I’m tired of crisis, of terror.
I’m tired of violence, horror, humanity turning on itself.
I’ve seen the face of a beautiful, resilient local gay man beaten in and swollen because of hate.
I’ve seen body parts and carnage because of a bombing at a marathon. For no reason, no demands given, no purpose stated. Just to do damage.
I can’t anymore. I’m so tired. I’m so tired of people just generally being total pieces of shit.
I don’t pray, but sometimes I wish I did. I feel like it would be a comfort. It’s hard living in this world — this chaotic, horrible world — when you have no higher power to hold on to. I envy that in others. I wish I could find it myself at times. (You don’t need to preach to me, I’ve searched on my own and haven’t found a faith.)
I want to love. I want to believe in love. I want to keep this psychotic optimism that is sometimes THE ONLY fucking thing that gets me to leave my house each day. I have to hold on to that. I have to look for the helpers. I have to continue forward momentum when all I want to do is cry at how terrible people are to each other.
I have to hug the people I love. Even though I hate hugs. I have to send dollars when I can and send good vibes when I have no dollars to give. I have to believe with my blood, with my tears, that eventually this will stop.
I have to. I have to believe that or I won’t ever leave the house.
Be good to each other, please.
Yesterday one of my music writers (I’m an editor, so I oversee a handful of freelancers. No real authority, mostly herding cats) informed me she wasn’t going to be filing her column this week. Our main editor (the one with actual authority) is on vacation and so we have a guest editor (which is not me, thank sweet baby Jesus) and our deadline was early.
Today. (Normally on Sunday.)
So yesterday I was told I had 22 column inches to fill. I blinked a lot. Because it’s the only thing I know how to do when I’m freaking out.
Then this morning Mike Birbiglia emailed me back answers from an email interview we sent him earlier this week that we were not totally certain we were going to get answers to.
GUYS, let’s be clear: Mike Birbiglia is a God among men, a gentleman, a funny dude AND prompt. We asked for them back by Friday morning (fully expecting to be blown off like we were by Macklemore, Yelawolf, Brett Dennen and several others in recent weeks) and we got them back by Friday morning.
Now, I have to pull an article out of my ass. Which I should have filed to my editor by…nowish. But I went to go see Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical (which was amazing, btdubs.) and I’m a little tipsy and there is no fucking way I’m going to be able to do Mike “Best Person Ever” Birbiglia justice.
This is the first time I’ve blown a deadline. I mean, I told the guest editor it would be in the morning and she’s fine with it because I don’t even have edits back on the first story I filed with her earlier this week. (Ya’ll remember my break up recipe? It’s been refined for print.)
Basically, tl;dr is I blew a deadline, I feel like a jerk, but Mike Birbiglia is an amazing human being and I’m freaking out about writing about him because I’m a huge fan and it’s hard to write about things you fangirl about.
Well, when it’s not on your own blog. Or Dr. Who. I could write graduate level dissertations on Dr. Who.
I have decided that I am in the middle of some extreme psychological test that measures how much snow and general dreariness a person can handle before they start punching puppies.
I cried about snow last night. It has to stop. It has to be summer again some time soon.
I think Alaska is punking me.
so Macklemore was pretty tight. including all the dress up shenangians.
It won’t stop snowing. I’m supposed to go to a seder tonight and I don’t ever want to leave my house.
What the fuck, spring?
I’m playing this super math show with the scientific duo SJ + DRUMS this Thursday, March 21st, at The Taproot. There will be drinks, music and probably a little dancing. $5 gets you in the door which opens at 8pm and the show starts at 9pm.
For all four of the people who follow me that live in Anchorage: come to this. It’ll be bomb. Also, Seth sings a song about Paris that I love more than some dog breeds. (Which is a lot.)
This time last year I was working full time as a direct services advocate for sexual assault victims. I really wanted to be a writer. I loved my job in advocacy but I just really wanted to write.
In April of this year I had my first article published. I wasn’t paid for it, but it was there in print. In August I left my job in advocacy and became the entertainment editor at the Anchorage Press. Anchorage’s only alt weekly newspaper. I’ve been writing for the Press since July.
Today I hit another landmark. Today my first cover story is in print. 3000+ words about one of the local drag shows. I’ve been a nervous wreck about this piece for weeks. Agonizing over every line, every word. My editor and I went through no less than 10 revisions to get it to the point it is now. I have probably another 3k words to say about the show, the performers and my experiences hanging out with them but this will have to do for now.