The Infected...

   Duela panicked as she slammed the heavy door behind her and bolted it shut, gasping for breath and grasping desperately for something resembling coordinated thought. "Okay," she talked herself down, "just through the window and up the fire escape. The roof will last for a while. They hate the sun. That I've seen." She glanced down at her bloodied, pale hands. How many had she clawed her way through to get here? How many once-helpless innocents had she mown down for the sake of her own safety, for the priceless, rare gem of an opportunity to be alone, to sort out her thoughts, and to arrange some sort of plan in this madness? It's always fight or flight, I suppose they say, but this time...this time it was different. These were people she knew, people she loved once.  

It could be that way no longer.  

Taking a deep breath, she focused, calmed, steadied her hands in front of her. The feeble, persistent scratching from the other side of the office door started them shaking again. Who knows how long that door would hold.  

 It was an old house, built when real wood and metal were used liberally throughout the construction of such things—that had been what saved her. They were weak, but they never stopped coming, and their numbers were ever-growing. Her mother. Her brother. Her own fiance—all had succumbed to the sickness. Narcoleptic Introvert with Radical Domains, was what the news called them. N.I.R.D.s, for short.

   It had started small enough, she supposed: a few stories on the news, singular, alarming only in their irregularity. Then a few more. Then people on the street started showing signs—people she knew, people she talked to every day! Ugg boots replaced with Converse, Abecrombie gave way to the Avengers. Even Starbucks—for years, a safe haven when all else had failed her—had become infected! “Free double-shot for every Whovian!” their blackboard up front had boasted in bold, brightly-colored letters, a miniature TARDIS carefully sketched out next to it in cerulean blue chalk. “No, stop that!” Duela panicked--”don't give it a name. That's how it enters. That's how it starts...” But, try as she may, she couldn't block out the image of this morning. That horrible, nightmarish image as she turned the corner of her own hallway to pour some cereal or drink some coffee or whatever her regular ritual had become since the turn.

   Her brother. Her own dear brother, the one she had tried so hard to protect. Gone was the faux-hawk—shaved down now to a close-cropped crew cut. The eighty dollar jeans—pre-torn so carefully by the slave workers in India or Vietnam or wherever the hell they were from this year—replaced by denim just a little too short, revealing his custom Joker-fied sneakers. His collar was no longer popped—indeed, there wasn't even a collar to be popped any more—if there was, it was covered up by some ghastly abomination of a hoodie: black, with “1 + 1 = 10” on the front. He said it was binary. BINARY! But the worst of all—the thing that had set her screaming and running into the street for relief—was what he held in his hands. In those small, scabbed-up little boy hands—those hands she had held so lovingly when he was a baby as she sang him to sleep with Kanye West's latest hit—was a Nintendo DS. Some ungodly yellow mouse-looking thing scarred the front with it's abominable visage, and the boy was mumbling something under his breath about “Missing No.”

   She had found this place in her panic—thrown aside countless tweens with “Keep Calm and Chive On” tee shirts, clawed her way past deceptively loving couples with matching Deathpool shirts “Deathpool? Deadpond? No! Stop thinking about it!” and finally to this sanctuary. They had followed her, of course, cruel mimicries of concern echoing through the halls. “Such concern! Wow! Many anger , very confuse!...You have yoga pants, we have a Hulk!...Do you want a banana? I like bananas, bananas are good for you!”God would they ever STOP?! Wasn't it enough that they had to take her brother—now they had to come for her, too?!

   "I'm almost there," she thought, determined. "I just have to get to the roof, I can hold out there for a while, at least." Another deep breath, and Duela crossed the room, reaching for the window latch. She stopped. Fingerless gloves. Shaking in horror, she looked down. A red leather underbust cinched her waist, coupled with a white shirt and some leather pants—one leg red, one black. Three black diamonds on the red leg. Thigh-high, heavily buckled boots completed the ensemble—again in the mismatched red and black. Her breath came in quick, short bursts—slowly, she walked closer to the window, studying her reflection in the glass through tear-clouded eyes. No, please God not this--white makeup—anything but this, please—black lipstick—ANYTHING else—pig tails—just please...don't let me be...

Duela had dropped her guard while she regrouped her thoughts. She had focused too much on the sickness, too much on the symptoms and that look in her brother's eye—the brother now forever lost, like her. While she had mourned, It had set in, becoming embedded in her system deeper than the purest, most predisposing genes.  

She had become a N.I.R.D.  

She was....in cosplay.

Tears streaming down her face, streaming her heavy black eyeliner, Duela crossed back to the door, unlocking it with trembling fingers. Clenching her teeth and closing her eyes for a moment, she slowly opened the door. Suddenly laughing manically, she stepped through the door, screaming out in a high-pitched, tear-strained voice, “Hi, Puddin! Harley's home!”

Stink Bug Sadist

So like, Kentucky has these Stink Bugs, right? Little shield-shaped fuckers designed to just not really do anything and be annoying due to their sheer volume. Oregon has them, but nowhere near the fuck tons that Kentucky does. It's fucking annoying. At any given point and time there's at least one on my blinds, hovering over my head, waiting to drop down on my face and scare the literal shit out of me.

Anyways, I saw one of these little shit bags just, like, chillin' on my blinds, same as always, and I decided to get rid of him. I didn't want to kill him, partly because I'm a kind soul, mostly because I didn't want him to stink bug all over me. My bedroom has storm windows, so I basically have two sets of glass separated by about a 2" gap between them. Only one one window though, 'cause apparently fuck storms for the other one. But whatever, I decide to push him out the window that doesn't have two pane of glass so he can fly away and do whatever these little shits do. Whatever. Anyways, I slowly raise part of the blinds (being very careful not to dislodge the little guy) and open my window. Phase 1 accomplished. 

Phase 2 didn't go as well as planned. I gently shook the blinds while holding a piece of paper below him, hoping to push him out the now open window. However, these guys didn't scramble to the top of the food chain by being the smartest little buggers (hehe), in fact, they're nowhere near the top of the foodchain at all. He loses his grip on the blinds, falls, bounces off the piece of paper and falls on his back just outside the window. Whatever, job done, he can figure out how to get up on his own. As I begin to slide the window shut, (his six little legs flailing frantically in what can only be waves stark bug terror and panic,) I realize that not only have I shooed him out the window that he CAN'T escape from (read: he is now between two panes of glass with no hope of escape), but as the window snaps shut a gigantic spider pounces down on him with venomous passion. Thankfully, I didn't see what happened next. 

Instead of mourning for his untimely death, I laughed. Chortled, even.


Little fucker shouldn't have been in my room.

UPDATE: I just raised my blinds to watch the rain. I can see his little web-spun carcass hanging by the spider--some kind of horrific dead bug trophy. I slowly lowered my blinds and tried not to think about what I've become. 

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Douchebags...

When you're new to a town, you don't know the rules. You don't know where to go for food, friends, stuff to do--it's unexpected and an intriguing twist when you've grown up in one place for so many years. You meet a few people here and there, but your social circle just isn't as large as you'd expected it to be, so you run out of ideas and join a dating site. You meet a couple neat people, and one in particular sparks your interest.

After a few weeks of texting (yes, one of the precious few you gave your number to), and a few rescheduled meet-ups, you agree to an impromptu date of sorts. I mean, why not? You were already out and about, had already had a few, and now's as good a time as any. Your aunt drops you off at the local gay bar (his suggestion), and you can't help but smile a bit as you question whether he really did mean this to be a date for the two of you. But, the drinks are good and strong and the environment's fun, so you stay.

You're smart about it, though. You finish your drinks before you go to the bathroom, you order a glass of water in between drinks, and you ask the bartender if you can charge your phone--just in case. He was nice, funny, and more than a little intelligent and charming. He makes a few awkwardly obvious attempts at physical contact: a touch of the knee, comments on how sore his neck is, etc. He invites you to his place to watch Doctor Who, but you politely decline--that's not how you wanted the evening to end. A few drinks later, he asks if you want to hit up another bar, maybe grab some food at a local crappy diner (Waffle House, anyone?). Sure, that sounds fun, safe, and you're more than a little hungry after such...significant servings of booze.

Being more than a shade more sober than you are, he offers to drive. "You know, I'm just at the point where if I have another drink, I won't be able to drive you home," he frowns a bit. "You know what I could really go for? Some Angels in Manhattan. I've got them on my hard drive at my place, and I could pour you a drink there, if you want. Then I could drive you home. Does that sound good?" It's awkward now. You already said no once, but it's a decent offer, and you don't want to come across as rude or stand-offish. You agree. You chat a bit more on the way to his place, and you end up talking about sex. Big surprise, right? "Are you a slut?" he asks, laughing a bit. "No judging at all if you are, I'm all for equal gender empowerment." You laugh uneasily, and say no, that you really don't sleep around with guys until you've known them for a while. He proceeds to spout some thinly-veiled spiel about women being called sluts when they sleep around, and how it's unfair since men aren't held to the same standards of chastity.

You pull up to his place (a large house shared by several students), walk up the stairs and he unlocks the door. Walking down the hallway to his apartment, you can't help but feel a bit intimidated: the ceiling is high, the walls are close, and the lighting is poor. You're sure he mentioned something about roommates before, but it's a one bedroom. He must have just meant he used to have roommates. An easy misunderstanding--the bar was distracting, and all the alcohol is really starting to go to your head. Actually, it's hitting you pretty hard.

You follow him into the kitchen, where he proceeds to make your drink--a coke and something strong with a dash of grenadine. You're still careful, and you watch him make it, just in case.

The damn thing nearly sets your breath on fire, and the glass is full to the brim. It's impossible not to spill a bit on the floor/yourself. He tells you not to worry about it, and starts to rub your neck as you turn to leave the kitchen. It feels so nice to get some of those kinks out, and you spill some more of your drink.

He turns on the tv and launches the first episode. "Why don't you sit down here on the floor?" He suggests, "Then I can rub your shoulders." Again, you feel awkward. A sip of the drink to ease your nerves, and you slide down onto the rug. You lean back between his knees, trying to avoid leaning back too far. You're already worried about the impression you're giving him. The show starts, and you try to focus on the show and not on the fact that his fingers are pressing harder...wandering further, even momentarily pushing themselves up the back of your shirt before respectfully pulling it back down. You tense up, but his fingers press into your shoulders so hard--it kind of hurts. He begins to massage your scalp, but then starts to pull your hair a bit. It's getting harder to watch the show like this. Pushing one sleeve to the side, he rubs under your bra strap--just a bit. Lower, further, his hands always pressing themselves where they shouldn't be--pushing the boundaries and your top a little further away from where they should be.

"You smell nice," he mutters, and you realize his face is right next to yours. "Um, thank you..."

Of course, somehow, he kisses you. It wasn't hard, he's still pulling your hair with barely contained self-control. The fingers, attached to those hands, wend themselves down your shirt. The front this time. Uninvited, unwelcome, unrestrained at first by you. This was not how you wanted the evening to end. The alcohol is really hitting your head by now. You must taste like it. You can't tell if he does. Something sharp in the corner of your mind. Some dying, drowning semblance of sobriety? "I should call a cab." You shrug him away, leaning forward and moving your drink away from you.
"You should..." he smiles, kissing your neck and pulling you back to him.
"No...I....I should call a cab.."
"okay..." he's still moving, he's still not supposed to be here--you're not supposed to be here. This wasn't how you wanted the evening to end. But it's been so long since you've....
"NO." The last drowning bit of your self-restraint wakes up again, and you're glad of it. "I'm going. I'm calling a cab." You break out of his grasp, grabbing your purse and standing--stumbling--up this time.
"Do you want to wait here while you wait for it to arrive?" He walks nearer, placing his hands on my hips--or maybe my arms--I can't really tell right now.
"No. I'll--I'll be okay. I have to go. I have stuff to do tomorrow."
"Okay, thanks for the fun night." He mutters as he smiles, kissing you again. His front door was locked. It shouldn't bother you as much as it does just then. You unlock it and practically slam the door behind you. That narrow hallway now seems like something from a dream: the door to the stairs outside is right there, if you can just reach it without being harassed. It's so far though. But you reach it. Of course you do. There's no reason why you shouldn't have. It's not like he was going to physically keep you from leaving.

You practically run down the stairs, jog past his house, glancing up at his windows. Your lips are still wet. You hastily wipe them off, then do the same with your neck, although that is dry. You half run once you hit the corner. Your phone. It's charged. You pull it out and text your aunt. She agrees to come pick you up.

You're not sure where you are, but you see a tall building with "Hilton" lighting up the side. A brief reprieve from the otherwise mostly flat Lexington skyline, and a near literal Godsend as to helping you get your surroundings. You power-walk the four or five blocks there, repeatedly wiping off your lips, your neck, the back of your neck like you're swarmed with some invisible swarm. People on the street must think you're high. You really shouldn't be so freaked out, but you are. You really shouldn't have felt so violated, but you did, and, for some unexplained reason, you keep glancing behind you, expecting to see his truck pull up and to have him offer you a place to crash for the night--to sleep it off.

There's a cop car in front of the Hilton, and for some reason this is more comforting than it should be. You lean against a concrete pillar until your aunt arrives, letting the cool, roughly-pebbled surface calm you back to reality a bit.

Two quick beeps, and your aunt pulls up. Your dog is in the front seat, all you can see is her head, and she's elated to see you. It's obvious that the adventure of both a car ride and seeing mom was almost too much for her soft little head to handle. You hold her the rest of the way home. You try to rationalize it. Your aunt helps put that to rest. You start thinking about all the men you've been with before, about what you would have done if any one of them had pulled away. About how they've all responded when you've turned them down in the past. Certainly not like this one had. You hug your dog closer as she tries to climb on the window to smell the fall air.

You settle in bed, surrounded by your things, your animals, your mess. Your phone lights up. It's a text message from him.

"Hey, you get home okay? :)"
You roll over and go back to bed.

I hope you know...

I hope you know, you fucked it up.

When you pick up that phone to text me a quip about your day, I hope you hesitate a little with regret before putting it back in your pocket. When you smile at an inside joke that is brought to light by something you see on the street, I hope you cringe a little inside at the thought of what you ruined.

When you hope there's someone there for you, when you ache not to feel alone and unloved--when you want someone to reach out to, but they're already gone, I hope you remember: you caused this pain.

I'm not trying to harp on you (or maybe I am), for I know that words hold no meaning anymore to situations like these. Words are empty, words are hollow, and--for all the power they hold--they can't fix it. And, my dear, they can't fix you.

I'll move on, I suppose. Mourn a little less every day, try to push those thoughts of you from my mind--try not to wonder what you're doing or think about what we had--brief as it was, real or not. Someday, I'll grow old and tired of this mindset, move on to the next good thing in my life, and appreciate what you did do for me--what we did for each other.

Until then, though: I hope you walk around the streets at night on your own, flipping your phone in your hand and debating calling me and apologizing for hours before your bitter pride gets the best of you. I hope there are moments--those terrible, bittersweet, truthful moments--where you're alone in your house, or car, or at work--when you break down inside and pray to God you lose the ability to grasp what you lost. Where you hang your head in your hands, pushing away the migraines and the troubled dreams and the occasional tears that prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you know--know then, more than ever--that you fucked this up.

Hi

I still wait for that text message. The one saying you're sorry..you hit just the right place, cracking open all my emotions and engorging the hemmorage with a crowbar

And then you left.

I still check your facebook, looking for signs that you miss me. I sure miss you.

I didn't think I could grow so attached so quickly,  and yet in did. Only to be let down. Thrown down.

Although I should move on, memories of happiness in others causes me physical pain and disgust.

I still wait for you, although I shouldn't.

Fly Racing...

So today, whilst nonchalantly sipping my instant coffee (only the best for me) and watching my dog lick the last of my cereal milk from the bowl (which eventually ended up almost under the couch), I noticed several flies on the window.

Since we leave the doors open for the pets, flies are not an uncommon occurrence in the house—at any given time, we probably have 2-3 hanging around, pissing off the dogs that are too lazy/too scared to work their way around the cats to eat them. These flies, however, were different.

Three small, determined little bastards seemed to be in a race to get to the top of the window. Not sure why, but they're not at the top of the evolutionary food chain for a reason, now aren't they? Anyways, seeing as how I've working in the horse racing industry for entirely too long, I started narrating their race, adding little names to them as they scuttled.

“It's Fly Me to the Moon in the lead, followed closely by Free Flyin' and Flyin' High bringing up the rear—Free Flyin' is closing the gap and might just catch up—OH NO! Free Flyin' has fallen off the fucking window and hit the sill behind the couch! Fly Me to the Moon seems to have taken a break and is resting—this could cost him dearly in the last leg. Flyin' High has forgotten where he's going, and—yes folks, he appears to be wandering SIDEWAYS on the track! Free Flyin' is still trying desperately to get back in the game, but he can't seem to figure out how to get out from between the window and the couch! He's jumping, he's flyin', but he keeps hitting the window and OOOH NOOO he's down again! Now it's between Fly Me to the Moon and Flyin' High, he's going, going, goooone! Folks for the third consecutive time, Fly Me to the Moon has won the Window Cup!”

I probably spent a good 10 minutes doing this....this is why I shouldn't be left to my own devices when I am in possession of caffiene.

And my dog just won't stop barking at them...

“The fireflies are out.”

They float and turn like some burning ember drifting from a fire, catching on the leaves and in the air before fading away almost as quickly.

Something new for me, a west-coaster. We have frogs, we have slugs, and we have mosquitos. But fireflies? No, nothing so quaint, so dainty, so memorable as those horny little beetles anxious to get a piece before they pass along into the soil they spent so much time cradled in.

I sit outside, the pale, sickly blue-yellow sky fading into a dusty indigo flecked with stars as I look farther and higher up. Trees form near-silhouettes on the border of my vision around me, surrounding me with a quiet arena of summer evenings.

They're pretty slow-moving, these fireflies. They nearly lumber about in the air, seemingly unconcerned by birds, bats or the easily distracted house cat. Just embers, drifting off to sleep, flicking off and on from the corners of your vision and skipping out of sight when you look at them, like when you rub your eyes too hard with your fists.

Power cables stretch across the backyard, and the bugs glint into a nearby lawn, behind the bushes and out of my line o fision.

Except one. Or two. They always come back. Just to remind you that they're still there. That they're still horny, still looking for a mate, and still drifting slowly away from that fire, and ever back towards the soil...

Baby Cage for Sale!

Ladies and Gentlenerds, I know having kids is hard. I mean, I don't have any of my own, or anything, but people tell me it's hard, and I once tried to raise a beta, and that was pretty frustrating. I imagine it's kind of the same thing, only with less fecal matter on the plants. Or maybe not, whatever.

One minute, you're organizing your eighteen tubs of Transformers by vehicle type and color (sub-categorized by quality of figure transformation, of course), the next, some little newborn nerdlet rugrat who clawed its' way out of your/your wife's/your partner's body with all the grace of a chest-burster on acid is jamming Arcee into orifices of your house you didn't even know it had (and you thought light sockets were your biggest problem!).

The madness ends now.

My dear nerdies, I present to you...The Baby Cage ZX2K.

Long gone are the days of penning your kid up in the kitchen like some common criminal while you overclock your hard drive (there are knives the kitchen! Sharp ones! The kid could use one of them to cut through the gate—and then no one would be safe!).

Made of ultra-durable, non-toxic Fenethylline, each Baby Cage is lined with luxuriously soft, easily cleanable, satin-lined Polyethylene. Allow your baby to bask in the lap of luxury by lapping at their state of the art, removable, wide-mouthed water bottle—conveniently attached with only the highest-quality stainless steel wire and outfitted with a medical-grade silicone nipple for the little allergy-prone bugger (he is your child, after all).

“But what about the gate,” you ponder? “Why, my little mouth-breather just chewed through my life-sized, stainless steel, model Buster sword like it was the human flesh he seems to have become so accustomed to.” Worry not, my friends! The gate of the Baby Cage ZX2K is made of nothing short of ultra-light, ultra-durable, titanium-alloy-coated steel bars. Even if he does manage to gnaw his way through the bars, it should slow him down long enough to get your PS1 black labels to safety.

With only 3 payments of $39.95, the Baby Cage ZX2K can be your ticket to financial independence and the solitary, non-committal lifestyle you've dreamed about since you saw that first grainy ultrasound. Order now, supplies are limited.

Happiness

Having someone choose someone else over you is a hard thing to accept. It's like they're saying, “You're not good enough for me, I'm choosing someone better. Someone who's worth my time.”

You hold onto that person with a piece of your heart—no matter how small—and, just when you think you've managed to accept and come to terms with the way life is in that particular situation, it throws you another twist and you're socked in the stomach without even the chance to clench.

So many people forget. Forget what it's like to be loved, what it's like to love others, or at least show that person the common decency that's supposed to be allotted to any other individual. Jobs, romance, relationships of any kind, really, are simply thrown out the window like your effort meant nothing. Like the work you put in, the heart, that shard of yourself—just wasn't enough to matter. Before you know it, that attempted masterpiece you've spent years sculpting, tweaking, trimming and curving just right has fallen to pieces, and you're left with a filthy slop, a heap of sludge and rubble of what you once were—what you once had.

The people who do these things, often times, are thinking of no one but themselves in that situation. It's a dog-eat-dog world, as they say, and if we don't grab a little bit of happiness for ourselves, then who will? The hurt it can cause, however, is often overlooked, even neglected, leaving the rest of us out in the cold.

These people are concerned with their own happiness, and not the happiness of others, or even what constitutes kindness in these situations. Their happiness, their joy in life, is so unattainable for them, that they must then turn to rejecting things they find hard, difficult, or unpleasant, even if it means getting diamonds in the end. They are to be pitied, to be learned from, to be sad for, not about. Tearing you down is not always a conscious decision for them, but it does not make that action right.

Do not let these people step over you to what is—in their eyes—the next great thing. Do not hold on to the past, do not let their choice hurt you in your everyday life. Grieve for the hurt, and mourn the loss of a friend, lover or missed opportunity. The opportunity lost was theirs. Don't forget that, and don't let it affect you for too long. Don't dwell on the past, it can only hinder your future.

And don't step over others in your search for your own happiness.

I'm fucking FAMOUS!

So, I started writing for this nerd website called The Nerdy Bomb--you should check it out, it's pretty awesome.

Aaaanyways, I wrote an article about my level of righteous anger over the degradation of Harley Quinn's character and outfit over the years, and it has more hits than any other article on the site!!!

For the two of you that read this blog, check out www.thenerdybomb.com. I loves it!

I'm Promising

Lying there, in the dark, my mind arace with thousands of thoughts and feelings lacing their way through my mind at a thousand thoughts per second, my hand alighted upon my bare hip—my thin top having ridden up a bit from constant shifting. This, I thought, this is one of those lovely poses they find you in after you've been shot. The detectives come in and snap photos of the scene, lamenting in a matter of fact way about the loss of another life. The news reports trickle in at 10 or 11 o'clock, and they mention something about the loss of this “promising young writer who had a passion for art and animals.” I stop in my musings—I'm promising. Egotistical as it may be, that's the biggest compliment I could receive from someone regarding my future profession. Promising. The word rings in my mind like a dainty silver bell. Beautiful, small, promising in its own right.

"I have to write this down," she says to herself. "I have to write this down, I'm promising, after all."

She runs the lines several times through her head, then reluctantly clicks on the bedside lamp—half afraid of the sudden burst of light scattering her thoughts and chasing away the sudden inspiration. Only after convincing herself of the danger of her cluttered floor does she give in.

She rushes downstairs, smoothly, in that ridiculous way she has when she's trying to hold a piece of work in her mind, as though the slightest jostling or wrong movement could shake it out of grasp, eternally lost in the cavern of her mind. She fumbles slightly in the dark, still new to this home. Her fingers gently come in contact with the hard, cool plastic of her laptop. She tucks it under her arm and jumps idly up the stairs to dump her thoughts onto paper and out of her mind.

I'm a Published Writer!

Typically, Craigslist is not known for their legit job listings...or legit...anything. Don't get me wrong, I've found a couple of great jobs on there before, but I can't tell you how many scams I've had to wade through to find that diamond in the marshes of shit and spam. This time, though, it was different!

Since I've moved to Kentucky, finding a job has been priority "numero uno," as they say somewhere sometimes I think. After an hour or so of mucking about in the Office/Admin job listings, I poked about for S & Gs in the Writing Gigs section. "Calling Fellow Nerds" it read. "What's this?" I thought to my little self, "I'M a nerd! I love nerd stuff!" It was advertising a new website--set to drop this spring--that was specifically centered around nerd stuff of every type and interest. Science, comics, anime, video games, it's covering it all!

Somewhat warily, I wrote back. Writing about what I love, with a dedicated audience? It just sounded too good to be true.

But you guise! It was totally legit! And they totally want me to write for them! Me! Meeeeee!

I met up with the guy starting the site at the Lexington Comic Con this past weekend, then wrote a review for the Con and sent it to him that night. He posted it on Facebook as a note and so far the article is doing pretty well.

The website is www.thenerdybomb.com, and it drops this spring. Thus begins my career as a professional writer!

Cross Country, Baby!

After years of living the Portlandia lifestyle in a somewhat begrudging manner (no, I do NOT own skinny jeans, and I cannot fathom embracing veganism--even a little bit), I decided to pack up my shit and move to Lexington, Kentucky.

Really, most of this decision had been based on two qualifying factors: 1. I had been working full-time, going to school part-time and nursing my seemingly chronically ill animals back to health on and off again for upwards of 3 years now, and 2. My aunt had generously offered to let me move into the upstairs of her new home, thus providing financial security and a break from the daily grind of "just getting by."

So, I threw my shit into a portable storage unit, shipped it off to my aunt's front door, and threw my 2 cats, 2 dogs, cousin, myself and several suitcases into the back of my Hyundai Accent Hatchback, and started my sixth move in the past three years.

Oh, the dreams I had of the open road! I had traveled cross country once before, but this time we were taking historic Route 66 for much of our trip, and that excited me considerably. California windmills! Sunshine! Quaint mom-and-pop shops! Tacky little roadside attractions with even tackier little souvenirs to remember them by! Diners and people and countryside in the heart of America itself! Even the crappy little dingy truck stop restrooms with fully-stocked condom machines and near-empty hand soap dispensers!

Unfortunately, when you have to travel 3,000 miles in 3 1/2 days, pretty much the only one of these wonders you get to truly experience is the bathrooms. Condom dispensers lose their flash after a while, no matter how many different colors/ribbing styles they offer. By the end of the trip, my dogs looked beyond spiritually beaten, I had the rumpled, unsavory look of a perpetual trucker, and my cats had taken to flipping their litterbox upside down and shitting in their kennel (read: cell of relentless captivity). Even the stray dog at the gas station rejected my attempts at a good deed: he stole my bag of Beggin' Strips after 10 minutes of luring him close enough to put a leash on him and take him to the local animal shelter. We got the treats back, but I still don't think my dogs ever really forgave me.

I started out this trip with a light, bittersweet heart and a day dream about to come true, and I finished it bitter and smelling of cat piss. But, finally, it's over. My stuff is halfway unpacked, my furniture is moved in, and I hopefully won't have to move again for another 12 billion years--give or take. C'est la vie!

Reasons to Stay

You can always find reasons to stay. The trouble, it seems, is accepting the reasons that say you should go.

That's been mulling itself in my mind for a while now--well, more like various, half-formed versions of that quote have been swirling around in my mind for a few days, never quite settling entirely on the wording, like some sweeping flock of Starlings that can't seem to find a suitable resting place.

You find someone--someone who you could see impacting your life in a way that so few can--and you cling to them. Loneliness, hope, nostalgia of something you once had that you're praying will someday come back--it's not fair to that person, but you can't help but project, you know?

For years now, you've known it's time to move on. Time to stretch your wings and fly away, as the tired cliche goes. You know it's time to leave, time to find a better life, to quit waiting for something to happen while you're making plans for something to happen to you. But still, you try. And you pray. And you hope.
You clutch at the fraying threads of your life, things that seem like they will make it a bit bearable, for a while. Little excuses we make to constantly abate ourselves, to put us in the mind set of "this too shall pass," only it never does, and, after a while, you have to accept the fact that this isn't just a string of bad luck, it's not just a "bad things come in threes," it's not just a "bad year," it's your life, and this is how it's always gonna be, unless you change it. That person you've found, they're not going to fix it. They're the band-aid. They're the disposable umbrella in the hurricane of shit that is your life. You can't hide behind them forever, you can't expect them to make it better. They won't. You have to accept that, in order to have a different life--to have a better life--you have to make choices. Different choices, hard ones. Things that often mean breaking off some of the good things to get away from some of the bad.
Break a few fingers to get away from the trap. So that's what I'll do.