Story Bored

Hi, my friends.

Like many writers, artists, monkeys, and other creative people, I get really irritated when I’m not producing anything. I have 47,000 ideas going on at once and there’s just too many chips in the cabinet for me relax and sit down to focus on one. Or twenty. OR ANY.

Thank God for the instructions of NaNoWriMo. I’ve always edited as I go which made my 5th grade book reports a real bitch in the Lo Kirby household. Half way through my stunning argument on why Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web was my favorite character I’d think, Wait…Is Charlotte kind of an asshole to Wilbur? I don’t agree with her methods at all! Do I really hate Charlotte? Oh my god, I HATE CHARLOTTE. 

It’s a curse. It also inhibits me from working on essay and letting it breathe before I start tearing it apart and eventually giving up on it altogether. I have a list published on McSweeney’s and that took nearly two years to achieve and I worked on it steadily. I wonder where 47 word documents with 3-10 sentences in each with the intention of becoming a story will get me? Hmm.

I CAN’T HELP IF I GET BORED AFTER 30 SECONDS OF WRITING BECAUSE THERE’S CHEESE IN MY FRIDGE AND I HAVE TO GO TO WHERE THE CHEESE IS BECAUSE CHEESE IS NOT BORING.

SO, I started a new process. I have a giant coloring pad that I have deemed my “Story Board” (harharhar, elbow jab, wink wink, hehe, hoohoo). Every single story idea that flashed for 2 seconds in my mind goes on the board. No wonder I was stressed out. After 10 minutes I had about 30+ stories written down. These are ideas that have been floating around for months or years. Now that the idea is down I don’t have to worry about texting it to myself 12 times over the year when I remember it while walking around Walmart or honking down a burger at McDonald’s. It’s there and now I can pick one and focus on it.

We’ll see how the focusing goes.

Okay, I love you, you smell great, here’s my number, don’t forget to feed the dog, tell the babysitter to stop stealing the K-Cups. GOODNIGHT!

A Terrible Motivational Speech

I did a parody of Ira Glass’ famous and lovely quote on storytelling and writing. It hardly makes sense. Enjoy.

“Nobody tells this to n00bs. I wish someone told me. All of us who eat food, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you eat stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you to buy that $400 Kitchen Aid mixer with all the attachments, is still killer. And your taste is why your food disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they take Tums, have violent bouts of diarrhea and quit. Most people I know who eat and make interesting food went through years of this. We know our food doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have (cinnamon). We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is just eat a lot of food. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will eat one sundae. It is only by going through a buttload of sundaes that you will close that gap, and your homemade froyo will be as good as Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta loosen your belt and fight your way through it.” -Roth Plastic

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. 🙂 

 

The End (but not really)

Hey Lint-lickers!

I DID IT. I FINALLY DID IT.  (Obligatory sex joke.)

Day 31. The final question of the Blog Challenge that I’ve managed to drag on since May. Whoops.

The Question: Why do you blog?

As I mention in every waking breath, in every medium, to every person I’ve met, I love comedy AND I love talking about things that other people feel uncomfortable talking about. Not controversial stuff (I mean, if you want!) but having conversations about emotional things that people stuff down inside them. Not necessarily a therapy session, but I appreciate talking passionately, whether about that goofy music you loved when you were 10 or that time your uncle died. Most people, when getting to know me, throw a “you’re weird” out there. But hey, I’m not going to pretend I’m a placid movie character. I over-share and reveal personal information about myself.  Just because you may not understand me, doesn’t mean you won’t, and doesn’t mean I don’t understand you.  I realized my “weird” is what a lot of people connect to on a deeper level. Several of my friendships have evolved from conversations that started with a “you’re weird” but closed with “I feel like I can be myself around you.” I don’t think I could dream up a more touching compliment.

In regards to blogging, I can reach people who might think the way I do, or who maybe are unconsciously searching for someone they can kick their shoes off with. We can toss around a few dick jokes too (because, y’know, comedy).

That being said, there are so many mediums available to throw your comedy onto. Naturally, I’m on all of them, but each outlet has it’s own crowd and it’s own set of strengths and weaknesses. Twitter is great for quick jokes, but blogging is a great place for rich storytelling. AND I GOT STORIES, KIDS.

It’s also a place I like to go to when I remember I went to college for writing and need to fill the void by writing reflective essays about myself.

Well. There it is. All done.

Thank you all who have kept tabs on ZE BLERG SHULERNGE. I think I lost the challenge in regards to the “31 Days” thing, but I answered all the questions, so there.

Until next time, my shining stars!

My Bum Hurts

Hi my beautiful children of the web! I hope your weekend doesn’t stink like poopy buttcracks. Last night I got the opportunity to skate around with a roller derby team. It was fun but now I can’t walk. Apparently an important rule for skating is you probably shouldn’t keep your legs rigor mortis while you clench your asscheeks like if you were keeping a grenade from dropping. This may be the first time I used the word grenade and it wasn’t meant to be a metaphor for poop, although it too would apply. Miraculously, I pulled myself together this morning and went to the mall for 6 hours and spent $300 on stuffed animals, ice cream, and blouses I can’t fit into my drawer. I also bought black lipstick which I will wear whenever I’m feeling especially moody but my lips are too tired to pout. All the yammering I do during the day to my kitties gets tiring, you know. I’ll also smear it on when I’m playing my XBOX so I can feel a little more badass.

In more pressing news, tomorrow I’m going to see David Sedaris and make him my bride. Some of my friends I’ve told suggested that I write up a short story for him. I have one in the works about how I had to piss in an almond jar while driving, so even if he wipes his ass with it because it’s so terrible, at least we’ll be bonded through the written word.

Enjoy the rest of your night/morning my little kumquats. Until we meet again.

Prom: A Child’s Tale of Beauty

Prom is an exciting time in most horned-up high schoolers precious little lives. I know I wanted to go the moment my 6th grade self discovered it’s existence in North American folklore. My mother had taken to buying me copies of “CosmoGirl” as “Seventeen,” in her argument, was for girls who were seventeen. Unfortunately, by the time I was seventeen, I had already passed the maturity level of figuring out what the most subtle ways of flirting at a carnival were, and what summertime toenail polish color would best coincide with my star sign (a nice sparkly orange for you Cancers). I really could have used those tips when I hit fourteen, but water under the bridge, I suppose.

However, there was a shining light in my mother’s contradictory parenting methods. I received a 500 page prom magazine, seven years prematurely.

I slapped that sucker open as I laid in bed, looking at all the different dresses and putting together the perfect outfit. There were some darling ball gowns and slinky satin numbers, but it wasn’t until I saw my beauty laid out before me like Kate Winslet on the chaise for Leo, that I knew what I wanted.

The dress was a halter in a muted shade of lavendar. The color found usually as the result of dumping all the food coloring dyes into a white bowl of frosting and stirring it up. Sigh. What’s that? It looks to have a sheen that gives off a rainbow effect once it catches light. Who made this dress, King Jesus? It’s perfect.

What’s more? It wasn’t just any old elegant dress. It was a two piece! Oh, to my delight. Nothing says magical storybook evening like fleshy, deli-ham, skin pouring over the top of the skirt.

That could be easily fixed. Fixed with clear, 5-inch platform heels that lit up when the wearer stomped-I mean floated across the dance floor.

Beautiful.

Now, the outfit was fully planned from the neck down. Hm. Something was missing.

That’s right!

A tiara!

In case the other classmates didn’t understand the royalty that would be gracing their presence, the $8 dollar rhinestone tiara would make the vision complete. But what to do with that hair? A princess beauty couldn’t have a tiara sitting on top of some crusty old hairdo. No side sweep will do. Chignons are boring and sound edible. Then, like the light from a unicorn’s horn, a stroke of genius shone down. What hairstyle could possibly compliment such a stunning adornment atop my egg-shaped skull? It’s perfect! It only makes sense! It is the other half of the golden amulet!

A crown of cornrows, of course!

The crown of cornrows would meet the placement of the tiara (did the stars align or what?) then the rest of my hair would be fixed into two french braids that tied together at the ends.

Gorgeous.

With my forehead so taut, if I had blinked it would change the channel on the neighbors TV. There needed to be makeup shellacked onto this blank canvas.

There needed to be the lipliner, a dark mauve, which surrounded a plum (both in taste and color) lipgloss with gold sparkes. Blush needed to be applied in a circlular motion on the apples of the cheeks in a rich berry. Raspberry, blackberry, or even mashed boysenberry would do.

Then the eyes would need some focus. Simple and chic. White eyeliner to top those lids, followed by a slick coat of blue mascara. I needed to get those eyes to pop. To polish it all off, just a quick glide of maroon “Froot Loop” scented roll-on glitter right into the unplucked eyebrows. A staple in every makeup bag.

A sweet, sensual, Cinderella story in the making.

I don’t know where I went wrong, but I never did get my dream ensemble for prom. I went with something boring, and that includes the Chignon. I like to believe that somehow, somewhere, in a dimension call Skqlarnak, all the girls of the world are living out their dream prom, slow- dancing to Martin Page’s “In the House of Stone and the Light.”

Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to follow at twitter.com/lolovonk !

Cats

As I’m waiting for my hair straightener to reach white dwarf temperature levels, I’ll tell you a tale about how me and my cat were handcuffed together. This is our story.

Okay, so we weren’t “handcuffed” per say, but let me paint this rolling landscape for you. When I got home from work today, I wanted nothing more than to face plant onto my couch and recover from the last 9 hours spent without break (and without feeding my kitty faces). I walked in, turned off the alarm, and  saw Litty, my 14 year-old princess tabby, sitting like an angel from Kitten Heaven. Before I even had time to dive underneath the couch cushions, I was distracted by her soft fur, her big whiskers, and her cute meow-face. Naturally, I cooed at her and slung her over my left shoulder. She gripped her furry fingers into my shoulder blade as I scooped her bum in my hand. I was Rafiki and she was my Simba. That went on for about 30 seconds until the music stopped and  I hunched forward so she could help herself down.

Then disaster struck. One of her  jagged little claws snagged  in my H&M nine dollar pullover. A familiar tale that has only ended in peril.

I set my elbow on the arm of the couch, so she didn’t have to dangle from my shoulder, like Rose on the back of the Titanic. I knelt, she sat, staring at each other like arm wrestlers do before the match starts. Now normally, a stuck claw can be relieved by simply holding the kitty’s paw and pulling the shirt away from it. But your cat isn’t Litty. What should have been a quick fix was a seven minute foray in a Chinese finger trap hell. She pulled, I pulled, she pulled, I pulled. An intense tug-of-war. The minutes passed and I began to wonder who would die first. Would my mom come home to me laying lifeless on the floor, Litty sitting on my dead face?  I tried desperately to grab her paw to release us, but when I touched her tangled foot, she slapped me with the other one.

I contemplated taking my shirt off and  letting her keep it, but we were in front of a open window and my neighbor was out standing by his mailbox.

Then came the moment of clarity, I draped myself on the arm of the chair. Litty sat staring at me like it was somehow all my fault. I looked up at the clock, 7 minutes. “We can’t stay here forever, Litty. One of us has to make a sacrifice.”

She looked at me as if to say “Whatever, bitch” and turned to look out the window.

It was my only chance. She had looked away, and I took things into my own hands.

I grabbed her paw and ripped my shirt away and screeched, “WE’RE FREE!”

Her ears went flat and she whipped her head around, staring at me wide-eyed. I did a few victory kicks and said “What? No ‘thank you’?”

She stared at me, farted, and jumped down.

So there you have it. My straightener is sufficiently hot enough to murder curls and you’ve now heard my tale of woe for the day. Did you learn anything from it? Hopefully that love conquers all,the good guy always wins in the end, and that cat farts are the worst.