That’s it. I’m done. Stick a fork in me. It’s over. Finito. Caput. Finished. Donesky. Over. Buh Bye. See ya later. Sayonara. So long suckers. I can’t take it anymore and I’m ready to officially say – after Snapchat… I’m out. Yes – any new social media can go socially fuck itself because my brain is out of space to fit any more instructions to any more things I have to shoot, write, snap, or insta-barf into the universe. And I know something’s coming down the pike because that’s the way these things always work – the kids grab it – use it – the old people like me find it – use it – it becomes uncool – and some 23 year old savant develops something else to make sure that everyone I know – knows everything I’m doing every second of the day and I’m just not sure I know why.
Now don’t get me wrong – I have loved things like Facebook and Instagram – for the most part – because they have helped me keep in touch with people I’ve lost touch with or see what other people I used to be in contact with are up to – or feel massive FOMO every time I see a friend doing something I should be doing or they shouldn’t be doing. For the most part I can figure out how things work and have a fairly simple time posting a shot of my dog tulip sleeping which until recently I didn’t think was an important event but now it seems like the most dire of situations if I don’t post a pic of her all splayed out on my bed because if I don’t – how will people know that’s what she does – or what she looks like – or what my sheets look like – or the massive pile of weed on my bed stand shit I should have edited that photo better. I enjoy seeing what people are up to and it’s okay that ten seconds after that perfect shot was taken – it was a total shit show at the gym, or in the car wash, or at some restaurant. Mostly some restaurant because god knows people love posting food. Look I’m eating!! We all do it. We have to share it. We don’t even know why. Everyone knows that if it didn’t happen on snapchat or facebook or instagram – IT DIDN’T HAPPEN.
The problem is – I now talk to people on so many different forms of social media that I can’t keep up. I post a pic of my status to Facebook then have a conversation with a friend on Snapchat then DM someone on Insta then live walkie someone on Voxer and on and on and on. My status: I’m hungry. Here’s where I went to feed my face. My insta: Here’s a shot of my new dress. I’m so pretty. My snap chat: Look and listen to my dog farting while I’m in cat face, no dog face, no pigtails, no a frog. My voxer: Hey here’s a message about my dinner and a picture of it and my dog is farting in the background. My brain is full of apps and filters and edits and crap I can’t take it anymore. I once talked to one friend on four different social media platforms all in the span of one hour in one day. Maybe we should just meet and have lunch? Just a thought.
And how the fuck are people dating these days through social media? Back when I was a teenager in the 1800’s if you liked someone you had to wait for them to pull their wagon into your field – now you have to try and figure out what they’re saying to you in 140 characters or some emoji or something else. Remember when a boy had to CALL YOU to ask you out? Now you can stalk him on countless social media platforms and see who else he’s fucking while waiting for him to call you. Times have changed.
So while I will continue to use social media to inform people of important events in my life like Tulips new toy or this blog – I need everyone to understand that after Snapchat – I’m out. I’m exhausted and I don’t’ want to feel badly anymore because someone is doing something better than me. No one is. Everyone’s doing the same thing and I’m getting a little sick of it. We’re emailing, texting, shooting, snapping, and checking in. Well you know what I’m not sick of? Life. I’m checking in to that.
p.s. I have shared this blog on fourteen different social media platforms. You’re welcome.
After years of struggling and suffering in silence – I have finally done what millions of women around the world have been doing for years. Something I previously thought I’d never succumb to. I got myself a husband. No, not the good kind that tells you you look pretty when you have a new dress on or the kind you have sex with – but the bad kind – the kind that questions you every time you open your wallet. I got myself the kind of partner that makes you hide your shopping bags, think twice before you hit the “add to cart button” and move money around like a mobster with a secret Swiss Bank account. I got myself the kind of husband that rides you like a show pony on it’s last race trying to squeeze that final amount of sweat out of you before you hit the glue factory. Yes, I got myself a business manager.
Earlier this year I decided that I didn’t want to die broke and realized that I needed to stop the hemorrhaging that is my spending – and finally bite the bullet that’s already in the chamber of the gun pointed at my head. Now this manager – aka my husband – is primarily a group of brilliant women – but make no mistake about it – they are doing the hard work only an asshole husband can do – saying no every time I want something pretty. If I buy anything – a dress, a yogurt, a thumb tack – they call, send an email, a text, or a fucking smoke signal if they have to – to get me to return it if it wasn’t a necessary purchase. You try to explain why a gold tube top from Zara is a necessary purchase.
Now, my job as a television writer means I make a very decent amount of money – but it also means there are times when I make zero amounts of money – like the last four months of my life when my tv job went on what network people like to call “hiatus” but what I call “poor decision making and planning of the network budget and running out of cash before all your shows are picked.” So here I was thinking I was going back to work after just a couple of months of “vacation” which has suddenly stretched into many months of vacation – which means my “savings nut” was less “nut” more “crumb” – and the lockdown on my accounts has been fast and furious. They took it all the motherfuckers. They took it all. Then they put me on an allowance. Now I don’t know about you people but you can’t buy shit on an allowance. The last time I had one I had to make the Sophies choice of gum cigarettes or lollipop and I’m not capable of making that kind of decision again. I finally had the entire summer off and I had nothing to make that summer – enjoyable. This budget was no bullshit. I had to fire my dog walker and actually walk my own dog. Can you fucking imagine? And I had to stop buying luxuries like 7 dollar yogurt. And the worst – I had to stop shopping for clothing I already owned that was actually in my over crowded closet but I couldn’t see it. It was almost too much for one woman to handle. This was like a death blow to me. And that’s not the worst of it – because the business managers could also actually see every penny I spent because they had access to all my accounts. THEY CAN SEE WHAT I SPEND MY MONEY ON. “What’s Perrennial Holistic?” they asked. “It’s medicine” I said. “It’s weed” one of the smart women said. IF YOU TAKE WEED OFF MY BUDGET WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE. It was going to get ugly and it was getting there fast. I needed a cash flow they couldn’t see or monitor. And so I started selling things. It was small at first – an old shoe here – a pair of too big pants there – but then it got ugly – the first time I sold a piece of Louis Vuitton. Bells rang. Alarms went off. Signals were sent to other buyers on the website I was selling on – “There’s a small desperate woman online folks and she’s dropping Louis at low prices!!!” Boom! Sold a wallet! Boom! Sold a handbag! Boom! Sold a suitcase! Holy shit I’m making money hand over fist. I probably only made 1000 dollars over the whole summer but the secret joy I felt hiding this money from those bastards trying to clean up my financial life was thrilling. I was winning this shit show – so there!!! Sadly the Louis ran out before I got to do anything exciting with my secret cash flow but it was fun while it lasted.
All of this has made me realize one very important thing. I have too much shit. Duh. I now have three weeks before I head back to work and I’m currently trying to figure out how to make 145 dollars last. If you see me in Bali dancing around in a sari with a henna tattoo – please know that I haven’t figured it out – but my Louboutins have finally hit the resale rack.
Lately, I’ve spent more time than I care to admit, talking about plastic surgery. What could I do? What would I do? What should I do? Now I do live in the land of nip tuck pull something somewhere it doesn’t belong – but I have a feeling the “Under The Knife State” isn’t the only state this conversation is taking place. I do know one thing – it seems to be a conversation only happening with women and maybe a handful or two of gay men. Okay – three handfuls. Just the other night – my drop dead gorgeous stunningly beautiful truly magnificent looking friend and I discussed who in Hollywood has had something done. The answer? Who hasn’t. She said everyone is doing the new mini ponytail. I thought it was a hairstyle. It’s not. Well it is but it’s also this other thing that pulls your flesh up like a ponytail. Put a bow on that shit. She thinks it’s a wonderful thing. I think – it’s not for me. And here’s why: If you can show me one human being “live and in person” that looks normal after having their skin pulled somewhere it wasn’t – I’m in. Now I’m not talking about how they look on film where they’ve been lit hotter than the surface of the sun or on a press line through your television set where their makeup has been applied with a spatula and they’ve been iced like a cake. I’m talking about seeing them in the flesh without looking like their flesh has been physically pulled back and I just can’t see where it’s tucked in or clipped or rubber banded or taped. I’m talking about no weird creepy eyelids that are clearly new flesh. Or lips you could stick to a wall with. Or a face that’s smooth as glass paired with hands that have seen some bumpy roads. I understand why women who are on camera are trying to maintain their youth. They have to. They’ll be fired if they don’t. Or made to play a grandmother when they hit the ripe old age of 38. But I’m not on camera and I don’t make a living based on what I look like and so this summer I have spent trying to learn to embrace my lines, wrinkles, age spots, etc. and work on the one thing I can change – my outside to be more healthy and my inside to care less about what my outside looks like. Now all this may change next week when I look at the picture of myself I posted proudly boasting that I earned all of the lines in my face but for now, that’s how I feel. I want to feel pride in the way I look because the life I’ve led is in my face. I want to embrace the deep furrows and wrinkles and age spots – maybe not the annoying grey fucking hair – but you know – the things that say how far I’ve come because so far – it’s been an amazing life. Do I want to look older? Fuck no. Do I want to feel younger. Fuck yes. Do I want to be considered beautiful at my age? Of course. If a woman says no – she’s lying – or she lives somewhere really cold where she can stay bundled up.
And so I’ve dubbed this summer – the summer of letting go. Let go of the things you cannot change and embrace the things you can. Let go of the hatred you have for yourself and find something to love because it may be cliché but love really is the answer. This goes for people to. It’s hard enough trying to love yourself especially if you’re surrounded by people telling you why you shouldn’t. Fill your enemies with love and maybe they won’t want you dead. I found out recently that someone I used to know – wants me dead. I tickled a tiger and now that tiger is using some powerful stuff to try and stop me – physically. I used my words to try and stop her – and it has unleashed a wrath I didn’t know was possible. I suppose it’s my own fault. I said some pretty harmful stuff. But what I said was the truth and I didn’t just say it for me – I said it for many people who had been wronged – and I hoped somehow – the verbal slap like the physical one she tried to give me – would change her – and it hasn’t. Now it looks like I need to try another tactic. And so – I forgive you. I forgive you for physically trying to hurt me, for mentally trying to crush me, for making me believe I wasn’t talented, for hating me so much that you wanted to make me feel smaller than you and mostly – I forgive you for wanting me to be physically harmed now – despite that most people would find this – unforgiveable. Your hatred of me will not change the lack of love you have for yourself. Go find some of that. I am.
So, I’m going to spend the rest of my summer trying to bitch less about my cellulite and boast more about my qualities as a friend. I’m going to complain less about my weight and crow more about my talents as a writer. I’m going to whine less about my wrinkles and stop counting my years – i’m going to embrace it all… the bumps bruises scars marks holes and I’m going to love the fuck out of all of them because I’m so grateful to be alive and live the very privileged life I do.
And I’m going to pray for your soul – and you know who you are.