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.
(by Johanna Ljungblom)
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:
Well, hello there.
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.
me, on my squirrel phone
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.
- WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE.
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.