PS. I put this on twitter a long time ago but people keep asking why it’s not on the blog. So now it is. It’s sort of a rerun if you follow me on twitter, but it’s still good, solid advice.
Category Archives: mixing medications
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HERE IS YOUR PRESENT. THE CAT IS ON THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON AND WON’T MOVE. I’M NOT YELLING AT YOU.
IT IS MY MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY AND I HAVE A SNIFFLY-ASS NOSE.
It should be against the law to not be able to breathe properly on your birthday, but such is the curse of the Capricorn…always having to share a birthday month with Jesus, and usually taking too many antibiotics to have another margarita.
But, it is my birthday and if I could ask you for a present I’d ask you to go buy my second book, but I’m putting the finishing touches on it this week so you are off the hook. Unless you haven’t read my first book, in which case get thee to a bookery.
Still, it feels like birthdays should have presents and so in celebration I’d like each of you to do something wonderful for yourself. Maybe buy yourself those shoes you can’t stop thinking about, or watch bad tv that you love, or pet all the cats at the animal shelter, or tell the person you have a secret crush on that I’m forcing you to make out with them, or just lock yourself in a room and read until you make yourself dizzy. It’s up to you. Or if none of that does it for you, I’ve made you something.
It’s a horoscope. It is non-refundable so I hope you like it. Also, there are probably a lot of typos. I blame the
WHO ARE YOU?
Capricorn: The tears of a Capricorn can heal a broken typewriter if applied directly. You can provoke those tears by reminding the Capricorn that they have a terrible mascot/patronus. Seriously…goat head + fish tail = WORST MERMAID EVER.
Libra: Never ask a Libra to mail you a five dollars. They suck at this. PROVE ME WRONG, LIBRAS.
Leo: No one is good at eating corn on the cob, but Leos are the best at not being good at it.
Sagittarius: Never tell a Sagittarius to calm their tits. They will become violent and stabby. “No, why don’t you calm your tits, sir? MY TITS ARE WILD AS THE WIND.” ~ Said every Sagittarius ever.
Cancer: Cancers always tap on the glass, even when the sign specifically says not to tap on the glass. If you tell them not to tap on the glass they will tap even harder while staring right at you. Don’t fuck with Cancers.
Pisces: Pisceses are confusing. Mostly because spellcheck doesn’t even recognize that Pisceses exist. Instead it’s telling me that the plural of “Pisces” is still “Pisces”, which seems wrong. But I guess the plural of “fish” is still “fish,” so that sort of makes sense? But if the plural possessive of fish is “fish’s” then would the plural possessive of Pisces be Pisces’s? Pesci? Oh my God, my head hurts. Thanks a lot, Pisceses.
Aries: The Aries wants to correct your poor grammar on the internet but they won’t out of fear of writing something grammatically incorrect in their correction. Except sometimes they will. They’re terribly unpredictable, those wily Aries.
Gemini: Almost every adult Gemini is missing his or her original teeth. That’s right. Your secret is out, Geminis.
Khaleesi: Not a real sign. True heir to the Iron Throne.
Scorpio: Scorpios act all tough, but really they are a full sack of feelings. Who hurt you, Scorpio? TELL ME WHO HURT YOU.
Virgo: Virgo is simply not having it. None of it. None of your motherfucking bullshit. Awww, you done fucked up now. You better run. Virgo’s got a knife.
Taurus: The great tragedy of the Taurus is that they can’t eat cheese. No, that’s not right. It’s that they are always making witty references but no one in real life understands the references. No. Hang on. Is it something about gluten? Shit. The great tragedy of the Taurus is that no one remembers what their great tragedy is.
Aquarius: The only thing Loch Ness Monsters find more delicious than an Aquarius is two Aquariuses. Don’t go into the water, Aquariuses. That’s how they get you.
PS. Happy birthday to you. I know it’s not your birthday but I’m getting a head start on next year. Unless it is your birthday, in which case I totally knew that. That’s why I made you this horoscope. Happy birthday, us. We’re awesome.
When I was a kid I was assigned “Flag-Duty”, which basically meant that me and a classmate were responsible for raising and lowering the flag at our elementary school. We were taught the special way to fold it and everything was fine, until one day the wind caught it when we were folding it and a corner of the flag touched the ground and my co-flag-folder lost. her. shit. Then she confessed to the principal and he got pissy and said that now we’d have to destroy it because it had “touched the ground and been soiled”…which sort of seems like an over-reaction and I was like “Yeah, but it touched AMERICAN soil, so why would that dirty it? It literally just touched AMERICA. How is that bad?” And then said he was going to have to burn the flag and I was like “You’re going to burn the flag? Is that even legal?” and he was all “It’s illegal not to, and since you were so careless now we have to buy a new flag.” But then the next day he gave us the “new” flag and it totally had the same tiny hole in the corner as the last one and it was really obvious that it was the exact same flag, so basically he just made me feel bad for grass existing while he lied about his flag-burning exploits.
I was reminded of all of this because I just saw a painting of Betsy Ross showing George Washington her flag, and she and all of her little child laborers are like “Look at this bad-ass flag we made. The only thing that would make this better is if we had glitter, except that glitter hasn’t been invented yet.”
But George Washington is just ignoring all their hard work and he’s glaring at the corner of the flag touching the floor, like “OMG, I can’t trust you bitches for anything” and his compatriots are all “Bitches never have respect for anything. And, by the way, you’re totally poking your sword into Betsy’s rug.” And then Washington would be like “WHAT? I NEVER” and then they’d explain that they meant it literally and not in some weird sexually metaphoric way. And also, why did the painter purposely paint trash on the ground of her house? And is that a turtle on a cushion using a cane to turn the pages of a book? What am I even looking at?
PS. I actually wrote this on Flag Day, but I didn’t publish it then because it seemed like it would be disrespectful. I mean, not as disrespectful as impaling other people’s rugs while criticizing the work of illegal child-laborers, but close.
For those of us with triskaidekaphobia the year 2012+1 will be an entire year of forced behavioral therapy.
It’s a stupid superstition but one I still struggle to shake as (for me) it’s wrapped into a weird layer of OCD-based terror. In my mind, every time some one says the unlucky number, everything becomes unlucky for everyone who has just heard that number, and only saying it again will cancel the negative effects. Except that it’s impossible to know exactly if you’re on the lucky or unlucky side of life, and so maybe you say the unlucky number to get you out of an unlucky period but then you get your arm chopped off and then you realize that you were in the unlucky period before, so you say it again and then your leg falls off because you’ve just said the unlucky number too many times and fate is now pissed that you’re fucking with her. This all makes sense in my head.
That’s why yesterday at my friend Laura’s house I was a bit of a nervous wreck entering the first day of this terribly named year. And so we decided to change the name. To “The Library.” At first I thought this just made me feel immediately better because the booze had just kicked in, but now I’m perfectly sober and I’m in the second day in The Library and I feel so terribly comforted.
In The Library you are safe. It smells of old books and worlds you’ve yet to explore. It smells of worlds you’ve loved that beckon you back. It smells of the bacon sandwich the guy in the corner has smuggled in while he devours words and food, not sure which is more filling.
In the library you are prepping.
Everything that happens in the library is just preparation for the next year. That means if you fuck something up this year it’s fine. This whole year is just practice. The library is made for that. Maybe you spend the year writing a book no one will ever read. Maybe you spend the year recuperating from last year. Maybe you burn the Thanksgiving turkey and forget an important birthday. It’s okay. It happened in The Library. It was just practice for next year. Maybe it’s insanity, or maybe it’s just me, but somehow I think we all need a year in The Library. A year where it’s safe to make mistakes. A year where it’s okay to have to escape and stare out the window without someone asking you when you’re going to get back to work and fix your life. A year where we all whisper quietly about our plans and our wishes and dreams and darkest fears. A year in The Library. A year of getting lost in dusty, forgotten corners, and a year of finding the want. (The want to leave. The want to play. The want to shrug off the dreams and walk out in the sunlight. The want to pounce on 2014 with glee and rapture.)
The Library opened yesterday. It closes 51.9 weeks from now.
My friend April from Regretsy practically threatened to stab me in the face when she thought I’d outbid her on this insane taxidermied squirrel who is flashing his little squirrel nut-sack at the world. (Click the link. You need to see this shit.) I assured April that she was very off-base, as we were BOTH being outbid on it. I considered telling her we should pool our resources and just share the squirrel like recently divorced parents, but then I saw this little treasure:
And yes, at first I saw what you’re probably seeing….a strangely posed, non-nutsacked, extremely dead squirrel in a very unnatural position. And then I looked a little closer and realized that my current cell phone cover is cracked and that this would make a fucking fantastic replacement. Not just because it would be fuzzyy and ergonomic if I need to hold it against my shoulder, but also because it would hardly ever get lost in my purse, and no one would accidentally pick up my phone thinking it was theirs. Plus, when I put my phone on the table at restaurants it would just look like a squirrel was hanging out with me, and squirrels only hang out with cool people. And if I put my phone on vibrate the squirrel would buzz across the table like he was alive and growling.
It’s like the best accessory ever.
PS. I probably should have waited until the bidding was over before I posted about this. Damn it, Jenny.
PPS. If you only check my blog once a day you may have missed it yesterday when I promised Simon Pegg that I’d leave Nathan Fillion alone and then my good karma was reward by Wil Wheaton and Jeri Ryan and the whole world sending me pictures of their spatulas.
Just your typical Monday, really.
Today when I look out onto my backyard, this is the glorious sight that greets me.
For real, y’all.
PS. I have the best husband ever.
PPS. I just realized that the PS might imply that my husband bought me a TARDIS, but no, of course he didn’t. What he did was not freak out when a giant package arrived at our door and I said “Oh, that’s probably the TARDIS I ordered since the pharmacy wouldn’t give me one for my birthday.” I mentioned it was way cheaper than Beyonce the giant metal chicken and he paled a little and walked away before I could mention that we also need new towels. Then I went off and carried a cardboard TARDIS all over our property to take pictures of it and Victor yelled “YOU KIDS GET OFF MY PROPERTY” in his most cantakerous-old-man voice. When I was done I left the TARDIS in front of his office window and made really loud TARDIS noises. Victor was on a conference call and was very unimpressed, but you can’t deter the furiously happy, Victor. Unless, that is, you go back in time and make me not buy a cardboard TARDIS. You’d need a real TARDIS to do that though. Which would be awesome and I would trade in my cardboard TARDIS for it in a heartbeat. So no matter what, I win. Which is only right since this is my birthday present to me. Happy late birthday, me.
Enjoy your time.
PPPS. I got cactus in my foot getting this picture. It’s not a great one but there’s no way I’m not linking to it since I suffering through cactus-foot for it.
PPPPS. If you don’t watch Doctor Who this whole post is probably very confusing. You should skip it.
PPPPPS. Victor: “That PPPPS. would probably be a lot more helpful if you go back and put it at the top.”
me: “IF ONLY I HAD A TIME MACHINE.”
24 hours ago I published the hardest post I ever had to write. I’m pretty open about my struggles with depression and anxiety disorder, but yesterday I finally decided I was ready to write about my issues with self-harm. I can’t go into details because that’s a trigger for me (and for most people who self-injure) but I’m not sure what I expected. I think I expected my hard-core friends and readers to say something supportive and then sort of back away slowly out of not knowing how to respond. Instead, thousands of comments poured in. All of them supportive, understanding, and so many relieved and hopeful that one day they could come out of the closet about their darkest secrets. I was flooded with DM’s and emails from people who weren’t ready to come out but suffered from things I never would have imagined. Many were from friends I’ve known for years, and I found myself wanting to say the very thing that I dreaded hearing myself. “But you seem so normal.” And the truth is that they are. I once sarcastically said that “crazy is the new normal” but it’s not sarcasm anymore. We’re all different. Each unique. But that uniqueness that sets us apart is also what brings us together. Some people call it “the human condition.” I call it “amazing.”
I can’t respond to all of the comments and emails and DM’s but I am reading them and I can’t tell you how completely unburdened I feel. More importantly though, I want you to know what you’ve done for others. I had a lot of emails telling me how much my post helped them. I had many, many more telling me how the response to my post helped them. So many people listened, frightened, in silence to see how the world would respond to something that so many think of as shameful or an aberration. They waited for the condemnation or the silence but it never came. Those comments you left changed lives.
Last night an email came in from a woman whose twin daughters had both committed suicide because of depression. One had died only a few weeks ago and her mother made sure her obituary explained that depression had taken her child’s life, because she wanted people to know that it was okay to talk about it…because the more we admit these things the less we hide them away from the help we need. Then I got an email from a girl who was contemplating suicide. She said that after she saw the response to my post she decided that she wasn’t as alone or unfixable after all and she started the process of getting help. You did that. You saved someone with nothing more than the power of words.
During the night twitter exploded with #silverribbons tweets and I loved how many people made their own, or painted them on their own bodies to show support. A lot of people asked me to offer them in my shop, but honestly you can make them for free if you have a nickel’s worth of silver ribbon and a safety pin. If you do want to buy one though you can buy them here and here. Any profits will go to donating new red dresses for The Traveling Red Dress Project (A project designed to celebrate women in their strongest and weakest moments).
Tomorrow I’m off to New York to do something that terrifies me, but I somehow feel more confident now, and it’s so amazing that that could come out of such vulnerability. Thank you. Thank you for not crushing me when you could. Thank you for making me stronger so that no one else can. Thank you for saving me and for saving each other.
PS. This post wants a picture so I’m borrowing one from the fantastic Brooke Shaden. I don’t know what she meant it to symbolize but it’s how I feel right now. Still broken. Still stuck. Still fighting. But feeling almost weightless from having this secret lifted off my chest. Thank you for helping me carry this.
PPS. I promise my next post will be back to sweetly-raunchy and unhinged, irreverent glory.
Today I turn 38.
37 was a hard year, but a good year. It was a year of hospital beds and wheelchairs, of worry and mental illness, of fear and more fear. It was also a year of being ridiculous and silly, of finding drugs that helped more than hurt, of laughter and finding my tribe, and of being furiously happy and stepping out onto shaky limbs I never dreamed I’d reach.
I got this print last week. It’s the concept art from The Haunted Mansion. The girl in the final version they used looks very different – wan and bereft and abandoned. But this one was peculiarly contrary. It was perfect. When I saw it in the shop I knew I had to have it because it was the first time I saw a painting that seemed so perfectly “me.”
Victor stared at me, baffled, and pointed out how wrong that seemed. “It’s a girl on a frayed tightrope about to fall into the mouth of an alligator. That’s pretty fucking bleak even for you.”
But that’s not what I see.
I see a girl intent on enjoying the sun while it still shines, smiling vehemently, indignantly, and entirely celebrating a shining perfect moment even as alligators swim underneath. Victor said she seemed oblivious, but she’s not. She knows the alligator is there.
The alligators are always there.
They remind her to smile and enjoy those perfect moments whenever they arise, because life without fear is not a life fully appreciated. She smiles – not because she’s unaware of the alligators – but because she’s aware of them and because she knows how wonderful it feels when they release their jaws from your ankles.
If you look online you’ll find a lot of critics who claim that the original tight-rope walker’s too-open eyes suggest that she’s just bat-shit crazy…too numb with fear to even understand the danger. Her mind has snapped, and now teeters slowly, detached from reality. I can’t argue with that, because that fits with my personality a bit too comfortably as well, but I still prefer to see what I see…a girl who has won a battle. A girl who appreciates those moments between maulings. A girl who knows all too well the dangers and pain around her but who has made a conscious and complete decision to be furiously happy in spite of it all.
A girl who knows how to wield a parasol like a fucking ninja.
I see me. Proudly.
Happy birthday, me.
Look out, below.
Yesterday I went to the doctor to check on the ovary that tried to kill me because it’s still being an asshole. I asked the doctor (who was very sweet and quite awesome) if she thought it was cancer, and she smiled and calmly reassured me that “it’s not necessarily cancer.” Which seemed very comforting until I was out the door and started analyzing exactly what the hell that meant.
For my own mental health, I’m telling myself that “It’s not necessarily cancer” is the same thing as “It’s not cancer,” but I don’t really believe me because I have anxiety disorder and I suspect I’m just lying to myself to protect me. From myself. I don’t know if that sentence even makes sense, but if it doesn’t I blame the cancer which I may or may not have.
Honestly, I’m not even sure why I paid for that diagnosis. I already knew that I didn’t necessarily have cancer. Who gets a necessary cancer?
“So you have cancer?” “Yes, but it was necessary.” “Oh, good. There’s nothing worse than a frivolous cancer.”
I have to go back this week for more scans. Scans which probably cause cancer. And then the doctor will be like, “Well, the bad news is that all of these x-rays caused you to get cancer, but the good news is that we found the cancer by doing all these x-rays. Yay for us! And it’s a darn good thing that we did all these scans because they were totally necessary to find the cancer that was caused by them.” And I think I just accidentally defined necessary cancer.
Touche, medical science.
You win this round.
PS. Don’t worry. I don’t necessarily have cancer.
PPS. This post is more depressing than I would like it to be so I’m ending it with a picture of myself photo-bombing a picture my friend Chookooloonks took. For those of you who are new here, I’m the one inside the wolf.