Might as Well Face It, You’re Addicted to L…ooking at Your Phone

Hi My Little Sweetheart Darlings,

I’ve come to face the fact that I am a slave to my iPhone.

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Please say you’re at least 50% charged.

I meditate, I read books about spiritual consciousness and  ego, I take probiotics, I DO IT ALL. Yet still, when I see other people craned over their phones I think, Huha! Thank God that’s not me!   … and it is absolutely, 100% me.

Every night to wind down, I think about climbing onto my bed to meditate and then get under the covers to read for bit. In reality, I climb onto my bed, think about meditating for five minutes, decide to skip it and get under my covers to read, take out my phone  and look at it for two hours instead, decide I’m finished and pick up the book and fall asleep with the book on my face three sentences later.

I talk about how great meditation and stillness is while I’m still holding my phone a millimeter away from my eyeballs. I move from post to post from app to app and if the first thing doesn’t entertain me, then I know there are literally millions of videos, pictures, tweets, I could look through to preoccupy my thoughts from focusing on my very own mortality. I think it’s also the reason going to the movie theaters seems like an a laborious task. What if the movie is boring? YOU MEAN I HAVE TO SIT THERE AND WATCH IT INSTEAD OF FLIPPING THROUGH 500 THINGS THAT MAY POSSIBLY NUMB ME INTO THINKING I’M NOT BORED. Even while writing this post, I’ve looked at four different articles, opened Facebook three separate times, bought $144 worth of clothes off NastyGal, and made myself an ice cream.

Holy Christ.

There are so many things I want to do. I have a giant coloring pad the size of a mini-fridge with all the goals I want to meet with writing and comedy written on it. If I lived without my phone like I did in middle school, coming home, watching Garfield & Friends, then coloring or drawing or singing or dancing to Brandy alone in my room, I’d most likely be cranking out projects at a much higher rate or consistency.

I did join a few writing groups, mostly women, and every day at least 5-10 people share all the great essays or articles they have published all over the place. Despite having a few things published, seeing other people do it demystifies the process for me and dispels the fear that the writing biz is washed up. If you write it, they will publish. 

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The challenge now is to put into practice what I think about doing which shutting off my goddamn phone for five minutes and creating something that people may benefit from.

If you haven’t listened to the Pete Holmes podcast “You Made it Weird” with Garry Shandling as the guest, I suggest you find the time. Garry nails it by explaining that yeah, we say all these thousands of heartfelt mantras and quotes, but Jesus Christ, you have to LIVE by what they say instead of just reading them and being like, “Yeah! I get it!”

Now the sneaking feeling that I’m being unproductive it setting in. I’m going to go do overkill and try to work on ten different projects at once, burn out, and be mad at myself for not finishing anything and look at my phone for four hours. Hehe!

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Okay my dears, smoochsmoochsmooch bye143.

 

Reading is Fundamental and so is Writing Too, I Guess

Hey Klingons,

I found out today that there is a small publishing company accepting non-represented work to be considered for print. HOORAY! This is great news.

Also, the deadline is in exactly one month.

What the Christ is my game plan, you ask? I have no idea. I guess pick a subject? A theme? I’m leaning towards either my childhood traumas or the jobs I’ve hated. So really, shitting my pants as a child versus shitting my pants as an adult. Or I could write three hundered and fifty pages on how I’ve spent $75  on ice cream delivery in one week. You would spend that much too if you found out there was an ice cream delivery store open until 2am right up the street from you.

I’ve joined a couple of online writer’s groups and it’s been the most motivating experience. Every single day, people post all the great things they are working on and have had published. Meanwhile I’m thinking, Oh. You guys actually work on stuff? You use your ideas and work on them until you feel they’re finished? Interesting. What a concept. Maybe I’ll try that.

 The discipline of sitting down to write without any idea of what you even want to say terrifies me. With that being said, this blog is completely stream of conscious. As for the overall topic, throughout the day if I become aware  I’m consistently thinking of a particular subject, I’ll think Oh yeah, maybe I should write about that in my blog! Then return to picking my nose and swallowing my gum.

I have this welcome mat sized coloring pad I started using to write down (in crayon) all the working titles of my stories. If asked on the street to share a story from my life, I’d go glassy-eyed, start slurring my words, and tell  you about my favorite Beanie Baby (Sparky). When I’m home and need to come up with enough essays for a book in under a month, then the list of ideas and stories comes in handy. I suggest you also revert to your childhood and buy a coloring pad the size of refrigerator.

For the next few weeks, this blog will probably be turning into my sounding board for what should go into the collection and what should never see the light of day again. Buckle up kids because Click-it or Ticket but also some real family truths may surfacing. Let’s enjoy it while we can.

Okay, bye! smoochxoxo

 

O’ Oprah, Where Art Thou?

A couple months ago I signed up for the Oprah “O” Magazine subscription. I haven’t received a magazine yet, so here are some reasons I have pondered as to why Oprah hasn’t stuffed herself into my mailbox.


5 REASONS WHY I HAVEN’T RECEIVED MY “O” MAGAZINE YET

1) They are publishing the magazine in hardcover JUST FOR ME! Oh Oprah, you shouldn’t have. ❤

2) The person processing my account fell asleep on top of my paperwork and drooled all over it. My name and address become illegible and they had no way of contacting me because my information was all wet and smudgy.

3) I never actually subscribed to it because I forgot but somehow convinced myself that I did and I guess I’ll just be angry and sulky for all of eternity. HIGHLY UNLIKELY THOUGH.

4) A rat got stuck in the conveyor belt and jammed up all the printers but the big wigs are Harpo are trying to do damage control and cover the incident up. But will they succeed?

5) Paper has been outlawed! Word hasn’t spread to Massachusetts yet and we’re still over here disregarding rations and flagrantly waving our contraband about. WHO WILL STOP US? WHO WILL PUT AN END TO IT ALL?

Do you have any theories on my missing magazines?

Anyways, that’s all I’ve come up with. I went ahead and bought the issue with Oprah and the big lion on the front because I was not going to let that opportunity pass me by.

Nightnight byebye don’t let the bed bugs steal your girlfriend xoxo

Do You Want to Build a Snowm–I Mean Write a Book?

I’ve seen Frozen three times, cut me some slack. 

Also, my laptop is about to die so this whole post may be a jumbled crapball. I COULD go downstairs and get my charger but shut up already, jeez what’re you my mom? Oh? You ARE? MOM STOP READING MY BLOG, GOD. 

But I digress.

I’ve been meaning to smash a bunch of my essays together and wrap some hard plastic around them and call it a book, but I’m going to take the time and energy and make it my best. The overall theme of it will be the tragedies in my life, infused with my own sick sense of humor, of course. I have some (true) stories, if you could voice your opinion on what you might like to read?

Some toupées: 

I mean topics:

1) Worcester, MA- Part One-In which my friend and I get chased by a homeless man. SPOILER: He jerks off on the car.

2) Worcester, MA- Part Two-In which we did not learn our lesson the first time, so we get caught in the crossfire of two rival street gangs. (Yes, guns. Bang, bang, shoot-em-up.)

3) The Dentist-Part OneIn which the dentist drops his drill and I attempt to swallow it.

4) The Dentist-Part Two– In which the dentist removes my wisdom teeth and also part of my nerve, leaving my face numb (forever).

5) The Accusal- In which my fellow kindergarteners accuse me of stealing the markers and drawing on the walls. But did I really do it?

6) Vacation From Hell: Mexico-In which we have no money, no clothes, and are driving with an insane man that only speaks in Beach Boys lyrics. 

7) College Graduation– In which I am in my driveway at 8:30am. Graduation starts at 9am. I am an hour and a half away. Do I make it in time? Some factors: My mother having diarrhea, makes me stop for anti-diarrheal medicine, I knock down the display. Does she shit in my car?

Those are just some of the stories I’ve wanted to tell for a while. Let me know!

K love you or whatever, my twinkling stars. 🙂 

 

Not Dead Still

Hey crapples!

Today’s kewschun is brought to you by the letter B for Book. 

“What’s your favorite childhood book?”

This one’s a doozy. I have a lot of favorite children’s books, but my favorite childhood book is different. 

Well, books. Because childhood was kind of long, amiright?

My first pick, is from the earlier childhood years:

Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse, By Kevin Henkes.

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There are other books that take place in Lilly’s world, but I’ve only read this one. I love the illustrations, and now thinking about it, I guess I connected with Lilly because she was a freak like me. A nice, shy, freak who has a great fashion sense and secretly craves the spotlight until she gets any attention.

It’s adorable, read it now, go bye.

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The second book comes in the later years of childhood. This was the first book I read several times for enjoyment. Chunky, twelve-year-old me was really into TV and Hotpockets, so that was a milestone.

Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great, by Judy Blume.

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I had always loved the Superfudge books, and I don’t know why I picked up this one up because I always thought Sheila was a friggen bitch. I ended up reading it and realized I was wrong. WAY TO JUDGE A CHARACTER WITHOUT REALLY KNOWING HER, LOLO, YA BIG JERK. Lesson learned. 

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There you have it. Next the next post’s question we will be exploring my 5 favorite blogs. I don’t have 5 favorite blogs so things might get a little hairy.

But until next time, my little salt lickers!

BLERG SHA-LONGE: Day 3

Blog Challenge Day 3

FAVORITE QUOTE.

I posted it a while back, but I got a fortune cookie and the fortune read:

“If you want to win anything-a race, your self, your life-you have to go a little berserk.”

Google told me it was a quote from George Sheehan (author, running enthusiast, physician).

I don’t know if it is but regardless it’s still the greatest fortune I’ve ever received.

Attempting Normal

Hooray!

Marc Maron’s new book, “Attempting Normal” comes out today.

I pre-ordered mine in hopes to get the signed poster that was being offered. I sent my e-mail requesting one last week but didn’t get a response (to confirm or deny) being able to get one. My neurosis and paranoia set in, so I figured I’d e-mail them today. I was panicking that they would hate me for my pestering persistence.

I tried to make the e-mail sound polite and professional as possible, but I accidentally left the subject as “FWD: YOUR BARNES AND NOBLE ORDER HAS SHIPPED.”

Shit. They might think it’s spam. But I’m not spam! Just a girl who wants a poster. Why do you think I bought the complete Rocko’s Modern Life DVD set? Free poster. Why do you think I sign up for road races and never run them. Free t-shirts. Any event I ever went to in college regardless of what it was in support of? Free. Friggen. T-SHIRTS.

LIVE FREE OR DIE NAKED/POSTERLESS.

I think there are still some posters left or if you just like reading printed words on dead trees, go here: http://www.wtfpod.com/dispatches/entries/pre_order_attempting_normal

I don’t know how to get links to say a phrase and not just say the whole link, so ignore my quackery*.

In other news, I left my granola bar on my desk and a sunbeam warmed it up so the yogurt part of it tasted like warm frosting. Normally, warm yogurt would make me want to throw up out my ass, but this was really good.

I also recently found out my favorite place to get coffee doesn’t sell strawberry or vanilla frosted doughnuts. I also recently found out I am not confident when writing the word “doughnut.” I figured I can at least get the strawberry ones around Valentine’s Day or maybe ever Breast Cancer Awareness month. I can’t really think of a holiday that would warrant vanilla frosted doughnuts.

Okay, my little circus freaks, until next time!

*I’m not entirely sure that’s a word, but WordPress isn’t telling me I’m wrong so I MUST be right.

I Hope I Don’t Steal That Genie’s Notebook

I’ve said it before, but I feel the need to preface this post with, I don’t roll around in granola, chanting mantras, and making tea from the dung of a pack mule.

BUT I am very interested in the idea of following coincidence and synchronicity. I don’t know too much about it, but I know enough to recognize that a lot of kooky stuff has happened  to me and the more you notice coincidences, the more they will pop up.

WELL FRIENDS, today I was farting around on my library’s website, and since their website is worth farting on, I went to the Barnes and Noble website to search through books on synchronicity and bleeblahblarf. I typed in “synchronicity” and the only book that popped up was “Synchronicity: The Art of Coincidence, Choice, and Unlocking Your Mind.” Oh perfect! Just wanted I wanted!

Huh, the author’s name is Dr. Kirby Surprise.

My middle name is Kirby…

Surprise! 

What a coincidence that I was looking up a book on coincidences and that was the name of the author. Innerestin’ right?

I keep a journal (well, 4, since I have a compulsion when buying notebooks) of all the weird coincidences that pop up for me. The phrase “you’re wish is my command” pops up a lot, as does the number 68. This, which goes without saying, obviously means I’m going to meet a genie and he’s going to grant me 68 wishes but only if I don’t steal all his notebooks. You have to set barriers, you know.

I’m going to read through the book within the next couple days and report back if anything more unusual pops up, like maybe the author is really my twin that got separated from me that one time at that KMart and grants wishes!

Until next time, kids.

Meeting David Sedaris (But Really This Time!) : Part Three

I think I can finally make it through this post without sobbing.

Here’s the story.

The past few months I’ve been having a bit of a quarter-life crisis. It dawned on me, as I was sitting on the work toilet counting the dead flies caught in the fluorescent light, that I didn’t know what the hell I’ve been doing with myself for the past 23 years.

I’ve always been a sheep. I like  doing what I was told and begging people to tell me what to do. That meant I wouldn’t have to take responsibility if I sucked.

Thankfully, I finally had breakthrough. “I NEED TO DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE,” I shouted at my fly friends, startling my fellow employees outside the restroom.  I pulled up my pants and went back to my desk (don’t worry I wiped and washed).

Five minutes later, I got a text from one of my best friends. She asked if I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day. Being favorite of David Sedaris’ books, I told her it was my Bible. “I’m convinced I’m reading a book you wrote” her next message read. Naturally overdramatic, I sobbed and looked up David Sedaris show dates. It just so happened he’d be in Boston the next month. Click. Two tickets bought.

During my crisis, I visited some different people, who I like to refer to as I’m-here-so-you-don’t-ruin-your own life advisors. Naturally, in every interaction with a human being I had, I let them know I was going to see David. “Can you get some of your work to him?” one of the advisors suggested. I just sat there staring blankly. “Well, I guess I could.” I had four weeks to prepare something, I guess it was worth a shot.

It was an hour before I had to leave for the show and I was still staring at a blank word document. Shit.

I then unloaded the insults onto myself. “Lauren, you fuck! You have to leave. BUT YOU HAVE TO FINISH THIS.” I had never done something so bold for myself and I knew I’d have to throw myself down a flight of stairs if I didn’t bring something for this opportunity. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more about a time I had find a way not to take a piss in my dad’s ashes (I’ll explain later) and edited it down to four pages of semi-funny shit, and flew out the door.

I picked up my friend and we drove into Boston, passing the venue David would be speaking at. There were hundreds of people outside the theatre waiting to get in. “Oh…other people are going to this?” The fantasy of me, my friend, and David, laying around in robes talking about what type of cheese we’d like with our tuscan flavored Triscuits, did not include the mod scene forming around us, fighting for their favorite types of cheese. The essay folded in my pocket burst into flames.

We got in the theatre and watched an amazing reading. When it was finished David said “I’ll be out in the lobby signing books after.” A collective swoop sounded and the entire auditorium made a dash for the doors. After the smoke cleared, my friend and I made our way behind the others, as we were pushed and shoved like we were passengers running the corridors of the Titanic.

“Welp, I guess we’re never going to find the lobby.” In my heart I felt like a moron for thinking I could fight my way through these people. We stopped walking amidst the chaos. Goddammit. We should probably just head home. At that moment, a man behind us shoved open a set of doors nearly invisible to the naked eye. Behind ehind them was the signing table.

I don’t want to say we tuck and rolled into the lobby, but I can’t really remember from all the tumbling. We claimed out place in line, 10 people deep. David came in, and we slowly made our way front.

He signed books and chatted with the other fans, and I tried to keep myself grounded in the moment. I have a tendency to let my mind go on autopilot (similar to a coma) and I don’t come out of it until the moment has passed. I wanted to be present when talking to him. I wanted to be professional and fun, but not “fan girl”. The couple in front of us left in what looked like slow motion, and David sat there waiting for us to move forward.

A normal person would have shaken his hand, gave him their book to sign, made a little small talk, thank him, and move on.

We ran up to him and said hello, and immediately I knelt down in front of him, like a child, and stared in his eyes. My friend held the conversation beautifully, and I made incoherent comments every so often. David liked my outfit, and confessed his displeasure of Cold Stone Creamery. I hate Cold Stone. I hate that when you tip them, you have to sit and take their singing as if you’re being rewarded. I didn’t make any witty comments though, I just shouted “YES.” Original. Professional. Fun.

As the moment wrapped up, he signed our books, and the nervous rash I developed flared up my neck and to my face. I stood up and like an ostrich, I shoved my entire head in my purse in search for the essay. I pulled it out (with my mouth? I’m not sure).

“I WROTE THIS FOR YOU!” I shouted, and shoved the folded chunk of paper at him.

“Oh. Thank you, I’ll read it later!” He said and smiled, as he stuck it into his back pocket.

I don’t remember what was said after that, but I know I stumbled away, my shirt see-through from the gallons of sweat I poured out.

I kept laughing hysterically out of nervousness the rest of the night. Myy friend and I talked and fantasized about our future visits (robe-wearing dates) with David. I dropped her off at her house, and as soon as I hit the highway to go home alone, I sobbed.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I weeped a little today.

I hear that when you are around someone who does what they love, they emit a different kind of energy. I’m no new age hippie, but I like hummus, and every time David looked down at me, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t cry.

It was awesome.

I don’t know if I’ll hear back from him. I don’t think it really matters (Yes it does). I did my part, which was in a nutshell (teehee) to grow a pair. Sure, the essay wasn’t my best, but I’m the type of person that still makes my mom order the pizza so I don’t have to interact with anyone.

This was a huge step. What the hell have I been waiting for (aside from the pizza)?

I’m Having a Meltdown

HEY GUYS! I’M HAVING A MELTDOWN! 

I’m going to be in the same room as David Sedaris later, and I’m sweating bullets. I’ve already cried three times today and I’m waiting for the uncontrollable diarrhea to start.

I always hear it’s disappointing to meet your idols, but I’ve heard David Sedaris is one of the nicest people. 

Okay, I’m going to go lie on the floor and eat a bunch of Tums.