Brave New World

You know the joke, "We make plans, and God laughs"?

It's literally me. Well, OK. I am more at fault than God is at this point.

November is a weary blur in my memory; non-working hours were spent sleeping. Non-sleeping hours were spent pretty joyfully with friends. No regrets, but also no novel.

However, I followed an ad trail, and now I'm on a writing team. It's only two years out of college, so I find that pretty successful for a millennial.

So, I'mma keep doing my happy dance over here, thank you.

Procrastinating

Nothing’s so intimidating as a blank page. It’s so pristine, so clean. Maybe it’s my semi-Puritan upbringing, but I’m so frightened to dirty the page with myself.

 My mother always curbed my appetite for the creative. You can’t have more construction paper, you’ll use it and waste it, so we can’t spend the money on it. It’s expensive and useless.

 My father was the opposite. He drove me to my first audition for a church play; I was in first grade, and the whole thing was a mistake. But he woke up early and drove me up the hill to blubber a few lines at a very courteous and patient director who eventually didn’t cast me.

 Even today, as I procrastinate beginning this novel, I sort through miles of stationery I’ve collected over the year. Greeting cards and notecards with beautiful artwork, and I can’t bring myself to blot them with ink.

 I’m usually better at finding a setting instead of a character. Perhaps I’ll Virginia Woolf this novel and write it from a snail’s perspective.

So, it begins.

It's been a while.

It's been a while since I've written...anything.

The only journals I keep these days are the photos I take on Instagram and Snapchat. #noregerts

But I'm committing to National Novel Writing Month by warming up with a blog post on my writing days.

I doubt I'll actually write a novel this month, but it will be a great opportunity to stretch some long-rusted muscles.

I wonder if publishers see November rolling around each year and collectively groan at the thought of the flood of manuscripts come December and January.

Don't Bet Against Pups

Last night, I told my coworker that my dog once beat me at Poker. She didn't believe me.

A summer or so ago, I was trying to teach Pinky how to play Hold 'Em Poker.

It's me and Pinky on her bed, a pile of pennies, and a deck of cards. We went over the basics--how to bet, what the ranking of cards, how and when to fold or hit, etc. She is bright and a fast learner, and she was catching on easily enough.

But it's really hard to play, let alone teach, when there are only two people in game.

Lucky for us, Pups jumped on the bed right when we needed him. We deal him in.

By showdown, there's a pair of Kings in the flop, so we're all still in. We never looked at Pups' cards, but we played his bets so that he stayed in.

Pinky had the pair of Kings and a Jack.

I had two pair, including the pair of Kings.

Pups.

Pups had a King and a deuce in hand, giving him a 3 King full house because there was another two in the flop.

Pups beat our butts at Poker. That's the truth.

My coworkers want to take Pups to Vegas. I don't. I'm not losing to that furball ever again.

I think I killed my Fish

I think I may have killed my betta fish.

Ok, not literally. Well, not figuratively, either.

I'm a very bad pet mom. I'm barely attentive of Pups, and I often use the excuse that my mom needs someone to take care of more than I do.

Zeus has changed living spaces about as many times as I change outfits in a day. He was first in a glass vase. Next, he was in a large wine/margarita chalice-thing. We all got a kick out of it, but it wasn't much space.

This weekend, I bought an actual fishbowl. Well, terrarium bowl from Target. It's probably meant for plants. (Let's face it, I'd kill those, too. Haven't tried it yet.)

On an impulse very similar to the buy-a-new-fishbowl impulse, I threw in some polished rocks I'd been given years ago.

Only after I put the new bowl back on the table, did I think to Google the what-not's and to do's of fish care.

Life was too calm. I needed to freak out over something.


I'll keep an eye on Zeus. It's a game of sink or swim for now.

Single AF

So, the irony is that I set all the posts published from the time I was 16 to the time I was 22 back to drafts because all they talked about were forming or failed relationships, but the first thing I'm going to post now, as a 25 year old woman, is that I'm single as f*ck.

I'm single as f*ck.

My last actual relationship ended in 2014, and I spent 2015 casually dating a guy I met on OKC. It's a shame it didn't work out. We had compatible personalities, mutual chemistry, but vastly different lifestyles, desires, and schedules. Que sera.

Not that I really need to talk about it, because Buzzfeed and HelloGiggles regale the millennial struggle ad nauseum. We're here. We're queer. We're single AF.

I accept it. All of it. The struggle is getting my conservative, Christian, Filipina mother to accept that she came all the way to America to have a fat artist of a daughter who refuses to get married. I'm sorry, Nay. Forgive na, po.

Last night, wearing no pants, eating expensive chocolate, I despaired to my best friend over the phone about how I'll never get married. She's practically engaged to her boyfriend of 7 years, so she optimistically opposed me. I screencap'd her text message and told her that she'll eat her words when I'm sixty and single.

So, that's it. This is a part of me that I'll (probably too often) explore. Hello, there. :)