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.