Personal Remix

Hello my darlings, It’s a fairly well documented fact that while I am feisty af for people I care about, I, myself, am a doormat. You’d think this would be something I hate about myself. The fact that I am very easy to dupe, and that I often get my feels stomped on. But I really didn’t hate it. I liked that even though I frequently came across horrible people, I still maintained the ability to see the silver linings, to bounce back and find goodness. I liked being a borderline naive Snow White type person. I waited patiently for floofy forest creatures to help me fold laundry. 2016 changed me as a person. I know I’m not alone in this. Partly, I changed because I was struck down by an illness that keeps trying to kill me. (Rude, amirite?) Mostly, it was the way the election seemed to lift the rock that was covering the people around me, and in their places, I saw the squirming, scurrying, slithering remnants left behind. I live in a blood red part of a super red state. Indiana has only gone blue a handful of times in presidential elections, but in most counties, Democrats don’t even run. Candidates rarely even put information of their stances in ads, they just have to say, “REPUBLICAN!” and they know they will win. I know there are people everywhere that take things waaaaay too far. I always sort of assumed they were the exception to the rule of civility. When I was a kid, my uncle was family-famous for his unadulterated hatred of Democrats. Like, everyone knew you couldn’t even sniff around politics in his presence because he would get so worked up he’d start screaming at anyone in the family he considered to be liberal....

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Vagception

Hello my darlings, I’ve known for some time I would have to write this post, but it’s not something I’ve been chomping at the bit to do. The other day, I posted something that was a way to help me process the horror in Orlando, and I was almost instantly called out for my “allyship.” And it was put in quotation marks just like that. Aside from the fact I didn’t think it was a particularly approriate time to try and pick fights with people who were trying to sort through a fuckton of grief, the lady was super not hip to facts. See, what happened was this woman had seen a Tweet, and jumped to eleven thousand conclusions based on that single Tweet. To her, I wasn’t a part of the QUILTBAG+ community, so I had no right to be commenting on anything. Except I was very clear in an accompanying Tweet, in the same thread, even, that I am, in fact, queer. This isn’t a secret, and hasn’t ever been. I even reached out to apologize to the woman who went high holy roller on my Tweet, accusing me of fetishizing the QUILTBAG+ community, hoping she would see that there was a lot more accompanying the single Tweet she’d called out, if she’d kept reading. But she didn’t reply. She kept Tweeting about the bullshit “allyship” but never acknowledged the apology I’m not entirely sure I was due to give, but I saw her point through the eyes of the isolated Tweet and wanted to make amends. My reality did not match her narrative. She had a point to make, and no amount of pesky facts was going to alter that. I see this a lot on social media. A LOT. Over the last two years, it’s...

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The Snowflake Defense

Hello my darlings, It seems to be a hip thing nowadays to flounce about the internet with a high level of pretentiousness and denounce people for whatever is denouncable. “This thing you like I find stupid, therefore, you are stupid.” It’s important you all note just how hard I roll my eyes at these people. One of the most irritating denouncements is the “special snowflake” quips. “You’re not a special snowflake, mmkay?” I see this in varying contexts. In publishing, it’s usually your book isn’t special, you aren’t special, you don’t deserve anything special, so STFU and take a seat, loser. In parenting, you and your kid are the same nameless, faceless morons that fill up the rest of the world and no one cares. In life, no one gives two fucks about what you are doing so stop posting about it on social media, for chrissake. Like, okay. We get it, Pretentiouspants. You’re super cool and above everyone else. What a weighty crown to bear. How truly burdensome to be the one true special snowflake that is cursed with looking down on all the rest of the yellow snow with disdain and loathsome pity. I’ve heard actual people in real life discussing people like Neil Gaiman and JK Rowling saying things like, “Well, sure, he sells, but he’s not that special, so.” and “She’s not a good writer. She’s not special. She’s lucky.” These are actual things that I’ve heard come out of actual mouths. And not just from random internet fans, but people in publishing. Over the last few years, I’ve watched people become “special snowflakes” to people who feel they are qualified to make that assessment. Someone who one day didn’t matter suddenly was deemed worthy. I’m not going to lie, it’s kind of gross to...

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War of the Words

Hello my darlings! When I was a kid, my parents would tell me the tale of the first radio broadcast of Orson Welle’s WAR OF THE WORLDS. The story went something like this: On October 30th, 1938, the radio program aired and was so believable, so terrifying, it sent the country, millions of people, into mass hysteria. People genuinely thought the planet was being attacked by aliens, and chaos ensued. I didn’t just hear the story from my parents. All my older relatives told the harrowing tale. Our history classes taught about it. We learned about the power of fiction, the pull of a well told story. Here’s the thing though; it’s a lie. There was no mass hysteria. There weren’t people flailing in the streets ready to surrender to or do battle with their assumed alien overlords. So where did the story come from? How has it been “common knowledge” for decades that the country fell to it’s knees in front of radios right before World War 2? Somebody lied. That’s it. Somebody lied. The general idea is this; newspapers were super pissy that this new fangled radio contraption was lowering the amount of adertisers buying space in their papers. And so, someone had the brilliant idea of discrediting this hateful electronic devilry by posting on front pages that the radio program had caused actual mass hysteria. Surely no one would ever want to be fooled by such an untrustworthy medium and the radio would crumble, falling beneath the reliable feet of the trusted newspaper. Seriously. Someone thought it would be a good way to solidify trust in the printed word by effectively lying to millions. Check out this article from Slate.com. A lot of research went into discovering the root of this myth. Here’s a more detailed...

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I Can’t Hair You

Hello my dears! This last weekend, my brother was in the process of buying a new car and came across the most cartoonishly bad car salesmen this side of my own car selling days. He’d spent two days working through the deal only to have a wave of attempted swindling bring it all crashing down. If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a shitty sales pitch, you know how frustrating it can all be. If you’re a nice, quiet lad my like brother, you might also discover yourself being run around in circles and finding it really hard to get anyone to listen to your “No.” So, I was called in as the muscle. Or the mouth. Either way, I was recruited to go with him and make sure these dudes understood NO MEANS NO and could he please just have the keys to his car back, please. I’m super good at being tough for other people, while still firmly unable to stand up for myself. I’m an enigma. Or something. Anyway, while we were standing in the dealership waiting for the sales dude to secretly fetch another manager to woo my bro, someone wrapped their arm around my waist. My first thought was someone I knew was in the room and had come over to say hi. I turned and saw a dude I have never seen in my life. And his arm was around my waist. With his hand curled right around my ribs the way my husband holds me when we walk in a cuddly mood. The dude I don’t know but is still holding me gives me this leery smile and says, “I just really love your hair.” I wriggled away, said, “Uh, thanks.” and then whipped around to hiss, “That. Dude. Just....

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