living out loud

random blockage.

Dammit. I have a story in me. I want to write my story out of me. My story will not come out of me. I have a title for it ( a working title), I have the idea. I cannot find the first sentence. Crap. AND I’VE HAD TWO GLASSES OF WINE, YOU GUYS. I’m clearly not there mentally. Or maybe I need an outline. Except I don’t really work well off outlines…the last time I wrote something based off an outline was in AP Senior English in high school, when I had to write a thesis. Here’s how that went: my (working) title was “Strong Women in Russian Literature” and I compared/contrasted the main female characters in Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons (I promise there is one strong female in that masculine titled book) and Boris Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago. Because I read the Pasternak book months earlier over the summer, I watched the movie to help me write about that. And I found the men in Fathers and Sons to be wimpy and needing a good strong whipping by a Russian woman, so I read it all pissed off at Russian men and then went to Danville, KY’s Centre College library and pulled research from various books there to back up my “Russian boys drooooool, Russian chicks RULE” theory. (This is how I know, for a fact, research and data can be skewed to say whatever you want it to; I did it, and still do it, all the time. Looking hard at YOU, Big Data.)

At any rate. I just wrote down quotes and then played on my Emily Dickinson-doppleganger’s English teacher’s feminist heart strings and totally convinced her: Russian Literature has strong women. (It actually does, though. I mean, word: don’t eff with Russian women.)

My point is: this bullshitting off skewed research from a fake outline bit no longer works for me. Clearly, I need a writing teacher just like I needed a Trigonometry tutor except writing words isn’t as dire for me as figuring out what the hell Trigonometry even is. But s/he has to do it for free because I’m in debt up to my eyeballs for the foreseeable future. I mean, I can buy lots of cheap wine and cook spaghetti dinners and stuff. I make a really great baked ziti. And I made a glumpy New Year’s Day 2016 champagne risotto that nobody died from, but none of us really were eager for seconds.

So basically what I’m doing right now is dicking around on the internet. Miss M is at her dad’s all week, and so this morning I was all: AFTER WORK I’M GONNA HAVE WINE AND WRITE MY HEART OUT!! LET US MAKE HASTE!!! TO THE WORDS!!!!

Actually, what I did after work was come home, do a load of laundry, take clothes over to C’s house, make a shrimp/pasta thing I found in my freezer, drink two glasses of Pinot Grigio while watching The Walking Dead (I’m, per usual, behind the rest of the world on cool TV shows…I’m currently on Season 2, episode 5).

Can we talk about The Walking Dead for a minute? (Sorry, too late! I’ve already started.) Why, as an Atlantan and as someone who is friends with someone whose relative does camera work on this show, have I never ever watched it?? I feel violated. I feel betrayed by friends who have been watching for years and never ever told me or who’ve told me but never URGENTLY told me. I have trust issues for the rest of you, too, America. For not placing both hands on each side of my face, pulling me close to you, and scary-whispering how uber important it is that I watch this show. I hear Game of Thrones is also another addictive show like this one, so I’m sure I’ll be back this summer or something with more complaints as I try to catch up with the rest of you who didn’t even TELL me. There should be some sort of Walk of Shame for people who’ve not helped their fellow Americans out with good tv shows they should watch. I’m still not really happy with you all about Breaking Bad. I mean, what?! You guys need to force people to watch the good shows with you. This is wrong. Like, shut down all the bars and restaurants and stores when they’re on, and then re-open when they’ve finished for the week. It’s kind of how they do things in despot countries, but if Trump wins the White House we’re going to be a dictatorship anyway so why not start the training with something entertaining at least?

So when I started watching, all through Season 1 of TWD (as those in The Know call it), I could NOT figure out Daryl Dixon. Every female I talked to, including my sister-in-law, is ready to drop her panties for him. He looked like a greasy angry rat to me, and he was related to that KKK guy in episode 1. But then later he gave the black guy with the infected arm wound his KKK brother’s drugs, so obviously he’s compassionate. Which KKK people are notoriously not, especially towards black people who leave their white KKK brothers to be eaten by zombies on the tops of buildings. So I said something, and my sister-in-law goes: it’s his muscle-y arms. Well, yeah. But Rick Grimes has blue eyes and a secret British accent and will stand outside your door at Christmastime telling you how he’ll always love you, even after you turn into a zombie.

But then tonight I watched Daryl bring a grieving mother a Cherokee Rose and tell her the story behind it. And mother’s tears were involved. And the mom was crying, because her little girl was missing, and by the end of Daryl’s tale I was crying, because I’m a mom and I can’t even imagine. And then there’s also all the shocked gasping and “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!? GET OUT OF THERE!!!!!” stuff I say out loud when I watch this show.  And Cherokee Roses are, like, my 3rd favorite flowers now, right after dandelions and daisies. And okay. Okay okay OKAY! Fine. I will date Daryl Dixon. I will date him. I will make him take a shower first, but I will date him. Even though some women I know have threatened me, claiming him as their own. I bet they don’t even know he’d be so much better with deodorant and freshly washed hair. He can keep his beard, though.

What I’m trying to communicate is: when I am like this about a show, it’s always an indication good writing is happening. Especially if I have to turn it off because it’s too intense and real, and I need a minute. Even though I know, from seeing things in the media, that one character is going to survive. I still am not sure. And I say: HOLY SHIT!!! a lot. THAT’S good writing.

Which brings me back to the fact I am stumped about where to start, how to start, my story and get it out of me. And I hate outlines and don’t want to do one. (Later this week, I’ll start with the characters…maybe I should just start with the characters and work it out from there.)

And last, I love men. I have men in my life I love deeply, with all of me, who I just think are super rad beyond belief. But still I am so mad at you right now, men. I can’t go into details why, because I don’t want to is why. I’ve had some wine, and I don’t care to explain it to you now. But let me just say I will never ever become a man’s possession again, or the objectified object to which he feels “entitled.” I will never ever change myself to suit a man again, I will never allow another man to bully and scare me, and I will never EVER return to a man who’s been abusive. I can totally forgive a person’s behavior, but once you’ve shown me who you really are? I believe you.

I will never allow myself to become friends with a man who looks at women as prizes, like: if he’s just nice enough and “pays” forward enough, he’ll be rewarded with a relationship and/or sex. If a woman wants to give you her body, that’s AN HONOR, sir. You are not entitled to a woman – her body, her friendship, or her love. And you treat her with reverence and respect, no matter whether she gives you what you want or not. If a woman suddenly up and decides she needs to go NOW, you don’t get mad and indignant. You say: Wow, I don’t get it, but I respect your right to be friends with who you want, on your terms. Fuck you, don’t be a dickhead and talk about how you’re “owed” something, even an explanation. Nobody owes people, because people are not possessions.

Which is why we need some more Daryl Dixons, I think, and why women love him. I will keep watching, and see how many dickheads Daryl sets straight.

And LAST last:  in conclusion, wordpress.com is being weird. It keeps sticking up pop up video ads every 3-10 minutes and they’re driving me nuts. I just left @wordpressdotcom about 100 whiny tweets telling them this. I’m sure they’re my biggest fan now and sooooo super glad I set up an account with them. But you know what? I DO NOT CARE. I am over being nice to people who are dickheads and who put too many pop up ads on their free frigging blogging website. They’re supposed to make that revenue off blog readers (sorry, blog readers) not blog writers. Also, I threatened not to come back when my paid account is up, but I just realized I don’t have a paid account – I only paid for a domain account, not a wordpress account. And then I thought I fixed the problem and apologized to them but then it wasn’t fixed, so I had to take back my apology, and now I look confusing and weird. Which I am proud of, because this is who I am and I own it. And also I let them know I’ve had too much Pinot Grigio, so now I’m the confusing, weird, lush blogger on their site, the one that sends crazy tweets and stuff. That’s fine, know why? Because dammit, I just had to stop typing because it happened AGAIN, for the 30th time tonight.

This entry is about 1400+ words of complaints and lack of focus. I do not care about that either. I am tired of getting online and being worried about what other people think about me, particularly if they’re more messed up than I am (and that’s pretty messed up, might I say). Go to hell, stop reading if it bothers you so much. I’m not here to be popular. I’m here to drink Pinot and worry about not-writing and where/how to meet a outdoorsy, kind redneck with a crossbow.

daryl-dixon-crossbow

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