Okay, this week was really illuminating. Here's what I've learned so far:
1. I suck at writing
2. I'm a prostitute
3. I'm less fun to hang out with than a tent.
I'll explain. First off, as many of you may know, my little story about getting real cold made its way onto Reddit and jumped to the top of the Outdoors forum. Previously to this happening, I had no idea that Reddit existed. I still don't exactly understand its purpose, but it seems to be a place where internet users get to be really mean. Neat.
So far, here's what I've gleaned from the comments: I totally suck at writing. I'm full of teenage angst (yeahSO???) and I don't "have any fucking regard for my own life." (I'm paraphrasing here.) What these fine people may have in terms of colorful language, they seem to be lacking in basic reading comprehension skills, judging on their discussion about how awful it was that I set my face on fire. That really would have been awful but guys, I said feet. feet equals less than face.
HOWEVER! It's a big win for me because Reddit sent me over a thousand hits from strangers, so welcome all you new readers, welcome! (Honestly, welcome.)
Like any blogger worth her salt, I get a few solidly mean comments now and then. And I ignore them and breathe light into the universe and wish them well and all that jazz. But there was one recent comment that I really got attached to because of its thought provoking complexities and subtle contradictory statements. Some nice lady gently suggested I get a real job, ifn' I wasn't too good for a real job. Then she pointed out that I'm a prostitute. (How bizarre that she's the only one to put together the pieces that I've so blatantly laid out before you! I sleep over my friends houses? I don't have any friends! Just clients.)
Anyway, I'd just like to point out that it's a contradiction to draw attention to my flagrant disregard for work ethic and then suggest I'm a prostitute. Prostitution is not just a profession, it's the world's oldest profession. Show some respect, anonymous commenter number 533.
And finally, the cake-taker. I went on a few nice dates with another from-back-east-er. On our first date he tried to get me to eat a snake. MOM! Don't go running, that wasn't a euphemism. Mom- no! PUT DOWN THE PHONE. I won't answer.
Really though, dude took me to a bar where they actually served Cobra. It's totally illegal. And totally awesome. But I didn't eat the snake because it turns out cobra has to marinate for two weeks before it can be served.
Anyway, dude was handsome and funny. We'd be all cozied up and I'd tell him that I liked him because he was a good New England Liberal, and then he would joke about how things like social justice and running the recycling through the dishwasher before putting it into the bin was a big turn on, and then he'd kiss me dramatically.
Good good goooood.
But just yesterday he pulled the typical Northwest outdoor dude thing and started deflecting me with banter about outdoor gear. An example:
Me: Hey, I'll be gone all weekend and then I'm going back home early next week, if you want to get together before that.
Him: I found a tent for 50% off!
Me: Really? That's great. So, I'm leaving Thursday night-
Him: At the REI garage!
Me: uh hu.
Him: It's 2 pounds lighter than my other one!
And finally, dude sends me a photo of the tent all set up in his living room. I know how to read this situation. What we have here is a Do Not Resuscitate. And all before I ever got a bite of the snake.
So after this total winner of a week, I found myself at the dog park drinking an americano out of a cup that a Min Pin licked when I had my back turned. I was downloading some Katy Perry songs to cheer myself up, and then I found all the Glee Cast covers of Katy Perry songs and I just went to town on it. But, what's this? To my horror the songs were not making me feel my cheery self again. In fact, and here's some teenage angst for you Reddit friends, the tunes were making me feel worse. Like, and I actually thought this, how come I'm not anyone's teenage dream??? IS IT BECAUSE I DON'T WEAR SKIN TIGHT JEANS? And that's when I realized:
I need to outsource my life for a while. Honestly, I'm not capable of doing this on my own. What I need is a fucking crime stopping make over crack team to tell me what to do and I swear, I will do it.
And so I did a little hustling and dealing and here's what I put together. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the dream team:
1. Kristen Rivas, hypnotist.
Because my subconscious need something in between an ass kicking and some gentle coaxing.
2. Ren Caldwell, personal trainer.
I've given up climbing for a while so as to get a break from all of that. What do I do with myself? Watch reruns of Teen mom 2 while jogging lightly up and down on the elliptical? Not any more! Enter Ren.
3. Jen Rice, masseuse/healer
Apparently this lady can figure out what's wrong with you just with her hands. Maybe she'll be able to figure out what western medicine has not been able to figure out for the past two months.
4. Amy Last Name Not Known, nutritionist.
Because lately my diet looks like this: nothing nothing nothing nothing STEAK BURRITO nothing nothing nothing.
5. The firefighters of Seattle Station 10, A shift.
Every dream team needs some real life superheros.
Yes, from now on I'm doing what they tell me to do and nothing more. Then, with the help of a professional photographer, I'm writing about it.
Please join me in this journey from less than tent to more than teenage dream.
(did you like it? yeah? share this post on facebook. no? share this post on reddit.)
1. I suck at writing
2. I'm a prostitute
3. I'm less fun to hang out with than a tent.
 |
| teenage angst. they're on to me. |
So far, here's what I've gleaned from the comments: I totally suck at writing. I'm full of teenage angst (yeahSO???) and I don't "have any fucking regard for my own life." (I'm paraphrasing here.) What these fine people may have in terms of colorful language, they seem to be lacking in basic reading comprehension skills, judging on their discussion about how awful it was that I set my face on fire. That really would have been awful but guys, I said feet. feet equals less than face.
 |
| Feet! I'm sorry, family. You don't like this. |
Like any blogger worth her salt, I get a few solidly mean comments now and then. And I ignore them and breathe light into the universe and wish them well and all that jazz. But there was one recent comment that I really got attached to because of its thought provoking complexities and subtle contradictory statements. Some nice lady gently suggested I get a real job, ifn' I wasn't too good for a real job. Then she pointed out that I'm a prostitute. (How bizarre that she's the only one to put together the pieces that I've so blatantly laid out before you! I sleep over my friends houses? I don't have any friends! Just clients.)
And finally, the cake-taker. I went on a few nice dates with another from-back-east-er. On our first date he tried to get me to eat a snake. MOM! Don't go running, that wasn't a euphemism. Mom- no! PUT DOWN THE PHONE. I won't answer.
Really though, dude took me to a bar where they actually served Cobra. It's totally illegal. And totally awesome. But I didn't eat the snake because it turns out cobra has to marinate for two weeks before it can be served.
Anyway, dude was handsome and funny. We'd be all cozied up and I'd tell him that I liked him because he was a good New England Liberal, and then he would joke about how things like social justice and running the recycling through the dishwasher before putting it into the bin was a big turn on, and then he'd kiss me dramatically.
Good good goooood.
But just yesterday he pulled the typical Northwest outdoor dude thing and started deflecting me with banter about outdoor gear. An example:
Me: Hey, I'll be gone all weekend and then I'm going back home early next week, if you want to get together before that.
Him: I found a tent for 50% off!
Me: Really? That's great. So, I'm leaving Thursday night-
Him: At the REI garage!
Me: uh hu.
Him: It's 2 pounds lighter than my other one!
And finally, dude sends me a photo of the tent all set up in his living room. I know how to read this situation. What we have here is a Do Not Resuscitate. And all before I ever got a bite of the snake.
I need to outsource my life for a while. Honestly, I'm not capable of doing this on my own. What I need is a fucking crime stopping make over crack team to tell me what to do and I swear, I will do it.
And so I did a little hustling and dealing and here's what I put together. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the dream team:
1. Kristen Rivas, hypnotist.
Because my subconscious need something in between an ass kicking and some gentle coaxing.
2. Ren Caldwell, personal trainer.
I've given up climbing for a while so as to get a break from all of that. What do I do with myself? Watch reruns of Teen mom 2 while jogging lightly up and down on the elliptical? Not any more! Enter Ren.
3. Jen Rice, masseuse/healer
Apparently this lady can figure out what's wrong with you just with her hands. Maybe she'll be able to figure out what western medicine has not been able to figure out for the past two months.
4. Amy Last Name Not Known, nutritionist.
Because lately my diet looks like this: nothing nothing nothing nothing STEAK BURRITO nothing nothing nothing.
5. The firefighters of Seattle Station 10, A shift.
Every dream team needs some real life superheros.
Yes, from now on I'm doing what they tell me to do and nothing more. Then, with the help of a professional photographer, I'm writing about it.
Please join me in this journey from less than tent to more than teenage dream.
(did you like it? yeah? share this post on facebook. no? share this post on reddit.)