What Passing Out and Throwing Up Taught Me About Love and Friendship

It was my birthday a few days ago. Not an exceptionally exciting one. 33. Big whoop. But, a birthday nonetheless.  I, even when I was young, didn’t much care for the hoopla of birthdays. Like.. hooray, I was born… woohoo.. basically if I got a slice of cake and a gift or two, I was more than content. Super low-key is kind of my scene.

I have been in pretty much back to back to back super sad, controlling, borderline emotionally abusive relationships, so I didn’t have much of a social life for most of my adult life (I was allowed to go out, but the amount of grief and questioning and hassle I would have encountered, and then the amount of guilt I would have felt and.. it just wasn’t really worth it.) It is only recently (within the last year or so, but kind of ramped up the past… 4 months, I’d say) that I have really kind of gotten out and about on my own, out of my shell and into the world. And I have been so very, very lucky in that, the people I have found, the people who have found me, are gems, true treasures. I’m #blessed.

So, birthday. Yes. My birthday fell on a night that our regular Wednesday night hangout was doing 80’s karaoke. I wish I had a pun here using an 80’s song lyric, and I apologize for failing y’all. I drank. A lot. More than I should. More than I ever have previously. Or ever will again. (I’m not doing one of those “I’ll never drink again” things, cause let’s face it, we all know that ain’t true, but I am never drinking to that extent ever again. Seriously. Promise made here) And it was not great. At all. I don’t mind being Tipsy. I do that well. But drunk me… ugh.

So… I drank a lot. And I basically fell asleep on one of my new best friends. He’s a trooper, and I love him, and I owe him. He was so sweet. And then I threw up a little. One of my other new best friends was nice enough to call it spitting up, which doesn’t sound near as awful or embarrassing, so I love her too. I had a few people help me clean up. I had a friend help me home, help me shower, put my ass to bed, made me breakfast the next day (which I was still too sick to eat) and let me nap before driving me back to my car, still at the bar.

I am a control freak. Thoroughly. I don’t allow myself to be out of control, ever really. It freaks me out. Not only do I have issues giving up control, but I then feel guilt about those who have to jump in and help me. So it’s kind of a double whammy of uncomfortableness for me. But I was out of control and you know what? I was taken care of. Incredibly well. By multiple people. Some of whom I’ve only really known a few weeks. And I had a few people check on me the next day. And no one is shaming me or making me feel bad (they probably know I’m already taking care of that enough all on my own…) Not only am I control freak, but I am so blind sometimes to the love and support that does surround me. Maybe it’s a pride thing, I convince myself I’m so capable and so strong and that I don’t need anyone, and that doesn’t allow me to see truly how many hands are held out to support me when I do need it.

So, while I’m not suggesting you go out and get black out drunk and puke on people, I am saying that maybe sometimes it is okay to be vulnerable (maybe you can tell that friend about your past, maybe you can let that co-worker know about your sexual preference, maybe that person genuinely does want to hear about your bad day, or whatever it is for you). Again, I will not put myself in that exact position ever again. But the level of love and care that was shown to me did truly bolster my faith in people. To see so many people step up and give me their best, when I was at my worst… that was like.. the best gift I could have ever received. Also, not eating for two days/puking I did manage to lose 4 pounds, which is a pretty awesome birthday celebration, though right now I am kinda… hungry like the wolf… sorry, I had to.


Facebook Notifications and Loneliness


Yesterday was my birthday. I’m old. It’s okay.

All day I got notifications on my phone, so and so wrote on my timeline. It’s nice.

And I write on people’s timelines when it’s their birthday. It’s just kinda what we do, right?

But man… people are lonely. Like.. deeply, devastatingly lonely. Even with all the Facebook notifications.

A guy I know, super busy and popular, successful, talented, smart, funny… lonely.

Another friend, he’s freaking brilliant, stable, caring… lonely.

Another friend, beautiful, stunning really, hard worker, sweetest thing… lonely.

What is actually going on here?

Why do we feel this/have this loneliness epidemic?

I think we’re broken. So broken. And I think we’ve been conditioned by bad relationships, by being lied to and cheated on and used and abused and… to expect people to only break us further. So, we either end up in this permanent loop of victim-hood, or we go the opposite direction and puff ourselves up and declare no one will ever hurt us again, and end up super guarded with walls around us so thick that our hearts become impenetrable. And both of those options suck. A lot. We live in fear, when it comes to love and connection and relating. We can share memes all day long, but are uncomfortable sitting down and sharing a meal. We can like your selfie on insta, but we can’t actually look you in the eye, in person.

I’m not anti-technology, I’m not against texting and posting and liking. I’m not. But that is like taking a vitamin, instead of actually eating the fruits and vegetables. It helps, but it’s not complete. It might keep you going, but it’s not going to make you radiant. It should be a supplement, not the sole… soul… supply.


Looking Average


This is almost a follow-up of sorts to my last post (Being Okay is okay, or whatever the hell I titled it… ). I am a totally average looking woman. Top to bottom (oh la la). I’m about 5 foot, 3 inches-ish, depending on my posture and shoes. I weigh anywhere from 130 to a 140 pounds, depending on how stressed I’ve been and how much I’ve been drinking (mmmm, delicious, empty calories from alcohol), I have wrinkles, I have acne (because God hates me and wants me to look old as fuck, but still awful like a teenager, at the same fucking time), I have grey in my hair (which is never styled correctly and honestly is kinda turning into a mullet as we speak)… and you know what?  I’m okay with it. I mean, I’m using wrinkle cream and scheduling a hair cut soon, but….

So, guy tells me I’m beautiful. I argue. I know he can’t be like, “Oh, you’re so average, just my type!” I get it. I do. But… not every ugly duckling turns into a beautiful swan. It’s fine. And blah blah blah beauty is in the eye of the beholder… unless guys are blind, I’m not beautiful, and again, it’s cool.  When I have these types of conversations, I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m not insecure, or being all woe is me, fishing for compliments, I’m being honest with and about myself, and I’m happy that I’m able to do that.

I think because I’ve never been pretty, that has never been a crutch for me to fall back on, I’ve become more engaging, more clever, more kindhearted. Not that attractive people can’t be those things, I know a woman, she is fucking flawless. Airbrushed perfection. Photoshopped goodness IRL. And she has the biggest heart I’ve ever encountered. But, again, being honest about and with myself, if I were beautiful, I’d probably be a bitch. I’m kind of a bitch now, looking average so, God help erryone if I was good looking.

We put too much stock in trying to fit molds and expectations and having perfect eyebrows and.. I try to look good. I do. I wear make-up. I have cleavage sometimes. But I know what my limitations are, and I’m not killing myself trying to achieve things that are just impossible. I’m not trying to model. I’m not trying to chat up millionaire playboys. If we could start feeling good about looking totally average, instead of being sad about not looking beautiful, how much happier would we be?

Being Okay is Okay

Here’s an example of a conversation I have with various people, on basically any given day:

Person: How are you?

Me: I’m okay.

Person: Just okay?

Me: … Yep. I’m okay.

So, I know people maybe hear, “I’m okay,” as me saying I’m not good, or great, or fabulously fantastic but like.. holy hell guys, “I’m okay,” also means I’m not awful, or horrible or wallowing in a pit of despair.

I feel like there is this pressure to be thriving, not just surviving… I may in fact have written something about that on here in a previous post, and of course being amazing is preferable but… feeling pressure to feel better than okay, makes me feel not okay, you know?

I am  not able to live a luxurious lifestyle. I’m not able to indulge in wanderlust. I’m not having crazy adventures all the time. My life is pretty simple. I work a lot. I socialize when I can. I try to better myself a little bit every now and then. But it’s very ordinary. It’s very… okay. I have days that are just peak awesomeness. And I have days that are absolute nightmares. I average out to okay. I want to own my okayness. And I want to stop the okay-shaming. The next time someone tells me they are “okay”, I’m gonna celebrate the shit out of that, because you know what, there are a ton of people who would give anything for an okay day.

(Also, I fully realize this is not a great post. It’s just okay. And that’s why I’m in love with it.)


A lil while back I kinda had a mini nervous breakdown. (I originally typed that as breaddown, and had to take a minute to ponder through a like… nervous breakdown heavily starring bread, which sounds delicious and way more delightful than the way I actually did it IRL) Crap was just bad. And I eventually ended up deciding a lot of the issues I was slamming into time and time again had to do with significance. Feeling like I was significant. Wondering if I have ever, at any point in time, made impact on anyone. My love life is… an adventure. I’ll kind of leave it at that but… it’s not a stable thing, by any means. On top of that, I’m very busy so I don’t always feel like I have the time to truly, deeply connect. Most things in my life feel very surface. And man was that just… wearing me down.

How did I fix it, you may be asking, dear reader. A couple different ways.

A facebook friend (you know, someone you know in real life, but you haven’t spoken to or actually seen in person for like… years and year.. so they are a friend, but pretty much only on facebook) posted a song, he shares a lot of music. And I commented something, “great song”, whatever it was. And he replied something along the lines of, “the only reason I know that song is because of you” dun dun dun…. I had, in fact, made an impact on this person like… well over ten years ago, because it had been that long since we interacted beyond reading status updates. And that, realizing that, shook me y’all.

So, that went down a couple of weeks back, and I keep kind of re-thinking this idea, what’s my significance to those around me, if it’s anything at all and… it’s only been the past few days that I’m really kinda… embracing that I don’t need to know if I made an impact on you or not, if I’m significant to you or not. That’s on you. I need to know who and what are important to me, what I hold significant, and conduct myself accordingly. I want to always be mindful that my actions and words can have an impact, and I can certainly hope with all my crazy little heart that it’s a positive one but… I don’t control you, or that, so being so freaking bummed out about not mattering, when I could, in fact have saved someones life or god know what, you know, I realized how silly that is.

I also am embracing and accepting the idea of un-mutual (go with me for a sec…) significance. Again, I don’t know for sure, but I feel pretty okay saying there are people who I matter more to them, than they do to me. And that’s just life, man. But, flip side of that, I know beyond any doubt that there are people who matter a whole fuckity fuck ton to me, and I may be nothing beyond an annoying bird chirping outside their window on the one morning they actually get to sleep in. And that’s okay. Unless they start throwing stones at me to get me to leave, I’m gonna chirp away because it’s where my soul sits with them, even if their soul don’t wanna be in the same room as me.  Note: I’m not saying be an annoying stalker cunt, I’m simply saying if you have love in your heart for someone, fucking give it, but give it freely, without needing, wanting or expecting it to be returned. Note II: I’m also not saying be a pushover pussy. Don’t let people use and abuse you. Don’t. You’re better than that. But, I have a friend, I send him “thinking of you messages” somewhat often. I don’t always get replies. And you know what, that’s okay. I don’t know what he’s going through. Maybe words are hard. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he doesn’t know how to respond right now because he can’t wrap his head around someone saying the kind things I do about him. I’m gonna keep sending those messages, because why wouldn’t I? It takes me literally less than a minute and maybe one day, one of those messages will make a positive impact. Or maybe not. Again, that’s not for me to stress over. I just have to keep sending out love, because doing that, being that light, offering that support, is important to me.


It’s amazing how much more empowered you can feel after you start to really realize how little control of things you have.

Death : The Tarot Perspective


I love tarot cards. I have for about 20 years now. (Crap, I’m old.) I am in no way a proficient reader. But I love them, none the less, and own many decks. Many. It’s bad. Anyway. Death. Let’s talk about death. Y’all have seen a movie or tv show at some point in time where a character goes to the fortune teller and gets the Death card and then tragically dies the next day.

I hate this. Let me tell you why I love the Death card.

I have yet to see or find a deck or a reader who takes the Death card as literal, physical death. I am sure there are a few, but I’d confidently say they are in the minority. The overall impression of the Death card is transformation, change, dying to self, removal of things… it’s actually a super cool card. If you think about the idea of reincarnation, that is more in line with the Death card. It’s about transitioning. Or a snake, shedding its skin.

I don’t know exactly what I think happens when we die. Maybe we are reborn, maybe we are judged and assigned an eternal location, or maybe we just stop and rot. But in all of those scenarios, they are all a change from where and what we are currently. People are afraid of death, which has always seemed silly to me, it would be like being afraid of breathing, it happens, it has to happen; living in fear of something that is inevitable seems like a waste of life – which is the thing we should actually be afraid of. And I think working with tarot as long as I have and building my relationship with the Death card, campaigning for it as (to me) a pretty positive card, has only made me less afraid of death.

So, if you ever get a tarot reading and you get the Death card, it’s okay. Think of an old habit that you need to quit, a way of life that is no longer conducive, a relationship that is toxic. Will that thing, that aspect, dying off be hard and potentially painful? Oh hell yeah, but it is necessary and will it foster growth and improvement? For sure. You know in some vampire movies, when a mortal is turned and they have to die to be reborn? But then they get to be like.. a bad ass immortal vampire? Yeah, that’s what the Death card offers you.

Now if you get the Tower card on the other hand… watch your ass… 😉