Tuesday, September 9, 2014

I've got the power! (Dun, dun dun, dun)

Reaching a long term goal is strangely both anticlimactic and terrifying. It's as if you reached the top of the staircase to nowhere, stepped off and realized oh fuck, there's nothing but air.

But you don't fall, you just aimlessly float. 

I got a job. A real effing job. I'm ecstatic. I'm mostly relieved. And I'm scared. What is my next goal? I guess it's to not suck. What if I suck and all this reaching was for naught?

I've been thinking about how much power I give people. How often I show my cards without them showing me theirs. Even in my current awesome relationship, I often feel I've given too much of myself and that the power is uneven. I'm a naturally passive and submissive person, so I don't mind, but sometimes I wish I had kept a little but more of myself. Love isn't about giving all of yourself, but just the best parts of yourself. And I've gone and given the most fucked up and nettled pieces of me to someone who may use it to fuel doubts. Doubts about us, about me. Whether I'm a person worthy of having a long term relationship with. 

Obviously, my boyfriend does think that I am or else I wouldn't still be mentioning him. However, I would like to have some of my power back. I'd like to have the ability to say something mean when I'm angry just because I feel it's merited. I would like to say "I want _____" and nt feel bad about it. 

I want my power back from all the words. Fuck the words, I won't let them hurt me as dearly as they have done before. I won't let someone try to belittle me by speaking my fears and insecurities. Like, so what? The bad things will always be there but they will always be surrounded by good things. Two truths. 

I've been trying to erase trauma and fear instead of coming to terms with it and surrounding it with feelings of comfort and assurance. My whole life I've been told to suppress my feelings until now they spill over like a boiling pot, when really I should just have felt them and let them pass until I could feel good things. 

I have a lot of catching up to do. 

So if I look for compliments or assurance, let me. Don't judge me for it. I'm just immortalizing you into a good thing. 

-grace #adulting

Tuesday, September 2, 2014


There's something to be said about toxic people.

There's something else to be said about toxic people you're related to.

Did I ever think a broken A.C would lead to so much bullshit? No, but I should have known better. I should have known that when people look at you as if you're some sort of gnat that landed on their already bruised peach you're just another thing to look after, to blame. To kick when they're down.

No one in my family will ever read this. This would require them caring about my feelings. Now don't get me wrong, thanks to the way we are biologically made I am forced to love my family. I will even venture to say they are deep down, very good people.

They are not good for me.

I don't mean to whine...well no, actually, I do. Because fuck it,  I need to get this out.

Due to some construction on the house, I got my A.C broken.  Now, I had paid for this A.C myself, and it was a really nice one, with tax ran me about $300. I had been TOLD that my cousin was planning on buying me an new one. Told by my mother.  So I figure, well, it sucks right now but I could use the cash right now more than the A.C. Maybe I can negotiate on my rent? (yes, I pay rent to my family) I actually just later on asked for $150 to maybe buy myself a dehumidifier that would help my room overall as well as the house.

I am somehow now a terrible human being.

My cousin is apparently still holding a grudge for me not buying his mom a B-day card (in my defense, I had gotten home from filming at 3 A.M and the last time I gave her a card she used the envelope of it to leave me a rent due notice). I get it, I should have gotten her a card. But to bring this up in a separate issue 3 WEEKS later, is ridiculous and petty. I could have looked past that. I told him if he was so offended I didn't want his money at all. He then threw in my face, about how many times he had paid for me when the family goes out.

...OK. I make less than a sixth of what he makes. But that is beside the point.

I have always, and always will, offer to put in something. I even do this on first dates. Because I LIKE to do it. It makes me feel good.

However, the point of generosity is to do it without wanting praise or recognition. That is the essence of a good deed.

I don't appreciate someone of better economic standing, rubbing in my face the gifts they've given me. I don't appreciate a family who stood idly by while this same man called me a cunt, and told me I would never amount to anything and no one would ever love me accusing me of extortion. I don't appreciate living in a place where I don't feel emotionally safe or even valued.

Too many people have toxic families and society forces them to feel guilty about cutting them out. It doesn't have to be as dramatic as being beaten. Some people are just not good to constantly be around, regardless of them being bad or good people. I love my family. I would die for them, truly. I have cried many nights because of nightmares of losing any of them.

I don't appreciate being called selfish, or uncaring.
Because seriously guys, I think you can all tell I care way too fucking much.

-Grace #Adulting

Fall is Fallen-ing

It has to be a mark of getting older when you start preferring seasons based on the drinks associated with them. 

I'm an Oktoberfest kind of gal. 

Very few things fill me with as visceral a reaction as the tastes and smells of fall do. Pumpkin, nutmeg (which I don't even really like) cinnamon, spice, dead leaves and chocolate and butterscotch. It fills me with hope. Winter is nothing I fear anymore, just the price you pay for the glorious 2 months of hoodie and pea coat weather. 

Fall also means more coverage. Which, if you're a female, doesn't exactly solve the problem of being objectified or disrespected.  I don't just speak for myself, but for all women who get hit on disgustingly even while wearing a bubble jacket. But I'm here to talk about a different kind of shaming today, which I myself am guilty of doing. 

Positive shaming. 

I'm talking about looking at someone who is perfect to us, and shame them for complaining about a body feauture. I've done it in regards to several celebrities,
Sometimes with friends. And it has happened to me as well as countless others.

We shame people for seeming perfect and as if they have everything since the beginning of time. We shame rich people for being unhappy, we shame people in relationships for feeling lonely. We shame military vets for questioning their choices. We shame we shame we shame. 

Why? Who are we to judge what it feels like to wake up as them? Granted, some people take many things for granted but that is human nature. It is how it will always be. My mother has a saying "god gives bread to those who don't have teeth", because the hardest lesson to learn is the lesson of gratitude. It is usually accompanied by a lot of broken skin and hearts and pure pain. It takes loss to feel gratitude. 

Fall reminds me of the time I used to have to get up earlier to keep a watch out for my sister's school bus. It reminds me of my first therapy session. It reminds me of the time I watched the lion king next to my sister's hospital bed and crying because I knew what Simba felt like. It reminds me of bullies and dread and it reminds me of eventual death. 

But the hope outweighs it all.

-grace #adulting

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Entropy > Love

Today, I will not talk about me. Much.

Is your mind exploding yet?

*Disclaimer on slightly incorrect info, I haven't gone over biology in a while.

Anyhoo, I'm here to talk about the concept of endings. About what really constitutes an "end". How to know you've reached an ending, and sometimes, it isn't so terrible.

The universe has something called entropy, which in simple terms means the measure of disorder. In simpler terms, it actually describes the way the universe tends to fall into the disorder. In thermodynamics, the greater the entropy = the greater the energy from the change. When there is no entropy, that means there is no energy. No change. No life.

I once read on Human's Of New York's blog how a woman's theory to staying young was constantly staying in a state of change. Maybe this is why things deteriorate and die. Because they stop changing. But, as the law of entropy goes if one thing doesn't change the energy of something else we do will be applied and produce more entropy. So really, where it is we apply this change and how we use this energy is where we see what happens to end up dying or ending.

What if in trying to change one's self so much they didn't have any energy left over to apply it to someone else? What if one person refused to use any energy to change an aspect of their self that instead that energy spilled out in terms of blame and rage? What if love is not enough?

Love is not enough. The law of entropy always wins.

-Grace #Adulting

Thursday, August 21, 2014

L.Imp Biscuits

So let me tell you about that time I got dumped after being hit by a car. 

Let's backtrack a bit. I had used okcupid on and off for several years at this point to various degrees of success. I had thought this would be one of the more successful times. We'll call him OCD, because I swear to the baby Jesus statue I once threw out by accident, this guy had it. He folded his dirty laundry INTO his laundry basket. The same basket where you then take OUT the clothes and THROW them in the wash. 

After he had thrown them in the wash, he would wipe down the basket with a wet paper towel. And I would pretend it was totally normal. Because, that's what a good girlfriend does.

Anyway, around the time of our demise I had a slight cancer scare involving my cervix, which it would hope merits me some free passes for being an emotional wreck. I also got banned from that doctor's office because she told me my friends weren't allowed to come with me again and I told her to go fuck herself. And then I told her I hope she gets aids. 

I have a bit of a temper. 

Anyhoo, one night out of the blue he tells me he's gonna swing by after band practice later the week to grab "coffee". And seeing that he didn't finish practice at 10 at night, I knew what "coffee" stood for. I had used this line before myself. Fuck you, OCD, I was the master of the coffee beak up. 

I have to say though,I handled it well. The next day as my friend Kate and I were standing by the bagel toaster, I announced:

Me: "OCD is gonna break up with me on Friday"
Kate: (perplexed) "well that's specific"

And so my week went. I recorded a super emo YouTube cover, I planned my dumped outfit, and night of it was raining and I decided I was going to get something from the supermarket. I think it was mallomars. So I lived by new Hyde park road at the time, which was generally a death trap and long islanders are terrible drivers to begin with. I was wearing a black jacket with a hood and I had the right to cross the road, so I did. 

And then I got punched in the face by a minivan. 

I spun with the impact, had a moment of toddler silent scream/sob, and then composed myself because douchebags were honking at me. The lady who hit me was very nice, she had her kids in the car and I assured her I was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital. I didn't take down her info either, because I wasn't hurt. 

So I continue on my journey, because now I REALLY need those mallomars. As I walk, I notice one of my shoes is getting considerably tighter. And my foot is going a little numb. I keep looking for mallomars anyway. I then call OCD, and tell him:

Me:"so I just got hit by a car"
OCD:"oh. Are you okay?"
Me: "yeah, but maybe I hurt my ankle"
OCD: "ok cool. I'll see you later then?"
Me: "yeah. Sure dude."

So let's analyze this for a second. A guy wanted to break up with me SO badly he didn't even let the fact I got hit by a car deter him. So if you're ever upset about that text message breakup, just remember this. 

So I call Sarah, and I inform her of what happened. Well, first I tell her to guess. And she first guesses struck by lightning. Second guess is getting hit by a car. I congratulate her. For some reason, she's not as happy as she should be about being right.

So I end up back at my apt after I buy an ice pack and ace bandaged and my ankle has swelled up to the size of my calf muscle. It hurts like a bitch, but I need to pull myself together because I'm getting broken up with and I refuse to look like a victim. I end up wearing the only shoes that fit that are now my rainboots as I wait for OCD to pick me up. 

He actually follows through with the charade of coffee. We're at the 711 and I'm pouring my coffee and I'm just like "ok dude, cut the shit. I know why you're here".

So fast forward in his car getting driven home. 

OCD: "I feel bad about doing this after you got hit by a car. I feel like I should get struck by lightning. "
Me: "if only". 

Finally the moment of truth. He's dropping me off. I wore my good butt jeans. I'm ready to swagger off with the booty he'll never get to touch again, but my foot is now twice the size it was and I stumble into the SEXIEST limp ever. 

I limped away with all the dignity I could muster. 

Later that night, and after recounting the story to my friends while laying on an air mattress in their room, I start simultaneously laughing and crying at the same time. It was then I decided that I would not let this defeat me. I was going to do something passive aggressive but in such a way people would think it was awesome. 

And that, ladies and gents, is why I changed my Facebook name to Spanish Thunder. 

-grace #Adulting

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

So a psychiatrist, a dancer and the ultimate question walk into a bar...(EDITED)

The person I've always trusted least was myself.

Correction: I trust myself the least, but only after Nigerian spam emails. 

I've always been one to avoid confrontation. I know many people seem to think I'm a hard ass, or very combative, but I'm not. My boyfriend equates me to a jawbreaker: a hard shell with a very gooey center.  I don't even think I have that hard of a shell, but I guess I just don't like showing all my cards, because people use them to play against you. 

I filmed for Vermillion this weekend, and was talking to the girls about my recent and fully official, PTSD diagnosis and how I felt like I didn't deserve to have PTSD because nothing that bad has ever happened to me. I also spoke to them about my most recent sexual assault which I never reported despite me being too drunk to even legally say yes. I thought "he was sober but, he probably didn't realize he was doing something bad. We had been involved before, he probably assumed it was ok with me". He is the person I referenced in a former post with a picture of a text message. 

Niki the makeup artist called me out. I was making excuses for him and mostly for me. She said I had tried everything else possible to move on except for facing what happened and doing something about it. 

A month ago I spoke to a psychiatrist about this incident and a prior one. I have accepted the first incident being a "grey area" and so I never pursued charges. After speaking to him about both, he told me men can't fully comprehend a woman going home with them without wanting to have sex with them. He told me I needed to be more careful. He told me not to drink too much. 

I walked out of that office ashamed, and doubly afraid to tell anyone anything ever again. I was hurt. I was horrified. 

I was pissed. 

In light of all that has happened with Christy Mack, and War Machine, and the amount of slut shaming and victim blaming, I was disgusted with everything. And for those of you who post "Even if she is a porn star, she doesn't deserve it" are still perpetuating the idea that porn stars are beneath you. Porn stars have a job, and they do it for YOUR enjoyment.  No guy ever called me a slut while I was intimate with him, only afterwards. Why do you scorn people who bring you pleasure? Why do you scorn those who don't want to? Why must I be pure and yet sexy?


This morning I went through all my previous texts with the man whom I shall refer to as "Dickbag", and I found proof (at least proof for me personally) that in no circumstances would I have allowed what happened to me if I had been coherent. I knew this. I had always known this. I have spent the last 25 years with myself, why the FUCK would I doubt it?

Someone I love once said something while angry that I will never know if they meant, but they said nothing bad had truly ever happened to me and that I had nothing to complain about. And I know people say things when they're angry that they don't mean, but that is what I keep hearing everytime I go see a therapist, or a doctor, or mention my PTSD. It's what keeps me quiet now, as I struggle with the ever constant question if I would want to risk a failure to prosecute, or just swallow it and move on. 

I'm so full, I don't know what more I can keep down. 

-grace #adulting

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

I didn't know there was a bridge nearby!

Once in high school, I dated a complete asshole.

...OK, more than once, but this one took the cake.

I was 16 years old, and my sister had just passed away. As in, a few days had gone by and I was back at school feeling like this whole death thing was really anticlimactic and school still sucked. There had been a guy I noticed, very pretty in an exotic way, with brown shaggy hair, big green eyes and skin the color of gold.

He turned out to be a Brazilian-Jew, and a couple grades younger.

Normally, this would have turned me off. But I was grieving, desperate, and in dire need of someone to hold me. So we dated for a couple weeks. We even made it "Myspace Official" . (Wow, do I feel old and pathetic).

One afternoon, I noticed he had changed his status on Myspace to "single". Understandably confused, I called and messaged him on AIM (JESUS I'M OLD). No response. Finally, hours later he told me he "texted" me and that his mom said we couldn't date because I wasn't Jewish. I was flabbergasted, ashamed.

And mad as hell.

Another few days pass. We are now closer to a month away from my sister's passing. He sends me a message on AIM, asking for forgiveness and for me to check out this webpage he made.  I acquiesced, because at 16 I was a fucking idiot. I clicked on the link, not knowing it was a bogus Myspace log-in page, in which he used to delete EVERYTHING and write:

"I'M A NAZI HORE". Over and over again.

Everything was gone. My poetry, my journal entries. Pictures of my sister that are now obsolete.  I have never actually wanted to murder someone, but now I knew what that felt like.  I could imagine his parents crying over his lifeless body and it made me feel GREAT. I decided to go to the school about this, since it was considered cyber bullying.

If you don't want to lose faith in Francis Lewis High School, read no further. Turn away now, or maybe transfer your kid to another school who actually gives a shit about its students.

Not only did they blame ME, for choosing to date him, all they did was call him in and "lecture" him on how wrong it is to bully people online. This piece of shit, who had openly told me he was looking into selling a fucking GUN at some point, got a slap on the wrist. I later found out it was on his birthday, so that made me feel better.

A year later, as I was graduating, I found out he got put in the hospital after being pistol whipped 10 or so times. Karma's a bitch, ladies and gentlemen.

Anyway, the twist comes last summer: Out of the blue, this kid (now an adult) messages me out of nowhere, saying he's now part of the Israeli Army and has been looking for me for a couple of years in order to apologize.  And you wanna know his reasoning for doing what he did to me?

He didn't know how to break up with me.

I mean, the apology was more for his sake, because at this point I no longer cared. The only thing that upsets me to this day is how the school handled it, because that is why so many people kill themselves. They're told they have to deal with it, and that the people that hurt them will never be brought to justice for it because they're too fucking lazy.  There will always be trolls, but we can change the way we deal with them.

After Robin William's passing, his daughter posted a very touching tribute to Social Media. She then received taunts about her father's self-induced death. Because you know, maybe they don't know how to break up with their girlfriends either.

It will never end. I had a guy in college claim he almost raped me on formspring. I've been told to kiss myself various times. I've lost track how many times I've been called a whore, stemming from before I even lost my virginity. (Not that that makes you more whore-ish, just showing how ridiculous it is)

If someone trolls you, don't engage, block. If someone sends you death threats, call the police. If anything, it will maybe be connected to something else they were notified of.  No one likes a vigilante, but there's a special place in hell for those that watch atrocities happen without doing whatever small thing they can. That's how 6 millions Jews died.

Not on my watch.

-Grace #Adulting

Monday, August 11, 2014

Now tell me whatchu want, whatchu really really want!

Today, I sent out 14 job applications. I'm pretty sure I was under-qualified for at least 5, but  potato POTAHTO, amiright??

Anyway, I'm exhausted because two of them required writing samples and essays. Which means I made some up on the fly, because I don't have any on me and they were due by 5 o'clock today. And goddamnit, I want a better job.

I want. I want I want I want. Today, thanks to a Cracked article, I really thought about what in the hell I wanted.

I thought I wanted to move out to escape my situation at home, because it's a bit unhealthy. If that were the case, I would have moved out 6 months ago, no matter if it meant eating ramen every night. So therefore, this is not WHY I want to move out.

The gun to my head isn't based on issues with my family. It isn't based on hating my space for what it is, but more for what it represents. Being in this place means I haven't moved forward, that I am not stable.

I want to move out because it would mean I was stable. 

This is why I won't move out without a salary position. This is why I'll spend my money right now on gifts for my boyfriend, or maybe a trip to Florida. Because I would rather sacrifice the apartment hunt for the ability to enjoy this time while I can.  Once I work 40 hours a week, I may be too exhausted between filming and work to really spend time with anyone.  I want to meet my boyfriend's grandfather, so that I can know a side of him I've never seen.

Maybe it's counter-intuitive, but I've always valued experiences over money. What's the point of working 100 hours a week if you can't enjoy what you make? Some people work for the day they retire. But how the fuck do they know they're gonna live that long? Most people in my family die in their 60's. I may as well party now. I would rather spend time with my boyfriend than go to school for something I may or may not really be cut out for. Maybe that makes me a weak person, or a terrible feminist, but my job won't keep me company when I'm old (again, if I get there) or mourn me when I'm gone. If I worked 100 hours a week to be rich, I wouldn't be able to have a dog. I wouldn't mind earning a little less so that I could have time for a dog. 

I'd rather take this time to find my passions, whether they end up being what I work in or something I work in order to take part in.

I will not push myself from one unstable situation into another, what would be the point? I can ignore my family, I'm used to it. I can channel the anger into things like this blog. Seriously, does anyone who's happy keep a blog?

I just take comfort in the fact that I am doing all the little steps I need to do in order to find a better job. Finding that better job will lead to me to looking for the right apartment. And when I do...

It will be glorious. I will probably (okay, definitely) ugly cry. I will have a whole new set of things to worry or get angry about, and a whole new set of goals to reach. But it will be well worth it.

-Grace #Adulting

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Dirty Laundry

I've been criticized for a lot of things: My messy room, my terrible life skills, having to google what cleaning products can't be mixed so I don't die...

And for airing my "dirty laundry".

AKA, my rapes.

Does people knowing about these things through my abrasive jokes and pithy commentary make them think less of me? Maybe.  Does it turn me off from me? Probably, and I have evidence of such.

But, does it make me a bad person?

Today, a man I had briefly dated and had former consensual (and terrible) sex with but then later took advantage-wait no, no euphemisms- raped me while I was black out drunk, texted me after I told him I never wanted to speak to him again.  So while I tried to to ignore him, I wanted to say SOMETHING, not necessarily outwardly caustic, but sarcastic and funny to myself. Because I deserved to get some of that out, and I deserved to hear him accept he did something wrong.

Yes. Yes, still. He then said he had apologized, and that he was apologizing again. He also said it was a funny response. Which, made me feel really good. Because I got to be snarky, without being cruel. Because even though he raped me, I don't think he's a terrible person all around.  I just think he needs to rethink what constitutes as an appropriate time to be intimate with someone when you are sober and they are not. Which is 99 times out of 100, not the right thing to do.

Apologies help out the person who did the wrong feel better, more so than the person they wronged.  An apology doesn't erase an action, or words said. It's not a free pass. All it does is make you seem like less of a douchebag and make YOU, the WRONGDOER feel better. I admit this as a wrongdoer myself.  These things we do that hurt others are like shrapnel; a little piece always lingers in our systems. Whereas some of us are better at handling it, like Ironman, some of us get a little more cut up on the inside.

Sometimes we have a piece of clothing that hasn't seen any sunlight in ages. It's smelly, and worn and faded. No matter how many times you wash it, bleach it, or douse it in softener, the stink is so imbedded in the fibers the only way it will leave is if you hang it out to dry.  It needs air, and sunshine, regardless of how ashamed you are that someone will see this filthy laundry you have. Sometimes, it's the only way we can truly move on.

So here I am, airing out my dirty laundry. I've been raped twice, one a pretty grey situation that I rarely speak of because I always have to justify it. The other, date rape.  I have a pretty volatile state of being and I am addressing and working through it.  

I feel a lot less dirty now.

-Grace #Adulting

Friday, August 8, 2014

MOIST/The Wrong Side Of The Bed

Today is one of those days where I really want to just punt a small child. An evil small child, good children don't deserve to be punted.

I have morals.

Nothing happened, I literally woke up and on my way to work started crying over a stupid joke that would normally not offend me. I just felt this flood open up behind my eyeballs and this feeling of anger and futility washed over me.

My boyfriend was very confused, and the people around us probably thought he just dumped me.

My family has spoken of my infamous temper that showed its first inklings as a toddler.  My first word was "eso" (in english: that) And i used it conjunction to anything that captured my fancy. I wanted it all, and by golly fuck all y'all I was gonna get it. So I'd plant my feet, raise my clenched little fists and scream/grunt out of my q-tip shaped head :"EEEEEEEEEEEESSSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I know if I ever do decide to have children, there will be a major ass kicking from karma for this.

As I grew older, I learned to suppress my anger, especially after I started acting out violently to those I loved most.  I was a spanked child, and after a while I didn't see anything wrong with hitting first or hitting back. This is why spanking is mostly counter intuitive, unless you want to raise a socio-pathic Jackie Chan.

But as the law of energy goes, it doesn't disappear, it just transfers to something else. And it became through my tears.  I just started to leak, at the slightest provocation. And I was mocked, oh boy, how I was mocked.

My family thought I was being melodramatic. Boyfriends thought I was manipulative. Friends thought I was suicidal.

I thought I was wussy.

But fuck them, I'm not.  I may throw tantrums over little things and I may cry when I see a dog die in movies, but I rarely hurt people I love. I have always owned up to being wrong. I have been stoic and strong when it mattered for others more than myself. I have cried with people when they needed to not feel so alone.

So what, am I gonna cry about it?

You betcha, motherfucker.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

The Walking Cliche

I have been 25 for roughly two days, and so far, it's a drag.

My birthday was lovely. Dinner was lovely. Everyone I spent it with was very kind to me and loving and I have never felt more cared for.

Or alone.

Not in the romantic sense, or even the familial sense; but in this all encompassing sense that stems from not feeling I am doing anything with my life other than just getting by.  Knowing another year has gone by and I feel like I have had to let go of so many dreams.  I didn't even know what to wish for when I blew out my candles, so I  made some vague and general wishes that seemed to be appropriate.

I may not believe in God, but I'm still not telling you my wishes, bitch.

I remember the first time I ever decided I wanted to be an actor.  I grew up on Selena and Annie, always performing my little cabarets in front of the mirror in my basement. I was so obsessed with Annie that even when I was turned down for the role in my second grade play I sang her songs backstage with such gusto the kids HATED me for it. But fuck them, they were all assholes.

I also used to pretend I was an orphan and purposely wore tattered clothes, which simultaneously worried my parents and just confirmed my mistrust in Child Protective Services.

Now I'm 25, and wondering what to do. I have little dreams: wanting to participate in roller derby, traveling all over the world, owning several dogs. I then have bigger dreams: Giving an uplifting speech in front of a ton of people (real scientific terminology here), inspiring people to adopt not shop through my own means or a non-profit, and I'd love to receive an award for something. It doesn't have to be anything major, but I haven't received an award since I graduated High School and  I miss the validation.

I'd like to be able to help my parents out when they're no longer able to work. I'd like to be completely independent.

I would like to wake up each morning without palpitations.

Who knows how many of these dreams I'll have to kill?  I already have a lot of blood on my hands.

-Grace #Adulting

Friday, August 1, 2014

Happiness: Flawed Coping Mechanism

Last night I had a nightmare that ended with me being in a broken pool full of people and once the pool broke, they all crushed me to death since it was on a slope.

Needless to say, I'm a little droopy. But today is also my boyfriend and I's one year anniversary, and I'm happy. But equal parts nervous.

I have never had a relationship outside of this one last this long, that was not long distance.  I have mulled over why not over and over in my head for years but could only assume I either had terrible taste, terrible timing, and a troubled mind.  And now, today, I finally have met a milestone various friends have both equally reached and surpassed various times with ease.

I don't want reaching a milestone in a relationship to be my biggest accomplishment. I think I'm afraid that I'm becoming dependent, or that I'll lose a part of myself now the more time I invest. My boyfriend has the more dominant persona, and that's fine because it's one of the things I like about him, but I fear my own persona being lessened because I get too involved.  With other men, it's always been baffling to me when I've finally mustered up the chutzpah to confront them about their poor treatment and they scatter like waves rather than engage or fight for me. Or disagree. Maybe I was the only one with balls to call them out on being terrible people.

I made the mistake of dating a younger guy last time. In my defense, he looked 30 (Russian men are strange that way) and had no idea his age until AFTER I had started liking him. So there's my justification. I still feel like a creeper.

Anyhoo, we started to date and it was so nice because he was so innocent. Seriously, I was probably his first real girlfriend (and first in a lot of other things, HIGH FIVE BRO) and it was nice. For a while. And then 3 months in, things changed.

For one, most of his friends (a select few are very nice and people I keep some contact with) are real douchebags. Actually, that word doesn't even capture the amount of terrible that runs through their veins, as one of his friends once beat the shit out of a girl for no reason other than she tried to step in front of him while he was beating up her boyfriend.  These are the people he hung out with, a lot.

So much so, that once I got a second job and he got a job, he would rather play football with them (and guys, it was MARCH) than hang out with me.  I don't think he ever even took me out to dinner in the whole 5 months we dated. And on Valentine's Day, I was fed up.  I had picked something out for us to do that was relatively inexpensive (yes, I PLANNED MY OWN ROMANTIC DAY) and bought him a card and soem chocolates he liked.  He calls me the night before and asks if we can go see Die Hard, because he spent all his money shopping for clothes and taking his parents out to dinner the day before Valentine's Day.

Normally that would be very sweet, but the poor timing was ridiculous. So we compromised on seeing warm bodies, I dressed up even. He didn't notice. I paid for my own halal food and movie ticket. We saw the movie, he left. I went to the thing I wanted to go to. I cried on the way home because I felt so undervalued  and foolish for investing so much time and effort into someone who would never, EVER appreciate it.

And how do I know he'll never appreciate it? Because a week after our "nice" breakup, he starts telling people I'm a huge slut and that he humped me and posts a bunch of articles about how you shouldn't date sluts.

This, people, is why I don't want to live on this planet sometimes. Because I know there are millions of people who have had this and WORSE happen to them. And they should all eat a bunch of

But then, sometimes something good comes along. And then, you realize you might be the one to fuck it up and be the only one to really feel the loss if you do, because that's the way of the world.

I feel better after getting all of that out. It's really terrifying to be this in love with someone, but also really rewarding.

I'm very lucky.

-Grace #Adulting

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

The Scarlet Letter

Sometimes I feel like my brain is a hand that has no opposable thumb; that it is lacking in the most basic of functions and reasoning.

But other times I wonder if I feel this way because it's easier to just say something is wrong with me.

Every night, for the past 9 months I have listened to various meditations, mantras, motivational speeches. I've used delta waves, repetition, osmosis, you name it.  I even tried praying. I don't even believe in God, and if I did I'm not egotistical enough to think he'd take the time to listen to me with all the other shit happening.

I have exercised.  I have reflected. I have written. I have sang. And I have cried.

Oh, how I have cried.

I went to the psychiatrist today. I made the appointment 3 weeks ago and have waited anxiously for it since. I wanted help.

He prescribed me pills.

They are not high dosage, they are not intense.  We spoke for about 30 minutes, and he never gave me a diagnosis. I had spoken to him of the various ones I'd had.

He prescribed me pills and psychotherapy, because part of my issue was a personality trait.  I have been off and on meds since I was 14, and talking about my extensive history of struggling was strange because it has been a very long time since I had said it all aloud.  It was like a juvenile's rap sheet, and my conviction was on his prescription pad.

I was ecstatic. I was relieved. I thought "Now I've got the magic elixir, and it will all click in my head and I will be normal".  Then I talked to my boyfriend about it.

My boyfriend is the most level headed, pragmatic and emotionally intelligent person I know. He's also a naturalist who prescribes to his own belief that you just "get it" after continuously thinking about how you need to change.

It made me feel like a failure.

The shame is so palpable I can feel its heat vibrating off my chest and now I want to just crawl under a rock  or live like a hermit.

I'm a failure.

He didn't mean to make me feel this way. Not once did he criticize my choice, he even told me he was proud of me. But I know. I know there's a "but" somewhere.  I know, deep down most likely subconsciously he's lost a little respect for me, as does everyone who finds out I am on medication.  There is always the attached "well, she's on meds".  It's hard enough being taken seriously as a woman. It is a bookmark. It is a stamp.

It is what keeps me up at night frantically listening to these recordings until I wake up in the morning with palpitations and terror.  I am afraid of what I will do or say.

I am afraid that what I accomplish or fail will always be shadowed by this aspect of myself. I fear having people give me that look, the look of pity and the look of fear as if you have something contagious.  I have given it to people myself, and I am so, so sorry for it.

Because it is a scar. It is a branding.

It is a scarlet letter.

-Grace #Adulting

Friday, July 25, 2014

Of Nemo and Toilets

There are two types of people in this world: People who see the futility behind toilet seat covers and those who refuse to see the truth.

There are also other types of people: People who assume a server doesn't mind waiting while they read the menu, and those who realize this is a dick thing to do.

Last night, in what was supposed to be a FUN dinner, I contemplated smashing everyone I'm related to in the face with a hammer. I would never do this, but I admit imagining it felt good.

First implication of the evening being a stressful one, I ask my family if they want to eat at Bareburger since they keep wanting "organic" food. They inform me they didn't like that place. We end up at Bareburger, because this is the place they were talking about all along. But of course, I can't be right.

Next, I ask my mother what she wants: A turkey Burger.
Okay, I say. What on it?

Turkey Burger.

...It's like dealing with a five year old. She always does this, she'll just tell the server after assuring us she's thought about what she wants despite barely reading the menu that she wants "Chicken". This means the poor server has to wait and speak with her another 5-10 minutes as she makes up her mind and actually reads the menu, while I look for a rock to crawl under.

While ordering a pretty specific and large amount of food, I am constantly being interrupted and the server is being accused of being wrong and reminded of things she has already noted. I am an actor (sort of), I know server speak you assholes.

I am informed I ordered a bad beer, and that it isn't cold enough.  Granted, tap beer is warmer.  However, this is the same exact beer my cousin ordered for them last time we went and they all said they liked. Amazing how that works.

Finally, there's an issue with the check because the server either miscounted our cash or my Aunt did, because my card is overcharged. While I am speaking with the server on how I will take care of MY MONEY, and making sure I give her all my CORRECT INFORMATION, my family is pestering me to explain whatever I'm doing. In spanish. While the server is still there.

When I inform them that she has other tables and I don't like speaking of personal matters in front of wait staff, I am accused of putting others above my family members.

I snapped. I told them that "You have no clue what it's like to be a server. Stop being so self centered, and let me worry about my fucking money".  I'm now a monster.

I really hate this idea of family obligation that I find is extremely prevalent in Hispanic and Latin culture.  We are born needing and "loving" our mothers because we have to in order to survive. At least, we used to.  Our parents also feel the natural urge to shelter and care for us because it helps the survival of the species.  This is terrible in some cases because, honestly, most people I know shouldn't be parents. I mean please, please, please next time use a condom.

It's ridiculous to me that I have to feel manipulated and made to feel irrational guilt by a group of people who claim they do it out of love, even if with the best of intentions.  I am nearing 25 (google calendar reminded me of my own birthday) and I'm ready to choose my own family. Whether that means a husband or maybe just dogs the rest of my life, that is my choice.  I owe you nothing. You  are EXPECTED to take care of a child. If you don't, then you are a horrible human being that goes to jail. It is in the nature of having children; you don't get thanked. If you're looking for appreciation, you've chosen the wrong life path.  After they can fend for themselves, your job is done.

If you try and hold them too close and too long, those little baby bird wings get mangled, and then they end up like me.  The Nemo of the bird world, trying to fly away with only one wing.

-Grace #Adulting

Monday, July 21, 2014

Hangxiety And Considerate Drug Addicts

Sometimes, when I'm really anxious or really depressed I won't eat because then I can just focus on feeling hungry instead.  I tried to do this exact same thing this morning, but instead I ate some apricots. Because apricots are awesome.

I'm still hungry, and still anxious, but now they are both an even feeling so I am naming it: Hangxiety. I will stop talking about this, because A) I have realized that telling people too much never ends well, and B) It makes me sound really crazy.

So here I am, sitting here and feeling hangxious. And apathetic, because I have had a combined total of 18 hours of sleep since Friday because of filming the movie I'm in, Vermilion. I had to take the train at 4 a.m on Saturday to get to Philly on time, so here is an account of my train ride from the Bronx to Penn Station.

4 A.M, car 1: Pretty quiet, there's a homeless dude but he's not the super smelly kind and so maybe he's sane enough to be a witness in case anyone stabs me. Speckled with a few other people, including two sleepy young men.

4:10 A.M, car 1: After falling asleep for a few minutes, I hear a commotion and the sound of something somewhere between a liquid and a solid spilling.  Turns out, the sleepy young men were not really sleepy, just shitfaced. And now puking. Glad he was sitting up.  But really dude, where are you partying this hard in the Bronx?

4:13 A.M, car 2: I'm exhausted, upset, and generally miserable. I get stuck on a car with a bunch of loud, screaming, idiotic men that are yelling in very strident voices, probably about how they are general burdens on society and probably were born because their mom's couldn't afford birth control. Guy next to me is very very red.

4:16 A.M, car 2: Guy next to me is even redder. He's started saying some non-sensical things. I look to the two cars surrounding me and it's either puke car or the one that I'm pretty sure I just saw a homeless man pee into. I'm stuck.

4:22 A.M, car 2: Guy next to me is probably on Meth. He's started yelling at the air and at me, but assuring me he'll be fine once he reaches his stop. That's considerate I guess.

4:30 A.M, car ...well,train 2: I switch to the express train to escape them all, only to be followed by the gang of parakeets.  I am too tired to even be angry, and I resign to a miserable existence for this morning, and hope they all die a very early and painful death. Preferably by alcohol poisoning.

Once at Penn, I met up with another cast member. He's strapped for cash due to some bad circumstances and so I buy his ticket. I feel like a terrible person, because instead of feeling like I really helped someone I feel taken advantage of. How terrible of a person must I be, in order to feel like I'm being duped when I help someone out?

I kind of don't want to live on this planet anymore. I think I'd do better on a different one.

-Grace #Adulting

Friday, July 18, 2014

On Fucking All The Self Righteous Pricks

There are very few instances where I wish I was crazy enough to just set someplace on fire.  But unfortunately, I have this thing called morality and a general fear of being someone's bitch in prison.

I work a very boring job as a personal assistant at a travel agency. I took it to escape another boring job at a real estate agency.  At least my employees weren't fucking assholes there (although, pretty sure one of the boss' there tried to ask me out on a date. Awkward.).  Case in point:

1. They rarely involve me in conversation, barely even saying hi. Ironically, the one who comes off the friendliest is the most dangerous to trust.

2. They are petty. They will CC my boss on correcting my spelling mistakes on emails that hold no importance.

3.SOMEONE or some SOMEONES has been reporting me coming in late. And fuck them, because I have very little do anyway and spend most of the time reading random articles on the interwebs. And I do EVERYTHING they ask, so what the FUCK do they care?

4. I technically don't even take money away from the business. I'm paid through my boss' husband's company I guess to save on workers comp or something.

5.  Instead of throwing out/recycling things themselves, they'll actually put it on my desk and wait for me to come into the office before it gets taken care of. The recycling bin is right next to the bathroom. Oh, the poor things might break a nail.


I'm also slightly disgusted by them because it is obvious to me that none of them have ever gone through any economic hardship, either through watching their parents struggle or struggled themselves.  I've been pretty lucky, but I always finish my plate; I know the value behind putting food on the table.  One of the reasons I don't have a driver's license is because my parents told me they couldn't yet afford a tombstone for my sister and I though "Meh, driver's ed isn't THAT important".

Anyway, I'm cranky and saddened by the fact that I am not only working with a bunch of jerks, but I actually felt like I owed them something. My boss sat me down a couple months ago and expressed that she was afraid I would just leave as the summer came after she invested so much money and time in me. That I should invest in her and she'll invest in me.

A part time job that is leading me no where is not "investing" in me, you stupid twat.  I admire my boss for her business skills and organization and general savvy, but this means she's a master manipulator as well. I just happen to be nice enough to be steered.

Well fuck them, as soon as I find something better, I'm out.

*Drops Mic*

-Grace #Adulting

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Panic, palpitations, and bears. Oh my!

My head is currently more condimented than a salad. Oh, the things I do for beauty. Or at least to tell myself I'm even making a difference. Genetics, thou art a bitch. 

Today I went to the gym, for the first time in about a week. Understandably, I knew it was going to suck. What I didn't know was that elevating my heart rate would cause me almost having a panic attack. I had to leave after my squats.

The first time I can remember ever having a panic attack was in junior high. I was in my science class and we had a substitute teacher. Back then, I was a very different kind of person. *cough cpugh* goody two shoes *cough cough*. This was the year before I told my parents I was a satanist. So, big year of changes for me. 

Anyhoo, we had a sun and the class was going insane because of this. I noticed across the hallway a very annoyed looking teacher gazing into our room and yelled out as an aside "guys, shut up, she's looking at us!" 

Fast forward ten minutes, and I'm being pulled into the principal's office. Of course, I'm freaking out (I've always been neurotic) and the teacher who had looked into our room has accused me of telling her to "shut up and stop looking at us". 

First thing I say is "but, she wasn't saying anything. Why would I tell her to shut up?" Apparently this means I was a smart aleck. 

Second thing that happens, is that I'm threatened with suspension. Next thing I know I feel my hands tingling and my face seizing up. I can't breathe, I'm hyperventilating. The teacher is looking at me like a freak. I'm ashamed. 

My mom used to tell me stories about how she was so crippled by anxiety even a train would cause a panic attack and my dad would get angry with her. I can only empathize the shame that comes with that experience. Because it's happened to me multiple times. 

It's hard to be in that place again and feeling like not even those closest to me understand. I don't like talking about my anxiety, I figure if I don't acknowledge it out ooud it will just go away and no one will think any less of me. I've accepted that this is something I'll always have to deal with and come to terms with, but will anyone else ever will?

-grace #adulting

Monday, July 14, 2014

To be or not to Hepatitis B?

You may have a medical degree, but this doesn't mean you're not an idiot.  Case in point: My weekend.

So I got a physical done for the first time in who knows how long, and of course this includes blood work.  I should have known I wasn't dealing the highest caliber of medical professionals when it took them 3 tries to find a vein, and they had to use the one in my hand and the assistant says "Well let's hope it doesn't burst" to the OTHER assistant while I AM RIGHT THERE. SITTING WITH A NEEDLE POKING OUT OF ME. TRYING NOT TO HYPERVENTILATE. I AM NOT A ROBOT.

This was last week, so this weekend I am dog sitting and I suddenly get a call "The doctor needs you to come in to discuss your blood work results". Um, what? So of course, my inner hypochondriac starts to imagine all the worst things, from cancer to Super Aids.  So I go in, and right away they hand my my lab results on a paper that has a whole lot of red on it.  I ask if I'll get to talk to someone, and am told to wait for the doctor.  2 and a half hours later I am no closer to seeing the doctor, so I leave with a test that states I am positive for Hepatitis A and B to race back to a dog that might poop itself if it waits any longer.

Fast forward to Saturday morning, after waking up at the ass crack of dawn to be the first person there, the assistant speaks to me and tells me I have Hepatitis B.  Understandably, I start to hyperventilate and inquire about the future of my liver and the possibility of cancer.  Also, I'm confused, because I don't use dirty needles or have sex with homeless people. This is what he said, VERBATIM.

"Well, since you're asymptomatic there's no need to concern yourself with liver disease just yet.  While half of liver cancer patients have Hep B, that doesn't necessarily mean Hep B causes liver cancer.  It's just that most people with liver cancer have Hep B."


An hour later, I finally get to talk to the ACTUAL doctor.  Who says I don't have Hep B, I just have antibodies from the vaccine.  I do have a hyperactive thyroid which would explain why I'm neurotic as fuck, though.  I'd like to think that if this get's fixed, most of my problems will be gone.  I know that's not the case though, because my brain is also broken. But not my spirit!

Ok maybe it is a little broken.  It's hard to feel hopeful when even going to the doctor is so difficult.  I'm trying to be healthy, trying to make positive changes and then I just flip out. It makes NO sense.  And I worry it will ruin everything.

So here's pictures of the doggie I took care of, because fuck doctors.

-Grace #Adulting

Monday, July 7, 2014

Training Wheels and Blankets

Today, I made up my mind.  My professional goal is to be a community/social media manager.

How the fuck do I become one of those? The girls at my current job are such micro-managing control freaks it's not like I'll ever get to touch their social media sites. Seriously, if I wanted to be micro-managed this much I'd just stay home and hang out with my family.

I figured out exactly what pot feels like to me; it's sort of like wearing a fuzzy blanket while holding a laser pointer.  You get to peek out from under the blanket and focus on one thing at a time, the thing that seems most important.  My boyfriend says I'm much more logical when I'm high, since I operate on a zero-mental break down mode the rest of the time.  There are these moments where I feel I'm getting insecure and then I realize that I would look much stupider admitting I do and would it would be more beneficial to shrug it off. Is that almost like confidence?

So anyway, laser point thoughts; I feel like I've been riding on a bike with training wheels my whole life.  I'm biking alone, but there's no real danger yet, just the danger of comfort.  Now if only I could learn how to get those fucking wheels off and ride off into my fat bank account sunset, that would be just swell.

Open to suggestions.

-Grace #Adulting 

Monday, June 30, 2014

Defensiveness and the case of the Mondays

Today as of now, has been a very tough day. I wish I had a real excuse as to why, but I don't. Even if I did, it would just sound whiny and I know no one actually wants to read whiny self pitying Grace.

What do you do when all the thoughts in your head are so garbled and coated with moroseness swirled with a dash of chaos, that whenever you try to voice a thought or process an honest remark all you can do is spew out bile and want to hide in yourself until no one can ever find you again?  How does anyone communicate effectively, please, all you actual adults that don't suck at the most basic of human functions, PLEASE tell me how you do it.

Because as of right now, I just want to not exist, and I have neither a flask, blunt, or a dog to comfort myself with and the boss is in the office so I can't look at animal videos. One of the most frustrating things about adult life is how lonely it is. I have great friends and a great boyfriend, but I don't feel like I can talk to anyone because I barely understand myself.

Also, slowly but surely, I am starting to hate my job.  I actually got reprimanded for not putting a space between two words in an email solely meant to provide a coworker with a phone number, and she CC'd my BOSS on it. It may seem small, but little things like that show me how petty someone is.

Fuck bitches, make money.

-Grace #Adulting

Friday, June 27, 2014

Of Guilt And The Zoo

I was raised catholic (I had a Freudian slip and wrote raided, fancy that?) so I have a lot of guilt naturally instilled in me.  On top of that pile of 100 bibles is the fact I'm a woman, and so every urge I have to act like a person and not a subservient mammal is looked down upon by 3/4 of the world.  My own family and I have butted heads over my philosophies and they attribute it to my "Americanism", but I know it's something deeper.

I probably shouldn't write about this, not here. But I don't actually think that many people read this so I'm going to go ahead.

The last time I remember feeling very ashamed and guilty wasn't when I was raped, or yelled at, or groped; it was a night with a heavy blizzard in college. I somehow became trapped at the dorms and received a very stern lecture from my friends on how I dressed. It was slutty, no one took me seriously. This is why guys used me.

To be honest, they may not have said these things as bluntly, but that's all I heard and all I hear.  I remember going home the next morning and wanting to cover myself in pitch and feathers so no one would be able to see I was even a female.  I didn't spend much time with my friends over the next few months, I don't know if they ever attributed it to that night, or if they noticed.  I don't think they knew how much they hurt me, but we all moved on from it.  I forgave them, because people you love will always hurt you.

Unfortunately, the shame permeates my shield still sometimes, and in moments of vulnerability and PMS, it is hard to beat down.

And I'm going to the zoo tomorrow. I'm really excited, I feel guilty I'm so excited, because zoos aren't great for animals at all.  Based on principle, I shouldn't go.  But I want to see the animals. I want to ride a camel.

I wonder if this is how people in religious households debate masturbation.

-Grace #Adulting

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Of Farts And Birds

So my boyfriend is a pain in the ass, and thinks I need to post something every fucking hour.

I mean I have a job, that I do stuff at. Like, grown up stuff. A lot.

Ok, maybe I don't do much at work, but still. It's the principle of the matter.

So while commuting to work today I got bitch slapped by a bird. I was just walking to the train, jamming out to some Miley when all of a sudden I feel a FWAP against my skull.  I stop, very perplexed...and then it happens again and I see this fucking asshole bird fly up and start following me along the fence.  After checking myself for birdshit on my nice shirt, I ran away. NYC birds are assholes.

Anyway, this got me thinking about the idea of aggression vs. assertiveness. Also about my feelings for NYC, and how as I get older I get the urge to branch out a bit.  I am not overly assertive. At all. I've been likened to a doormat.  I may look all tough with my boxing gloves and F-bombs, but at heart I'm a softie and I just want to be everyone's friend.  But in this city it's all a rat race; you can't get anywhere without throwing some elbows, and quite honestly I don't know the first thing about tapping into that side of myself. It was there a long time ago, but its been squashed for so long I don't even know if it can be revived.

I love NYC, I love the hustle and bustle, the energy, the convenience, the abundance and the variety of options it has. I'm very fortunate to inherit my residence here, my parents sacrificed everything to come here 32 years ago. But lately, I've been feeling the depression that comes from not making enough to move out, the lack of breathing room, the constantly being pushed aside simply because someone else has bigger elbows.  I want green and ocean and a lifestyle that I don't have to haul ass in order to even stay afloat.

But then, today I'm taking the elevator back up to work and a very professional looking man lets out a wet fart, and says "ooh!" and I'm reminded of the very heart of NYC: a sick, assholish sense of humor.

And I laughed.

-Grace #Adulting

Monday, June 16, 2014

For The Love Of Dogs

I love dogs.  I spend at least three hours a day (most likely more) reading about them, looking at them on the internet, and thinking about them.  To many, this seems like obsession. My boyfriend teases me for shutting down when I see a cute dog on the street. Everyone asks why I don't have one.

Well, as much as I would love one right now, the truth is I'm not obsessed.  An obsessed person would not realize they can't provide a life that is worthy of a dog at the moment.  I'm here to make a case that everyone should be "obsessed" with dogs, and here's why:

The only reason dogs are the way they are today, is because of us.  They came to us when we were primitive beings and helped us scour for food; they have helped the Greeks and Romans soldiers in battle just as they do today. Every single trait in dogs has been manifested by humans; if they are aggressive, it is our fault, not theirs; if they are loving it is because we have taught them to be loving.
Dogs are the tailored animal; reared and selected and even genetically modified to our will, sometimes to their detriment.  But they don't know that, all they know of is love.

If you want to know what it is like to live a happy life, live like a dog. A dog goes from moment to moment, taking pleasure in all the little nuances and happenstances that they come across. When a dog is happy their joy is unadulterated; they do not care if they laugh too loud or love too much, whereas human beings hang on to their "I love you's" and words of comfort and hoard them like gold, not realizing love only grows when it is shared.  We guard our happiness because we fear others will scorn it; and it shows in the dogs we rear when they guard their toys.

Dogs have seen me through many difficult moments, and not all have liked me.  I try not to take it too personally, but dogs have their own unique personalities like we do, and not everyone likes me.  Dogs have never judged me for crying, or for being angry, or for being scared.  From the tiniest of puppies that have chewed my clothing to bits to the sickest and the elderly ones that I have had to say goodbye to, they have all just been. They let me, be.

So see a Dog as more than just a pet, more than an animal that depends on food and shelter from you. We tamed dogs, and as Antoine de Saint-ExupĂ©ry said in "The Little Prince", you are responsible for the things you tame.  If you have the honor and privilege of seeing your dog out of life, do it.  We live in a society where we hide the elderly away because it's much easier than to have to think and care about them.  We turn our faces away from the homeless, the sick and the disabled.

Turn back around, face them.  You will feel much braver with a dog by your side.

WHOAH Nelly, finally can breathe

WHOAH. Sorry I disappeared, bad Grace bad. Spanky Spanky.

So....lots of crap happened, that was actually grown up stuffs!

I played a skanky fairy in "A Midsummer Night's Dream", and then I played a hooker in a web skit (obviously I'm type cast) and I got to say the N-Word but I felt really guilty but also a little thrilled since it's a bad bad word.

But now, here are two BIG things that happened and made me feel like maybe all my stumbling around was finally going in some direction;

1. I wrote a song for my boyfriend's short film that starred Rebecca Spence and Red West.  Red West, for those who don't know, has a legendary career that involved co-writing some songs with Elvis. They sang my song. They sang MY song. THEY SANG MY SONG. And LIKED it. Holy bajeesus cowtesticles.

2. I'M GONNA BE IN A MOVIE MOTHERFLUFFERNUTTERS! My first ever full feature role, and it's a Vampire Princess that slays zombies. Basically my dream role.   I start filming next week, so basically, I'm going to be exhausted for a few months.

So yeah, I'm getting a bit better at adulting. There's still a long way to go, but here's to finally going.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Life in the Trees.

Thirty-three years ago I was born, and from that moment the confusion started. Every month I wanted to be something new when I grew up (architect, dancer, research scientist, actress, athlete, professor.....oh yeah, and wild treehouse-dwelling skinned-knee princess).

Even now, in my allegedly grownup state (oh hello, 'adulting', how are you?), I still want to grab every adult woman I see by the shoulders and just shake her screaming Hooooow? How do you do this? If she has a career or a family or even both (let's assume mommy is Leaning In), I just want to cry at her, How do you do it? How do you take something that is a passion and just make the leap and decide to do it all the time as your job, without being worried about having one, two, or three backup part-time jobs for the paycheck that take all your time and energy? 

If you aren't following your passion, then how do you get up every morning and go off to a job that you most likely hate, without one day snapping, throwing off all your clothes and running shrieking off to the woods to become a wild treehouse-dwelling princess? 

And for the love for everything that is womankind will someone please tell me HOW does anyone have the courage to have a child in this world, without being crushed to death by anxiety and fear? Will any one of you kindly ladies please tell me HOW???

I don't do any of this, however, because there are laws against assault, and these ladies have enough to do without a wild-eyed thirty-three year old womanchild shaking them by the shoulders and screaming unintelligibly. But still, the urge is there. Instead, I adjust my sunglasses, take another sip of my iced coffee, and wonder, for the thousandth time, if it's not too late to run off and become a treehouse-dwelling princess after all.

(posted by Laurel)

Sunday, June 1, 2014

A true test of character

Once upon a time, there lived an evil sorcerer called "The MTA".  Every other weekend, he would commit heinous fuckery and toy with the mostly good samaritans (not counting tourists) of New York City.  It would wield its evil magic through the guise of "construction" and "train traffic", and cause much mayhem and tragical tragedy.  This is where our hero, Grace, found herself today; caught between the war of the blue and red line; her Burts Bees war paint shining in the fluorescent lighting.

She had just had a spicy brined margarita, so she was well prepared and determined to see this journey through. With pointy little elbows and tiny sausage legs, she forced her way through the crowd of questionable youths and surprisingly aggressive old ladies to finally make her way on the C train, and soon she was awaiting the A. For twenty minutes. In heels.  (Though she be but little, she is fierce.)

After the the battle of the A train, she rushed towards the pits of the shuttle bus of the one, casualties of war gathering before her because they were too busy staring at their phones.  She gallantly galloped to the bus and exclaimed "I'm getting on motherfuckers!" and "Pardon me".  She had to stand in those painful things they called shoes, but she was standing strong.

She is currently on a very big Mac, drinking some wine and resting her weary feet.  She reflected on her battle this afternoon, and took away this;

Sometimes, there will be things you can not control and it will have the power to ruin your day just by the sheer annoyance it causes you, and the frustration of being so powerless.  But all you can do is throw your elbows, dive into the fray, and imagine the holy grail that is a glass of red wine awaiting you.

Life is going to fuck you in the ass sometimes, and it doesn't care if you have a hemorrhoid.  All you can do is relax and provide the appropriate aftercare.

-Grace, #Adulting

Friday, May 30, 2014

Is it hormones, or do I just suck?

How do you know what you're good at? Or what you could be good at? I mean, I know for sure I'm a decent singer, and that I can walk 5 dogs at once. And I'm pretty good in bed. Alas, I will not be taking part in the world's oldest profession, so that's out. 

This whole week I've made several stupid mistakes in terms of my job. It's not a hard job. It's downright boring at times. My coworkers go out of their way to make sure I don't do anything too difficult. I'm basically paid to act like a functioning adult on my boss' behalf. 

I also want to cry all the time. So, it might also be hormones. Like, a homeless person just came on the train and now I feel really bad for her even though she is obviously crazier than a bag of chocolate covered xanies and has commandeered 4 seats with her stuff. But she doesn't smell that bad, and she has some dried flowers in a cup in her shopping cart. 
And now I'm tearing up. 

Excuse me. 

Thursday, May 29, 2014

How did I get coffee in my eyebrows?

Sometimes, bodily functions have really bad timing. Like all those times I fart myself awake while sleeping next to my boyfriend. Or this morning, when I sneezed into my coffee.

But go me, because I didn't get any on my boyfriend's nice couch. But I did get it all over me. Ah well.

I have a unique history of spilling things on me at the most inopportune moments. One time in college, I was hardcore (aka last minute) studying for a Biology final, and my method of studying was to basically rewrite the text book by hand. It sort of worked, since I did get a B+ in that class as the only non-science major. So anyway, I'm studying and it's almost 1 a.m and I'm tired. I need caffeine. Unfortunately, every place on campus that sells coffee is closed (during finals week, REALLY Adelphi?!?) and the only thing at my disposal is green tea that has been very kindly offered by my friend Kate.

So I make the tea. My friend Mike who is helping me study pours it into the cup. I go to pick UP the cup...

and my hand cramps so badly it collapses and I spill boiling hot tea all over my hand.

Needless to say, my writing abilities were severely hindered for the rest of the night. I did the ole hispanic remedy of toothpaste on a first degree burn, so luckily I could write in time for the final. Actually, come to think of it, we hispanics use toothpaste for a lot of things.

Well, at least we smell fresh.

-Grace #adulting

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

In Honor Of Maya Angelou

World class woman. Icon. Fierce bitch. Prolific.

These don't even come close to encapsulating what Maya Angelou was.

She is also the prime example that sometimes you don't truly start your true career path until later in life, she not truly dedicating herself to her writing and human rights work until she was about 30.

 She also worked as a stripper. I worked as the door girl to a strip club once, so...we have that in common. She was someone that showed me it was OK to be a sexual being and that it didn't mean you had so self worth.

So thanks Maya Angelou. You give me hope that all my #adulting will lead somewhere.


How do I adult?

First, Laurel totally made up this term. Full credit goes to her, I'm just piggybacking.

I'm Grace, 24 year old woman-child trying to figure out how the fuck do I adult in NYC. Just struggling under the burden of this quarter life crisis and trying to pretend I have applicable life skills.

What is adulting? Adulting is celebrating the most basic level of human functionality that slightly separates you from a toddler. But sometimes, when I'm drunk, there really is no difference.

Like, when I had cereal and greek yogurt for breakfast BEFORE having the Reese's PB cups.

Or when I realized I could vacuum my windows instead of cleaning them by hand. And my A/C.

Or that time I got an acting degree and now 3 years later I'm playing a skanky fairy and working in an office.

#Adulting, one bullshit day-job at a time.
First, Laurel totally made up this term. Full credit goes to her, I'm just piggybacking.

I'm Grace, 24 year old woman-child trying to figure out how the fuck do I adult in NYC.

What is adulting? Adulting is celebrating the most basic level of human functionality that slightly separates you from a toddler.

Like, when I had cereal and greek yogurt for breakfast BEFORE having the Reese's PB cups.

Or when I realized i could vacuum my windows instead of cleaning them by hand. And my A/C.

Or that time I got an acting degree and now 3 years later I'm playing a skanky fairy and working in an office.

#Adulting, one bullshit day-job at a time.