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 

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

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.