And so, ladies and gentlemen, since she can’t give the community her traditional gift of a Christmas themed photo shoot, she’s devised a list of crafty things to do while glued to the couch. This list can be used by all of you fine people out there who need a source of entertainment and relief in times of strife and hardship. You’re welcome.
1. Look at as many pictures of Lindsay Lohan as humanly possible.
It will instantly make you fell less pathetic and sorry for yourself, for it will remind you that there are people out there who have it alot worse than you do. Try searching just her name in Google images, then when that gets too familiar start adding other keywords like “hair” “evolution” “before and after” and “face change.” You’ll discover some fascinating video compilations that are sure to hit the heartstrings and elevate that shrinking sense of self-worth. It’s also good for discouraging those of us who have considered regular intake of Oxycodone. Nobody wants to end up like LaLohan.
2. Finally buy all those expensive accessories you ditch at the checkout.
I don’t know about you, but I have this wonderful habit of going shopping for something I need, and ending up buying twelve things I don’t. My brain thinks its hitting the jackpot if I get fourteen big items for the price of one small item. I therefore end up with a plethora of shitty tank tops and no accessories to speak of. Not anymore, folks, not anymore. IOffer is the hottest new website (a la moi) where cheap bitches like me can buy expensive shit like Ray Bans & Michael Kors watches straight from Asia for $15 or less. Shop Therapy is highly recommended, but this way you won’t break the bank and still look like you’re a rich hot mama.
3. Knit dat infiniti scarf you’ve alway wanted gurl.
Stop boo-hooing because you can’t go outside and therefore rock that infiniti scarf you bought at H&M. All dem other hoes have it and have been flaunting it already. Instead, knit yourself an infiniti scarf to wear in three weeks when you can go outside. No one will have one like yours, because stores don’t sell scarves with holes in them. It’s the new thing. Get crafty, get knitting, and instagram your progress for crying out loud.
4. Stop eating sweets, for good.
Since you can’t get up and make your own meals anyways, now is the perfect time to cut out all that junk you keep saying you’ll swear off. Since mom and boyfriend are catering to your every edible need, ask them to only make dishes that include lettuce, celery, and Splenda. Since you shouldn’t be walking around, this will be the perfect time to test your will power; if you manage to get yourself to the pantry and sneak a cookie, you truly are a fatass.
5. Download the Snapchat app and send everyone in your contact list a dirty photo.
Download the Snapchat app for your Iphone or Android and never regret it. Take a photo or use one from your phone’s library of pre-existing juicy shots, then draw pictures or write text over the photo. Select how many seconds you want to permit the recipient to view the photo (bottom left corner), and send it off. When your friend or frenemy receives said photo, they can only view it for the alloted time before it dissapears into cyber space, FOREVER.
6. Plan an Ugly Christmas Sweater White Elephant Party at your house.
Since you won’t be able to attend all the other Christmas parties you’ve been invited to, make your own Christmas party that trumps them all. Make a Facebook event and disguise this pity party as the most awesome party of the year, and guilt all your friends into dropping their plans so that the party comes to you. Plus, since you’re recovering at your parents’ house you have the best pad to sway the crowd. Obvious decision.
7. Make some extra cash and become a short term drug dealer.
Text all of your friends something vague like, “yo, if you need to take the edge off, I just had surgery…hit me up.” Those who are already on the prowl for some painkillers will know what you mean. They will instantly become your bitches, and they’ll start to offer things you’d never expect. Friends you haven’t seen in months will show up to your house with six packs of beer, cookies, and gift cards to Starbucks. They will be all over your nuts in hopes of some sweet sweet relief. Pick your favorites, and overcharge them for your valuable goods. To keep the business rolling throughout your crippled time on the couch, distribute goods only once a day and ensure the entertainment and gift showering last as long as possible.
8. Finally write your secrets to Post Secret. And maybe someone else’s.
For those of you who don’t know what Post Secret is you’re basically dead idiots. People send in anonymous postcards or letters of their darkest secrets, and the website publishes them every Sunday, where we mere mortals can read them and feel better about our virtuous and decent lives. Do yourself a favor and send in every secret you have and then some. Make up obscure confessions like, “I painted my grandmother’s face blue in her sleep. Turns out she died that night.” Or, “I’ve always hated my elbows, and that’s why I stole my brother’s cancer fund.” Send them all in, and cross your fingers they all get published.
9. Re-Watch the first Season of HBO’s GIRLS. Then try to illegally download the second.
Everybody loves this show, and for good reason. If you don’t have HBO, use your pity card to get someone’s HBO premium password and watch them online. At first you’ll hate yourself for not being as cool as Jessa–she doesn’t know how to text and calls text messages word alerts, she’s British, and her name is Jessa for crying outloud. Then you’ll get more depressed because Shoshanna has the body god only gives sluts and your best friend, which is basically everybody but you. You will, however, grow steadily more confident as Hannah digs herself further and further into a hole each episode, and you’ll remember how lucky you are that your boyfriend doesn’t jerk off to you stealing his money and that you didn’t try to seduce and extort your boss in the same sitting. Or, you did, and now you feel less alone. Either way, we both know you’ve already failed number 4 on this list, so go ahead grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and get to it.
10. Use this as a free pass to watch a lot of Porn (I feel that Porn is a proper noun).
Seriously. You probably can’t have sex, whether you’re a lass or a lad. Your leg is fucked. But you’re human, and you have needs. Go on, I won’t judge you.
Hopefully these tips will keep you occupado long enough to not drown in your sorrow. Cheer up, you’ll get well soon.
XOXO Gossip Hurl]]>
I’m actually really enjoying my classes, and to my boyfriend’s delight I’ve developed a slightly less domesticated view of womanhood than I already had, which essentially means I’m now anti-sandwich and pro-make-it-yourself-you-lazy-bastard. Just kidding, Josh cooks for me, I couldn’t make a sandwich pre-anti-domesticity. But really, I have developed a huge understanding for a misunderstanding that I think permeates our culture, which is that the women’s movement was filled with lesbian, feminist penis-bashers, and that if you’re a feminist today you must be gay and take showers in quinoa. Well, I was wrong, and so are you. The women’s movement did not develop a feminist ideology until its second wave in the 1960s (oh here she goes, showin’ off her new-found knowledge, whoopdie doo I went to college too), and being a feminist did not mean you were a lesbian. In fact, many lesbians chose not to identify themselves as feminists and vice versa, as so many false media injections on both groups imposed ludicrous stigmas that neither one wanted to be associated with. Unfortunately, what goes down in history from the last fifty years or so is a direct result of media coverage, which is generally if not always framed to target a certain fearful or impressionable audience. This audience (us! the youth and their malleable brains!) has been trained over time to enjoy headlines that generate fear or the unlikeness of “others.” As a result, the media is concerned with attracting our wandering eyes, which latch on to the most horrific and disgusting stories we see.
So, historically speaking, feminists are bra-burning lesbians who hate men and anything to do with traditional roles of gender, including heterosexual marriages and subservient female roles. This is how history (and I’m referring to a wide, general informative structure called society) depicts the women’s movement. The same way I’m sure that Lindsay Lohan really is a sweet girl who didn’t mean to get such botched plastic surgery. Just kidding. You can’t fake La Lohan’s botched youth. I’m not a newfound feminist, and I’m not a lesbian (yet). But I think many people choose to use the label of feminist to brand independent women, and er-go impose upon them an idea of feminism that suggests something negative because of the bullshit we’ve read.
I truly used to think feminists were crazy. I believed that they hated men and all things phallic, and that their main goal in life was to berate girls like me who enjoy curling their hair (even though it takes so god damn long and no matter how much hairspray I use it falls flat within an hour). I felt this way to a point of anti-feminism, where I would outrightly announce my distaste for feminist thought. What I’ve learned, however, is that while there are those radical feminists whose goal it was in the 60s and 70s to rid society of a gender based hierarchy, without them I would not be sitting here struggling to write my college essay. Passionate, ruthless feminists who I claimed to find repulsive and personally attacking me for being feminine are the reason I’m considered an equal in my daily life. Truth be told, I still feel that there are opportunities presented to men that aren’t presented to me, and that its easier for men to get jobs than for a woman. Nevertheless, the world I live in today is of undeniable difference.
I suppose my trail of thought ties in to my original thought: Self-doubt. When I have to do a project, write a paper, or any other academic or professional endeavor, I experience overwhelming anxiety. There is a fear that I won’t be able to do it, I won’t know how to complete it or even where to start, and that I’ll fail somehow in the process. I feel like I’m not capable of doing the work, even though I’ve done every assignment and finished all the reading. There is no reason I should feel incapable, and yet my mind is telling me I can’t do it. My mom said she has the same problem, but for some reason my dad and my brother have no doubt in their mind they can do a task, and do it well.
There still, like I said, lingers this notion that as a woman I can’t automatically succeed without extra effort. I don’t care if you call this my own insecurity, because I’m sure that I share it with other women, and I can guarantee that the majority of you that will call my self-doubt a Rachel problem, not a woman problem, are men. I think, emphasis on the I, that there is still a consciousness that permeates female culture of not being as capable as men. We are constantly surrounded by successful, male authority, so why wouldn’t our brains develop the thought that its because of something inherent to gender?
So I sat down and wrote my paper. I tried my very Rachel-hardest not to think about doing it right or doing it well, I just wrote the damn thing. I have less anxiety now that there’s something on the page for me to work with, as I’m excellent at self-editing and re-working my thoughts. But generating self-assurance doesn’t happen in a couple hours, the same way sex-based society roles wouldn’t change overnight. My self-doubting mind block makes it harder for me to get my thoughts out on a blank page; it makes me afraid to speak my opinion, it makes me fearful of judgement, and I feel like I lack credible knowledge. So for those of you who feel like telling me I’m being a wuss, you’re shutting me down, and you’re wrong, because the previous is me not being a wuss. (I’m not using “pussy” to describe beeing “wussy” because its the female la la place and shouldn’t be associated with wussiness, the same way I won’t call you a dick for rolling your eyes, because its the male la la place and shouldn’t be associated with being a total turd bag. You’re welcome.)
So, istead of being a turd bag, you can rave about how great this blog post is, and share it with all your friends. You too boys.]]>
I’m in a Glamour Cycle.
A Glamour Cycle looks like this:
1. Let Yourself Go: drink lots of booze, eat many pounds of Menchies, don’t wash your face, show boys your beer belly.
2. Self Loathe: see a pretty girl, see a group of pretty girls, see how pretty girls always do their hair, see how pretty girls have nice clothes, see how pretty girls don’t bite their nails and get manicures. Compare.
3. Research: Instagram and Facebook stalk. Take screen shots.
4. Shop: max out your credit card on pretty things that make you feel fancy, try on things you’ll never wear, buy floral shorts, give in to impulse buys at the register.
5. Show Off: wear every new item of clothing and accessory at the same time to prove your sense of style, curl your hair, paint your nails, wear heels, sport baby prostitute perfume and matching lotion. Strut.
6. Boost Your Ego: accept compliments, assume people are talking to you because you look so damn good, assume people aren’t talking to you because they’re intimidated by you looking so damn good, flex in the mirror.
6. Lose Your Identity: question who you see in the mirror, feel less able to be a weirdo in your new outfits, assume people are ignoring you because they think you’re a poser-everyone knows you hate high heels, start to wonder if you really do look good with your hair parted in the middle, notice your pen is constantly scribbling the words, “Who Am I?”
7. Regret: check your credit card bill, soak the blisters on your feet, pick split ends, watch cheap jewelry fall apart before your eyes, look at old photos of yourself when you were happy-before you learned how to pose.
8. Rebel/Re-claim Your Identity: spontaneously get a hair cut, go to value village and buy clothes exclusively from the 60s to prove your unique identity, paint your nails rainbow colors, say things like, “YOLO,” de-activate your Facebook, make your Instagram private.
9. Self Loathe part 2: hate your girlish hair cut, wonder why you bought shirts that smell like mothballs, bite your nails off, party the pain away, wonder how a tank top could have ruined your sense of self.
10. Detox: sell all the clothes you bought and don’t need to consignment stores, regularly go to the gym, wash your face at night, drink water.
11. Question EVERYTHING: regret selling all those cute clothes, wish your hair was longer, vow to never get bangs again, ask yourself if its really THAT important to swear off fro-yo, swear you’re never going to get sucked into a Glamour Cycle again.
Some of you may relate to this cycle, while the majority of you will add this to your list of reasons not to get too close to me for fear that my condition may be contagious. Don’t worry, my doctor promised me you can’t catch crazy. I know that “style” is rather subjective, and that having good “style” is a matter of opinion, and while I don’t believe it reflects a person’s basic being, it is still an extension of their personality; what you wear says a lot about you, whether you like it or not. Don’t mistake what my reference to style with fashion; to me fashion connotes a scene that is associated with style, and I believe having your own sense of style is different than having good fashion sense. I think (and many times what I think is based off of assumptions, so don’t berate me for overusing “I think” as a preface to ensure that you know I’m completely aware that my statements are not factual or based off of any sort of research, and so that I can remove the necessity to explain myself to haters who are probably skimming this run-on sentence since I’ve put it in parentheses, which most of my readers know (ha, my readers…I’m such a cocky broad) is usually a warning that nonsense is about to ensue) that most people are under the impression that style is something that’s meant to stay consistent, and that people like me who can’t seem to make up their mind are obviously confused about who they are.
I’m not going to pretend my style is inconsistent or anything short of all over the fucking place; I’m a hippy one week, a diva the next, a total dude most of the time, a cowgirl, a vintage kook, cute and simple, rock and roll, what have you. I think in a way I do this because I’m not acting anymore–or I started because I was an actress and I’ve never stopped. I love to know what its like to be in someone else’s shoes. I like to understand why people act the way they do, and I’m fascinated with behavior that is so unlike my own. I wouldn’t say my style is inconsistent; I would say its consistent with all the pieces of me that make me Rachel; there are days when I just feel rougher than others, like I want to tackle everything face first and be a total beast. You’ll probably see me wearing a lot of black and leather around that time, because something about extending my mood to my exterior helps me unleash the full extent of my behavior. My daily attire is like dressing for a workout: I wouldn’t wear jeans or a dress to the gym, because for the best workout its probably smarter to show up in flexible material: I carry this mentality everywhere. Before I get dressed, without fail, I’ll ask myself, “what mood are you in?”
Maybe you can’t tell a lot about a person by what they wear, but you sure as hell can with this wacko. So if I show up to your house in all pink with a flower in my hair, I’ve probably baked you cookies and brought them in a whicker basket. I like that my style isn’t static, because neither am I. I’m a lot of different parts, and I don’t want to shut any of them out. What I’m not–and I know this–is Glamourous. That doesn’t mean the cycle won’t happen again, because I’m a creature of habit, and I’m incredibly cyclical. I’ve never thought of myself as glamourous, and I don’t think anyone else does, but it would be nice, just once, to walk through a busy street covered in fur and diamonds, and have everybody stop and think, “Gosh isn’t she glamorous.”]]>
What, you might ask, did you do to deserve to listen to me complain about the irritability that is my alarm and the subsequent issue I have which is overslumber? Okay, I’ll tell you! This morning I woke up with boogies in my eyes–that right there is enough to ruin a day, but I’ll keep going. My kitchen cupboard had no plates or utensils, since apparently every time I try to run the dishwasher it decides to take a siesta, so I had to eat my pancake off a paper towel like it was an elephant ear at the fair. But it wasn’t. It was the same pancake I’ve made every morning for the last two weeks since all I have to eat are rolled oats, eggs, and whey protein, and that’s about all you can make with those ingredients. I made a big pot of coffee and wasted half of it on the first cup when I smelled it and realized the sour soy milk I’ve been drinking has finally produced chunks, and while I’m okay with slightly expired I’m not okay with eating soy babies. When I poured my second cup, thinking I’d at least get one out of the pot, it filled my cup about 1/3 of the way. And then I got a parking ticket.
Alright, fine. I should have gotten a job this summer. I tried (ish) to find some work, but I was concerned with not knowing the level of schoolwork I would have, and knowing myself and my uber procrastination skills (oh boy what do you think we’re doing now do ya? Do ya think maybe miss Rachel has some…mmm…studying to do?) I was afraid I’d get too involved in work and neglect school, and ergo not finish my degree on time, which I made a promise to myself and my future employer I would do. So, I prioritized, lazitized, and got my school on. At first I was very diligent and rose promptly at 9:00am with sparkles in my eyes and a twinkle in my heart. After whipping together a delightful breakfast I would comfortably arrange myself in my living room, lit ever so beautifully by the summer sun shining through our balcony window. I spent the day working away, my fingers tippity tapping on the keys of my trusty Macintosh, my brain ticking away and absorbing each and every word my eyes scanned upon the pages of my schoolbooks. I allowed myself timely breaks for meals and intermittent text messaging to ensure the friends and family I was busy working away the hours. Come 4 or 5:00 I would prep a pre-workout meal, get changed into my full lulu-lemon gear, lace up my brand new Sauconys, pop the headphones for my iPhone 4g into my ears and climb safely into my reliable 2012 Chevy Malibu and head to the gym for a well rewarded workout. The days went on like this, glorious in their productivity and splendor, all the while me feeling like a total Boss and throwing dollar bills I didn’t own at Fage yogurts and six packs of beer. And then one day…
I know what you’re thinking. Poor little white girl with her fancy appliances and gym memberships and classy beer. Well let me show you how poor little white girl I can really be; get ready for some boo frickidy hoos right here, since this is the only place I’m allowed to preach my poor little white girl moments and then sit back and go “phew, I’m so lucky I’m just a little white girl with a sleeping problem.” I was feeling so ballin’ my first couple weeks of school that I blew my existing money on those lavish meals I made myself, drove my car around blowing gas like I had my own god damn oil source, lost two pairs of headphones and cracked the screen of my 15th iPhone, watched my trusty Macintosh die before my eyes, and sloshed through mud in my new sneaks to the point where they look just as scrubby as the pair they replaced, (don’t worry mom, they still work as good as new) and now I don’t have enough money to buy myself food for breakfast, replace my soy milk, get legitimate dish-washing detergent, pay my parking ticket, replace my phone, power wash my shoes and the lulu lemons I wear to the gym every day, or buy new underwear. (I know the underwear is completely off topic, but I really need some new underwear.)
Redundant city, Rachel, we get it. You don’t have any money. That’s because you don’t have a job. But it sounds like you have a pretty fucking nice car, a coffee machine, a laptop, a god damn place to sleep, and you still have your gym membership, so I don’t see what your snooty little white girl problem is. Well I’ll tell ya. (We’ve heard that before…shut up and let me yap.) My problem is that I subconsciously feel responsible (or irresponsible) for not being self-sufficient enough to fix the issue at hand, which is money. On the other hand, there’s that rebel-fuck-the-man part of me that says I don’t need fancy shit; I have a place to sleep, I have some food to eat, and I’m totally living just fine. My problem is I go back and forth. I can’t make up my mind about which lifestyle or outlook I want, so I end up buying fancy shit that needs the support of a higher income. If I really made the decision to stick it to the man, I wouldn’t have replaced my dead Macintosh, and I would still be using a cell phone circa 2001. I wouldn’t have a gym membership; I’d workout outside. There is a part of me that likes things. I like being able to check the weather on my phone, and I like wearing cute pants to the gym. Guilty. But there’s also a part of me that feels like I don’t need any of this shit, and I find myself wanting to get rid of all of it and be a nomad.
I think this society demands and invites want over need; In a world (and by world I mean the small one of the great ‘ol USA) where everything has a quick fix and there are deadlines and time constraints and everyone has the ability to finish tasks immediately and conveniently, I believe I would find myself lost behind without the “necessary” products. However if I lived in one of the small cities I visited in China where no one has a schedule and the Internet is PG, I wouldn’t feel like I needed the objects I want in this particular world. It would be a slower life. I teeter totter between wanting the fast and slow, and I feel myself slowing down these past couple weeks. Everything feels too fast; like the world around me is speeding ahead of me and I’m not inclined to keep at pace; perhaps I’m sleeping in from guilt or perhaps I’m hoping if I don’t wake up I won’t have to start moving just yet, because I’m craving something slower.
Or maybe I’m just sleeping in, and its me Rachel, over thinking the world.]]>
I have been caught in a world of judgment. This is an odd place for me to be in, since I’ve never lived here nor have I ever wanted to move here. It’s a strange land really, filled with criticism and disdain and generally dark and muted colors, which if you ask me suits no one in this beautiful weather we’re having. What the fuck are you talking about, Rachel? One might ask. Ah, but don’t you always? What I mean to say, or what I say to mean, is that I’ve been judging every mother fucking person around me like it’s my righteous duty.
This is the part where I go through a self discovery through deep writing and pretentious punctuation in order to uncover the true meaning behind my judgmental bitchiness, but since I already wrote this blog and I have a head start, let’s cut the bullshit.
I have this notion that everyone aspires to be a good person. In my twisted, sexy, super smart, mysterious, genius, hot, awe-inspiring (dare I go on?) mind, the people around me and the ones I haven’t met and all else that is holy are on a quest for benevolence. So, in consequence to this way of thinking, I perceive people’s actions as either intention or neglect to being good. Now, before I move forward in my authority to deem who’s actin’ good and who’s not, let me define ‘good,’ for this is where my second error lies. Next to assuming everyone strives to be ‘good,’ I’ve assumed everyone’s definition of good is equivalent to mine. So, just so you all know what I’m talking about, I will define Rachel’s Good:
Rachel’s Good adjective (ræ/chülz/gŭd) : Generally compassionate, attentive to other’s needs, considerate and timely, generous and selfless, kind and understanding (especially when bitches are going through PMS and they be rippin’ hoes heads off ‘n shit), inviting and unjudgmental, fair and willing to compromise, philanthropic and honest, and of course, hot and sexy. Example: “Rachel Godbe is so good.”
Everybody get the gist? Here’s the thing: I’m not all good—according to me. I suppose for myself, Rachel’s Good is what I aspire to be, so when I’m not up to standard with one of my all holy traits, I get out of flux. I.E. I put myself in a pickle by using my own idea of perfection against me: I’m being a judgmental slut. In such a Rachel-like cyclical-sick manner, I’ve imposed my idea of ‘goodness’ on everyone around me and used severe judgement as a means to do so. Well, congratulations dummy, because now not only are those around you not Rachel’s Good like you so irrationally want them to be, but neither are you, and that’s the real problem.
Yesterday I spent an hour with a student at Romeo & Juliet rehearsal working a monologue in which Shakespeare so brilliantly writes, “Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask, Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance, and thou dismember’d with thine own defence.” Alas an old white guy once again has prophesied mine own demise; that my wit–my mind–the very thing that I hold so dear and value over everything else (yes, even over my stunning figure and adorable chuckle), is the one and only thing that gets in my way; I use it against myself. Why oh why do I do this? Why do I preach a way of being and then so blatantly accuse other people of disobeying an imaginary set of ideals I created, when by making such accusations I’m shattering these ideals myself? What hypocrisy! Lunacy! Heresy! Dare say! Drag race! What I do believe occurs in this magical place that I call my brain, is that where I unconsciously lack an ideal/moral/value/whathaveyou that I hope to see in myself in constant–i.e. the metabolic resting state of my moral being—I subconsciously impose this lack of character on those around me, finding flaw where they might also not be so ‘good’ so that I’m not the only fuck up.
That’s pretty un-good of me. I have to remind myself that in any relationship, any interaction (with my students, my roommate, the woman who I call about my insane Comcast bill, the guy I shoot heroin with in the alley behind my triplex, or the bitch who’s throat I cut cos she touched my main man), I can behave at %100 of my ‘good’ capacity, and their choice to reciprocate is their own and I should respect it; not only that, but I should be open and aware to the fact that not everyone’s reciprocation will emulate or mirror my ‘good.’ In fact, the majority of the people I come in contact with on a daily basis have priorities far different than mine and I can’t expect them to operate with similar intentions as me. Sort of like Hitler. Just kidding. But not really.
And here I find myself where I always do at the end of a brain dissection: Sometimes I go for weeks without zooming out; I forget to take a step back and remember how much easier it is to just open my mind and accept what’s going on around me. I filter and I filter and sift through events deciphering every detail until I conclude that the world is out to get me and my brain will set on fire if I don’t escape from it. One day-luckily-I remember to step back and say, “this is just your life. It’s nothing more complicated than that.”]]>
It’s not that I sleep better because of what the new setting is; I sleep better because of what it’s not: mine. The connotation of something being mine makes me responsible for it. For the sake of this discovery, the room I sleep in is responsible for my slumber. So if I sleep well in your room, well congratulations to your room, it must be amazing! If my sleep sucks in your room, its not my fault, the room and I must just not feng shui. So if I have a poor rest in my own creation, the room I built and decorated and arranged and inhabit, then there must be something wrong with me. It means I’m incapable of creating a livable space for myself and cannot vitalize a healthy environment in which I can happily fall asleep. What does it say about me, if I’m not comfortable in my own room?
A few times out of every year (this is a huge generalization I’m making because “every once and a while” seems too often and “there are times” implies too long of an episode, and “a few times out of every year” makes me seem less pathetic and more manly, because I’m tough) I find myself avoiding sleeping at home. I go to my parent’s house for the weekend, sleep at a girlfriend’s a few nights out of the week, crash on a couch somewhere after a party, wherever it is, as long as it’s not my house/dorm/car/alley downtown/brothel/etc I’m anxiety free. Lately, I’ve been experiencing a lot of anxiety. Luckily I’ve seen her before so it’s easy to spot the ugly bitch from a mile away. She generally likes to punch me in the brain and try to make me cry, to which I say, “kindly fuck off, there is nothing wrong with my life and you’re not wanted here.” She usually responds with fancy footwork and toys with my emotions, telling me everything will be okay then stabbing me in the back with her Worry Knife and whispering terrifying “what ifs” into my dreams like the lying ho-bag she is. I have pretty good weapons to fight her that I’ve collected over the years, and I’ve studied some top secret fight moves to ward her off, but this time she’s ruthlessly attacking a part of me I’ve never had to defend before and I’m finding that it’s bruising too easily.
I bet you can guess what comes next–they’re finally hospitalizing me for insanity. Just kidding. But if you let out a sigh of relief on that line, you can go fuck yourself. Lately I’ve also been searching for ways to sleep away from my room. And it’s only now, when my slutty nut-fucker friend is paying me a visit, that I correlate the two. My room is mine. I built it from scratch; it was an empty space that could go in any direction, and it was up to me and me alone to mold it into something of my own. So I put my bed in the room, and a bureau I’ve had for years, a tapestry I bought in New York when I was trying to be bohemian, a mirror for gazing into my own eyes, an American Flag inspired by my roommate’s bedroom, a small rug I thought was cool because it was from Urban Outfitters, some photos with white borders to appear hipster vintage, a Buddha statue I bought when I wanted to be a zen Yogi master, and a closet full of clothes that were bound to make me a fashion model. I built the room in hopes that it would appear put together, cozy, cute, fashionable, cool, inspired, whatever. I based my bedding and decorations and trinkets off of multiple different rooms, not ever deciding or knowing which one I really liked. I built the room for it’s appearance, and not for me to live in.
I did just this to myself. For the last couple of months I’ve been so focused on what outfit to wear, what haircut to get, what cell phone to have, what shoes to buy that I’ve built some facade or look or appearance for the world around me. I built somebody else’s exterior and now I want to sleep somewhere else, because it’s not my own. In my mind’s eye I tried to erase the decorations that weren’t mine and the fashion trends that I blindly elected to follow to see what I was left with. Not a whole lot. It was at this point that my whore bag poopfaced friend knocked me out on my floor and left me to cry myself to sleep. Cool, that’s not what friends do, but whatever.
I woke up the next morning to go see my doctor. She asked me in that sickly sweet “I’m-so-empathetic-I-really-understand-how-hard-this-must-be-for-you-do-you-need-a-hug” voice what was ‘going on,’ to which I told her “Gimme a therapist doc, I’m goin under.” Then we exchanged high fives, she gave me a list of miracle workers and sent me on my way. I used to be pretty anti-therapy, but from experience I’ve learned that even though I’m the only solution to my problem, sometimes I need help finding that solution. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being sad sometimes, it’s a point on the spectrum of human emotions, and if I never felt it I think that would be more grounds for worry than some unwanted anxiety slutface good-for-nothing ass puncher. What I do think there’s something wrong with (erg, I don’t like “wrong with” because there’s nothing “wrong with” me, but I’m too tired and lazy to find a better Rachology for it) is feeling a loss of identity. I’m someone with a very strong sense of identity, so when it feels faded or stifled somehow, of course I’m going to be unhappy.
Last night I was laying in my manfriend’s bed while he packed for his trip to the lovely Coopersburg, PA, pondering the cause of my identity crisis . Was it that I didn’t like myself? No, I wasn’t experiencing any low self-esteem, which I think warrants a huge award from all my thousands of readers, as you all know I’ve dabbled in some hefty self-hatred and poor esteem, so a big round of applause and trophy and cash reward for this guy! Do I hate my internship? Heck no, I love those kids, I should be taking full advantage of having fun all day! Am I having relationship issues? As if, I love my friends and my manfriend’s the manliest. So what is the source of my identity funk? Laying there, I remembered a line from the movie “HUGO,” (which I only watched the first half of because it sucked, just like the shitty robot in it that could only write stuff and draw a moon with rocket shaped dildos in its mouth) where the main kid says, “Maybe that’s why a broken machine always makes me a little sad, because it isn’t able to do what it was meant to do…Maybe it’s the same with people, If you lose your purpose…it’s like you’re broken.” What’s my purpose? Well fuck right now I don’t have one. I guess to finish school, but that’s just a goal I’ve made. It’s not Rachel motherfucking Godbe’s Purpose. What am I meant to do? What am I passionate about? All I could think of was travelling. To see the world, as much of it as I possibly can before I die.
Ok. So make it happen, dummy. Make your life important again, give it purpose, and in doing so Rachel will fill in the spaces that feel lost. I haven’t lost Rachel, I’ve just lost focus on giving her what she needs. I told my BFF Kate that my new motto was to treat myself and feed myself the way I would my own baby (to which she responded “that’s a shitty motto, you should have aborted that thing before it was too late.”). Right now I’m treating myself like a plastic mannequin without a face. It’s time to feed my identity, it’s time to make my room my own, and gosh darnit it’s time I fell asleep in it.
Does this mean she’s gonna start wearing floral dresses from Value Village with Birkenstocks every day again? The readers asked. I guess you’ll just have to wait for the sun to come out.]]>
1. Passive Aggressiveness
2. Beating Around the Bush
3. Making me Wait
4. Interrupting Others
5. a) NOT LISTENING TO RULES
5. b) Not Following Rules
6. Not Doing Something Because it’s Against the Rules
7. Flaking Out on Plans
8. Lies, LIES, LIES I TELL YOU
9. When What I Ordered at a Restaurant isn’t What I Expected
10. Overflowing Toilets
See, I don’t ask much. It’s really a matter of being considerate; the Golden Rule is far too overlooked, and as trite as it may be it applies to everything. Plus, it’s Golden. Would you like it if I continuously interrupted you while you tried to explain to me the rules of your favorite game, Settlers of Catan? Absolutely not. You’d get furiously frustrated, shoot short sharp responses to what I can only imagine to be my dull, irrelevant, and dimwitted questions, until eventually you’d grit your teeth and speak calmly as not to frighten me, “You know what, let’s just play the game and you’ll learn as we go.” I have ruined the game for you, and now the entire event is tainted with my stupidity and rudeness. Tsk Tsk.
Now let me make one thing clear for those of you who think I am a saint and could never commit one of my own pet peeves, for you see me in a heavenly light, floating above you in a silver gown and gently singing Elton John’s greatest hits in your ears: I am just as much at fault for peeving as those who smite me with their childishness. Shocking, I know. There are a few peeves I’ve conditioned myself to avoid; I’m a phenomenal listener, I’m always early, I follow the rules but I know when to break them (like stealing free cookies from the grocery store, thanks Safeway!), and I rarely tell a lie. (I almost said “never,” but that would be false. You see, I’m so honest.) That being said, I’m just as guilty as you low-lives for a couple of the worst peeves yet.
I’ve already blogged about my inability (its not like a handicap, it’s just hard for me) to say what I want, so we won’t delve into that pit of death again. Where I’d like to dig a hole, where I’d like to find the roots and seeds and unearthly stem, is under the god awful weed I call “The Flake.” The Flake tells you he’s coming to the bar at 10:00. At 10:30 The Flake tells you he’s on his way. At 11:00 The Flake tells you he got sidetracked, he’s leaving soon. At 12:00 The Flake tells you, “you know what, it’s too late, I’m not coming.” The Shittier Flake doesn’t return your calls, texts, tweets, FB messages, AIM messages, pages, or pigeon carriers, but at that point you’re an asshole because you haven’t realized your friend hates your guts and you’re a desperate loser who should get out of the Chatroom and join a rec softball league.
The Flake lives in all of us. He lives in you, he lives in me. He is that voice whispering in your ear, “Just say you’ll go, if something better comes up you can change your plans.” His whisper sounds a little like Dane Cook; “Say you’re attending that Facebook event so no one will bug you about going, then, DON’T GO.” He’s maniacal and convincing; “This couch is so comfy…my sister will forget I didn’t show up to her wedding in a day or two.” The voice makes us believe that if we give up the couple of hours the party will take, if we spend a whole day an hour away from the city on a hike, if we take a month off to travel to Norway, we will miss out on something back home.
I have a huge fear of “missing out.” I fear that if I take three luxurious months off of work or school, pack my important belongings in a backpack (underwear, camera, journal, bunny suit, a compact friend, and 92 Chocolate Dipped Coconut Luna Bars), fly to the Northern-most tip of Europe, dangerously (but with fervor and zest) trek my way South until I reach the Mediterranean, get incredibly tan and sprout the most delicate of freckles, meet old couples taking their last trip before they die, wishing only to see the planet that for 87 long years created and nurtured them until this moment, I will miss out on what happens at home. Three months seems like a long time to be gone, but when I think back on the two and a half YEARS I’ve been home since I left New York and how long ago it feels that I was a fat 142lb 19 year old with bushy eyebrows and no sense of style (have you seen me now? Snazzatron.) who was completely miserable and thought the highlight of my day was when Lifetime played Grey’s Anatomy from 1pm-5pm, I realize that three months is a heartbeat in the longevity that is my life to come.
The monotony of my day to day life has become a crutch; it’s now the stability I latch to when something unfamiliar comes along. It’s not that I might miss out on all the activities my friends will do without me if I’m absent, or the parties I won’t get drunk at, or the clubs I won’t be president of, or the gossip I won’t spread willingly, (okay, yes, I would be very upset to know that my BFF told my BF that her BFFLYLAS went to HG Lodge and got so drunk she LOLed in LMFAO’s face, who was oddly on Capitol Hill) it’s that I’m leaving the familiar and entering the unfamiliar. Let’s zoom out for perspective’s sake: if every weekend I pregamed in West Seattle, said I was going to take it easy, ended up getting smashed and going to the bars on Capitol Hill, cabbed home, and spent the next day mulling around the QFC, that would be my “familiar.” Keyword, “if.” On Monday you say, “hey Rachie bo bachie banana fana fo fachie, favorite girl who is so cool and pretty and smells like roses and sex on a stick, let’s play a pickup game of soccer this weekend.” And I’m like, “totally, inferior friend with less wit and charm, I’m game!” (Puns!) Then, come Saturday, I’m like, “yo, inferior, I’m too hungover, let’s rain check for another weekend.” Boom, I’m back in the QFC. Because it’s safe. Because they have security. And because they have powdered donut samples in the bakery, and I’m still 142lbs at heart.
Now let’s say every weekend I played soccer on Saturday, and you asked me to go out Friday night. Again, I could easily flake out on you because I don’t want to be hungover for my very important soccer game the next day. ALAS. What is my point? Such a wonderful question, I’m so glad you asked, because I wasn’t quite sure. Here’s my point: If you say you’re going to play soccer on Saturday, I don’t give two shits if you went out drinking the night before. You better put your fucking shingards on. If you would rather get hammered and eat donuts, that’s totally fine, but don’t commit to being my 9th player and leave me looking like the douche who said she had a fill-in for our star player who couldn’t make it because he’s in Cabo sipping Piña Coladas, like an asshole.
If you don’t follow through, if you become The Flake, I no longer depend on you, and Dependability is completely overlooked by our generation. Seriously, we find excuses to get out of everything. Well cut it out shitheads. I’m a shithead too, sometimes it’s hard to refuse an offer, especially if it involves Mayonnaise and Zac Efron, but if you know you’re not able to follow through (I SO WOULD FOLLOW THROUGH), just say you can’t. That way, when the wolf really comes to eat your face off, someone will believe you and that semi-pretty complexion of yours will be %100 safe, guarunteed.]]>
Well, Paul, I would but unfortunately I treated my last improv gig with the same respect a shitty girlfriend would her boyfriend, toying with their emotions, making promises to attend shows then rescheduling last minute, putting all my time and commitment into the relationship initially then slowly fading out until a long needed break-up was made, followed with a plea for the company to take me back because I’d changed and “this time I wouldn’t leave them.” I don’t know how many times that world renowned promise has been kept, but humans have a tendency to be repeat offenders. I have a horrible habit of fully committing to a project or a job, having every intention of riding out the task with valor and dignity, galloping out the other end stronger and wiser with a following of thankful praising peers, then finding a reason (either to stroke my conscious or convince who I’m working for) to back out and quit before its over.
Correction: I find a reason to quit when it gets hard.
This morning in the car I was talking to my boyfriend about exhaustion and pain, and how with age its not (only) that the exhaustion and pain we experience increases, but that our comprehension of the feelings we associate with those words strengthens, allowing our minds to consciously associate our feelings with their connotations in language. For the next two weeks I’ll be at SAAS long hours for tech and dress rehearsals of the highschool production, and I was recalling how in highschool I hardly felt exhaustion after the show ended and all was said and done. After further thought, I realized that perhaps I was more exhausted than I recognized then, because my brain hadn’t yet learned that the “exhaustion” I experienced was what “adults” (if I have to explain why adults is in quotations you clearly shouldn’t read my blog) understand to be the culmination of hard work, long hours, little sleep, poor nutrition, and a list of other “uncomfortable” experiences, to which we come to the conclusion that should we be in a state of “exhaustion,” we are “uncomfortable.”
Similarly, when I was younger and a challenge presented itself to me, (we’ll call this pre-exhaustion for continuity’s sake) I sensed that the task was difficult but I couldn’t (by adult standards) immediately identify it as “uncomfortable” the way I do now. I could feel something was hard–like preparing for a show–but instead of intellectualizing what was hard, how it was hard, the consequences for not doing well, worst and best case scenarios, all the character work and scenework and memorizing involved–whatever was needed to get over the challenge at hand, I just moved forward through the “uncomfortable” unknowingly struggling. I never knew something better was on the other side, but without any context for my feelings, I just worked until I was finished. And what’s more, that “something better,” that exhaustion dressed up in pride and a sense of accomplishment evolved and disappeared behind the disguise of “uncomfortable.”
I don’t know when the shift happened from blind perseverance to oversensitive caution, but I approach challenges very differently now. I perceive every difficulty with all my senses, slowly unveiling the experience all around me as though I can see and hear and taste every facet of the challenge, experiencing every detail as though its being hammered into my brain with new reasons not to (for lack of a better word) overcome. Now that I’m an “adult” and I so foolishly have intellectualized everything I’ve been doing for the last eight weird years I’m able to recognize when “uncomfortable” is about to strike. My instinct is to protect myself from from discomfort, from discouragement, from unhappiness…Somewhere between highschool and highschool (oh look, nothing has changed you freak) I learned that if I finished something, no matter the outcome, I would have to take responsibility. That there is a chance I’ll look foolish, untalented, stupid, and plain bad, because I won’t always be the best.
Oh look at how well I’ve procrastinated! That was all a big bru-ha-ha for you in order to manipulate you into understanding and empathizing with the true case at hand which is I’m being a big pussy! I’ve been fighting the thoughts hammering in my brain for the last few weeks telling me not to audition for the Theater of Puget Sound’s General Auditions this February. Its an open audition that auditors from 30 or more theater companies and producers attend to watch us mere little actors try to stand out among the 200 some auditioners and make an impression for present or future productions. Its a wonderful opportunity for someone like me, who hasn’t worked in the industry professionally (let alone been on stage in two years) to just get my butt on stage and feel again what it’s like to be in the spotlight. That tender warmth of light inviting me to be whoever I want, to shamelessly demand attention to inspire and invoke pain and pleasure while ascending to the utmost pinnacle of relaxation and connection. Its the greatest thrill I’ve ever felt, and yet I’m terrified to cash in a freebie to get my high.
The deadline to apply is February 1st. Tomorrow. I decided I was going to audition three weeks ago. For three weeks I have found as many reasons as possible not to audition. I have found monologues, worked on them, then berated myself for being the worst actress ever, for forgetting how to emote, for not using the skills I teach every day in class. I’ve stared at the stage at SAAS for hours daydreaming about how fantastic I’ll be, imagining myself in the light once more. I’ve taken the nonchalant route, convincing myself that even if I do the bear minimum I’ll probably be better than some actors, and all that matters is that I finish. But I want to be the best. I want to work, I want to challenge myself, and I want to be proud of myself when I’m done. But everytime I open a book of monologues, I chicken out and get frustrated, putting it off for another day. Because I’ve sense-memoried that moment, of finding a monologue, of memorizing, of finding objectives…I know what comes next…I know how “uncomfortable” it feels.
Tough shit, Rachel. You might not be the best. You might suck balls. You might shit your pants on stage. (There’s a second for everything.) But you signed up for the auditions yesterday, so now you have to do it, and by god if you’re not uncomfortable, you’re not working hard enough.]]>
So I’ve been stretching. There’s a few hidden gems—blogs so epic in material and execution that I chose not to reveal them to the public for fear you’d feel inferior to their genius—that are left unfinished on this very server. Blasphemy, one might think, for such an eloquent young woman to keep prized revelation and thought transcendency from us, the naiive audience. Just as good high school students write first and second drafts before the final revision, I too, must behave in such a mature fashion, and trust that not all my work needs publishing.
—I paused here for a brief moment to paint my nails grey and take a sip of microwaved coffee out of an orange mug with butterflies and flowers on it. Back to the drawing board!
Getting “back in the groove” (is that how it goes?) “back in the swing of things” (always in reference to prestigious dance eras) “back in the saddle again” (less and less do these idioms relate to getting back in the flow of writing. I must be grooving in the swinging saddle again!) is not the easiest thing; for starters I’ve been trying to get back in the groove of having a six pack for the last 22 years. I don’t think I need to clarify how that’s working out. Returning to a hobby or craft that once poured from my creative mind and pooled perfectly into a finished result is frustrating when I’m out of practice; the mind feels incapable or somehow plain bad at its previous skill. So, I’ve had to practice.
First step: Overcoming Discouragement. Easy for me when the discouragement is self-inflicted; difficult to damn near impossible if the discouragement is an outside source…but that’s another story. I recognize that everyone experiences feeling rusty, and that not only am I human for losing touch with my hobby, but I’m super-human for trying to get back at it. Discouragement refuted, ego boosted.
Second step: Willingness to Abandon. This one is trickier for me. I have a hoarder’s heart with Megan Fox’s body, and it’s difficult for me and my big sexy hair to give up on any idea, no matter how small or undeveloped. But just as Megan Fox only accepts Academy Award worthy roles, I too must abandon some trains of thought.
Third step: Keep Trying. Though unpracticed in “the man’s” world, I am rather diligent in my own world. I will not “keep trying” to find my career path, and I will “stop trying” to live a conventional life. Yesterday I told my beautiful boyfriend that I’ve felt monotonous over the past month or so, and it’s because I’ve “started trying” to live conventionally when what makes me happy is to “keep trying” to be diligent in my own wacky world. I try by making different choices, and every choice I make is my own little experiment.
Choices are personal desires played publicly and they are the bravest thoughts we have; they’re difficult to make because in doing so we’re owning up to their potential disaster. (I realize this is a tangent, but I’m massaging my mind and you get to watch it happen.) I’ve met many passive aggressive people, generally those people are of the indecisive nature—”I don’t care what we do, you decide.” They protect themselves from potential disaster by actively opting out of the choice-making process. Additionally they remain invulnerable to a situation where their desires could be judged or shut down; a choice is not only a risk but a statement of personality. I’ve been at fault for this myself: I’ll omit my choice thinking I’m bowing down to someone else’s needs, which I tend to put before my own. Subconsciously I think that by letting others choose I’m immersing myself in their world, when in fact I’m shutting them off from my own.
This is something I’m very good at. People-pleasing is a common ‘quality’ amongst us and yet I find it to be a disease of the insecure. Pleasing others alone is passive-aggressive, and counter-intuitive if the object is to make relationships: if we’re always doing what you want to do, how could you ever get to know me at all? For someone like me who’s been a PP most of my awesome booming radical sweet bitchin’ life, it’s a struggle to break out of the habit and become assertive with what I want. After growing accustomed to under-choosing, making choices for myself felt selfish, and finding a balance continues to take practice.
I feel really good today. I woke up early, I took out the trash, I listened to the neighbors bitch about the track marks I left in the alley from dragging the trash, I “cleaned” the tracks, I made coffee, I blogged, I went to the gym, I made meals for myself, and the whole time I couldn’t wipe a grin from my face. I made choices and stuck to them; nothing felt wishy-washy or half-assed, and I feel brave and excited to be comfortable in my skin. While these daily activities might seem arbirtrary to you, feeling confident in my choices is for me the equivalent pivotal experience of the day I pulled my depressed ass out of bed. It is so hard for me to say what I want. It is the pinnacle of Rachel’s vulnerability and she fears being vulnerable above all (yes, even above never having a six pack).
Several months ago my manfriend told me he’d love for once to hear what I wanted to do. Several months ago this rubbed me the wrong way, and it made me even less inclined to speak my mind. I was being stubborn and he was right; I rarely spoke up about what I wanted, whether it was what I felt like eating or whether or not we raged that night, but I refused to think that voicing my opinion was the better option over nurturing his desires. I admire that he makes strong choices. He knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to say it; I wouldn’t say he consciously inspired me to speak up, but since then I’ve noticabely felt more and more comfortable vocalizing my desires and making choices I might have previously let fall to the wayside. It feels really fucking good.
Usually blogging is a visual discovery of the changes I go through; whether its dealing with anxiety or pure joy I scatter these obstacles on paper and watch them create a picture. It’s been so long since I’ve blogged that I thought I had “stopped trying” to uncurl my thoughts, when I in fact was uncurling them all along with the use of the intangible world around me. Maybe it’s been a while since I’ve posted a blog because I felt out of practice, maybe I’ve been given the gift of a companion who helps me practice my thoughts in reality, or maybe its both. Either way, I’m falling into a balance between my thoughts and my actions, and getting in the swing of that is the grooviest of all.]]>
Unfortunately, I can’t break up with Cactus and be single and mingle. I’m forced to be in a relationship I don’t want to be in until I find someone better to ask on a date. Once I manage to find someone worthy of my courtship I’m then faced with potential rejection, and so the idea of even bothering to look seems daunting. It’s easier for me to keep my job. Ahoy, this is why I’ve been perusing the Craigslists. I’ve felt so unnervingly bored with my day to day life; there’s no challenge, no obstacle, no burden no nothin! I know I should be thanking Jesus that my life is simple and worry free: I haven’t blogged in months for that very reason. I have no anxiety to untangle, no loneliness to fill, no unhappiness to remedy…It’s not that I’d like any of that crap to contaminate my life again, I’m happier than ever and my mind is clear; I’d simply like a goal, something to reach for, because it feels like I’m resting.
SO. Whilst I sit here on my fat (FAT) ass moseying on through my days, slowly dying a slow Cactus death and painting pictures of my 80 year old self serving fajitas with my fake degree from Evergreen, I wonder how I can add a little spice to my life. (TOOK A LONG PAUSE HERE TO GLANCE AROUND THE KITCHEN AND PLAY WITH MY BELLYBUTTON). I should worry less about what my job is going to be when I grow up. Because a year ago today I would never have dreamed I’d be where I am now, in fact I probably thought I’d be living in Alex’s old smelly cat studio on Eastlake chain smoking on the back patio. Instead I live with two of my best friends in a gorgeous place footsteps from the Junction, I’m going back to school to get my degree (even if the President’s signature on the bottom is his baby’s handprint in paint), I’m crazy in love, and healthy in mind and body. Okay, I’m trying to make myself feel better, but you can go fuck yourself if you thought my blog served any other purpose than to nurture my woe-are-mes. But fo really doh, I can’t assume a year from now will be anything like I imagine it will, and letting what may or may not happen affect my daily life is a waste of precious moments.
Luke, I thought of you today while I wished my toes were in the sand somewhere and feeling disengaged from the working world; I’m reminded of the swift turn life can take after a simple phone call, that dwelling on tomorrow or yesterday isn’t as glorious as filling this moment with as much love and joy as I can. Maybe it was your youth, or maybe you were born with a little something extra, but you gave every minute of your life such an infectious sparkle. You could make a room full of people feel suddenly present and alive; you breathed technicolor.]]>