planet.

Anyway, I will survive. I always do. I don’t even know why I’m posting this, except I suck at posting here and why the hell not.

PS: I wrote this while relatively intoxicated and singing along loudly to The Bravery. Consider it a writing exercise, and let’s never speak of it again.

PPS: I’ve kind of given up on this site as a blog, per se, which should contain links, and decided it is my “personal website”, which means I write about whatever I like, and you probably don’t read it. That works well for everyone involved.

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After months of gathering information, talking to government officials, and going through files, I feel a little like a Kafka novel. I have tens of pages of forms I filled out, forms my family members filled out, documents couriered to me by both governments, notarized everythings, prepaid envelopes, old and new photos, and various pieces of paper I printed out just in case. I even had to fill out a form stating that at no time have I ever done mean things that might make me undesirable, if not just plain ineligible, for citizenship. They didn’t actually go into detail about what these acts would be, but I assume it’s stuff like shouting “Death to America” a lot, or saying you don’t really like Ryan Seacrest. (I like to imagine that along with my passport I will be given handgun ammo and one of those new sandwiches that uses fried chicken instead of bread.)

Anyway, getting this finally taken care of opens up a new world of possibility. There is a whole new landmass where I could live! I have a two month contract in Vancouver that I start in a week, and then after that.. I rent, I paid off all my big debts (ha ha ha student loan people YOU WILL MISS ME, admit it), I have a pretty reasonably sized nest egg. I could go anywhere, do anything. Oh sure, the obvious — and motivating — idea is to move to Seattle so I can stop spending all my discretionary income on frequent visits (ha ha ha Edmonds Travelodge people YOU WILL MISS ME, admit it), but I’m kind of pondering the options.

I could move to New York City and not be able to afford anything and end up a hobo. I could move to San Diego and get a tan. I could change my name to.. Yasmine deBourganville and sashay around some southern port city. The possibilities are endless. Silly, but endless.

And to some degree I feel bad for giving up on Vancouver, which is a very lovely city but is a little too full of tiny, sad out of work model/actresses, and also is NOT home to at least a couple of my closest friends. Can I move to a city in part because I met a great group of people on the internet (oh god) and I want the option of having a beer after work with them on occasion without a border guard being involved? Is this weird? It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? Hmm.

On the other hand, what’s life without doing new and different things? My big concern is that I’m not sure “Sure, what the hell” is a great guiding motto for life, although admittedly it’s served me well so far. I guess at the end of the day I can always consider: What would Yasmine do?

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Skip ahead a few weeks. I couch-surfed in Seattle a bit, went on a long weekend trip to Blizzcon in Anaheim, and otherwise… huh. I went for a walk once. I think I took down the garbage. I bought pancake mix and syrup. I know I played a lot of WoW and Diablo II and Peggle. I chatted on IM a lot. Drank more cider than usual, and stayed up really late. But really.. I haven’t DONE anything per se with all this extra time.

I feel kind of disappointed in myself, truth be told, and I am in a funk about it. Apparently when my big boundaries (such as holding down a job) are removed, I am still a sloth with an internet fixation. Freed from the shackles of daily toil I still get up at 9am and sit down in front of the computer for a full day of accomplishing nothing. It is disheartening, really.

I have one more week of unemployedness, and I vow to do something really grown-up and productive with it. Really.

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While we’re at embarrassing confessions, two things:

1) I have come to terms that I am a complete goofball, and will mug at a camera without provocation. Need someone to stand on one leg and make a dumb face? I’m your girl! But woe betide anyone who tries to take a serious photo.

2) I am completely useless when it comes to consoling friends and loved ones, whether they are sad or sick. I have one response to almost every situation, and it is for them to “drink lots of water”. Have a cold? Family member passed away suddenly? Lost your job? If you fear dehydration in these trying times come talk to me, because I will look at you, flail around a bit, and then desperately tell you to have more water in a very soothing tone of voice. It is apparently the extent of my maternalesque advice.

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No links this week, because that would have required me to actually read interesting things on the internet, and not just game. Somewhat in my defense, I was in Anaheim (and then recovering from Anaheim) last weekend. I will write more on that later I’m sure, but suffice to say it was a brilliant time and I snuck past security into an Ozzy Osbourne concert and am therefore badass.

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Essentially, many years ago my parents bought me a paper clock kit. It required much cutting and pasting and folding of tiny bits. This half-finished paper clock was moved around with me from abode to abode for years, and I still haven’t finished it. I think I would actually feel kind of bad if I finished it now, like something was missing from my life. Anyway, the moral here is that left to my own devices I will quite possibly end up with glue in my hair and no idea what time it is.

So, today I hit all my goals of: doing pilates, lying on the floor clutching my abdominal muscles and cursing, updating my resume, and playing WoW. What? It’s important to have reasonable goals.

Okay, links now!

• Exercises for keeping your blogging fingers nimble and healthy.
• The harsh truth of being a reality show contestant. They are sleep deprived! And given alcohol! I for one am shocked, shocked, at these revelations that reality shows are about provoking people until they get all crazy on television for our viewing pleasure. Shocked. (PS: Still want to be on Family Feud, call me!)
• Novelists are often less interesting once they sober up. I admit, I am somewhat suspicious of fiction writers who are big on clean livin’, and I say this knowing that I have just indicted at least one friend. Maybe I’ve seen Naked Lunch too many times, but something seems right about the cliche of the hard-drinking author, up late again, suffering for his art. Mind you, I primarily enjoy writing non-fiction, which I think just makes me a drunk.

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I cannot stop reading Texts From Last Night. Half of the entries make me sigh wistfully and think of when I was 21, and the other half just leave me very happy with my current life. Either way, this is the kind of anonymous voyeurism that the Internet does so very well.

For my part, I got a text last night from my little brother that said “I think I’ve upset the Pope,” with no further explanation. I’m kind of hoping that there was some awkward meeting where he stepped on The Hat, and in that spirit here are instructions to make your own mitre with only a newspaper.

The Texts site has ads for American Apparel, which I thought at first glance were actually banners for low rent porn. Even more offputting is the fact that one of the ads is for a shirt that changes color with your body temperature, just like Hypercolor shirts in the late 80s. Oh yeah, because that was a great idea the first time. Again I ask: what is the point in living through 80s fashion if we just have to do it all over again?

If I start seeing Vancouver hipsters wearing huge swaths of jelly bracelets on their arms, there is going to be trouble. I’m just saying.

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Swearing helps relieve pain.

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The graphic up there is Jessica, Mad Men-ized. I admit to being rather pleased with my 1950s self, plus the website plays pleasant elevator cocktail music.

Also, I’m currently fighting off the urge to dye my hair black and get Betty Page bangs. This is possibly the worst fashion idea I’ve had since I bought a hypercolor shirt. Or IS IT?

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I tried to keep a diary of my first 24 hours of unemployment, although the whole thing can pretty much be summed up with two entries:

3:05pm Cracking a beer, sitting in the sun in the living room. This unemployment thing isn’t that bad, really.

5:45pm Two beers later. Watching The House Bunny, featuring Anna Farris as a Playboy bunny who is just misunderstood. Oh god, what am I doing with my life. I need a job.

I have also been eating a lot of casserole. Oh, and thinking about stuff I bought in the last two weeks. For example, upon reflection had I known I was going to be laid off I probably wouldn’t have spent $15 on an eyebrow brush. God damn it, Sephora, you know I can’t control myself. I do have very tidy eyebrows now though. And really, don’t you think it’s important not to descend into incivility in trying times like these? I’m pretty sure eyebrow brushes are what separates us from the apes.

Anyway, a list of things I can do now I’m unemployed:

• Find a nice tech writing or online community manager job, of course.
• Go back to school! I just paid off all my student loans, let’s go back into debt!
• Become a professional game show contestant. I watched a lot of Family Feud yesterday, and the people on that show are idiots.
• Write more.
• Go for a walk every day.
• NOT drink more beer and play more WoW.
• Explore the exciting world of weird Craigslist contract writing gigs.
• Move to South America and start a new life on a beach. I suspect South America would be too hot for me, and have too many bugs, but it seems like the kind of thing one should have on a list like this.

Anyway, I am feeling upbeat. Change is good, right? Right.

Twttrpoop – “Are more people talking about their bowel movements than your company or personal brand?”

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The thing is, okay, I’m probably never going to be an astronaut or a race car driver. I’m fairly certain a career in the National Ballet is out, and as of yet I haven’t shown any innate aptitude to work in the diplomatic corps aside from an appreciation of Thai food. (My inner three year old is pleased to note, however, that I could still technically become a princess. William, I’m lookin’ at you. Call me.)

However, I have a pleasing amount of good friends and about enough social drama to make for a mildly interesting sitcom episode, which is all I could ever ask for. (”It’s Sex in the City only in Vancouver and with sensible shoes and a whole lot more discussion about various kinds of elves!”) I have a career that I don’t hate, Pet Shop Boys tickets, and a burgeoning New Wave station on Pandora. As my dear Mother would say: at least I have all my fingers and toes.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still a neurotic, vodka-swilling layabout who makes awkward life choices and has poor taste in pants and at the end of the day would probably rather be playing Plants vs. Zombies than almost anything else, but I guess lately I’ve felt that it’s not a bad gig, as far as they go.

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Here’s a nice review of the first volume of Empowered, Adam Warren’s fetishy twist on cheesecake superheroines. I picked this up based on recommendations from a couple of friends, and at first I loathed it. “Oh great”, I thought, “a comic about the trials and tribulations of being a gorgeous ditzy blonde. Boo flipping hoo.” I have to admit, though, that after about half of the book Emp kinda grew on me. Sure, she’s a superhero and supermodel and often kinda naked, but I can sympathize with being a manhandled self-depreciating screw-up who just wants everyone to get along. (So, yes, feminists can enjoy Empowered.)

I don’t have enough Twitter followers to work for BestBuy.

We have lasers!!!!!!!!!!

This is very geeky and very specific to Canadians, but: How to use your SSH account and PuTTY to tunnel to Pandora from Canada. It works for Hulu, too! Take that, international intellectual property laws.

Oh hey, Seanbaby still writes for the internet. Rad. This time it’s on Understanding the World of Warcraft Using Super Mario Brothers. (Note: vulgar and probably not amusing unless you play WoW.)

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I’ve often been tempted to post journal-y stuff here, with two problems:

1) People with different access levels to my life will see things that I perhaps do not want them to see. There are some topics that my dad for example is probably happy not knowing, not to mention strangers. Also, people might then ASK me about said information, and I am paradoxically driven to both write things and to loathe perceived invasions of my privacy. It’s impractical, but what can I say.

2) People will know I am writing about them. While I understand that I’m just using this space as a way to practice writing and work through issues, they may not see publication of their character in such a forgivable light. In fact, I can think of a couple of times that I’ve received very cross emails from people I know that start, “So I was reading your blog…”. I look forward to one day when I finally finish my book (note: this will never happen) and then sit back and see who recognizes themselves. “Oh, that character that looks like you and has a name like yours and is a callous wench? Homage! You’re welcome!”

Not to mention all my journally entries — and there are many of them, lying dormant in the drafts folder — are “woe is me” to the extreme. Does everyone realize that I am likely freaking out? What kind of person do I really want to be? Is that a dumb question to be asking yourself in your 30s? Am I overthinking this? Is this all there is to life? What if I’m like Neo in The Matrix only remarkably lamer, never realizing my true latent super power of making people happy or folding precision origami cranes or something? Why must the marketing blond in the next cube make that HORRIBLE CRUNCHING NOISE EVERY DAY AT 10AM AND OH GOD LIFE IS SO CRUEL.

I also watched Wanted this week, which was a mistake, granted, and the ending confused me. I think it was rather aggressively saying that we all need to take control of our humdrum drone lives and enact elaborate plans to kill our enemies using giant guns and impossible slow motion car acrobatics. (Hello, I do not even DRIVE.) It reminded me of when I first saw Fight Club and I while I appreciated the sentiments in that film I also thought, “Running around blowing stuff up and causing anarchy and being fabulous is all very nice, but if I destroy my IKEA bookshelves where will I keep my back issues of Spy?” Answer that one, Palahniuk.

Upon reflection, “adult life crisis” movies only seem to come in two flavors: you either shoot people and blow shit up, or you die à la American Beauty. It is something of an unpleasant choice. There needs to be some artistic middle ground wherein a person in their 30s realizes that life is kind of bleh, so maybe they dye their hair and meet a boy and make some friends and try to be a little more self-confident and have a few hundred drinks and muddle through.

Hmm. BRB, writing unpublished draft. Or blowing something up. Either way, I’ll be sure to avoid chronicling the results here in full emo glory.

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20 games that changed gaming forever. This features all the usual suspects, but it’s still a pretty nice concise list, and I enjoyed the nostalgia. After reading this I am struck with a deep need to pull out the ol’ console and boot up Mario 64. The game was damn near perfect when it came out.

I remember being awestruck over not having to stick to the set path of a platform game. I could run over here! Or over there! Get a couple of stars here, go get a few more there, do some thinking, some jumping.. it had something for everyone. The addition of hidden bonuses and extra stars, I think, helped herald in the current era of game achievements.

And I say all this that despite the fact that the racing penguin is my eternal nemesis. ONE DAY I WILL HAVE THE ADVANTAGE, RACING PENGUIN.
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Earlier this week a friend argued that the red leather jacket from Thriller is the most iconic music-related clothing ever, and I had a tough time coming up with a counter-argument. The closest thing I could think of was MC Hammer’s pants. So I suppose a link to MJ’s fashion legacy is in order. The glove(s) and epaulets industry will never be the same.

Also despite my angry rantings and impatience with the deification of celebrities, it really must be said that Billie Jean is a pretty perfect five minutes of pop music. I’m only human…

… but not human enough, I fear, to avoid linking to ismichaeljacksonazombieyet.com.
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I know this carnivore support group sign is making the rounds across the internets, but that’s because it’s damned funny. (Vegan-curious?!?! Give me a break.)
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Starting to realize that I’m getting old. There is a certain point after which you have to stop saying perkily, “30 is the new 20, you know!”

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But as I look at my Twitter, with Michael Jackson news interspersed with snippets from the streets of Iran and news stories of Kim Jong-il talking about bombing Alaska and I just don’t even know what to feel. There’s no Twitter rush to cover someone who dies during protests in another country (unless they’re a pretty girl). People in my office don’t start tearing up and hugging each other because another Somalian died in a turf war, or a Dad in the midwest dropped dead of a heart attack.

CNN didn’t do a bulletin blast when my Mom died. No one cared. And you know what? She was a better person than Michael Jackson. And yes, I feel qualified to say that.

So fuck you CNN. Fuck you Twitter, fuck you fucking western society fuckers. I’m sitting at my desk crying like an idiot, but it’s not for the famous names we lost today. It’s for those people who work and live and love and be good honest wonderful people and die, and no one makes a sound. Someone should cry for them.

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