1 Weird Trick to Looking Good in Photos

I recently read a blog post about incredible transformation photos. You know what I'm talking about; an ad for some diet aid or light food shows before and after photos of people who used to be lumpy and are now utterly svelte. I could tell you how to transform yourself, but I think I'll start off with proof directly from the source, who proved it.

Says MelVFitness:

"Check out my transformation! It took me 15 minutes. Wanna know my secret? Well firstly I ditched the phonewallet (fwallet) cause that shit is lame, swapped my bather bottoms to black (cause they're a size bigger & black is slimming), Smothered on some fake tan, clipped in my hair extensions, stood up a bit taller, sucked in my guts, popped my hip- threw in a skinny arm, stood a bit wider, pulled my shoulders back and added a bit of a cheeky/Im so proud of my results smile. Zoomed in on the before pic- zoomed out on the after & added a filter. Cause filters make everything awesome. What's my point? Don't be deceived by what you see in magazines & on Instagram.. You never see the dozens of other pics they took that wernt as flattering. Photoshop can make a pig look hotter then Beyonce."

That's right, fifteen minutes to a slimmer, fitter you, using this one weird trick.

There are other tricks. Resting your weight on one leg rather than both is one, and another is stretching your neck forward a bit toward the camera. From the side you might look a bit like E.T., but in the picture it'll smooth out your neck and jaw. Wear clothes that skim your figure instead of being overly loose or tight. If you want to play with the big dogs hire a tailor for everything down to t-shirts and sweats.

There are people who make careers out of posing people (or being posed). Models and photographers don't just stand there and take pictures, there's work that goes into it all. If you put in that kind of work, you could look amazing too. Or you could stop worrying so much.

Almost every photo of my mother when I was growing up was actually a photo of her palm facing the camera to block out her face. She was a little overweight, reasonably pretty, and somewhat obsessed with her appearance. Even on weekends she put on makeup before wandering around the house.

I read something recently that claims "Real Women Have Curves" is doing damage, and I believe it. It took me years and years to accept that my shape isn't the one that's currently fashionable, and this applies no matter your sex or gender. Even if I lose every ounce of fat on my body I still won't be shaped like someone in a magazine because not everyone is built with a broad chest, narrow hips, a tiny waist, or legs twice the length of their torso. Buying mass-produced clothing would imply otherwise, but it's not true.

Says Hanne Blank:

"Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.

"Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever."

It continues in much the same way, the point being that people aren't all shaped the same. At all.

Guess what; the models in lingerie ads aren't the same ones you see on runways. Runway models are typically tall and slender. They're supposed to look like walking hangers so you look at the clothes. They're still real people, just tall, lanky ones who may or may not be pressured by their careers to eat little and stay slim. Lingerie models are shorter and curvier than them, but still pressured to stay fit.

What you see isn't the one version of perfection that so many people think it is.

So you can hide from the camera when you're not feeling attractive or pop your hip, stretch out your neck, suck in your gut and try to look like a model, or you can decide it's just not worth it.

Take my rant and search photography/modeling tricks or give yourself a look and decide that maybe you look like a person, like everyone else.

Discussion/comments are welcome.

Adventures at Smile Central

As you may recall, I have a job at a store I shall hereby refer to as Smile Central. That is not the store's real name, in case you were wondering, and in fact has nothing to do with the store. It is a pseudonym, because I dislike the idea of being fired and sued. Because I'm maybe going to complain about the place a little, and corporate entities don't have much of a sense of humor about these things.

But back to my job. I'm working a temporary security gig, sitting at a back door making sure construction and remodel guys don't steal anything. When the construction and remodel is done, I no longer have a job. Maybe. I have strongly hinted and pledged and vowed and sworn on my name badge that I would appreciate continued employment. At least two people have consulted the store manager on my behalf, and other employees miss me when I'm not here, so I'm doing a decent job.

So I got to work tonight and no one acknowledged my request to open the door (not unusual, actually), and eventually someone wandered back and asked what I was doing here. He told me that the remodel guys aren't using this door anymore, and hauled away their mobile office. As we debated the merits of sitting by a closed door making minimum wage and playing smartphone for four easy hours versus being sent home, someone else showed up and blew my cover.

Send Lyric to stationery.

Does Lyric know how to do this?

How about housewares?

Pharmacy?

Go see the manager.

I'm going to say I don't have to worry about being dropped and jobless in a week. Nervescitement? Lots of it. I've been waking up my daughter with somewhat noisy nightmares about work for weeks because I knew the remodel was wrapping up. I could about puke right now from the nervescitement.

I ended up talking to the store manager personally. Not a department manager. Not a shift manager. The Big Boss of this particular Smile Central. I was asked what position I wanted, to which I replied that I was open. I mentioned the departments which had expressed interest in me before. I was asked what my Goals are.

That's right. My Goals. In the blink of an eye, about a million thoughts rushed through my head. My goal for the past however many hears now has been stay alive, with a side of get a job so there's one more reason to stay alive. Before that, my goal was to move to a specific urban area where there would be job opportunities appropriate to my bachelor's degree, which so happens to be in a field I love.

So I blinked. I said that I was interested in management, that I've applied for management positions more than once, and that I have a degree in a field without many opportunities in this area. I said that when I'd graduated I hadn't intended to stay in this area, but now I do.

This is true in a way. I cannot legally leave the state and take my daughter because her other parent objects. I will not leave without her, and if I must stay, and I don't have the resources to move to a city (I don't), I may as well stay here.

Big Boss asked what my degree was in (Graphic Design), and I told her. I can't say what the smile she shared with the shift manager was about, but I said that I was thrilled that they knew what Graphic Design was to begin with. Many people don't, or they have a very limited view of what it is. Graphic Design isn't really something you do for glory.

This hasn't turned into me mocking the place. Sorry about that. Too excited and all.

Big Boss asked if I minded working in produce.

Now, that sounds bad, but what I've learned is that they shuffle people from position to position, based on what's needed, and they desperately needed someone in produce. I said that was fine. I was asked if I liked cleaning. Pfft, who likes cleaning? I said I like feeling useful, which is the truth. Approving looks all around. I was given a new schedule and sent out... to straighten shelves in housewares.

By this time I'd run back and forth answering summons to this place or that (as mentioned in paragraphs 4-8), and straightening shelves sounded pretty decent. I've got no clue how long I did that before someone walkie-talkied someone else to call me back to the remodel door. Then they paged me over the store speaker, by which time I was halfway there.

Apparently they'll need me at my door until at least Friday.

Okay, complaining time now. This place is a mess, and I don't know how they manage to keep things on the shelves. The right hand not only doesn't know what the left is doing, but is totally unaware that it should be watching its own fingers, and that there are also arms, feet, eyes, and other such things.

Earlier tonight I got paid a total of approximately fifteen dollars to sit by a closed door, listen to people bicker about what to do with me, and straighten a few aisles' worth of merchandise. I was given a new schedule, then put back onto my old one in the space of a couple hours.

For now, I'm still door security. I have no desk to rest my head heavily on, so facepalm, I say. Facepalm.

Grandma is a Klepto

Grandma is not literally a kleptomaniac, I'll get that out of the way first. Still, she's developed some bad habits over the years, and one of them is assuming that anything she sees in certain places is hers. I'm going to tell you a short story, and I promise it's relevant, so pay attention:

Once upon a time there was a loving couple. The wife died, and so the husband let the house go, because let's face it, bachelor pads happen. His daughter and her husband eventually came to live with him, but the son-in-law had mobility problems and no one was willing to go through Mother's Things anyway. So more things got put on top of the original things. Then the son-in-law died, and it was just father and daughter, neither willing or able to go through their deceased loved ones' belongings. They now had A Mess.

The daughter is my grandmother, and now that her father has died too, about twenty or thirty years' worth of stuff has piled up against walls and taken over entire rooms. I am currently living in said stuff, and cannot afford to move out. Back to the point.

There's so much stuff that Grandma has grown accustomed to poking through piles and finding things she doesn't recognize. Sometimes she finds stuff on top of piles that she doesn't recognize, and if she really likes it, she takes it back to my dad's house, where she's currently living. That would be cool if everything in the house was still hers.

I am currently living here.

Sometimes she finds stuff on top of piles that she doesn't recognize, and if she really likes it, she takes it. You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

She's tried to give away my stuff before. I left some things behind when I moved to my sister's, and when I'd visit, I'd find things like my vacuum in places slightly closer to the door every time, as though they were in the process of being sneaked out. My dad actually caught her trying to give something of mine away to a cousin because she'd found it and it looked nice. I believe she tried to give away some of my stuff that's in her storage unit, too. "There's so much stuff in here, I don't know where it came from."

Another short story, but I won't pretend this one didn't happen. Sorry for the subterfuge up there, but I wanted to convey a sense of sympathy and understanding instead of the baffled frustration I really feel.

My father had brought a flashlight over intending to look at and/or fix something, but when he needed it, he couldn't find it. He asked my grandmother, who was also here, if she could help him find a flashlight, any flashlight.

She smiled and said, "Yes, I have one right here in my purse." She dug it out and handed it over. "Isn't it nice? It's much better than the other one I had."

And my dad's like, "That's my flashlight." He let her keep it since she liked it so much and since her old flashlight really sucked, but things like that happen a lot. You don't set things down in this house, even if you'll remember where you put them, because they'll disappear. Sometimes they'll get knocked over, but more likely a visitor will take them.

By "a visitor" I could mean one of my cousins, but I don't. I mean Grandma.*
*Author's Note: I love my grandmother. All this is between me and you, right?

DSL - Dog-Specific Legislation

My sister has rottweilers. If you just grimaced or shuddered, feel free to hit the back button, because the dogs are not the problem in this story. The dogs are house pets. One is from a long line of show dogs, and spends most of his time cuddling and asking to be pet. The other is from a line of working dogs, and enjoys fetching things and learning commands. A busy dog is a happy dog, and these dogs are happy.

Puppies do not come trained, this is a sad fact of life. Kids don't come trained, either. When a puppy was introduced to my 11-year-old daughter, there was much drama because puppies nip, and they have no sense of personal boundaries whatsoever. It has been six months now. The puppy is quite a bit bigger and far better trained. She knows things like off, down, toy, bring, and leave it. The kid, however, does not seem to understand this.

My daughter panics every time the puppy comes toward her. The puppy's intentions are greet-and-sniff. My daughter starts turning away to cower against something, squealing, bending and covering her face. Unless something has happened with her father's dog that I don't know about, she's never been hurt by a dog in her life, and yet she acts terrified.

The puppy sees this squealing and body-contorting, and thinks my daughter is initiating play. My daughter won't listen to simple commands, such as Say off, or Ignore her and keep walking, so the puppy bounces or jumps up or yips, and my daughter claims that the dog has attacked her.

Let's pause a moment. The puppy is a rottweiler. What could happen if a melodramatic pre-teen goes to school and tells someone that a rottweiler attacked her? There's a possibility that two pets could be taken from their home and put down, isn't there? Even if neither dog has ever left a mark?

My sister is a certified dog trainer. It drives her crazy that my daughter, after six months of living with my sister and her dogs, still panics. But only over the puppy. The full-grown male rottweiler she's fine with. He can come greet her and she pats his head awkwardly. He tends to move slower in general, but he is no less capable of acting like a dog than the puppy is.

My daughter is afraid of the puppy's potential to hurt her. She's done this with other things, too. For example: she's been afraid of movie theaters since she was about seven because her dad took her to a scary movie once and she doesn't want to get scared.

My daughter doesn't want to listen to instructions because her fear has gotten in the way, and my sister is so upset that she doesn't want to work with the kid. My sister has taken this stubbornness or fear or whatever it is as a personal insult.

I have now ranted myself into either mental exhaustion or a block, which means that I might have been about to really get somewhere. Can't think anymore, though. My sister's crying because my daughter cries every time the puppy comes up, and my daughter is in her bedroom doing whatever 11-year-old girls do in their rooms alone.

So one time, at the cheese factory, they decided to tell a guy he was being fired for a bunch of tardies during his lunch break. Then they sent him back to finish work all emotional and he cut his hand pretty badly with a box knife. The whole line had to be shut down so they could clean everything. They decided after that to maybe start giving people notice on Fridays after their shifts.

Failure is Not My Muse

NaNoWriMo gives me the following advice:

Tell everyone you know that you're writing a novel in November. [...] Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

Humiliation. Well, that used to be a great motivator for me. Lately, however, the fear of failure has been sending me directly to failure. For example: Recently, a job became available as desk help at a local hotel. I was incredibly excited by this. So excited that I began to worry about being rejected. Getting an e-mail from a fast food place telling me that they have no open positions I am qualified for is an annoyance. Getting one from some massive Graphic Design company is disappointing. This was something which felt reachable.

The first day, I sat at my computer and tried to distract myself enough to calm down. The second day, swamped with guilt, I lay in bed alternately staring at the wall and sleeping. The third day, I hid beneath the covers and cried.

I later confessed my nerves to my father, a huge mistake on my part. I should know better by now than to hope for encouragement. Instead, he reminded me that a former boss of mine (a woman I couldn't stand, who fired me when Workforce Development stopped paying her back half my wages) eventually left to work at this hotel.

"I was fired from that job, you know," I told him. He just grinned. I don't know why. Why was he grinning at me? He seemed to think it amusing. Anyway, I spent the next two days alternately sitting at my computer and sleeping, and never went in to get an application.

Despite the likelihood that I will not manage to write a 50,000 word rough draft of a novel, I have told a couple people.

I will not be telling my family. As much as I long for their approval and support, that is not what I would get, if anyone managed to read it. Whatever I write seems to apply directly to them. My sister read a play I wrote, which was based on characters I'd used and changed multiple times; she decided that I had made her a cripple and was bashing her.

Actually, the only reason the main character had a brother at all was that I originally created the pair for a role-playing site which needed more single male characters. I crippled the brother for the same reason I killed his mother in my play, to give my protagonist a deep source for his guilt. Not because my parents are divorced and... I don't even know why I'd injure my sister. Except that she trashed my work.

So there's no reason for me to worry about pleasing anyone with what I write. I'm telling you, because you're all very supportive and I love you all to pieces, and two of my friends know. If I fail, I will not feel humiliated, and that's good. Now I just need to decide what to write about.

Hire Me, I'm a Liar

I'm about to lie on this next batch of job applications.

I've been searching for two years (with periodic breaks/breakdowns) and the only time I made it to an interview, all my charm and optimism did me no good; I had just convinced the hiring manager that I only wanted to use my art degree for freelance work, but what I really wanted was something steady. I loved Arby's and would be thrilled to be the store manager.

She walked away from me, looked at another application, then asked the man how he would get there every day, since he'd listed that he didn't have a car. He wasn't sure, and he'd never been employed... she asked when he could start.

So, lies and cheating, since the truth has gotten me nowhere.

I'm going to stop listing my Bachelor of Fine Arts. No one knows what it means anyway, and it just makes me sound pretentious. My high school degree, as long ago as it was, will do.

I'm going to combine all the jobs I worked at University into one long-term job. If all you do is glance at the page and I've worked five places, it's got to look bad, but my title was "Student Worker" at all of them. So, from now on, I was "Student Worker" at University for three years. When they ask what I did, I'll list what I did where, and my supervisor can be the supervisor from my final position.

I've tried to keep in touch with people from college. One of my two possible professor references (assuming I decided to list my degree after all, in a fit of insanity) has died, and the other is a hipster, which I'm not saying is necessarily a bad thing, but I admitted that I had a PC in front of him and he couldn't stop laughing. By the way, Macs are for people who don't know how to use computers.

I went there.

One of my close college friends has since decided I'm lame because I was unable to get a job within a month, and because she got married to a wealthy guy and I was apparently a charity project, so I've lost her (good riddance), whittling my contact list down to...

K: Friend in college. Trained me for a week in a student position she was leaving.
Peer: Trained for position as graphic designer at University.

E: Friend. We met while writing role-play for a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing, group projects, personal research.

H: Friend: Also met role-playing on a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing... You can see where I'm going with this.

I know, normally when one lies on an application it's to make oneself look better. You want to inflate your own importance, make yourself seem even more valuable than you are. Well, I tried that for the first year, when I was actually looking for Graphic Design positions. However, it's been almost three years, and I just need a job. I need money so that I can stop living with relatives and feed myself without government assistance.

Hey, you say. This is another complaint post about unemployment!

It's about time you caught on. Seriously though, it's a completely different angle this time.

I'm a terrible liar. I can do it on paper, but if one of these places actually calls me in, I can imagine the look on my face if someone said, "You've never had a job, at your age?" I know, it's a hamburger-flipping job and saying That's right, never been employed, I've always depended on the kindness of strangers. *cough* I mean, I cared for the home while my significant other/family member/pet iguana brought in the money is more likely to get me that entry-level position than Yes, I have a degree, but I swear I want to work here, and I'll do a really awesome job!

It's funny, in that way that's only funny if you tilt your head; when I was applying for Design jobs, my friends and family got onto me about being picky. Now I tell them that Pizza Hut sent me a "We currently have no positions which you are qualified for" e-mail and get responses like, Well, duh. That's because you're over-qualified.

My sister tells me (though I already know) that I have to stop submitting my resume. I have a nice resume. The guy from Apple was impressed, though sadly he hated my portfolio and wasn't hiring anyway.

I have several resumes. I have my Design resume, my Clerical/Office resume, and my Generic resume, which states my objective as looking for a "challenging" position. Why the hell does the McDonald's website ask you to upload your resume if it doesn't want it? That's the trap I fall into. I see the "Upload Resume or CV" button, and I have to click it.

But no more.

I have a high school diploma from many years ago, and have never worked. I have low standards, and will take any job you offer me. Speaking of which, do you know anyone who's hiring? I'm willing to move if relocation is paid for.

Depression Theatre: Popping the Bubble

I understand why people kill themselves, and I shouldn't, and I don't want to. I believe in Hell, even when I'm so pissed off and disillusioned that it doesn't feel like anything could exist but the pain. There's not even a reason for it! I cried when a nurse practitioner told me it was low thyroid, because that can cause depression. That's a reason. And I cried again when my regular doctor took me off the thyroid medicine because it was making my heart race, making it impossible to sleep or think, and because that meant it was just depression again.

If you believe the whole brain chemicals thing, it shouldn't make a difference. If you don't believe it, just knowing me is enough to prove it's got to be more than dramatics. I can't control it, God, I wish I could. My eleven year old has better emotional control than I do. She'll freak out at little things, because kids do that, but in half an hour, she's back to herself. Half an hour later, I'm still reminding myself not to do anything stupid. Same an hour later. Same for days, sometimes.

I even have reasons to be depressed, real reasons to be ever-so-slightly discouraged about life. I worked my ass off in school, worked my ass off to go to college, and it seems like life keeps shitting on me. It shits on everyone, I know. It's my own fault for making bad decisions, I know. I should be able to just get over it, just work through it like everyone else does, but the littlest things can set me back so far.

Someone reminds me of my faults, and I'm useless for days, just hating myself. I know logically that I'm smart, I'm a good writer, good designer, good artist, good parent, but none of that means anything because smart doesn't get me a job. Good writer, designer, artist, doesn't get me a job, doesn't get me I don't know, love or something. I don't even know what I want.

Do I want a house of my own? Yes. I would like to get my life out of storage after almost three years. I would like my daughter to have a space all of her own, and all of her toys. I'd like to be able to stop telling her I'm sorry, that's in storage, and tell my family, I can't get that for you, or I can't find out, because that's in storage, too.

I'm not a big guy, so I let someone else pack the storage unit. He and his friend piled stuff up in such a cluster that I can't get it apart without either injuring myself or going into a rage and just breaking it all. My paintings are supporting box corners and there are beer bottles scattered around. My belongings don't remain in storage because I'm lazy.

This is where I'd complain again about being unemployed if I hadn't done so a hundred times before. A note on that subject, though. Pizza Hut sent me an e-mail after I applied saying they don't have any jobs I'm qualified for.

My friends get sick of the drama. I don't blame them.

I feel like a complete waste of life having to hide the scissors when I get like this. I've never hurt myself like that, and I don't like even the urge to do it. I can't control that, either. I don't sit down and say, I'm miserable. I want to cut to punish myself/to show people how much I hurt/to remind myself that I really am alive, and I can still feel.

I've been over that before, too.

Why do you even bother?

Because I don't have a choice.

There's always a choice. Your choices got you here.

I tried! I tried to do the best I could. I listened to my parents even when I didn't want to, I never did drugs, I never sneaked out, I didn't even teach myself to cuss until college. I was nice to people who were mean to me. I've tried to be everything anyone ever wanted me to be, so why can't something go right?

Because you don't get anywhere being nice. People are attracted to confidence. They want someone who knows their own mind. What the hell do you know?

I don't know.

Exactly.

And I'd continue trying to convince my inner critic that I'm worth something, but the mind blank just got me. Sometimes it's annoying. Sometimes I'm in the middle of telling someone something, maybe explaining to my sister why I'm acting even more pseudo-emo than usual. Then poof I've got no clue what I was saying.

It's trying to get me again. I'm having trouble stringing together sentences, but right now, I'm fine with that. I was feeling really bad a few minutes ago.

So, to paraphrase: I was having suicidal thoughts and self-harm thoughts, and chose to blog while listening to Don't Jump, by Tokio Hotel. The depression bubble popped. I'm still miserable, but no longer leaking from my face (highly unpleasant, that) and no longer thinking, self-harm or otherwise. If I wasn't out of cereal, I'd go have myself a bowl of comfort food.

Moment passed, nothing to see here. Move along.

*insert amusing cheese factory anecdote here*

Dear DIY Ancestors,

Doing it yourself is not always the correct choice. You may realize that now, as you're sitting up in Heaven in that pink hotel room that you allegedly described to Aunt Martyr that one time on the Ouija board. If, however, you are above all that nonsense, I would like to draw your attention to one tiny little detail down here that you've likely forgotten.

Remember in the 80's when my great-grandmother's allergies were killing her, and you nailed all the windows in the house shut? And when having closed windows didn't help, you then caulked all the seams and painted over everything? And how when it still didn't work you moved to Arizona?

Well, I happen to be living here now, due to unforeseen circumstances, and the window a/c which was bought secondhand 28 years ago has now officially died, and I would like to open a window.

Perhaps I shouldn't address this to my ancestor at all (and, by the way, I know exactly which one of you did this. I think we knew each other well enough for me to be honest). Perhaps I should address this to people who are still among the living, who jury-rig things because it's easier than doing it right.

Now, I'm not criticizing those who read up or take someone's advice on home repair. I'm certainly not criticizing those who simply can't afford a big fix and need something to last them until a better fix is available. We're all in that spot from time to time.

I also realize that twenty-some years ago, people didn't understand things like fire safety, and the need to be able to escape through a window that doesn't open up over the hole that goes to the basement. That was sarcasm, sorry. But I've been told you're the one who made these odd renovations, and not for lack of money. Of course, that money is gone now, but that's another story entirely.

I suppose the point of this letter is to say that it's about 90 degrees Fahrenheit in here, with 70% humidity, and I've considered just breaking the window to get some air. I will get through these windows. Even if it takes a good, hefty rock.

Sincerely,
The Quiet One

PRIVACY NOTICE

Warning: any person and/or institution and/or Agent and/or Agency and/or fanboy/fangirl and/or stalker or any governmental structure (except the high school I graduated from, you know who you are) including but not limited to the United states Federal Government, the government of any nation in, on, or near any continent whose name begins with an A, an E, or any other recognized letter, the moon, Mars, or Venus (excluding Venus's southern hemisphere) monitoring/using/not using/unaware of this website, any of its associated websites, or any unrelated websites...

*pauses for air*

...you do NOT have my permission to steal everything I've ever written under all my various pseudonyms (because I acknowledge that you are all-knowing, omnipotent, know when I am sleeping, know when I'm awake, know when I've been bad or good, but I'm good, for goodness sake so stop watching me pee!) and use it to better the world, including my pictures, and use them to throw darts at, including my art, and draw mustaches, then say you drew it.

Because, of course, the government has nothing better to do than break into random Joe Blow's Facebook and download pictures of his rottweiler sleeping with the new kitten or his kids sitting in a wading pool. In fact, their intention is to steal the pictures of every middle-class person with a Facebook account, edit them in Photoshop, then use this doctored photography to throw them into one of the many empty prisons just sitting around.

Oh damn, I got sidetracked.

You are hereby notified that you are strictly prohibited from disclosing, copying, distributing, disseminating, or taking any other action against me with regard to my stuff that I already mentioned. Even if it's illegal. Especially if its legal status is questionable. Because I know that telling you not to prosecute me means that you can't. In fact, I could go rob a bank, but if I told everyone in the bank before I robbed it that they are hereby notified that they can't identify me in a police lineup or a court of law, they are legally forbidden from doing so. Because I said hereby, and that means business.

(Note: I have never robbed a bank, and I don't intend to, just saying.)

The foregoing prohibitions (See? I said foregoing too. Ha on you, loser!) also apply to anyone I forgot to mention, including Venus's southern hemisphere, your employees (yes, yours), agents, students, friends, families, and any pets capable of speech, whether they're under your direction/control or not.

In other words, consider everything I've ever done, even if I posted it on the internet for the world to see and checked the "public" button on my privacy/security settings, private and legally privileged and confidential blah blah, blah, the violation of my personal privacy is punishable by law.

Celebrities are so dumb not putting signs up or wearing buttons that say this stuff on them, because if they did, they wouldn't have to worry about paparazzi anymore.

Wait, what's this? Is it a link? I wonder where it goes...

Fear-mongering: bored of it.

So one time at the cheese factory, I told them that they were legally forbidden from firing me, and they didn't. No, just kidding, I never said that and anyway, I quit that place.

I'm No Quitter

I did not quit taking my medicine. I do not enjoy crippling depression, despite how glamorous it might seem on the surface to be reduced to a pile of sobbing, third-day-shirt self-hatred for no apparent reason. Not that I don't have several damned good reasons to be depressed, like my car being out of service, being unemployed in a small town and required to search for a full-time job to get food stamps, etc.

So, funny story: My mail goes to my sister's house. She went on "vacation" and holed up in her home with her husband and their dogs, and temporarily cut off all communication with the outside world. Can't say I blame them. Unfortunately, during their solitary week, a letter came for me saying to reapply for my insurance and food stamps or they were cutting me off. I didn't get the letter, didn't respond by their date, and lost my medical insurance. Hahahaha, good one, right?

So I scraped up enough money for two of my three medications, but the third cost $99 before tax, so I didn't get that one. I did, however, get my ass in gear to get my insurance reinstated. What's really funny *chuckle* is that all this coincided with my prescriptions expiring *haha* and my doctor doesn't like to renew them without seeeing me *snicker* but I couldn't afford a doctor's appointment! Hahaha!

Well, my insurance is reinstated because my unholy terror of being left without my medications was highly motivating. Unfortunately, another of my medications expired, and though I  was finally able to get the $99 one (at the bargain price of a single dollar), I didn't take it for a few weeks, so it'll take time to build back up in my system. Because it would be too easy if they were instant-happy pills, which to my knowledge don't actually exist.

Remember I mentioned once losing my train of thought when stressed? I could reread what I've written, but I'm feeling pretty apathetic right now, which is a preferred state, so I'm not going to mess that up. The complete blanking of the mind is a relief.

So one time, at the Career Center, I applied to work at the cheese factory. Night shift. We'll see if they hire me, since I quit last time.

9/11/11

Oh dear God, forgive me for having posted my annoyance before posting something about the losses and whatnot of September 11. I was sitting on the living room floor changing a diaper when we got a phone call and turned on the tv. I have now proved that it moved me enough to remember a decade later where I was when it happened. I also remember that the Spiderman movie was pushed back because the poster originally had the twin towers visible.

This picture ⓒ its owner, who is not me. 

99% of people won't re-post this because they're godless heathens who have no loyalty whatsoever to the Great and Powerful Oz United States.

99% of people who read this won't re-post it.

People who have backbones, people who read their friends' statuses, people who think abuse is bad and people who believe any number of honorable things will NOT repost this because they see it so much that it begins to lose meaning, or they're tired of reading that they're unworthy if they don't re-post or click like.

Am I really not your friend because I wouldn't post the third letter of my last name? I read the post, must I then prove my worth by responding to every chain-post on every friend's wall?

Yes, I added you to get friends on an application. I needed more neighbors, more vamps in my clan, whatever, and I added hundreds at a time a few times. But if you've been around more than a couple months, I've kept you for a reason. This is where you can pretend to get worried that I've stalked you, because I've visited your profile. I've kept up with your public status updates, and we probably have more in common than the games we choose to play, though that alone says something.

Some of you may have noticed we don't even play the same app anymore. Are you still a wizard? How many farms do you have? I may not remember, but when you change your avatar, I notice. I send a prayer your way when you ask, but I don't click like because hell, you don't know me. I don't know you, either. I know this guy's cat is stupid, but hilarious, I know this woman is beautiful in a way that implies she doesn't realize it, but it's all superficial.

Okay, so maybe I'm really not your friend.

I don't click that stuff for my family or my "real life" friends either, though. Really, Aunt So-And-So? You're going to delete everyone who doesn't have the backbone to re-post a copy/pasted, recycled, mass-produced comment? Delete me, then.

In "real life" I'm one of those people who's quiet so much of the time that people forget I'm there. They either assume I know everything and tell me nothing or tell me things several times because they're sure no one has mentioned it. Thanks, Dad. You told me about your congestion (read: constipation) medicine when you called two hours ago. I haven't forgotten. No, Grandma, I wasn't told that my cousin is having a bridal shower tomorrow, I did not plan on going and I have nothing to give her.

Don't re-post this if you don't care. Don't re-post it if you're too busy. Don't re-post it simply because the title has challenged you, or because you labor under a belief that people will think you uncaring or unpatriotic if it doesn't immediately grace your Facebook wall.

If it pisses you off, however, you may re-post it to share another example of how much stupidity exists on the internet. You may also re-post it if you think it makes a good point, or if the whim takes you, or if you're bored.

And remember, even though 99% of my readers WILL NOT RE-POST THIS, between 28% and 76% of statistics are made up on the spot anyway. So sayeth I.

Build a Bridge

I'm officially over living in the middle of nowhere.

I used to live just north of the middle of nowhere, but I don't anymore, and the difference is huge. I live in a town with no gas station or grocery store. There is, however, a hardware store, a bar, and at least five churches. For around five hundred people, if you count the area around the town, which actually belongs to no town at all. The church I've been to actually gets about twelve people on Sundays.

But I digress.

My current gripe is about the lack of Internet access. No one (including my grandmother, who is paying the bills while I'm unemployed) can afford it. The options are Verizon, which is apparently too pricey, and this guy who gets such a good connection that, for a fee, he'll give you the access code and you can use his. That's what everyone has. And yet, last month, for $40, the internet worked in five-minute blocks for maybe a total of an hour, maybe less. This needs no exaggeration to be true.

I have a smartphone, which is my lifeline because I can't in good conscience ask grandma to pay $40 (or, at dial-up speed, $30) for Internet that doesn't work. This leaves me unable to do a lot of things that I do online. Of course, I wasn't able to do them the past month and a half either, so the difference is that now we're not paying for it.

I love Facebook. Or, I loved Facebook. There's only so much to do on a mobile phone, which means my apps are all null and void. Can't check on my farm, restaurant, city, etc. on my phone. The family gets pissy when I don't announce things, such as the vacation I'm currently on, and earlier I got a message on one of my photos that my cousin was mad at me for being in California and not telling her. My cousin who lives in Vegas, and who'll be visiting California after I've left. Sorry, cuz, that I didn't FB-alert "the fam" that I'd be in the state.

I'm only here for a week, and my daughter is going to the mountains, the beach, Disneyland, Universal Studios, and Hollywood. I really can't visit the six-plus cities from San Diego to San Francisco where extended family resides, especially when I'm staying with the friend who paid to fly me out here, and I don't have a rental car.

Those are not complaints, by the way. Those are the fun part. The complaint is that my family is butthurt that I'm not doing my duty.

Back to the point. No Internet once I get home. I'm on a badass little two-screen setup right now that makes me want nothing more than to pull up Photoshop and multi-task the hell out of it to see what it can do, and I'm soaking it in while I'm here. In the evenings, between running around doing glamorous and exciting things, none of which involve trying to explain my life to people who don't try to explain theirs to me, either. [/bitterness]

Depression is Depressing. II

There's a lot of stigma that comes with clinical depression. My own father has said I'm just crazy, though admittedly he hasn't said it to my face in years. I mentioned having seen a school psychologist once and everyone suddenly got worried, leaning away as though I might suddenly attack them with my hat or the nearest utensil. No, actually, I had a bad case of senioritis, but details.

It's some of those everyday reactions that (pardon the pun) drive me crazy. At first, my being unhappy, for whatever reason, garnered a sharp, "Build a bridge and get over it." Pause for explanation: One of the differences between feeling depressed and clinical depression is the inability to get over it, and that there doesn't need to be a reason for it. All the happy thoughts in the world can't get rid of the hopelessness.

This is where I fight my own stigma. I live it, and I've lived it for over a decade, yet I still feel like it's some kind of personality defect. Everyone has hard times, but most don't collapse, unable to do anything but try to keep alive. Yes, we've all been there, and that's why it's so tricky, that's why it's so hard to understand. We've all wondered if the world would be better off without us, and we've all had that flickering thought that maybe if we lost control of the car for just a moment...

Would that flimsy-looking metal barrier stop the car? Would the car flip? Sink? Could I get the door open? Would anyone report it, or would I die? Would I want to be saved? Are my underwear clean in case the EMT has to cut my clothes off?

We all think that stuff. Right?

I tend to think it more than most. I hate the two bridges I cross four times a day going to and from my daughter's school. I wonder if there's any bank on the other side, or if I'd go straight into the water. I'm afraid that if I did lose control of the car, people would think I'd committed suicide and that would trump any good memories they might have of me; the ultimate failure.

The people who have dealt the most with me over the past years, who have seen the uncontrollable mood swings, still have problems completely understanding, and I mentioned this earlier before I started a side-rant. At first it was, "Build a bridge and get over it," which by the way makes it worse because God, I wish I could do that, you have no idea how much I wish I could do that.

Then people began to accept, but not being in my head, couldn't tell if I was legitimately, normally depressed, or uncontrollably, clinically depressed. The response became, "Did you take your medicine?" Yes, I did, actually. I do not like curling up in a corner somewhere crying while trying to convince myself that suicide will send me to hell, and an eternity of hell can't be much better, so I am highly motivated to take my medicine each night before bed. Plus, if someone randomly saved me from an attempt, I could end up crippled and unable to even try again.

Ridiculous? Possibly. Morbid? Probably, but if it works, it works.

I've gotten a new reaction now, and I think I'd have preferred the old, "Did you take your medicine?" The problem, apparently, is a misunderstanding. I'm having a hard time right now, what with being technically homeless and other things I don't feel like listing off. I think that gives me a right to claim legitimate, non-chemical depression. I got beat up by a cat yesterday (story for another time) and was mopey because a) I hurt, b) I'm sick, and c) it's gloomy outside, and well-meaning family started listing off basic blessings for me, as though they feared for my life. Yes, my daughter is healthy, aside from her illness, yes, I have a roof over my head and wheels under my butt, but I hurt, I'm sick, and I'm sweating a bit because I refuse to take off my sweatshirt so everyone can see that I wallked out of the house today with my shirt on inside-out.

Thank you all for reminding me that I have a place to sleep at night. (Though I'm sharing the bed and am so sick of Christmas decorations I could scream. Just sayin'.)

I am going to post this, and I'll come back later to fix the typos. It's difficult to compose a legible blog on one's phone, qwerty keypad or no. OMG it's so hard! *sniffle* I hate my life! I'm going to go cut because the only way to deal with my pain is to fall into broad stereotypes!

Right.

Edit: edited

Depression is Depressing.

I am miserable with my life. It doesn't count as suicide if you just ask God to hurry up and smite you, right?

To reassure anyone who thinks this theatrics, I am currently technically homeless, and living with a family member who needs help. This house has been seriously compared to Hoarders by worried family. I live out of a suitcase because my personal belongings, including my bed and perishable food items (which were mistakenly delivered with the rest), are divided between several people's storage units. I hope someone finds the food before spring, though I'm sure that by now it's been cold enough for the water bottles to explode and warm enough for the milk to sour. There are four cats in the house, three of which use the litter box, four in the garage who don't have a litter box, but get let outside sometimes, and two in the back room who neither have a litter box nor go outside. One must enter and exit through the garage, which, no offense to those up above, stinks to high heaven.

My friends live online because those I graduated college with have moved on. I have an amazing phone, a few really amazing friends, and severe, sometimes debilitating depression, as of about fifteen years ago. I used to tell myself that the worst that could happen would be ending up homeless and alone, but I've pushed my "worst" standards to far more horrible things. I am not currently being eaten alive by maggots while impaled in a hole full of spikes and having hail pound into my open eyes. Please, please, God, please, don't use my sense of sarcasm against me and make that happen.

Irony (or not, if you know all the technicalities of the word) is that just over a year ago I was set to graduate college, then move to the Golden State of California, where my daughter would attend a private school for hardly anything, thanks to one of those amazing friends, and I would be nearer the kind of job opportunities I'd dreamed of. My ex questioned me, gave me the verbal go-ahead, and took our flight information so that goodbyes could be said, we got the kid a cell phone for easy contact, got a Facebook so they could chat easily, etc etc.

Sunday before graduation, a week and two days before the flight, yours truly was delivered of a restraining order and a motion to take any and all custody away from me. After a week of locating a lawyer (since if you don't have one, at least here, the case defaults to the other person), during which I didn't sleep and unknowingly contracted pneumonia, I completed no final exams and was given a pity D to graduate in a class I'd been acing. Damned final exams. I don't really remember graduation. Had a high fever that day, and was super-proud that no one could tell how dizzy I was.

Anyway, after bouncing from place to place, I failed out of an attempt at grad school (admittedly a subject I ended up hating) and here we are. The child is tired of moving and living with other people, and despite the emotional abuse she suffers when with her other parent, I wonder if I'm doing any better.

"You should get on disability."

It's really disheartening to be told this, especially following a short speech about not being capable of handling a real job and needing to be realistic. It is disheartening both from one's (ex)friend, and from one's father. There is no explaining to some people that working for minimum wage 5 hours per day, 4 days per week isn't much motivation for someone who feels worthless. There is no explaining that 8 hours a day 5 days a week at a job one loves, being needed there instead of expendable, might just possibly maybe somehow ease the feeling of being useless, and that being paid enough to live on one's own might instill a sense of greatly needed pride, thereby propelling one out of one's dismal hole of hopelessness. And unfortunately, when pressured so much to get a job I've already not been hired at for years, it is difficult to contemplate looking for that big fish. It only makes the whole "not capable of handling a real job" thing all that more real, and the big fish looks like a dried-out goldfish the cat left behind the couch. It was shiny once, but all that's left now is a lost dream.

And yes, this is probably all ridiculous and blown out of proportion, but no matter how I try to correct myself, I can't get out of the mindset that "If you were capable of getting an A, but got a B, you might as well have failed."

I have now been struggling with depression for half my life. It doesn't get better for long at a time. The littlest setback is heartbreaking, and losing a dream that was in my grasp broke me. I've never been as close to hurting myself as I was a year ago, and though I don't intend to—in fact, I intend not to—it can always be worse, and that's what I'm afraid of. If I can hardly cope the way I am, how will I manage another ten years of this? Another twenty?

My depression is being treated, but there's no cure. I've apparently trained my mind to push aside my worries, and so anything that worries or distresses me is forgotten. I don't remember to do laundry when I have the time, nor to job search. If it does pop in, I'm busy, or I'm in a bad mood, or I'm too sleepy to do anything (or so I tell myself), and if I can't fill out an application properly, and better than anyone else, then it was not only a waste of my time, but a waste of the hiring manager's time. I feel like a waste of time.

I haven't blogged in forever because I had no internet access aside from my smartphone, which a friend thought I deserved, no matter that I don't (but it's mine! *clutches and hisses*). I don't even know where I'm going with this. Sudden memory loss in the middle of a sentence isn't odd when attempting to discuss worrisome or depressing topics, either.

Okay, I dragged you all down now, and gave you a taste of a long-term, severe depressive's thought process. I wish I could think of another cheese factory story right now, but since I can't, here:

Margaret Bourke-White. At the time of the Louisville Flood (1937)

It could always be worse, right?

Types of Depression

Suicide Prevention, Awareness, and Support

Changes in the HUD Definition of “Homeless”

Dear 2011,

This is a direct plea to seek help. Your older brother, 2010, wreaked havoc on many lives besides my own, and from the look of things, you're a little off-kilter yourself. I suggest you check yourself into some kind of psychiatric facility ASAP. I'm sure I speak for the others when I say that we'd rather you were mentally sound and able to function as a good year, and that we'd be willing to have time stop for a few days, or even a week, while you got yourself together.

In my own little corner of the world, there was a loss in the family, and I nearly lost my father as well. Could you give us a break? And I don't mean that literally. The broken leg, ribs, and arm were more than enough of that. I just mean take it easy on us. I'll even go with you to your therapy sessions if you like, and hold your hand. Just please don't do anything rash like age me double-time. If I have any grey hairs, I'd rather not be able to see them just yet.

If you could, would you give Father Time a bit of a vacation? He got his paycheck rather recently, and could use a trip somewhere nice to relax. Maybe he can take baby New Year with him and they can have some good bonding time, work things out so that 2012 surprises everyone by being awesome instead of the end of the world.

Don't get me wrong, 2011, I appreciate you. I survived 2010 and what doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right? Ha ha ha. No. Forgive me if I'm being picky, but I think it would be quite a treat to have something to look forward to besides making it through another year. A career, perhaps? A move to a more moderate climate? Well, I'd hate to put any pressure on you.

GET THEE TO REHAB, 2011. Get the help you need before you become another drop in the bucket. How do you want to be remembered, really? As yet another sucky year in a string of other sucky years? Or the one that stood out and shone brighter than the others, the leader into something people like and actually want to remember? Think about it.

In closing, thank you for taking the time to read this. Tell baby New Year that if he doesn't shape up, I'm feeding him to the badgers. Don't ask me if I'm serious unless you really want to find out.

Yours disgruntledly,

An Unsatisfied Customer.

Dream Interpretation

I dreamed I went to school with Mr. Feeny. Yes, Mr. Feeny, the teacher from Boy Meets World.

Let's start from where I remember: for some reason I'm married, and I'm cleaning the house. It's a nice house, at least two stories, very spacious. All it has in it is the hand-me-down stuff I currently own and tons of my stuff shoved against the walls in piles, but I'm trying to clean those up before Mr. Feeny arrives.

When he shows up, I've done a decent job and I'm dressed nicely, except for the towel I've still got my freshly-washed hair wrapped up in. Don't ask how I managed to get dressed without noticing that. So we get ready to go to school together, which we've apparently done before, and we're all buddy-buddy as we walk out the back door.

Instead of a lawn, however, there's a busy street and a train going past where my house just was. There's also a guy chasing a fluffy white dog along next to the tracks, and I'm worried one of them is going to get run over. Then the dog changes into a little blonde girl, and so now he's chasing his daughter next to the tracks, and I'm even more worried. I want nothing to do with this. Then the little girl turns into a preteen boy who is walking along the edge of the street instead of using the sidewalk. That's a little less terrifying.

Anyway, Mr. Feeny is trying to hail a police officer. If we can get a ride to school from the police, he saves gas and time because he doesn't have to find a place to park. After a few minutes of this, I point out that it could take a while to do so, and that my car is parked along the edge of the street. I tell him I'll drop him off and he can run to class, and then if he'll just let my tardy slide... An attack of conscience quickly follows that request. How can I ask him not to count me tardy when I would be? In real life I'd have been all about getting that free tardy, but in the dream it offended my moral sensibilities. Go figure.

No clue what else would have happened there, since my alarm woke me up, but I did have another dream as well. I had waken up and was visiting family in a nearby town, keeping in mind at the time that my daughter was at school for the day instead of home sick like she has (in real life) been for the past couple days. I run some errands, and just when something incredibly important comes up, I realize that, as it's the last day before the holiday break, her school gets out at 1:30. (This is actually true. I often have dreams set in the day that will come when I wake up. I guess it lends more realism to the misery about to follow).

I panic. I tell my dad that no, I can't help my sister, I have to go now because my daughter has just gotten off school and the bus will be bringing her home in an hour. It's an hour's drive. I take off, and through traffic and road construction I make my way home, long after the bus should have shown up. I imagine that she's gone home and panicked because no one's there to let her in and the police have been called and I'll end up in prison for leaving a child at home alone. Then I realize that I didn't send her to school at all, and that she was asleep when I left. This gets me out of prison, but how much of a panic must she be to have waken up alone? She must be starving from not having been fed! In what horrible state will I find her?

The answer: Sitting on the couch reading a comic book. (She's been doing this a lot lately.) She's fine, though she wondered where I was, and she's hungry. Could I make her a bagel? I do so, in echoes of this morning, when she came in the living room, sat down with a comic book, and asked for a bagel. That dream is going to torment me all day.

So apparently I want to send her to school instead of staying home again for illness, and I'm feeling guilty about not going to school myself. And I want Mr. Feeny to come bully me into shape or something. I don't know, I totally made that up.

I hate the way I love you II

I have been fighting The Sims for days, uninstalling, deleting mods and caches, losing families and abandoning experiments to do so, and I let it drag me away from job hunting long enough to obsess over something else for a while. Just now, I moved the Fire Department in Bridgeport, and the game works. If I may, let me repeat myself:

I can pretend I feel accomplished now.

Update: Never mind that feeling of accomplishment. It was a cruel joke and the game isn't working again.

Update: It's working. Please refer to above image.

I hate the way I love you

I couldn't think of anything to write, so I went to play Sims. Unfortunately, something about installing the latest expansion/buggy patch botched everything up, and no amount of removing mods (or the latest expansion) could make the game work. Long story short...

I feel a lot better now, despite the fact that it's taking hours to reinstall the game from online. I don't really wish death on EA games or any of their employees, but that sure got out some of my aggravation.

The pieces of the above are not mine, I only put them together. This is my disclaimer. Painting by Delacroix. Gun from "Jailbird's Romance," ACG Comics' My Romantic Adventures, 1954. EA Games logo and Sims Plumbob are owned by their owners, who are not me. Just know, EA Games, that to inspire so much anger,you must first have inspired love. Or something.