What Easter means to me (absolutely nothing)

About 13 years ago, I found out the Easter Bunny wasn’t real. I was 12 years old.

I’m actually surprised I made it to that age. Nowadays, kids are finding out these mythical creatures don’t actually exist at much younger ages (or maybe I was just an unusually late case; or maybe both). My brother and sister never ruined it for me and my parents let me go on believing, probably (if I had to guess) because they didn’t want to ruin the magic for me. I positively hated them when they told me. I actually threw myself onto the floor, started crying and screaming “you lied to me! my life is over! they aren’t real?! how could you do this to me!?” Or something to that extent, I can’t actually remember verbatim (although my mom remembers vividly, and enjoys telling the story every chance she gets). I don’t blame them for telling me; I was, after all, in middle school by that point, and starting to get into verbal arguments with kids at school over it. Basically, other kids would try and convince me that it wasn’t real, that our parents snuck into our rooms late at night and took the teeth from under our pillows, replacing it with money, or that it was really they who left presents in our stockings and under the tree. I wasn’t buying it. I had hardcore evidence, after all. Like the time “Santa” (aka MY FATHER) left a boot print in the soot inside the chimney. Or how the cookies were ALWAYS gone. And how that one time I heard the reindeer on the roof (still not sure about that one; how could my dad get up on the roof, anyway? It’s not like he was a carpenter and had ladders and spent a lot of time on roofs anyway…oh wait…never mind).

So basically I had my hopes and dreams crushed by my elders, never to trust or believe in anything ever again. And then shortly thereafter, it was Easter Sunday.

We spent the first Easter after “the horrible revelation” at our cousin’s house in Maryland. I remember waking up Easter morning and being so bitter, watching the younger kids joyful and somewhat confused at how a bunny had snuck into the house while everyone slept and left them treats. I, however, knew the truth, and sulked in the corner. My mom pulled me into the laundry room, ashamed and belittled (as she SHOULD feel after destroying her daughter’s dreams forever), and offered me an Easter basket she had put together for me, claiming that even though I knew it was no longer real, she still wanted me to enjoy the holidays and believe in the “magical” part of it all. Whatever that means. I accepted the basket (obviously, there were toys and chocolate in that thing), but I never quite felt the magic the same way from that day forward. Depressing, I know. I never said this story would be happy. Oh wait, it gets better. Not.

So that night my dad calls from our house in Pennsylvania to tell me that my guinea pig, Hairball, had gotten really sick and didn’t look like he was going to make it. My dad stayed with him through the night, holding him and making him as comfortable as he possibly could while he lived out his final moments, but Hairball didn’t make it and I never got a chance to say goodbye. So, while everyone was all excited that Jesus had risen, I had to endure the loss of my childhood innocence AND my loving and faithful pet Hairball. Talk about a rough time.

So Easter doesn’t really hold a special place in my heart anymore. Not that it ever really did, because I’m not religious and don’t really care that “the tomb is empty” or whatever.

But really, what’s the point of celebrating a holiday if a giant (albeit, somewhat scary) bunny ISN’T going to break into your house while you sleep, eat your raw vegetables and leave you candy as a means of saying sorry for the breaking and entering? I just don’t see why I should bother anymore.

Does anyone else remember how they “found out” or have any Easter stories that maybe aren’t so depressing? Do share, I could use a good laugh right now. I guess if all else fails I can just go laugh at this Easter post from last year.

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Dreams are fucking stupid

Last night, I had one of those super vivid dreams that only happen every once in awhile, the ones where random things you can’t explain may happen, but every odd tidbit sticks with you long after you wake. Yeah. One of those.

Anyway, it was completely random and kind of sketchy. It started off the way most dreams do, in your mind. HAHA I’m so clever. Moving on. So it starts off with me dating a childhood friend. We’re the same age I am now (which is weird, because he’s actually older than me), but for some reason his younger brothers are children. Which is even weirder, because in real life they are only a few years younger than I am. Probably why it’s a dream! What?! Also, I don’t see what the significance of me dating him in the dream is, since we basically grew up as brother and sister. So that’s just kind of disgusting. Whatever.

For some unknown reason, the two of us are spending our date night together babysitting his baby-like brothers. Then we jump out of the window and land on the sidewalk, where I realize it’s no longer my “boyfriend” I’m sitting on the ground with, it’s my father. Who also happens to be belligerently drunk. We see these thugs coming near us and my dad starts slurring all these profanities at them. I slap my hand over his mouth to shut him up and look at the thugs, apologizing profusely and assuring them that “my dad didn’t mean it, he’s just super drunk.” The thugs proceed to shoot my dad and me several times and I have to watch as my dad dies, meanwhile bleeding all over the sidewalk myself. I turn to the one thug, crying, and ask him to “just put me out of my misery.” So he shoots me in the head and I die. But really I just wake up, because how can you really die in real life when you die in a dream? That would just be shitty.

So I wake up crying (obvi, my dad and I were just shot and killed, who wouldn’t be bawling, hellooo?) and roll over to see it’s a little after 4 am. As I’m laying there trying to fall back asleep (and dreading the dreams I may have to endure because of it), I hear this strange noise coming from the street outside my bedroom window. It sounded like a shopping cart being dragged down the road. Then I hear some guy shouting a bunch of nonsense in what I can only assume is Klingon. It was probably just one of the many homeless dudes that live in my neighborhood wandering aimlessly in a drunken stupor. I really wanted to get up and investigate but then I remembered: THUGS! Best not to get shot. AGAIN. Cause we all know homeless peeps be packin’.

Dreams are fucking stupid.

The ones you have while you sleep, not the ones you think up for yourself in real life. Although sometimes those are fucking stupid, too, lesbehonest.

But really, whoever said dreams have significance is a moron, because I’m pretty sure I don’t want to date my childhood friend and then watch my dad get shot and killed and then get a bullet in my head myself. Just saying.

Can’t wait to go to sleep tonight!

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The time I met that crazy, local author lady

A couple weeks ago I met this local author in my town. I was sitting down by the bayou, minding my own business (actually doing some writing myself) when she comes up to me out of nowhere and asks “Hi, do you read young adult novels? Are you a teenager?”  Now I realize she was just peddling her new book, but I don’t think I look that young. So, nice try.

Anyway, I told her that no, I was not a teenager, that in fact I was in my twenties but why did she ask?

She proceeded to babble on about how she was a local writer and she had just published her second novel for young adults and blah blah blah. It was actually sort of interesting to me, being a writer myself, but the way she divulged the information was slightly annoying. A sort of “look at how accomplished I am” vibe, name-dropping along the way. So, while I was interested to hear how another author had gotten published, I really just wanted her to go away and let me get back to my own work. But obviously she didn’t get the hint. Obviously.

Anyway, we exchanged information and I’ve been hesitant to email her for the following reason:

Not two days after I met her, I happened upon her again in a clothing store. She was (thankfully) so self-absorbed with talking about her novel that she didn’t recognize me (or even see me, for that matter) so I was safe from being sucked into her spiel again. But of course I couldn’t help overhearing what she was saying to the cashier who was attending to her (poor girl, probably didn’t know what she was in for when she got to work that day) and how it was basically exactly what she’d told me. Finally this crazy lady left and it was my turn to pay but wouldn’t you know it, this lady wasn’t finished. She came back into the store to the cashier (who was now trying to take care of me) to pass off some promotional bookmarks (for this girl to pass out to paying customers? What? I’m still confused what this girl was supposed to do with them). She STILL did not recognize or acknowledge me (thankthelord). She thanked the cashier for “helping her out” and finally departed. I pretended I knew nothing of the entire matter.

Look, I’m all about self-promotion. Having worked as a publicist for a small commercial publisher, I know sometimes you catch a break and don’t have to do any of the legwork yourself; that’s what your publicist is for. But more than ever, not-so-well-known authors have to take care of promotion themselves (especially if they’re self-published). But there’s definitely a right way and an annoying way- I mean wrong way- to go about it. And this lady clearly doesn’t have a clue. I don’t care how desperate I am to promote and sell my novels, I don’t think I could ever stoop that low. Not that I’ve ever published anything (oh, except here, here and here) and who knows when I’ll ever be in the position that she’s in (because we all know I move about as fast as a snail when it comes to finishing anything; first novel should be out in about 5-10 years at this rate). But c’mon, handing out bookmarks at the local TJ Maxx? Not exactly your best bet. Just saying.

So now the question is: to email or not to email. I know it can go several ways:

1) She will probably not answer (most likely). She will probably have a) forgotten who I am or b) will be so self-absorbed she won’t make time to respond.

2) She will answer, but only to fill my inbox with more promotional junk and links to purchase her books.

3) She will respond but only to pick my brain in hopes of utilizing my publishing contacts for her own greedy use.

4) She will respond in attempts to help ME in any way possible with my own novel endeavors. However, this will only occur once hell has frozen over, the moon has exploded and/or Obama has been assassinated. Errr, shit, I probably just put myself on the FBI’s most wanted list. Correction: I am in no way saying I plan to blow up the moon. End correction.

I’ll probably just end up emailing her for the hell of it. I’ll make sure to promote the shit out of everything I’m working on and see how she likes it.

So to all my writer fans/friends out there, how far would you go to self-promote? Am I being overly judgemental? Or has this lady gone too far? If you disagree with me, feel free to leave your comments in the trash can, because that’s where I will most likely send them anyway. Just kidding. Or am I?…

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College hook-ups 101

Although my college days are several years behind me now, I spent a good deal of time roaming the halls and campuses of my schools (both domestic & international, what what) and several schools I did not attend (and will probably never be asked back to). It seems only appropriate that, now that I’ve had time to look back and reflect on my decisions and the decisions of my peers, I address the biggest and probably most important life lesson you learn while spending those formative college years pretending to study: hooking up.

I’m not really sure why anyone in college thinks it’s a good idea to hook up with someone in their dorm (especially if that person lives on their floor or, better yet, across the hall). I understand the lazy college student mentality of it; why trek across campus to get some action when you can just travel a flight or two in your own dorm-sweet-dorm to score? But in general, it’s not a very smart idea (and here I thought you had to be smart to go to college…).

For starters, the chances of you running into that one-night stand again (or two-night, or three-night stand…) are very high. In fact, I would be extremely shocked if you DIDN’T run in to them again while residing in the same building. Unless you ended on perfect terms (which, if it was a random hookup, is highly unlikely) or are one of those rare people who don’t feel awkward in any situation, it will probably be very uncomfortable for you to have to encounter them again, even if it is only a few seconds when passing in the halls (or worse, getting stuck in an elevator together).

Even if you are able to dodge them at every cost, there will still be other people you will run in to that will know what you’ve done and who you’ve done it with. This includes roommates, dorm room neighbors, friends, RAs, janitors, etc. So even though you may never see THEM again, people will talk and random strangers you’ve never even seen or heard of before will snicker at you when you walk by. Not to mention the fact that you’re more than likely hooking up with someone who has or is going to hook up with other people in your building. Because it’s accessible and they’re easy. I mean, it’s easy. The hooking up part. Errrr.

So unless you’re dying to have something in common with your new dormmates, it’s probably best to broaden your horizons. I’m not saying you have to take a bus and two trains to keep your hookup private, but at least consider widening your scope to the next dorm building over.

If you don’t, you could be kicking yourself later. I’m sure at least some of you know what I mean.

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The mindoverMadness Poetry Series: It’s Alright, Just Write

It’s Alright, Just Write

I just have to put these words on the page.

I just need to get something down in

the

ink.

Staring off into space

doesn’t help

It only adds more to my frustration.

A writer who can’t right

What kind of living is that?

The one thing you’re

good at

and

you can’t even do that

write.

If you keep writing

the wrongs

Maybe you’ll get something

Right

for once.

A shitty poem is better than

No poem.

No poem is

right if you can’t even

Right it.

All these writes and wrongs when it comes to

Righting

But who says you have to be right?

Just write.

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Filed under Entertainment, moM Poetry Series, Poetry