A writer writes about writing (AKA: Holy Meta, Batman!)

I have once again fallen into the trap of completely neglecting my blog.  I will admit that this is partially due to the fact that I receive great personal pleasure out of having my most recent post comprised of gratuitous swearing.  There is something inherently sad about burying that mountain of fucks and shits under a comparatively tame post, but, alas, insomnia has taken hold of me and my default into random writing kicked in.

Why Swearing is FUN!

If you are reading this, chances are you are my friend or, at the very least, my acquaintance.  I’m sure you are well aware of the fact that I have a little sailor who lives inside my mouth, shouting out filthy words and phrases and laughing gleefully.  In my life, I have encountered many people who equate swearing with a lack of classiness or eloquence.  Bullshit, I say.  Words are words: they are empty sounds until we project meaning and connotation upon them.  I am not ashamed to admit that I harshly judge the “oh fudge,” “fiddlesticks,” and “heck” mutterers of the world.  By denying yourself the use of one word, only to replace it with a similarly sounding word that holds the exact same meaning and intent, is ludicrous.  If you have a problem with me saying “fuck,” you are implying that you take issue with the meaning behind it.  If I say “fudge” in its place, the meaning has not changed.  The intent remains the same despite the switch of letters.

The argument is much more complex than this, I’m aware.  We have been socially conditioned to recognize certain words as bad and improper, taught that these words are inappropriate in certain social settings, and berated for using them at unacceptable times.  I just want to know why these particular words are the ones that are the most satisfying to use. 

The book-lover's struggle

I struggle with myself over many things on a daily basis.  The dirt-loving, toad-petting side of me goes head to head with the nail polish and eyeliner-wearing side; the animal-lover in me hurls accusations when I tear into a steak; and the grammar-Nazi inside cries bitter tears over my frequent use of run-on sentences across the Internet (don't even get me started on the self-loathing I endure when I happen to indulge in txt-spk.)  For the past couple years, however, my most ardent internal battle has been waged between the book-loving purist and the gadget-toting tech nerd.  

So far, physical books have been winning out by a large margin.  I'm a literature graduate who loves the solid weight of ink and paper in her hand, smelling the musky book scent, and the satisfaction felt whenever I glance at my overflowing bookshelves.  Each book has a story, whether it be the marked up copy of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English or the guilty-pleasure summer read that sits hidden behind more impressive titles.  When I hold my used books, I think of how many hands have touched them, how they were loved by previous owners.  My new books hold my own memories: the first crack of the stiff spine, the joy I felt devouring the words, the escape they might have offered during hard times.  I have books signed by authors and--even more dear to me--books signed by hands I know and love.  So, basically, my books turn me into sentimental mush.  I just happen to like this brand of sentimentality.  

Loudly and often I have adamantly claimed that I will never own an e-book device.  Even when late night urges turned me to the internet to sneakily purchase e-books to read on my laptop, I stuck to my guns.  Even when, over the course of only two years, my e-book purchases totaled roughly $500 (on top of my physical book purchases: a total I cannot even think about without my wallet crying in pain), I continued to live on in denial.  No piece of spiffy plastic can replace my books.

It's a losing battle.  I love technology.  I love instant gratification.  I love nerding out over various gadgets.  And so it began: my inner nerd started a revolt.  Niggling doubts entered my brain as I passed the shiny Nooks at Barnes and Noble.  When I first fondled a Kindle, the e-ink screen surprised and delighted me.  I went giddy over access to thousands of free classics.  The urge to possess such a gadget grew and grew.  

Until this last week, I held on to my book-purist ideals.  I talked myself out of a Kindle purchase time and time again with money-related excuses and longing looks at my battered books.  I knew the battle was lost when I spent an entire Saturday converting my MS Reader books into usable formats.  My warring sides have come together in peace, content for the time being to compromise and allow me a shiny new toy.  With my paycheck next week comes my very own e-reading device.   I won't even begin to describe how the part of me that wants to own a bookstore one day feels about that.

Incidents in the Life of a Dumbass

Do you ever look back on a situation or series of events and wonder what the hell is wrong with you?  Well, I do.  I'm incredibly clumsy, often irrational, and prone to extreme dramatics, which means there is usually at least one event every day where I have to shake my head at myself.  Some days, like yesterday, my entire day consists of a series of unfortunate events.  Last night, over the span of three hours, I did myself bodily harm, was attacked by an invasion of demonic crickets, and was woken up by the sounds of a chicken massacre.

"What do you do with a BA in English?"

Well, make that a BA in Literature and that little puppet is singing my song (Avenue Q, guys - Google it!)  With the news that I passed the big, bad comprehensive exam I was bitching about a month ago, I'm suddenly realizing that my graduation in December is looming very close.  For the past two years, after declaring my major, I've been willfully ignorant of the odd looks I get when I happily claim I am majoring in Literature and that, no, I'm not 100% sure what I want to be when I "grow up."  

Longest day in the history of ever

Ever have one of those days?  You know the ones: those days.  One of those days can mean any number of things.  The other week I had one of those days where everything goes wrong from start to finish: being pelted by gravel on the interstate, stepping in dog poo, accidentally plucking half your eyebrow off.  Basically, a day where Murphy and his stupid little law lurk behind you and laugh mockingly as the day progressively gets worse.  

Today I had nothing particularly bad happen.  But, still, it has been one of those days.  The day that seems never ending.  Where you stare at the clock and swear the second hand is taking hours to tick on by.  I started at 7:30 and just got home from my Monday night class at 9:30.  A long day, indeed, though there is nothing unusual in that.  What is unusual -- wait, scratch that, what is completely and totally frustrating and maddening -- is that this day seemed to last a week. 

The space-time continuum was working just fine as I was rushing around like a mad woman to get ready so I wouldn't be late for class.  But then time seemed to freeze.  A 50 minute class felt like a semester's worth of discussion on lyric poets (ok, now that is a nightmare, shudder).  My sandwich at lunch, though eaten at a normal pace, seemed to last only between 12:30 and 12:31.  A mere 6 hours of work felt like a full 40 hour week.  And that only takes me to 6pm.  I won't even get started on my night class and how a 1RM arm and leg press seemed to span the length of an entire work out.

So, after making it through this eternal day on 5 hours of sleep, I come home to realize I still have a decent chunk of homework to complete before I can fall into bed.  Well, hell - finally!  Finally a positive to this horrible day:  I can do my work and still be in bed by midnight.


But, alas, the clocks have started operating at full function once again.  Such is life.

In the name of full disclosure

After a particularly humorous and revealing conversation with a friend earlier this week, I realized no one is immune to embarrassment.  We all have those stories or facts that are only funny after the blush has worn off.  Many of mine are related to my ridiculous clumsiness or ignorance.  So, in the name of full disclosure, a list.  Something lighthearted as I determinedly ignore my homework.

1.  Up until about a year and a half ago, I was going around pronouncing Goethe in a blatantly non-Germanic way:  Go-eh-thee.   And yes, I realized my error in class.  After saying it aloud in the middle of what I thought was a particularly intelligent response.  I was wrong.

2.  I thought peanuts grew on trees for a large chunk of my life.  Ok, so, it was up until last year.  Leave me alone.

3.  My first class on the first day of school during my first year at UNCA, I got up from my desk and was met with a large ripping noise.  I looked down and realized my dress had gotten caught on the desk and was split right up the front, exposing quite a bit of thigh and a decent sized patch of bright-ass-green underwear.  It was a spectacular first impression.

4. I blew up my bathroom in the 11th grade.  The rest of that story shall remain a secret.

5.  I have beaned myself in the head with the Wiimote more times than I can count. 

6.  Walking barefoot on flat ground with no spare cloth near my feet, I trip an average of at least 10 times per day.  Usually in public.  Usually with a face-to-the-ground-ass-in-the-air finish. 

7. While snorkeling with my parents in Puerto Rico and encountering a crap ton of jellyfish, I acted the same way any sane adult would do:  I alternated between climbing on my father's back and floating in the fetal position with my eyes closed.  I may or may not have peed on myself in some misinformed desire to keep them away.

8.  One of said jellyfish was a plastic bag.  There is video proof.

9.  I got bit by a Golden Retriever.  Yes, America's favorite family pet ripped half my arm open.  This is something that would only happen to me.

10.  I got sent home early from pre-school for singing everyone's favorite Rocky Horror Picture Show number:  "Touch-a touch-a touch me..."


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