SINCERELY, VERUCA

"I want a Wonka bar and I'll kick a door down if I don't get one."

The above is an actual text that I not only sent out earlier today, but also MASS TEXTED to several of my friends. And you know what? I really meant it. I felt that kind of rage stirring within me. I am not proud of it. I am not happy to admit that I am a tyrant who demands chocolate offerings from my friends via technology - but it is true, and an integral part of this story.

(Before we continue this cautionary milk chocolate related-tale, I preface this post with a disclaimer:
Here lies the kindest blog post you will ever read from me. If we are friends, now is the time to ask me to pay for your half of parking at a show or to get you a soda from the vending machine at work, because I am having one of those OMG FRIENDSHIP IS BEAUTIFUL moments and just can't help but blubber a bit. And after you read this and feel really kind and warm towards me, I ask you to remember this feeling in a few weeks, as my birthday shortly approaches, and try to re-conjure it up in the form of emotions that I recognize best: cash or presents.)

I know that everyone says this, but I really, really mean it - I think I honestly have the best friends in the entire world. Seriously. I know, I know, what a cheesy thing to say - but let's really delve into this. First of all, unless this statement comes from me or one of my own friends (because, of course that assumption would include me, which would make it obviously true), this is usually the kind of COOL BEANS exclamation that comes attached to a day spent tailgating for Clemson while wearing matching face paint, or a JUST GIRLS night at a country western bar - and I am sorry, there is just nothing about either of those kinds of outings or emotions that screams BEST FRIENDS EVER to me. Discussing the genitalia of the male cast members of Glee, dressing up as Wayne & Garth, or being forced to "SASHAY CHANTE" when you just want to cry drunkenly in an elevator - THAT is more along the lines of my kind of forever friendship party. I hate to judge, but I think I have every right here - when it comes to who I want to spend my time with, I really think that you all are the bees knees. The one thing you all have in common is that you all know how to make me laugh (either at you or with you, whichever, I am not picky), and that (and chocolate, as we have just learned) are the keys to my heart. When I am not plotting your demise after we get into a tiff over whether Nick Gilder is male or female, who gets to sing which Taylor Swift song while playing Band Hero, or who orders first at dinner, I truly do lurrrve my galpals tremendously, and I wouldn't trade a one of ya's for anything in this world (other than cash, sexual favors, and copious amounts of free cosmetics). Seriously!

It is true what they say about leaving high school - you will leave most of your "BEST" friends behind. Thank God, I say, as I hated all but eight or nine of them anyway. Sometimes, when I am feeling sorry for myself, I think about how I only have five or six really close friends nowadays leftover from my wonder years, and I look back at the what seemed like thousands of people that I used to spend every waking hour with, and I wonder what happened - but it is inevitable, and you know what, it is actually a GOOD THING. Nowadays, the friends you keep in touch with are the ones that you WANT to keep in touch with. It is like putting everyone you know in a sifter, and only the good ones managing to not fall through those holey things (I am so eloquent with words). Anyway, you don't have to worry about being nice to anyone just because you might be alphabetically assigned to sit next to them in Chemistry, you know? At 23, I feel I have earned the exclusive rights to talk to just whomever I so choose, and so, I do. The friends that I have are the ones that I want to have, and I am just delighted to call them mine.

I don't have any friends that haven't been a part of my life for AT LEAST 4/5 years, and I take pride in that. When you can, more often times than not answer the question, "Oh, how long have you guys been friends?" with "Oh, what is it now, ten, eleven, twelve years?", you know you are doing something right ... or you are at least intimidating enough to make those you hold dear fear leaving your side. Whatever works! Truly, most every single person that I consider A CONFIDANT has seen the three stages of the true Ashley - blonde, drunk, or ..... dare I even .... without MAKEUP ON. And if we have met in any of those circumstances, then I consider you my forever friend, and I have sucked you into my orbit, and hopefully you are here to stay. I feel like I don't say it enough (or ever) but I really do appreciate my palsies - this goes from the IRL to the non-IRL. Seriously. Even though I rarely actually listen when you tell me a story and probably wouldn't lend you any money, I would gladly take a bullet to defend any one of my galpalz (unless, of course, the bullet was one that was coming from the gun I was aiming at you after I just now found the half eaten taco you accidentally left in the backseat of my car six weeks ago....)

Anyway. Back to threatening texts revolving around chocolate bars.
Maybe an hour ago, I was lounging in my bath boudoir, watching a true cinematic classic (DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE MORGANS, naturally), when I got a text:

"Still craving that Wonka bar?"

Egads, Brain! It was from CiCi! Her location: right outside my house! With Wonka bar in hand! Nearly five hours after I sent out my original loving yet stern demand! Just because I wanted it, and she wanted to give it to me!

And that, boys and girls, is a real friend right there. A real friend will bring you candy because you threatened to kick down a door if you didn't get it. A real friend will work the last two hours of your shift on the busiest day of the week for you so that you can scamper off and go to a show. A real friend can fly back home from across the country and it will feel like they never left. A real friend tags a picture of Elton John as you on Facebook, because .... OBVIOUSLY. A real friend will always pet your dog when they come over, even though she used to pee on them. A real friend will buy you dinner when you are broke, just because they want to see you. A real friend will let you cut their hair when you've only been in cosmetology school for two months and not even curse you out when you accidentally make a mistake to the tune of six inches (still sorry about that, by the way ......). A real friend will not even hesitate to answer anything other than "HELL YEAH" when you say "So I was thinking of having this birthday party, and I was thinking it should be 80s themed ....". A real friend communicates through asterisks. A real friend sends encouraging texts when you are stuck with the FBS. And a real friend knows the difference between the call of the horn, the shrill blast of a pussy whistle, and a Bella chair swansong.

"Don't forget to look for your golden ticket!" CiCi warned me, before skipping off into the night and leaving me with my just because Wonka booty.

Trust me, girl.
I've already found it.

25 BEFORE 25

Earlier this week, I was cleaning out files on my computer when I found something called 25 BEFORE 25. Oh no. I felt like Celine Dion in the "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" video, as it was literally all coming back to me now.

Apparently, so spake the date on the file, six months ago I stupidly decided to grab the horns of fate and make a TWENTY FIVE BEFORE TWENTY FIVE list. Like a bucket list for the very dumb and lazy (IE, me). I don't know why I did this, as I seriously NEVER follow through with ANYTHING. Words like "obligation", "resolution", and "aspiration" might as well be written in Swahili, as I know them not.

I am perfectly capable of DOING things, you see, but I just don't like THE PRESSURE. I like to roll with it! I am a gypsy and time constraints are a mystery to me! However, I have gone and done this thing and made this beastly list full of hopes and dreams, and, as we are now less than one month away from my 24th birthday, I realized, oh, great. First of all, I made this list a year and a half before my 25th birthday, specifically for the purpose of giving myself some extra time to be lazier than 40 hells, and secondly, le grand surprise, I have not done ANY of these things. And of course, as list making is only another way to make one feel like an absolute failure, I am well on my way to spending at least three hours sometime in the future feeing bad about myself. I would just forget about it, but I can't. You don't just REDISCOVER something like this for no reason, so now I am morally obligated. Who am I to stand in the way of fate?

Therefore, I am going to DO IT. I am going to tackle my 25 before 25! I am going to saddle that shit up like a pony and ride it home to the frontier land I call SUCCESS and PERSONAL ACHIEVEMENT!

Thus, my friends, here are a few of the shareable things from my 25 BEORE 25.
Contain yourselves, please.

001 - Learn to speak BASIC. CONVERSATIONAL. ITALIAN. Let me make this very clear, as I do not want to hear it when September 19, 2011 rolls around and I am not a living, breathing Google Translator. BASICS, my friends - and I am proud to report that I am well on my way! Already I have mastered at least 1/3 of the key question phrases that I feel will make a confident and fashionable Eurominx out of me - "Dove sono i ragazzi?" (Where are the boys?) and "Dov'é il reparto cosmetichi?" (Where is the costmetics department?) - I am one tongue roll away from the F word and frankly, what the hell else do I need to know? Exactly my point. But, not to get in the way of my own stunning progress, I commit to being able to, at very minimum, embarrass my friends by being a know it all in Little Italy in NYC (#21 on the list - well, the NYC part. Not the embarrassing my friends part.) and by being able to speak more Italian than Snooki, which, if I am being honest with myself, I probably can do already.

002 - Meet five famous people that I've NEVER met before. No doubles! This is harder than it looks, as I am in a fame drought. At current press time, I've got three of five under my belt (Robin Thicke, Conan O'Brien, Robert Schwartzman), so hopefully I can just knock those last two out relatively quickly. Also, I am hoping that these last two seemingly unfillable slots mean something REALLLLLY good is coming. Don't get me wrong, these three (or, I should say 2.5, as Robin Thicke is almost too embarrassing to count) are bodacious - but i think I am setting the perfect suspense for a MCCCARTNEY, SPEARS, or (SIR ELTON) JOHN to fill those last slots, yeah? Or, if we are talking about slots being filled, Jude La.....anyway, before I distract myself. TWO MORE! And please God, don't let it be Justin Bieber and Spencer Pratt. I am a good natured girl, but some things, I just can't find the humor in.

003 - Take my mother to dinner. And to dinner, I mean to a place that doesn't have a dollar menu. My mother is an angel, a saint, etc and so on. Truly, madly & deeply so, and I can't stress this enough - she's the best kind of person. While I am the kind of sensitive and giving kind of gal who would not give my last $5 to my grandfather as he lay on his deathbed ($5 is 1/3 of an eyeshadow at MAC, THANKYOUVERYMUCH), my mom would truly give her last penny to make sure I continue to be the spoiled and happy brat that I am today, and would never ask for a word of thanks in return. There are people in this world that are not appreciated enough, and Saint Deborah is one of them. So many times my brother & I just look for Mom to foot the bill - so this time, it is on me. So Mumsy, start thinking about where you want to go for dinner. Anywhere you want!! Just don't order dessert, or its on you.

004 - FLY AGAIN. My biggest fear in life (other than being seen without lipstick on or my hair going flat) is, of course, AIRBORNE TRAVEL. God, how I loathe it. I mean it - I have a really, really intense fear. You know, I am a pretty ~*~FEARLESS~*~ gal, when it comes to most things. Other than my silly little phobia of cinematic neckbreaking, I am not easily rattled - until you strap me into an airplane. If you have ever had the pleasure of being trapped in an aircraft with me as I sobbed like a newborn (Sorry, Peeps) you know that I SERIOUSLY lose my shit. I have mini panic attacks watching movies revolving around plane crashes and frequently have nightmares about being tricked by friends or family onto an airplane - I can't STAND IT! Not only is air travel intrusive (you can't pack this! you have to sit with these strangers! you can't stand up!) there is that little fact of the matter than you know, oh hey, you could TOTALLY FUCKING DIE AT ANY SECOND. I am sorry, but I don't have the time for that kind of stress. Yes I know, I can die in a car much easier than I can in a plane, but I would rather careen off the highway while singing along to Britney Spears at the top of my lungs with my best pals in the car than drop out of the sky like a dead bird while screaming expletives into an oxygen mask before I plunge into the ocean and perish. You know, whatever. Anyway, I have flown twice. To Miami, and to Vegas, and you know what, it really didn't go well. And I swear, I am still not OVER IT. If I had to fly tomorrow, I would be dry heaving all night long and repeating the Hare Krishna mantra until I boarded the evil thing. HOWEVER. All of this wretched and sudden Italian longing (and, not to mention, the rude foot my friends have suddenly put down, refusing to drive 12+ hours like the good ole days) have left me no choice, really. I've got places to go, obviously, and a native language to mangle! Therefore, I have committed myself to taking at least one more flight of fancy before the big 2-5. Even if it kills me. Which it probably will.

005 - Last, but certainly not least - I WANT TO MOVE OUT! I so need to move out. First of all, I am like 100 years old and still live at home, and you know, people start to talk. I am sorry I have been off having fun adventures for the past 23 years, but if I am not careful, I will soon turn into the movie Stepbrothers. Speaking of movies, here is a perfect example: have you ever seen Alice in Wonderland? You know how Alice goes to visit the White Rabbit's house and she eats the cookie and then she grows like 400 times her size? And her arms and legs are shooting out of the house? THAT IS HOW I FEEL IN MY BEDROOM. I may as well be sitting here with my appendages hanging out of the windows and doors. I have so much stuff, it is beginning to look like an episode of Hoarders in here. My bedroom can no longer contain me! You have turned your back on me, childhood bedroom, and so I will repay the favor: it is time to move on to a lair of my own. Oh how I dream of having a cutesy kitchen with knick knackery everywhere, of not being told to HUSH by my mother when I have friends over past 1AM, and of not having to share a bathroom with my brother, BearChild. And let's face it. Nothing says MINXUAL like a powder blue bedroom with a border of KITTENS PLAYING WITH YARN lining the walls, now does it? GET ME OUT OF HERE!

There we have it folks! It looks like I have a busy year ahead of me, and I will most likely go into some sort of bankruptcy, as this all seems like it will be expensive. I am exhausted and poor already! On top of these light goals, I have also decided to read 100 books, spend a month as a vegetarian, attend a music festival (why....) self publish a book, maintain minxual.net for a year (sorry, folks) and visit five states I've never been to. Easy enough, methinks - NOT. It is depressing knowing that I will most likely never do any of these things, but, you know, whatever. What's life without a list of aspirations and goals you will never reach to make you feel terrible about yourself? I will give it my best shot! Please, God, don't let my bucket list become a "fuck it" list!! CIAO AND THANGZ!

UP THE LADDER TO THE ROOF!!

When I think of boyfriends and my lack thereof, I am instantly reminded of when I was eight or nine years old and EVERY SINGLE GIRL in my third grade class had a DEAR DIARY. Oh GOD, how I wanted a DEAR DIARY. It was literally the most perfect device ever created, a Furby-scale phenom for girlie brats worldwide - and I was losing my mind over it. You have to understand - not only could you electronically store your SECRET THOUGHTS (and cleverly file and password protect them, too), you could also, using the supreme knowledge of the DEAR DIARY, communicate with other friends in the DEAR DIARY network, and, conveniently, check local weather as well. It was very executive chic - clearly all I needed and more to progress into womanhood.

Oh, I was sick over it. WHY had I been the last girl in Greenville to cajole my mother into taking me to Toys R Us when they had been released? WHY was the Dear Diary TERMINALLY sold out in stores all across the Southeast? It was the worst thing I could imagine ever happening in my lifetime. I DREAMT about that thing. Didn't anyone care that this was the ONLY thing holding me back from becoming a famous child author? I was oppressed and heartbroken. I teared up over the commercials when they came on television, sketched doodles of myself excitedly holding one in the margins of my homework - I NEEDED. A FUCKING DEAR DIARY. Just the thought of it alone made my heart actually race - the stress of being without was a weight I was not prepared to shoulder. I was becoming THAT GIRL in class - you know, the one who wears the wrong color scrunchie or who isn't carrying a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper - I was WITHOUT. A DEAR DIARY.

At my low point, I was calling Toys R Us twice a week, as I had their shipment days memorized. And each time, it was always the same, "sorry, we are backordered."
But finally, one Thursday, luck changed.
A NEW SHIPMENT HAD ARRIVED!
I was free at last!

Oh, how the angels sang and the lights shone from heaven as I unwrapped my very own DEAR DIARY. It was so beautiful, I could hardly stand to touch it. Electric pink and smiling like a best friend at me, I had been purposely not writing in my Keroppi diary (girls, I know you are following me here) for WEEKS, just so I would have plenty to say to DEAR DIARY. I sat back, fingers poised importantly over the purple keys, and began to write.

I played with my Dear Diary for maybe two hours before I realized, you know what - this is the most boring thing I have ever seen. First of all, it made the most godawful racket when you tried to punch in your secret thoughts - that is, if it wasn't freezing on a big digital SUNNY, 63 DEGREES before powering down. There was a character limit - and just how the hell was I supposed to describe playing doctor with my 3rd grade crush in 60 characters? And communicating with your friends? Yeah, that was only possible if you stood so close, you could have been siamese, with the wretched things thrust up into the air, trying to find a signal.

Basically, it was just a letdown.

My friends never saw it this way. They toted their Dear Diaries around in the pockets of their overalls and continued to make a big production out of them until NSYNC or Tamagotchis or whatever it was next came along for them to jump ass deep into - but I was just like, meh. What a snooze. And that, my friends, is how I feel, at age 23, about having a boyfriend. I only want one because everyone else has one, but then I get one and am like meh, what a waste of money, I should have just bought a new mini bookbag and pair of jelly sandals instead.

I am going to let you in on a secret: the reason that I am not in a serious relationship is because I don't WANT to be in a serious relationship. It is shockingly that simple. I hate to disappoint all of you who imagine me sitting at home crying over a pint of Ben & Jerry's, cutting out wedding dresses from THE KNOT magazine & watching bridal shows on lifetime, imagining the life that I'm missing out on, but I'm not. I'm just not. The fact of the matter is that I have not met anyone interesting enough to be in a relationship with, or else - and please, sit down, as this is a groundbreaking revelation - I'd BE IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH THEM. Ye Gods.

I know, I know. A woman my age, and all. 23, and without A MAN in my future, it is just enough to make someone want to say a prayer for my ruined life. I used to hear it all the time, when I was hair champing day to day: "HUHHHNEY. YOU MEAN YOU ARE 23 AND YOU DON'T HAVE ANY BABIES OR A HUHHHHSBAND? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?"

What a fucker of a question. What do you mean, what am I going to do? I'm 23 years old, for God's sake, what do you mean WHAT AM I GOING TO DO. I'm going to write a book, is what I'm going to do. I'm going to be a photographer, is what I'm going to do. I'm going to kiss many, many boys, is what I'm going to do. And I'm going to be happy, is what I'm going to do.

And I am also going to accidentally cut a hole in the back of your hair, is what I'm going to do.

Still, even though we are living in THE NOW, the idea that I, as a lady of the modern times, should get to sit back and CHOOSE who I am interested in instead of waiting to be CHOSEN - positively horrifying, right? Because that is what we girls are here for, what we LIVE FOR. What kind of girl isn't just sitting like a tulip in a garden, patiently waiting to be plucked?

....THIS ONE.

Just the other day, I was over at my friend's house, and we were all tucked up on the couch, giggling about God knows what, when she told me she had recently begun seeing someone new.

"OOooOOOoOoOOH!" I breathed, "TELL ME MORE!"
"Well, he's really nice. Kind of boring, though. He's got a great job. He goes to church. Um ... he's really nice..."
I cut her off. "Yeah yeah, you said that. But is he hot? Are you like, totally into him? Have you made out?"
After calling me offensive, she shrugged, and one of my eyes went lazy.
"What does that mean? Shrug?" I asked.
"He's not cute, by any means. But I'm glad. I'd rather be with someone who isn't cute, so I don't have to worry about them leaving me, or being alone." she finally said.

And that was when I murdered her.

Only joking, of course, but I could have clobbered her with her decorative candlesticks. What the hell kind of an idea was that, anyway? I went home and thought about what she said said, stewed over it obsessively. My pal and the Just In Case Romeo. The notion of settling on someone as a prevention of future heartbreak or, worse, to make sure you would never have to be alone had never occurred to me. Whatever happened to it just being easy? Like, wow, you are the hottest thing, and you make me laugh so hard I think I need to be hospitalized, and we love all the same music, let's never be apart? What the hell is wrong with these foolish girls? I thought of my friend - this is a girl who has already planned her wedding, from flatware to mood lighting - is it so important to ACQUIRE, that you would sacrifice true happiness? Sure, she'd be pregnant and hanging curtains in suburbia, but she'd also have to be purposely oblivious and married to a man who bored her to tears and had a terrible haircut, all because she was afraid to be what she was worth and want what she deserved.

The more I weighed the idea of it, the more absurd it became - and the more sense it slowly began to make. Panic began to set in - it was the damned Dear Diary situation all over again!!! She was right, after all. There are no guarantees, and who really wants to end up ALONE? Everyone will think something is wrong with me if I don't marry up, because when you are alone, there HAS to be something wrong, right? I see all my friends and peers making these huge decisions - MARRIED. BABIES. HOUSES. FORRREEEEVVVERR all of the time, and I literally feel shocked - how is everyone talking about recipes and painting nurseries and breastfeeding on their facebook statuses, when all I do in my spare time is figure out how to meet Elton John through osmosis and put on lipstick? Here I am, the lone horse. The wanderer. Everyone I know is lining up two by two to board the ark, and what the fresh hell am I supposed to do? Fly alongside after everyone sets sail, waving when someone has a moment to spare?

I thought about it. Thought about the guys that ask me out that I have negative interest in. What if I just said yes for once? I could trot behind my friends on the ark, just another pair! HELLZ YEAHHHH! And then I wouldn't even have to think about any of this anymore, and no one would ever ask me what is WRONG with me or what I'm going to DO. We'd only talk about brands of paint and nursery colors and baby bjorns. Easy peasy.

But then I thought .... hm. I'd rather swallow my tongue than discuss nursery colors, and the idea of circling overhead like some brightly colored exotic bird, coming and going as I please .... who can say no to that? It kind of sounds like a party, actually. Like, borrrring, YOU get to be stuck with the other elephant that you came here with for FOREVER, but maybe I'll land and talk to the giraffes and maybe make out with a cheetah or two. Bump that boring ass Ostrich I thought about coming with, I'm a free agent!

It just isn't an issue for me, you know? I only feel the heat when told to. I don't feel the pressure because, first of all, I find it absolutely LUDICROUS that I should have to worry about the rest of my life at age 23, and secondly, because I believe in timing. I don't have to force a square into a circle, you know? The thing about ~*~BOYS~*~ is that every single guy that I've ever set my sights on has had one thing in common: I've known they were absolutely, completely, 500,000% wrong for me - but I just rode it out because, well, you have to, or else you'll never understand why it is that they were wrong in the first place. I mean, that is just common sense. For most Heidis, you do unfortunately have to meet a few Spencers before you find your prince, and I welcome that. I am in no hurry to be locked into the rest of my life! I look at men like rungs on a sexy, sexy ladder, and you have to climb and climb and climb until you eventually reach the roof, where you will find the one who will truly and utterly knock your socks off (in my case, Jude Law). You take one trait from each guy that was the reason you stuck around in the first place, and eventually, when you add up all of those acquired traits and huff and puff your ass up the ladder, you will have ... the one. It's like sex-math.

Thus why I am in no hurry. Because I'm still ~*~ON THE CLIMB~*~. I am still collecting, you know? I am still adding, subtracting, figuring. Deciding on what I want to look for before I start looking ... which makes plenty of sense to me. When the idea of being tied down scares you, you shouldn't be tied down. It's as simple as that.

I am happy for you lunatics who are married or engaged or pregnant or pregnant again, I really, really am. As strongly as I believe in being myself being a rolling stone right now and cannot fathom WHHYYY you'd rather save up thousands of dollars so that you can get a piece of paper versus saving to spend two weeks in Europe meeting hot boys, I truly believe that it is possible that you could be exactly where you are supposed to be, too. It is possible to be the exact same age and belong in two very different places in life, and both equal out to being exactly and perfectly OKAY. And I will gladly do your hair and makeup at your weddings, take your engagement photos, say nice things about you at your reception, and get drunk at the open bar that I feel it is only fair that you provide (especially if I have to wear an ugly bridesmaid dress). This is by no means a middle finger in the face of LURRVE. Because I do, at the end of the day, believe in love! But more importantly, I believe in different TYPES of love. And right now, there are so many other types of love that I want to explore - love of life, love of family, love of self, love of friendship, love of Lady GaGa, love of freedom, love of travel - love of ADVENTURE!! I have to face it - I am a girl who won't get married until I have seen the Eiffel Tower. Now, if I happen to stumble across the striking Englishman of my dreams while on the flight over to Franceland to visit aforementioned Eiffel Tower, so be it - I ain't afraid of it!

When I want to buy the Dear Diary, I will.
But until then, I won't be afraid of being without it.

DARLING DON'T GIVE ME SHIT, 'CAUSE I KNOW THAT YOU'RE FULL OF IT

There are pros and cons to running a liberating FREE BITCH weekly blog - the pros, of course, being that you are proclaiming your free bitch-ness for all to see -and the cons, of course, that everyone can see your free bitch-ness.

Ever since my genius (I use this term lightly) idea to get this whole MINXUAL thing going, I have been keeping a mental log of things of the minxual variety to discuss here in the future. Every week (all four of them, natch), the ideas have come fairly easily. This week when I set out to write, however - I realized.
Oh shit.
I have run out of ideas.
Really, Ashley?
ALREADY?!?!
I was thinking about this semi-unconciously as I scribbled out a hate letter in my journal to one of my closest friends, who has literally NO idea that I want them dead.
"Dear ______. If I could only figure out how to murder by generating enough IRRITATION towards you to fuel a mental grenade that would launch from the recesses of my mind, you would be a corpse by now, and I would be happily tap dancing, with arms outstretched and raised heavenward, on your gra-"
And it was suddenly clear to me.
No no, Ashley.
You aren't stumped -
You're full of shit.

"Full of shit". What an ugly expression, but powerful. You are FULL OF SHIT. This is meant to be said with fingers pointed accusingly in the face of another individual, or stabbed directly into the chest of someone who has crossed you.
YOU ARE FULL OF SHIT.

It's true, though. In fact, this very weekly minxual is FULL OF SHIT, the reason why I am sitting here writing in the first place born from shit itself. Merciful father, what would happen if I scanned in what I had written in my journal? I would be hobbled, stoned in the streets, adorned with a scarlet A for ASSHOLE, or, at the very least, unfriended on Facebook. But didn't I make this whole minxual thing as an outlet for my angst? I mean, what kind of FREE BITCH doesn't raise the hell that is perpetuating her? Didn't I pledge to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Yet what I've written here looks very, very different from what I've written in my journal. Names & places are changed to protect the innocent, my ass. Maybe she deserves me merrily humming her funeral dirge while I put my makeup on in the morning! Yet I choose to dummy up, lie through my teeth, and once again, be full of shit. I'll never even tell her that she's rubbed me the wrong way.

But why NOT?

I would feel bad about revealing this about myself, but, as I realized the depth of my own depravity, I realized something else, too - you all, every single one of you, are also full of shit. I mean this, I really do. It isn't a bad thing, it's just a HUMANKIND thing - Everyone I know is lying about something, big or little, every single day. How you look in those jeans. How they feel around you. How funny your jokes are. Look at me, for God's sake. I am the biggest liar and cheater and secret keeper that I know - until I look at one of my friends, and think of allllll the little secrets they have floating around in the fishbowls of their minds that I know about - and trust me, when you know for fact some of the hoodoo your friends get up to that they've let you in on, you better TRUST there is something going on that you don't know about. You'd be a fool to think otherwise.

We're full of shit.

As the catalyst for many other grievances in my life, this revelation was brought about by that good ole HARBINGER OF DOOM we like to call FACEBOOK. God, I die over Facebook. You know something is shallow when Ashley, Queen of Vapid, can barely stand it. I could literally be living in my car and surviving on banana peels, but trust me, I would update my status and let you know that LIFE IS GRAND! LA DE DA! Facebook and social networking in general, are the biggest full of shit empire of them all - nowhere else in this world can you wish someone a happy birthday and send them an e-cake, right after avoiding them in the grocery store three days prior because, guess what - YOU REALLY DON'T LIKE THEM! It's a status game! Three hundred people I went to high school with who were assholes to me add me as soon as we get to college and constantly tell me how funny and pretty I am - aren't you the same people who made fun of the bands that I love and the jeans that I wore? Then, on a personal scale, we are all puffing our chests up and strutting around like proud birds, with our PROFILE PICTURES and our COMMENTS and our WALL posts. I sit back and watch sometimes and I have to laugh, because, even just on my side of the screen, I KNOW. I know what he knows, but she doesn't. Yet merry happy, and oblivious too, we gaily go along, even when life is spiraling out of control. How HILARIOUS it is to watch a life go to ruin while happy statuses are posted. If you read between the lines (which you should, always and absolutely, 100%) - you can't miss it.

At this very moment, I am thinking something terrible about one of the closest people in my life, and keeping a secret that would change the ENTIRE life of another one. Just because. I didn't ask for these things to happen, but they did - and you keep it because you MUST. Putting it out here like that, saying those things in black and white, well, it makes me look as sweet and cuddly as shark week reruns - yet every single one of you is doing it too. Maybe even about me! As you read this, you are thinking about a secret you are keeping, or a lie that you told. Tell me though, honestly, what's worse?

Lying, or hurting someone's feelings? Because isn't that why we lie? To save someone's feelings? Or worse, to save ourselves?

We say things to get what we want. We say things to save ourselves. We lie! Every day! But how much energy would we save and stress could we cut out if we just SAID IT in the first place? Would the world be a better place if we had no censor? I can't imagine ever saying what was REALLY on my mind. I am blunt to a fault as it is, and that is with holds barred. Imagining my mouth on the loose is kind of like watching 2012 or some other disaster movie - it would be a DESTROYON. It frusrates me to be ~*~TAMED~*~, but tell me, is it for the greater good?

It's sad, but it's unavoidable, because you know what the answer is. Without censors, it would be mania. Imagine what I would do to the friend who dared to tell me that my hair looked bad one day - I would literally grab them up and scramble at the speed of light up the Empire State building, danglng them from my fingertips as helicopters circled - it just can't be. I mean, I feel an actual hate for someone who is supposed to be my other half more than eighty percent of my life - what does that say about me? About us? Why am I pathetic enough to endure being full of shit, just because it means not hurting someone's feelings?

Because that other twenty percent of the time, I love that person more than life itself, and would rather die than be at the end of their emotional demise.
That's why.

And that's life. And that is how we love each other - by lying.

By writing this and bringing it to attention, I by no means challenge you to a great reveal (need I reiterate the King Kong comparison?) but I do admit, the notion of blabbering all of my keeps me up at nights and then taking a giant fucking swan dive out of the back of the plane while you struggle to keep yourself up in the air is quite romantic, in a sort of Emily the Strange kind of way. But there is that chance that, as I attempted to leap to my selfish safety, I'd get my high heel stuck in the side of the plane, and then we'd all end up going down in flames together. Thus, I offer you one of life's greatest lessons:

It is better to coast stupidly through clouds of shit than to bother opening your mouth in the first place.

How uplifting!

IT MIGHT JUST CHANGE THE LIFE YOU THINK YOU'RE GONNA LEAD

If there is one thing everyone knows about me, it is Hanson. Ask anyone I went to school with, and they'll tell you: I was that Hanson girl. I claim it, embrace it, and am proud of it, just as I always have. Since graduating from high school, I have run into several old friends along the way, and one of the first things they still ask is "How's Hanson?"

It is one of those things that you can't explain, not even to yourself. But this journey is as real as the sky over my head and the ground beneath my feet. I have, at current press time, been a Hanson fan for thirteen years. THIRTEEN YEARS! More than half of my life has been devoted to three blonde brothers from Oklahoma who were 1997's equivalent to the Jonas Brothers and Bieber. Like breathing, listening to Hanson comes naturally, a knee jerk reaction to any variety of emotions. To put it simply, for me, Hanson equals home. And home equals Hanson.

When I was eleven years old, I saw Hanson in concert for the first time. August, 1998. My best friend and I counted the days down for MONTHS, prepped ourselves by memorizing every line from every single teen magazine on the market, learning the words to every single song backwards and forwards, and watching every talk show interview available on cable television regarding the brothers Hanson. At the height of our obsessive countdown, I could have probably constructed some seriously lifelike macaroni art of Taylor Hanson's face - and probably would have jumped at the opportunity to try. That concert, Hanson themselves, it was ALL we were living for. On the day - THE DAY - we could barely breathe, we were so excited. I have never experienced a euphoria like the one that washed over me in waves the morning I woke up and realized THIS WAS IT. TODAY! We had been fans for over a year at this point, were widely renowned as the Hanson experts in our middle school, and could write "Mrs. Taylor Hanson" and "Mrs. Zac Hanson" in perfect cursive, so naturally, seeing our favorite band in person was the obvious next step to world domination.

We had to go to CHARLOTTE to see the show. Traveling out of state! It was the biggest deal, we felt very chic and exclusive as we bucked into the backseat of Mom's Honda and hit the road. Looking back, I don't know how the grownups stood it - we were going CRAZY in that backseat, with our signs taped to the window (HONK IF U LUV HANSON!!!) and our squealing girl chatter. We even changed the words around from The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" and chanted all the way there, "20-20-24 hours to goooo! WE'RE GOING TO SEE HANSON!!!". Our fingernails were painted red, blue & green (for the boy's favorite colors) and we had spent at least six months growing out our Taylor rattails -

We were ready.

When we pulled up at the Blockbuster Pavilion, we passed the sign at the front - "HANSON. TONIGHT." - something clicked inside of me. Unsure of what was interrupting my bliss bubble, I sat in the backseat for a moment and felt sick to my stomach. What was this? Was this fear? It was like standing on a cliff and looking down over the water, knowing that I was going to jump. We were here - now what? A feeling of loss suddenly overwhelmed me - what would be left, after it was all said and done? It was quite philosophical, for an eleven year old. I chalked it up to nerves (after all, I was going to see my future husband, which was a tedious and tender union of souls), and I quickly shut off my mind and decided to not think any more of it.

The venue sat on a hill, and as I stared up it it, I tried to swallow what I could not pinpoint - but still, something pressed its way into my mind. The clouds overhead were ominous, black and swollen - the definition of foreboding. By the time we made it to the gates, it was pouring rain, my poster board profession of love for Taylor (TAYLOR! STOP LOOKING: HERE'S THE LOVE!) had been ruined, and my arms and legs were stained from the magic marker that had bled and run when the storm came. We trudged to our seats and sat, in sullen moods, holding glowsticks lamely, shivering in the cold as we waited.

Our seats were so far back, I had to use binoculars just to pretend I could see what was going on on the stage. I adjusted and readjusted the lenses, keeping a meticulous hawk eye on the roadies who were setting up. Eventually, a curtain was pulled and I relented my post. The storm only increased - in those last few moments before the band came out, it was thundering in this really terrifying way, rumbling like a warning. You could feel the air, electric and telling.

At eleven years old, I sat in the hard plastic seat, my hair wet and hanging in my face, my ruined poster in a soggy heap at my feet. Desolate. Waiting for the show to start. That same feeling from earlier in the car had cultivated, turned into an actual physical force that was demanding to be heard- impatient and drumming my fingers against my knee, I gave in and listened to the thing that was threatening to disturb my Hanson day peace -

"Ashley, your entire life is about to change."

And change it did.

There will be one.
One moment that you will always feel, in tenfold.
One moment that will never lose its color, never fade, never be anything less than all it originally was.

Mine?
Four notes that sounded in the dark.
When the lights went out, I was already on my feet. I stood there in the aisles, clutching my best friend's hand, standing on my tiptoes.
I could taste my heartbeat.
Four notes. The arrival. It was like looking into the future, I swear, I had a religious experience as I stood there, felt removed from my body as I floated somewhere overhead. It wasn't even about Hanson - it was just the knowledge that I had crossed over, that I knew what freedom felt like. The curtain fell, and there it was. My first step down the path of the rest of my life.
And I never once looked back.

The other day, I was lurking Hanson Secrets (don't ask. Please God, don't ask.) and I found this:




I know what that feels like. There is a part of me that will always be chasing that first great moment, my four notes in the dark - it is the reason I still go, the reason that I still AM. That feeling, that realization that I had so many years ago - it is still there, in the back of my mind, quietly waiting to be acknowledged. Just last friday night, I went to my 20th Hanson show, and as I waited in the dark for the band to begin to play, I was there all over again. Standing in the rain in Charlotte some twelve years ago, still, in so many ways, waiting to be set free. Still waiting for my life to begin and the music to tell me where to go. And what i know, what I have always known, concretely and above all things, is that there is honestly nothing that will ever make me FEEL in that way again. Sure, I will love another band so much I could die, and I will have many, many a song change my life along the way - but it will never again be THE FIRST.

But still, you chase that moment, because it is all you know how to do.
"People hold onto something because they fear nothing that great will ever happen to them again."

Hanson is so much of who I am, an actual soundtrack to a life, I truly believe that had I not been in my bedroom at that exact moment that "MMMBOP" came on the television on that March morning in 1997, I would be a different Ashley. It was THAT MOMENT. That mixture of time and space and fate. I could have seen it three days earlier, or three days later - but it would not have been enough to cause me to drop what I was doing, cross the floor to the television, and touch my fingers to the screen in awe. To wonder what that feeling is inside of you and to eventually realize that it is your FREEDOM - I could save nations, climb mountains, have children - but it would never compare, because this love & this journey is an entity of its own. The one place you know you can always go, the one thing that has always been.

At the show the other night, before launching into "MMMBOP", Taylor said:
"You guys been enjoying the show tonight? We've been enjoying the show for 13 years."

Thirteen YEARS.
TWENTY shows.

Last Friday night, singing along to "MMMBOP" just as I did twelve years ago, I saw the ghost of my eleven year old self come to life again, for just a moment. And that's what it's all about. "The secret no one knows" - 11, 23, or 79 years old - there is one girl that I will always be, and that is the girl who let a song and a band change her life. I feel it every single time I see them, I am right back in that place all over again. The moment when the lights go out and I am caught in that beautiful limbo, the space between the waiting and the music, reliving my emancipation of self. The first four notes. Standing on a cliff, KNOWING you will jump -, blind, fearing, feeling, waiting - there is nothing else besides you and that sick to your stomach, overwhelming feeling -

"Ashley, your entire life is about to change."

I believe it.

JUDGING ME, JUDGING YOU

After recently getting my sixth tattoo, I was stunned to realize that we are currently living in Puritanical times, and that due to the new addition to my skin, I had officially renounced my family's good name and traded in my pleasant upbringing for a life of full fledged heathen-hood.

Or so it felt.

I have six tattoos. Six sounds like a lot, but really isn't. Or maybe it is, I don't really know - I guess when I look at Kat Von D, I think, whoa, you have tattoos on your face, you know, and everywhere else. That is a lot of tattoos. But when I look at myself and the barely there commitment pieces that I have chosen throughout the years, I just shrug and pay no mind.

My grandparents hate the way I look, in that "you are beautiful just the way you are, muddy blonde hair and no blush and clean, tattoo free skin" kind of loving grandparents way. You know, I expect my grandparents to hate my tattoos. It doesn't hurt my feelings when they tell me that my hair looks like a crime scene, or when my grandmother chides me with rolling eyes, after getting an eyeful of the lightning bolt on my foot - "You know, you aren't Harry Potter. You don't need Harry Potter's scars."

What I don't expect, however, is for people that I don't even know from a hole in the wall to judge me and make sort of devastating deductions about my character based on the color of my hair, the shade of eyeshadow I'm sporting, or how many tattoos they catch a glimpse of. My looks, I'll have you know, are like a crystal ball for these special clairvoyants - after all, by taking one look at me, they concretely know without any further investigation that I am a total whore, don't believe in God, have no proper education or self worth, and was raised by wolves.

Amazing, isn't it?

Before starting my new job, I applied at a local restaurant in the area. I was sitting in the booth, all prepared to shine and dazzle, when the manager slid in across from me, took one look at me and said, with her nose so far up in the sky that I could see grey matter -
"That hair. It has GOT to go."
I blinked at her like a goldfish. What the hell was she even talking about? Were luscious and well kept locks not allowed in this particular eating establishment?What was so offensive about being good looking?
Finally, after an awkward pause, she broke it down for me - the job was mine!
If I changed my hair color.
I could hear the walls of my mind caving in on themselves. It was just like being back in high school and getting in trouble for using my blue hair mascara wand before class. I waited to be saved by the bell and realized, wait a damn minute. I am 23 and, by law, am an adult - and I can have whatever colored hair I want! I was really really hurting for cash at the time, and I really needed that break - "yes" was right on the tip of my tongue. But then I thought about myself, returning from my vibrant neon world to the just another brunette with blonde highlights, and panic washed over me in waves. It wasn't even the act of changing, it was being forced to.

I walked out, jobless, head held high & hair blazing in the afternoon sun.

It is one thing to work in a hospital and have a sleeve, or an eyebrow ring, or day-glo hair, and to be required to cover or change those things - I certainly get that. Had the job at the restaurant panned out, I would have happily taped up my tattoos with no complaints, if I had been asked. But it is quite another thing to hostess part time in a restaurant and be forced to color your hair to avoid attention. While you are at it, why don't you just strip me of my womanhood?

Another notch on ye old belt of judgment was when, out of nowhere, only a handful of days after I posted the pictures of my newest tattoos on facebook, a family member (that, firstly, I have always considered to be pretty hip & groovy, and secondly, I haven't spoken to in literally four or some odd years, and who has never attempted to say a word to me since seeking me out in the social networking world) left an ominous comment on my wall:

"tattoos are forever."

Well, thank God. Or I would have certainly demanded my money back!

I can't blame him necessarily. Again, family does get a pass, and I like to think that maybe he didn't mean it the way it came across. But realistically, I have to consider that some people may feel as strongly against tattoos as I do against unpainted toenails on females & middle parts. But here is the difference: when people look at me, with my hair & my makeup & my tattoos, they assume something about me, about my family, about my beliefs and who I am inside. They assume that I MUST be a certain way, or else I wouldn't choose to look the way I do. There is no if, there is no but - it is a judgement passed, like a door slamming shut.

And in return, I just assume that they are morons.

Last night while I waited in the ER (which is an entirely different story altogether), a man who had been staring at me incessantly for nearly half an hour suddenly said to his daughter, loud enough for God and literally everyone who wasn't slumped over in a coma somewhere across the room to hear:
"You know, girls who have to wear makeup are just ugly to start with."

He stared at me the entire time he said this. I raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow and applied a fresh coat of lipgloss in the way a smoker would furiously light a cigarette to soothe their nerves, and I wondered if I had the mental strength to slam the doors shut and cause sudden death in the lobby like Carrie at the prom. How dare he say that. And who the hell is he to talk about ugly, anyway? This is a man who was scratching his ass crack with dirty fingernails, as his huge potbelly stuck out of the hole in his sweat-stained t-shirt.

The point is this, people - get in the now! What I'm talking about is the literal adaptaion of "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" - don't ask me what I would say to Christ at the gates of heaven to insure my entrance because you are worried about how many tattoos I have, and don't assume that I don't know the difference between a salad fork & a fish fork just because I have hair color that came from a bottle. Guess what? I am a religious and (mostly) harmless person. I have bright red hair because I LIKE the way it makes me feel. I wear makeup because it ENTERTAINS ME. A chill literally goes up and down my spine each and every time I crack open a new and precious little bottle of product. I have tattoos because I WANT them - I don't care what they will look like when I'm 70 or what the children I never plan to have will think of me because I have a band's name tattooed on my arm. Frankly, some days can be so revolting that the only thing that gets me through them is the comfort of seeing my little ink friends peeking out beneath a sleeve or above a collar, reminding me that life outside of whatever current fresh hell I've gotten myself into is, indeed, better. Guess what, world? If you don't like the way I look, DON'T LOOK AT ME!! It is that simple, it really is. I encourage you to not waste your time or mine. Believe it or not, it is entirely possible to juggle electric boogaloo hair, a face full of makeup & an arm full of ink & remain, at least most of the time, a relatively decent person who probably just wanted to be left alone to start with. It was really kind of you to be so concerned, but until I turn up looking like this:




and announcing that Satan has become my savior, I think we are in the clear for now. Problem solved.

THE INEVITABLE DEATH OF A WANNABE TEEN FICTION WRITER

I have recently come to accept that I will probably never be the next great teen fiction writer, and I am okay with that. Really, I am. Well, as okay as you can be with watching your dreams get powerfisted until there is nothing recognizable left but the tender, bloody remains, but you know .... okay.

In all seriousness, this was really a long time coming. It is something I have been afraid of for a while now, flutters of insecurity here and there. "Can I do this?" slowly became "Should I do this?" and eventually, in the quiet of night, became "Do I want to do this?"

I never would have thought that I would resent writing, but in some ways, I began to. Writing, for me, was like breathing, or blinking - until I turned about 18, and I realized oh, shit. You are going to have to DO something about this. This is what you want, and you are going to have to MAKE it so. And then I could only ever feel the pressure. Writing freehand, writing what happened to me or how I'm feeling, it comes so easily - but making it mean something, making it maleable - it became a weight I carried every day. The struggle has never been the lack of something to say, but how to say it and to mean it. I think it and rethink it and rethink it - it is too important to not micromanage. But to force it is to break it and I love it to much to try to bend it backwards. So slowly, I have stopped.

In my "writing career", I have considered two paths, and two paths only. One, the desired, and two, the safety net. There is technically no choice - it will be, one day, written. But how to proceed? The desired, what I have always wanted? Marketable teen fiction that will lead to overnight success and fame (think action figures and a People magazine cover-worthy affair with Robert Pattinson, as he stars as my tender male lead in the film version of my best selling trilogy) - and the safety net - journal entries pulled together from my own life in a compassionate tell-all. Boooring.

There is technically nothing wrong with the safety net - but it isn't what I want to say. What I want to say is something that I have always imagined could only be expressed in teen trilogy format. I wanted to write, most importantly, and above all things, something that had a musical core. Something born from the road, just like I was. The plot could change, the characters were replaceable, but that one fact was the backbone of the entire thing.

There is only one thing I know how to say about "the road" and music, and it is what has happened to me - only what has happened to me hasn't "happened", it is still "happening", and really, quite frankly, can be quite boring - and I want to say so much more. I wanted, of course, to write a love story. I don't want to end my best selling trilogy with "and then she went to work in the call center" - I wanted a girl who works in a shitty job who has kind of always felt pretty shitty about herself to be swept away by the musician she loved and to rip him away from his plain jane wife and legion of children (and somehow keep this from not becoming a fanfic about Taylor Hanson .....) and have a total whirlwind groupie affair. I wanted characters and made up places and escapism.


But all I could do, each time I tried to pick up from where I'd last left off was hear was the hiss of "make it better" and the clock tick, reminding me that time was running out. But it was so important, wasn't it? I HAD to write this. I was BORN to write this. So I kept on pushing it and resenting it and hating myself for resenting it, because every time I stepped away from it, even for a day, it felt like taking off a mink coat after being forced to wear it for six hours straight in 100 degree weather - RELIEF. I was smothering in not wanting to do this.

The coup de grace of my teen fiction career occurred in the parking lot of Petsmart last Saturday. It was a Sunny day. I got off work half an hour early! I was on my way to meet up with my best friend for dinner, and I had just seen an English Bulldog, which naturally brightened my evening. I stuck the key in the ignition, looked back in my rearview mirror, and started bawling.

And I could.

Not.

Stop.

Thirty minutes later, I found myself reclined in the driver's seat and clutching a steno pad of my most recent scribblings (because naturally, when in a state of hysteria, I did take the time to first, recline comfortably, and secondly, unzip my purse, rifle through it, and find my steno pad). I thought it and rethought it and rethought it again, and I realized it.

Pressure was, at first, the thumb that crushed the flame - but then it became the excuse. This idea, this story in my head - it's nearly six years old. I did not want to tell this story anymore. I don't care if the rock star comes on his bus and sweeps some chick off her feet ... anymore! I don't care. That's it. The story I have been "born" to write - I don't want to write it anymore! And as soon as I realized it, I knew it was over it.

Looking back, you know, it is kind of funny that I spent thirty minutes crying in the parking lot of Petsmart, snotting over a steno pad containing my most recent attempt at going somewhere in life. If you can't laugh, well, you have nothing- I know that best. But let's face it, the facts are bleak: I work in a call center! My greatest claims to fame in life are meeting Lady GaGa and graduating from hair school - in that order. All I have ever wanted to be was a writer! Sure, it is less humiliating and more hilarious to think of the people who peered worriedly into my car as they passed by me on their way to pick up flea spay and puppy chow, and how visions of my crushed dreams and Stephenie Meyer's success and sparkly vampires danced mockingly in my head - but it really is kind of heartbreaking. I have only and always ever wanted to be a marketable teen fiction writer, and here I was, waving my surrender flag. Why couldn't I want it enough? Now what?

It dawned on me so quickly, I nearly blew through the windshield with the force of a thousand suns.

What the hell was I thinking?! All this time I have been wasting, and I have been sitting on the golden ticket all along. My story is already written. My safety net is EVERYTHING! All of these things that I want to say and need people to know ... I've already said them. I could never in my life dream of creating characters any more interesting than the ones in my life already, or situations anymore ridiculous, hilarious, heartbreaking or romantic than the ones I have already experienced, or the ones that are sure to come. I looked back at my journal from last year and nearly wet myself. It has all already written itself! There was no question, when I read between the lines, what was at the core of my story. If I was gone tomorrow, the one thing that every single person would remember about me is exactly what I needed them to know - and that realization, in itself, was enough. When I was trying so hard to write something meaningful, it came out all wrong. But when I was just writing about what was on my mind, I was saying all that I could possibly want to say and more. Could it be that the girl can work in a call center and chase her dreams, too?!

That is why, my dear friends, the only thing I commit to writing about from here on out, in no grand surprise, is me. I have embraced the safety net. Awe-inspiring teen fiction be damned! I've got something to say!! In a fit of righteousness and inspiration, I decided I would be the female version of David Sedaris! RIGHT ON! Quickly realizing that Amy Sedaris was the female version of David Sedaris, I decided, you know what. I will just be me. And devil take the hindmost!

And in the theme of the week's previous lesson, I would say this is definitely taking a step in the minxual direction. And rule #2 in the minxual handbook (after rule #1, never be seen without eyeliner on, of course) is the minxual girl inevitably gets the rockstar - proving that just because my story hasn't ENDED doesn't mean that it isn't worth telling. So really, it is a win win situation after all.



"I put all my genius into my life; I put only my talent into my works.”
- Oscar Wilde