Thursday, November 8, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
I notice I write a lot of letters.
Dear We TV:
Yeah, I realize I haven't had regular access to a television since I was nineteen years old and I'm no longer all hip with television jive or whatever. I did have access to a television this weekend and due to the circumstances of I couldn't figure out how to change the channel because remote controls are a lot more complicated than they were ten years ago, I was stuck watching your
Yeah, I realize I haven't had regular access to a television since I was nineteen years old and I'm no longer all hip with television jive or whatever. I did have access to a television this weekend and due to the circumstances of I couldn't figure out how to change the channel because remote controls are a lot more complicated than they were ten years ago, I was stuck watching your
network for three hours.
Now, I'm not upset that I wasted a perfectly good Sunday evening falling asleep to "Bridezillas". Reality television is to reality like politics are to a thoughtful discussion. It's just a cheap way for your viewer to raise their self-esteem by laughing at trashy people. I get it. I'm in on the joke, okay?
Your commercials bother me.
See, you market yourself as a network for women and concerning issues women may care about. I know it's a shock, but I am a woman. It has been confirmed by like, science and stuff. I can guarantee you that I have more pressing "issues" in my life besides, "I'm fat!" and "My hair isn't glossy!"
Y'know, things like pay inequality, reproductive health issues, glass ceilings in the workforce, no non-slutty heroines, no female Doctor, unrealistic weight expectations, terrible shoes...somehow, I don't think a show about spoiled white girls on their wedding day sponsored by laxative smoothies is quite what the suffragettes had in mind.
I've got some ideas! I really do! Like, for the geek crowd, we could shoot Seven of Nine out the photon torpedo tube and reboot Voyager into something that doesn't suck. Ummmm, instead of celebrity boxing, pit our female heroines against their literary betters. Jane Eyre versus Lara Croft. Rose Sayer versus Wonder Woman. I don't know. And maybe instead of every other commercial telling me how goddamn fat I am, have a company that sells something useful sponsor your shows. Like car insurance! I use car insurance! I need car insurance! Sell me car insurance!
I realize that this is moot because in the end, as far as women's programming is concerned, we're only going to get the T&A because that's what sells. After all, we're just GIRLS and our hair isn't going to get glossy by itself, gosh nabbit.
But hey, thanks We, for reminding me that even though no television makes it somewhat tricky to watch my "Castle" episodes...the sacrifice is worth it.
Bite me, television. Bite me.
Sincerely,
She who will only watch Star Trek and Jon Pertwee episodes of Doctor Who like, ever now.
Now, I'm not upset that I wasted a perfectly good Sunday evening falling asleep to "Bridezillas". Reality television is to reality like politics are to a thoughtful discussion. It's just a cheap way for your viewer to raise their self-esteem by laughing at trashy people. I get it. I'm in on the joke, okay?
Your commercials bother me.
See, you market yourself as a network for women and concerning issues women may care about. I know it's a shock, but I am a woman. It has been confirmed by like, science and stuff. I can guarantee you that I have more pressing "issues" in my life besides, "I'm fat!" and "My hair isn't glossy!"
Y'know, things like pay inequality, reproductive health issues, glass ceilings in the workforce, no non-slutty heroines, no female Doctor, unrealistic weight expectations, terrible shoes...somehow, I don't think a show about spoiled white girls on their wedding day sponsored by laxative smoothies is quite what the suffragettes had in mind.
I've got some ideas! I really do! Like, for the geek crowd, we could shoot Seven of Nine out the photon torpedo tube and reboot Voyager into something that doesn't suck. Ummmm, instead of celebrity boxing, pit our female heroines against their literary betters. Jane Eyre versus Lara Croft. Rose Sayer versus Wonder Woman. I don't know. And maybe instead of every other commercial telling me how goddamn fat I am, have a company that sells something useful sponsor your shows. Like car insurance! I use car insurance! I need car insurance! Sell me car insurance!
I realize that this is moot because in the end, as far as women's programming is concerned, we're only going to get the T&A because that's what sells. After all, we're just GIRLS and our hair isn't going to get glossy by itself, gosh nabbit.
But hey, thanks We, for reminding me that even though no television makes it somewhat tricky to watch my "Castle" episodes...the sacrifice is worth it.
Bite me, television. Bite me.
Sincerely,
She who will only watch Star Trek and Jon Pertwee episodes of Doctor Who like, ever now.
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Wrong Number
So. Y'know. When I had questions about products or how to fix something, I never thought of calling a department store. Honestly, it surprises me how many phone calls I get on a daily basis for inquiries about the best Tupperware or how to patch a hole in the drywall using only dryer sheets.
Unfortunately, since I am a female and am obviously waiting for some complete stranger to waltz in and scuzz up my life, I get phone calls like this...
Customer: Hey! Could you help me out? Your automated phone system is terrible! You need to fix it! I used to push zero so I could talk to a pretty young girl and now it's all numbers!
Me: Sir, I'll get right on that the next time corporate asks me to program the phones.
Him: You're with corporate??
Me: ...no, I'm in the store. But corporate makes all our computer program-y decisions.
Him: Oh. *laughs* Well, I'm glad you'll help me. You sound like a pretty young girl. Maybe I should take you out for a nice dinner, some champagne, nice times by the fireplace... What's your name, sweetie?
Me: ...did you have a question I could help you with, sir?
Him: Oh, nevermind. I'll just record your voice! I'll find you, honey, don't worry. NOW! What's your longest decking screw?
Me: Regular decking screw? Four inches.
Him: Oh, that ain't long enough for you. I'll come in later tonight. See you soon!
I. Am. So. Charmed.
Unfortunately, since I am a female and am obviously waiting for some complete stranger to waltz in and scuzz up my life, I get phone calls like this...
Customer: Hey! Could you help me out? Your automated phone system is terrible! You need to fix it! I used to push zero so I could talk to a pretty young girl and now it's all numbers!
Me: Sir, I'll get right on that the next time corporate asks me to program the phones.
Him: You're with corporate??
Me: ...no, I'm in the store. But corporate makes all our computer program-y decisions.
Him: Oh. *laughs* Well, I'm glad you'll help me. You sound like a pretty young girl. Maybe I should take you out for a nice dinner, some champagne, nice times by the fireplace... What's your name, sweetie?
Me: ...did you have a question I could help you with, sir?
Him: Oh, nevermind. I'll just record your voice! I'll find you, honey, don't worry. NOW! What's your longest decking screw?
Me: Regular decking screw? Four inches.
Him: Oh, that ain't long enough for you. I'll come in later tonight. See you soon!
I. Am. So. Charmed.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
To Wong Foo...
So according to the stats page, everyone who has stumbled across my blog lives in Russia. Ohhhhkay. How odd the world has become since the internet. In the loosest sense of the term, I have an international audience but still no readers.
Anyways, today in my narrow little retail world, a transsexual came in to shop. And y'know, she was very polite...nicely asking for product locations (using both "please" and "thank you"!), asking for product recommendations, wishing all the employees to have a great day when she left...all in all, a model customer.
And yet, the moment she was out of earshot, there were employees huddling together, whispering and giggling.
Is it a shim? A she-he?
Did you see his hand when he reached out to the shelf? His nails were PAINTED!
Gross. Just gross. I'm going to have nightmares.
Unnatural. How wrong can you get?
Now, way back when I was in junior high, there was a rumor flitting around the school that the gym teacher was a lesbian (we were too young to recognize a stereotype when we heard one). More often than not, I would catch a ride home with my best friend and her mom. When she repeated the rumor to her mother, from the woman's reaction, you'd think the gym teacher sacrificed kittens to a pagan god while smearing turkey blood all over her nude body while dancing around a maypole. Big gasps and flailing hands and lots of sputtering about how "outrageous" and "unnatural" that was and on and on and on.
Later that night, curious to see how my own mother would react, I repeated the rumor to her.
The reaction I got was not what I expected.
My mother was outraged, yes. But not at the possibility my gym teacher could be a homosexual. She was more outraged that I participated in spreading a hurtful rumor. My mother actually dragged a chair into the kitchen, made me sit on it, and then lectured me for ten minutes about what other people do with their personal lives is their own business. If the gym teacher were gay, so what? Did she act on it? No. Did she conduct herself inappropriately? No. Did her choice of life partner have any impact on my life and well being whatsoever? No. And so and and so forth.
Looking back, the whole incident seems very after-school-special to me and I'm sure my mother could've made her point a bit more tactfully than just blurting out, "don't be prejudiced". But what's important is that she /did/ make her point. She wanted me to learn that I should judge someone by their actual actions. So the next day when the other girls giggled in the locker room about the gym teacher's very masculine wardrobe (polo and shorts! A gym teacher! Whodathunk!), I just shrugged when my turn to giggle came along.
Was my gym teacher a lesbian? It was fifteen years ago and who cares? She did her job and if at the end of the day she came home to the loving embrace of a female partner, what bearing did that have on my life? She didn't corner us in the showers or try to convert us with the GAY AGENDA. She just lived her life and I've lived mine.
And that's what's bothering me about today. Yes, that customer was born male. Six and a half feet tall, Adam's apple and deep voice. But she was very polite. She actually said, "Excuse me, Miss!" That's very rare. I've gotten all varieties of, "Hey, you!" or "Lady! Lady! Lady!" or the infamous dog whistle for my attention. She wasn't pushy when told that the product she wanted wasn't stocked in our store. She actually thanked me for my time and wished me and everyone else a good day.
And huddling in the aisle to whisper about her jean shorts and deep voice is how we acknowledge her respect?
I realize a lot of us are brought up to equate "different" with "bad". I'm sure it's some left-over evolution thing that prevented our ancestors from being eaten by giant salamanders or something. But calling someone gross and unnatural because he feels more comfortable as a she? Slap the "disgusting" label on a pedophile, not on someone searching for the better can opener.
Just...it shames me.
Like I did all those years ago in the locker room, when my turn came to make a jeering comment, I said nothing. But...seven hours later, I am regretting that. I'm not saying I should've formed a one-person Pride Parade right then and there, but would it have really killed me to at least said something along the lines of, "Knock it off?"
So...
Ma'am. Thank you for your politeness this afternoon. Customers like you are extremely rare. I apologize for our subsequent behavior...both their sniggering and my silence.
Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.
Anyways, today in my narrow little retail world, a transsexual came in to shop. And y'know, she was very polite...nicely asking for product locations (using both "please" and "thank you"!), asking for product recommendations, wishing all the employees to have a great day when she left...all in all, a model customer.
And yet, the moment she was out of earshot, there were employees huddling together, whispering and giggling.
Is it a shim? A she-he?
Did you see his hand when he reached out to the shelf? His nails were PAINTED!
Gross. Just gross. I'm going to have nightmares.
Unnatural. How wrong can you get?
Now, way back when I was in junior high, there was a rumor flitting around the school that the gym teacher was a lesbian (we were too young to recognize a stereotype when we heard one). More often than not, I would catch a ride home with my best friend and her mom. When she repeated the rumor to her mother, from the woman's reaction, you'd think the gym teacher sacrificed kittens to a pagan god while smearing turkey blood all over her nude body while dancing around a maypole. Big gasps and flailing hands and lots of sputtering about how "outrageous" and "unnatural" that was and on and on and on.
Later that night, curious to see how my own mother would react, I repeated the rumor to her.
The reaction I got was not what I expected.
My mother was outraged, yes. But not at the possibility my gym teacher could be a homosexual. She was more outraged that I participated in spreading a hurtful rumor. My mother actually dragged a chair into the kitchen, made me sit on it, and then lectured me for ten minutes about what other people do with their personal lives is their own business. If the gym teacher were gay, so what? Did she act on it? No. Did she conduct herself inappropriately? No. Did her choice of life partner have any impact on my life and well being whatsoever? No. And so and and so forth.
Looking back, the whole incident seems very after-school-special to me and I'm sure my mother could've made her point a bit more tactfully than just blurting out, "don't be prejudiced". But what's important is that she /did/ make her point. She wanted me to learn that I should judge someone by their actual actions. So the next day when the other girls giggled in the locker room about the gym teacher's very masculine wardrobe (polo and shorts! A gym teacher! Whodathunk!), I just shrugged when my turn to giggle came along.
Was my gym teacher a lesbian? It was fifteen years ago and who cares? She did her job and if at the end of the day she came home to the loving embrace of a female partner, what bearing did that have on my life? She didn't corner us in the showers or try to convert us with the GAY AGENDA. She just lived her life and I've lived mine.
And that's what's bothering me about today. Yes, that customer was born male. Six and a half feet tall, Adam's apple and deep voice. But she was very polite. She actually said, "Excuse me, Miss!" That's very rare. I've gotten all varieties of, "Hey, you!" or "Lady! Lady! Lady!" or the infamous dog whistle for my attention. She wasn't pushy when told that the product she wanted wasn't stocked in our store. She actually thanked me for my time and wished me and everyone else a good day.
And huddling in the aisle to whisper about her jean shorts and deep voice is how we acknowledge her respect?
I realize a lot of us are brought up to equate "different" with "bad". I'm sure it's some left-over evolution thing that prevented our ancestors from being eaten by giant salamanders or something. But calling someone gross and unnatural because he feels more comfortable as a she? Slap the "disgusting" label on a pedophile, not on someone searching for the better can opener.
Just...it shames me.
Like I did all those years ago in the locker room, when my turn came to make a jeering comment, I said nothing. But...seven hours later, I am regretting that. I'm not saying I should've formed a one-person Pride Parade right then and there, but would it have really killed me to at least said something along the lines of, "Knock it off?"
So...
Ma'am. Thank you for your politeness this afternoon. Customers like you are extremely rare. I apologize for our subsequent behavior...both their sniggering and my silence.
Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Woof.
So I've been in tears for a majority of today.
See, I have a dog. Yes, present tense. She's still around and breathing and all that good stuff. Yesterday, I was afraid I would no longer have a dog. Over the weekend, she got into the trash. This has happened many, many times before. Because you know...she's a dog.
This time, she spent two days vomiting all over the apartment.
We took her to the vet...couldn't afford the slew of tests and treatment. Vet unwilling to let us make payments. Opted for treatment of her symptoms instead. Couldn't really afford that either. Actually, used the money set aside for a car payment.
I don't care.
She's home now, and keeping down small meals of rice and water. She keeps sleeping, but she has food and water in her now.
I can't pay for my car. When the insurance withdrawal hits, my bank account will be down to double-digits. When the other bills hit, I will be overdraft. There are no groceries in the apartment. The gas light in my car will be on soon.
I am very frightened about the next week and a half.
But I still have my dog.
And that's okay.
See, I have a dog. Yes, present tense. She's still around and breathing and all that good stuff. Yesterday, I was afraid I would no longer have a dog. Over the weekend, she got into the trash. This has happened many, many times before. Because you know...she's a dog.
This time, she spent two days vomiting all over the apartment.
We took her to the vet...couldn't afford the slew of tests and treatment. Vet unwilling to let us make payments. Opted for treatment of her symptoms instead. Couldn't really afford that either. Actually, used the money set aside for a car payment.
I don't care.
She's home now, and keeping down small meals of rice and water. She keeps sleeping, but she has food and water in her now.
I can't pay for my car. When the insurance withdrawal hits, my bank account will be down to double-digits. When the other bills hit, I will be overdraft. There are no groceries in the apartment. The gas light in my car will be on soon.
I am very frightened about the next week and a half.
But I still have my dog.
And that's okay.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Bad Touch
Will someone please explain to me the etiquette of grabbing people? I don't mean something like CIA-backed-forced-kidnapping-of-foreign-national type grabbing, but more along the lines of grabbing the shopgirl and dragging her to a specific aisle. Is there a rule for that? Anyone?
That happened to me yesterday. Some middle-aged woman who probably bathed in garlic just yanked me away. Just sank her grizzled talons into my elbow and dragged.
Literally. D-R-A-G-G-E-D.
Now, if she had been sayyyyyyyy Ewan McGregor, I wouldn't mind. I'd ziptie us together in case he had any other dragging shopgirl needs. But no. It was a scary woman in her forties, barking about how she needed the product "IN THE WHITE BOX! WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN WHITE BOXES??"
I wish I could say I had a witty reply or that I peppersprayed her eyeballs, but no. She released me upon seeing my (male) co-worker, leaving me as dust in the wind. And no she didn't drag him along by his elbow. He did find the product she wanted--in a RED box--butttttt she didn't believe it was the same product, so she didn't buy anything.
Though she did rip open the box once we left her and stole what was in it.
That happened to me yesterday. Some middle-aged woman who probably bathed in garlic just yanked me away. Just sank her grizzled talons into my elbow and dragged.
Literally. D-R-A-G-G-E-D.
Now, if she had been sayyyyyyyy Ewan McGregor, I wouldn't mind. I'd ziptie us together in case he had any other dragging shopgirl needs. But no. It was a scary woman in her forties, barking about how she needed the product "IN THE WHITE BOX! WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN WHITE BOXES??"
I wish I could say I had a witty reply or that I peppersprayed her eyeballs, but no. She released me upon seeing my (male) co-worker, leaving me as dust in the wind. And no she didn't drag him along by his elbow. He did find the product she wanted--in a RED box--butttttt she didn't believe it was the same product, so she didn't buy anything.
Though she did rip open the box once we left her and stole what was in it.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Random Thoughts from my Day
1- A big portion of my Retail Job is walking customers to product. And y'know, that's fine and groovy and all. I don't mind...I work in a giant box. Seriously, stick a --sylvackia suffix at the end of the sign and we could be a small European nation. Shit's hard to find. But what really baffles me is after we have walked to the product and the product is sitting right there on the shelf, being all "buy me! buy me!"... why do customers keep looking at me expectantly until I reach out, grab product and hand said-product to them? They just...STARE. And it's not like their arms are broken or missing or anything like that. We don't sell anything living, so product will not bite. They say it's the product they want, so it's not like they don't know what to grab. I don't know why this irritates me so much.
2- I forgive you, BioWare. I am no longer ashamed to wear my Mass Effect 3 shirt in public. (Dragon Age 2 still sucks...but it's okay. Turians are sexier than elves ANY DAY.)
3- I want to hate Glee so badly. AND I CAN'T. And that shames me.
4- I hate money. Every miserable aspect of my life can trace it's miserable-roots back to money. Specifically, my lack there-of. More specifically, the fact that my lack-of-money is due to all the money I make being sucked up by bill collectors before I even goddamn see it. Indentured servitude is not dead! It just involves fewer physical beatings.
5- I really miss having a working air conditioner in my car.
6- Butter = love!
7- Netflix needs to carry more Jon Pertwee episodes of Doctor Who. I can only watch "Carnival of Monsters" so many times before I start feeling like I'm caught in a temporal causality loop. I don't even get to fight a rubber sock puppet.
8- I could totally take on a rubber sock puppet though.
9- ...that sounds a lot more pervy than it really is.
10- But at the same time...rubber sock puppet...fight theme from Star Trek...
11- Or if I were computer-savy like I used to be, I'd just overdub the fight them on the Bela Lugosi/octopus scene. But that removes me from the actual fighting, which is a no-no.
12- Also? Streaming Clint Mansell, and that sorta sucks the fighting spirit right out and leaves me feeling like I need more eyeliner and coffee.
13- That is a stereotype. I apologize. (♥ Clint Mansell ♥)
14- I do need more coffee, though.
Yes, I did think each of these thoughts at one point or another today. Some followed others a bit more closely. Thoughty-thoughts.
2- I forgive you, BioWare. I am no longer ashamed to wear my Mass Effect 3 shirt in public. (Dragon Age 2 still sucks...but it's okay. Turians are sexier than elves ANY DAY.)
3- I want to hate Glee so badly. AND I CAN'T. And that shames me.
4- I hate money. Every miserable aspect of my life can trace it's miserable-roots back to money. Specifically, my lack there-of. More specifically, the fact that my lack-of-money is due to all the money I make being sucked up by bill collectors before I even goddamn see it. Indentured servitude is not dead! It just involves fewer physical beatings.
5- I really miss having a working air conditioner in my car.
6- Butter = love!
7- Netflix needs to carry more Jon Pertwee episodes of Doctor Who. I can only watch "Carnival of Monsters" so many times before I start feeling like I'm caught in a temporal causality loop. I don't even get to fight a rubber sock puppet.
8- I could totally take on a rubber sock puppet though.
9- ...that sounds a lot more pervy than it really is.
10- But at the same time...rubber sock puppet...fight theme from Star Trek...
11- Or if I were computer-savy like I used to be, I'd just overdub the fight them on the Bela Lugosi/octopus scene. But that removes me from the actual fighting, which is a no-no.
12- Also? Streaming Clint Mansell, and that sorta sucks the fighting spirit right out and leaves me feeling like I need more eyeliner and coffee.
13- That is a stereotype. I apologize. (♥ Clint Mansell ♥)
14- I do need more coffee, though.
Yes, I did think each of these thoughts at one point or another today. Some followed others a bit more closely. Thoughty-thoughts.
An open letter to the cyclist who cut me off today...
An open letter to the cyclist who cut me off today:
Dude. YOU HAVE A BIKE PATH. It's right there. Literally. Just look to your right. Bike path! I don't drive my car on your bike path. Why do you insist on riding your bike on my road? Trust me, the view ain't that different fifteen feet over. GO TO YOUR SIDE.
Also, DUDE. I am DRIVING A MOTOR VEHICLE. You cut me off. Thirty pounds of aluminum alloy and your ridiculous spandex outfit will not protect you from a Volkswagen. I imagine it would look kinda like hamburger squeezed through a cheese grater. GROSS. And y'know what? Your stupid spandex-covered innards would have to stay mooshed in my grille because I don't have the funding to buy a soda, let alone a trip to the car wash.
Stop being stupid.
Sincerely,
Me
Dude. YOU HAVE A BIKE PATH. It's right there. Literally. Just look to your right. Bike path! I don't drive my car on your bike path. Why do you insist on riding your bike on my road? Trust me, the view ain't that different fifteen feet over. GO TO YOUR SIDE.
Also, DUDE. I am DRIVING A MOTOR VEHICLE. You cut me off. Thirty pounds of aluminum alloy and your ridiculous spandex outfit will not protect you from a Volkswagen. I imagine it would look kinda like hamburger squeezed through a cheese grater. GROSS. And y'know what? Your stupid spandex-covered innards would have to stay mooshed in my grille because I don't have the funding to buy a soda, let alone a trip to the car wash.
Stop being stupid.
Sincerely,
Me
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Crisis of the mid-mid-life variety.
Gosh.
I sure am not where I expected to be in life.
Let's start there and work our way forward, shall we?
So I'm at that age where I'm not thirty but I'm close enough to thirty to freak my shit out, so I've spent a lot of time reevaluating my life decisions. Apparently I'm not capable of making good ones. See, throughout high school and a good portion of college, I wanted to be a writer...a GREAT WRITER(tm). I had the idea notebooks and the ego, I just needed the publisher and the audience. Which, y'know, when you're in high school, you'll assume that acquiring these things presents you no problem at all.
Hey! thinks the asshole part of your brain, You've got like, twenty reviews on that fanfic! Holy shit, we could be the next Bradbury or King or Austen!
You really think there's a market for alternate universe Sailor Moon fanfiction? the idiot-attention-starved part of you breathlessly replies.
Well, shit! the asshole says, Just make up your own characters! That's all you need to do! Plug 'em in and sell-sell-sell!!!
Okay! Let's go to college and have grown-ups critique my work! YAYAYYYYYYY!!!
Needless to say, that didn't quite go so well. I'm sure I'll go into detail sometime. It's a great story. Involves blueberry bagels.
(And yes, I am aware that the plug-your-original-characters-into-your-fanfic worked in spades for that Fifty Shades bullshit. I'm very happy for the author's success in that matter...hopefully she'll use her millions to invest in an editor).
Anyways. To sum up, I am not a writer. Also, I am going stir-crazy with the realizations that:
1- despite what Teenage Carrie thought, the world did not wait for me
2- I am the only one surprised by this
3- I need to do something more constructive with my time besides working my Monkey Job and playing Mass Effect.
So, like many others of my generation, personal discontent = weblog.
I sure am not where I expected to be in life.
Let's start there and work our way forward, shall we?
So I'm at that age where I'm not thirty but I'm close enough to thirty to freak my shit out, so I've spent a lot of time reevaluating my life decisions. Apparently I'm not capable of making good ones. See, throughout high school and a good portion of college, I wanted to be a writer...a GREAT WRITER(tm). I had the idea notebooks and the ego, I just needed the publisher and the audience. Which, y'know, when you're in high school, you'll assume that acquiring these things presents you no problem at all.
Hey! thinks the asshole part of your brain, You've got like, twenty reviews on that fanfic! Holy shit, we could be the next Bradbury or King or Austen!
You really think there's a market for alternate universe Sailor Moon fanfiction? the idiot-attention-starved part of you breathlessly replies.
Well, shit! the asshole says, Just make up your own characters! That's all you need to do! Plug 'em in and sell-sell-sell!!!
Okay! Let's go to college and have grown-ups critique my work! YAYAYYYYYYY!!!
Needless to say, that didn't quite go so well. I'm sure I'll go into detail sometime. It's a great story. Involves blueberry bagels.
(And yes, I am aware that the plug-your-original-characters-into-your-fanfic worked in spades for that Fifty Shades bullshit. I'm very happy for the author's success in that matter...hopefully she'll use her millions to invest in an editor).
Anyways. To sum up, I am not a writer. Also, I am going stir-crazy with the realizations that:
1- despite what Teenage Carrie thought, the world did not wait for me
2- I am the only one surprised by this
3- I need to do something more constructive with my time besides working my Monkey Job and playing Mass Effect.
So, like many others of my generation, personal discontent = weblog.
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