I have seventeen half-finished drafts and a mind that skitters ferociously from one topic to the next wanting to share all the thoughts and feelings I have burbling inside, but unable to sift through the sludge and extract a single topic thread.
I want to talk about race. About gender. About The Walking Dead and Empire and Blackish. About parenting. And homeschooling. And creating helpless narcissists who can’t wipe their own butts at 21. I want to tell you all the thoughts I’ve been having and all the questions they have been raising.
I want to talk about fat. About body image. About how you really can be unhappy with your body, but not yourself. About how not one thing in the whole damn world is black and white except newspapers and zebras and dalmatians and Ansel Adam’s photographs. And that we all hate this puppy-killer, obvs squared.
Not a nerd? Don’t know who this motherfucker is? Do you love puppies? Because this guy will kill them and serve them to you for breakfast. Black. White.
I want to talk about how people are so extremely awesome. And about how they can be so extremely the other way. About how amazing it would feel to spend a week in solitude, reading and napping in the shade on a sunny island with lilac scented tradewinds. About how that is not anywhere within the realm of possibility. And about how you manage to reconcile those two things without opening a vein.
So, what do I do when I want to write – to connect – but depression has squashed my ability to organize and express thought coherently? I go back to basics, baby.
Handjobs and Cadbury mini eggs.
Friday fluff, bitches. Join me or be a puppy-hating servant of evil.
You can find toxhakayoi’s complete survey on Bzoink if you want to answer the boring questions in addition to the following.
What happens when we die?
The first time or the time when Daryl Dixon puts a bolt through our zombie brain with his sweet, sweet sculpted arms?
I am a want-to-believer. Who is also an agnostic. Which basically means, I don’t know shit. But I hope to have all my peeps, a lifetime(eternity, bitches) of Cadbury mini eggs and butter, handjobs for all and the ability to read every book ever written. Oh, and free wifi.
What do you think about Britney Spears?
I don’t often think of Britney Spears. I think she may be back, bitch? I hope so because she’s a pretty girl with some adorable kids and I hope she continues to kick the mental illness/addiction demons and have a happy life.
I do often think of Britney S. Pierce and while I’m so glad that she had the happily ever after that her sweet love with Santana deserved, I often miss the wonderful weird shit she used to say in the early years.
Do you know how to start a fire?
Only in yer mom’s pants.
What does your breath smell like?
Yer mom’s pants.
Have you ever got a celebrity’s number off of the internet?
IS THIS A THING??
I mean, no. Gross.
What kind of a psycho do you take me for?
I’m the kind of psycho who role-plays fanfic in my head like a normal person. Characters aren’t the people who play them. Those are actors. Actors are narcissist players with VD and shit. Do you want VD? They all live in LA, do you want that to happen to you? Get off the internets, pervs.
Friends don’t let friends date actors with VD and live in LA. Fer chrissakes.
Do you have any weapons on you?
Does lethal side-eye count?
Are you a cracker?
As in like a white person or a Ritz?
Because yes. I am both white(Scandinavian, English, Icelandic, Irish and whatever my dad, who was adopted, brings to the table) and buttery.
Fer realz y’all, the butter has been ingested by me at a rapid pace this past week. And I’m being forced at the verbal equivalent of gunpoint to make my salted caramel butter cream frosting again this weekend.
I’m also role-playing some fanfic in my mind about a butter farmer. It’s getting pretty heavy. Oh wait, no, I’M getting pretty heavy. Nothing feels as good as butter tastes. That’s how it goes, right?
PS, btw, I am way too excited about this reverse racism sitch.
So, what’s on tv right now?
Everything, man. It’s the future.