Moving Day...

Oh, Blogger. You're so pretty and sweet, but Tumblr is just so...

Well, it's probably best I don't go into details.

But, suffice to say, I've been hanging out a lot more with Tumblr lately, and we've decided to take it to the next level. I'll be blogging there from now on. So, if you need me, I guess I'll be at UnicornCandyCastle.Tumblr.com ...

Can we still be friends?


Love,
Rose

Birthday Card Thing

I'm cheap, so instead of buying a birthday present for my friend, Colin, I just did a watercolor for him, instead.

My goal was to channel the weirdest, saddest children's birthday party in the world.

At the moment, I'm back on a watercolor kick. But I'm being more flexible about the process. This was roughed in and inked in Manga Studio, then I printed that out at size and watercolored it on my lightbox. It's a weird process, I admit, but interesting. I got the idea for lightboxing watercolors from Aaron Renier.

I did some linework on the painting with a watercolor pencil, thinking maybe I could skip the digital lines altogether. I'm not sure why I was so keen on tossing out my digital lines. Maybe because I thought it would make the piece "purer" or something? I'm weird.

Meehhhhhhhh...

Going in this direction wouldn't have been a TERRIBLE move, but yeah, I don't know. It just wasn't snazzy enough.

I ended up using my digital inks, but turning the opacity way down and playing with blending modes a little bit. Next time, I might refine things a bit more on the paper and see how it turns out. Like, maybe with a really light inkwash for the lines, along with the colored pencil?

Hmm.

The Writer's Super-Power

by Rose David

So, at my day job, I work with this kid who's a total asshole. He just... sucks. I won't go into the details. Anyway, he snapped at me, I tried to talk to him like an adult, and things got heated.

I left before I started yelling and/or crying.

It takes a lot for me to get mad about something, and when I do, it's like this big rush of emotion that fills up my chest until its so tight I feel like I'm going to explode. And the only escape hatch for all that emotion seems to be through my tear ducts.

I wish I were one of those people who can get mad and just feel the righteous warmth of it. People who use the energy to talk louder. And stand up straighter.

But I'm not.  Intensely angry feelings are too weird and intense for me. I'm not the kind of person who yells easily, so that means sometimes everything just threatens to pour out of my eyeballs, instead.

Which is why I left work early that day.

On the drive home, I was annoyed at myself for being such a baby about everything. And, as we all know, berating yourself for feeling feelings is the BEST way to get rid of said feelings! Still, I didn't want to cry, so I held it in.

When I got home, I did something even better... I wrote a scathing letter to my boss about the bullshit that had just transpired.

Oh, yes.

I'm a master at the scathing letter. I don't write them often, but when I do, I get this incredible rush. Because I KNOW that I've absolutely hit it out of the park. In almost every creative situation, I doubt my ability to write good prose, but when I'm writing persuasively about something that has pissed me off?

I don't know, man. Something happens.

I CHANGE. My fingers are nimble as they pound the keys, not a trace of hesitation. My thoughts are liquid perfection. Scathing letters are my jam.

As a writer, it's the one super-power that I know I have. (My Kryptonite, obviously, is when I actually have to deal with conflict face-to-face.)

Sigh. You guys, I really wish I could post this letter online, because it is a thing of beauty. Obviously it's not a good idea to do that. But yeah.

Your Developing Body

Hey! Lookie here. An old comic I did.

Brass in Pocket

by Rose David

I'm special (special)... so special

Right, well, here's the thing that's currently freaking me out...

I'm working on my graphic-novel-thingee, and I guess I'm making progress. I mean, I AM making progress. Occasionally I get all flustered and worried and spend a really long time playing with texture brushes and color schemes, neither of which I really need to worry about right now.

Which leads me to another issue: I've gone digital.

Not completely, of course. I've tried that, but I always missed pencil and paper too much. But I'd say, for this comic, it's about 80% digital work.

There are practical reasons, sure. Like, my scanner is standard-sized and I'd like to work bigger but NOT have to scan things in pieces (which I hate). Also, you know, I tend to be a little more experimental when working digitally, so that arguably means that I get a more ambitious final product.

I don't know.

It's weird, but I worry that I'm losing something. I don't know what. Like, a crunchy appeal that I see with my analog stuff because it's so much less polished?

After a lot of hand-wringing, I finally decided that my main goal was to tell the damn story, and I tend to be more efficient when I go digital, for whatever reason.

This is probably me just worrying again, unnecessarily, and freaking myself out. I know this.
That doesn't stop me from wondering whether or not my comic is going to look too polished or same-y. And whether keeping things analog would've made the pages more interesting and distinct, because God knows my artwork isn't going to do that.

Ahem.

So then, I run to my analog supplies, convinced that making comics in a way that's currently less popular is going to be a shortcut to making interesting art.

I think we both know that's bullshit, but there you go. The truth, of course, is that it's about working hard and challenging yourself, not worrying constantly about being unique. That kind of thinking leads to paralysis.

I guess the basic issue here isn't "digital versus analog." The whole thing just plays upon a really basic fear that I (and I think most artists) have--whether the stuff I do is unique or, you know, good.

Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.

Talent versus Ambition

by Rose David

So, I wrote a comic script, which is unusual for me because I tend to get over-eager and just try to skip that part.

But I wanted to do it right with this story. It's an ambitious project for me. I'm going to have to draw a lot of things I'm not comfortable with just yet, like detailed backgrounds and crowd scenes and, you know, dudes. And the tone of the piece is really challenging because it's kind of subtle and slice-of-life, and I tend to feel more comfortable with silliness.

I'm still playing around with the script, but I'm starting to think that I'm dragging my feet a little. Because when I'm done (or done-ish) with the script, then I'm going to have to start drawing this freaking thing, which is pretty intimidating.

I have serious doubts about whether or not I'm a good enough artist to see this project through. As you can probably tell, my visual work tends to skew toward the simple and cute, which is great for random diary comics, but maybe less effective for quiet little stories about loneliness and empathy.

So, yeah... This is me, freaking the hell out.

I know I shouldn't worry... because why SHOULDN'T I be the one to bring my characters to the page/computer screen? I ought to be the natural choice for artist because I know the characters best.

And because, you know, I don't have any money to PAY anyone else to do it.

I realize that the only way to tame this fear is to just keep working. But knowing that doesn't stop the pre-work jitters.

February Review

Okay, so as you may or may not remember, February was the month where I decided it would be a really good idea not to look at myself in the mirror. I also avoided photos of myself.

The goal was to jolt myself out of all the superficial evaluation I put myself through on a daily basis. I didn't think it was such a big part of my life until I had to consciously think about just how often I checked myself out on reflective surfaces.

It'd be one thing if I was like...

That's a problem, too, but it's not the problem I struggle with. It was more like...

So yeah, overall that state of affairs was pretty bullshit.

The first week or so, I kept messing up. It was hard, breaking a habit that had been instilled in me since before puberty. It's the end of February and I'm still messing up, but I've gotten better. Now, I don't seek out my reflection, and if I do accidentally get a look at myself, I make sure not to dwell on the image.

Has this had a positive effect on  me? Oh, maybe. It HAS helped me be more mindful about self-judgement, which is a big problem for me and pretty much every person I know. And I've also gotten the pleasant surprise of accidentally seeing myself in a photo and being weirdly non-critical of my appearance.

Normally, I would have thought, "Oh, gawd. Look at the size of me!"

Instead, I actually wondered, "Who's that girl who looks like a slow loris?"

Which I guess is kind of a good thing, more or less.

I'm kind of weirdly excited about getting to look in the mirror again. Not because I want to go back to judging myself all the time, but because... I mean, I haven't seen myself in a month. When Kjerstin Gruys didn't look at herself for a year, she said that seeing her reflection was like reuniting with an old friend. I guess that's how I feel right now.

Process Stuff - Lumberjack Watercolor

So, yeah. I did this thing...

...which I'm pretty much in love with.

I heart this guy, from his giant ax to his tiny, T-Rex arms. But did I always love him? Oh, no. The process from start to finish was a little rougher.

The Black (or Rose) Swan

by Rose David

Is it normal to just freak the fuck out about watercolors? Or like, colors in general?

Lately, I've found myself getting really worried about this kind of thing. I've spent hours fussing with my watercolors, doing tests on the effects of mixing versus layering, and coming away from it all still wondering whether I like the color green.

(Which I like in theory, but whenever I use it, everything just looks sort of vegetal.)

I used to think that this kind of single-minded preoccupation meant I was a dedicated artist, but I know enough about my stress triggers to realize that this isn't healthy behavior.

If I don't force myself to take a step back, I'll only end up BLACK SWAN-ing myself.

That's a real thing.

It's from that Natalie Portman movie, where she's a ballerina and she just wants to be PERFECT, so she works so hard and so long that she loses her grip on reality and fucks up her brain and, oh yeah, starts dream-banging Mila Kunis.

(That's a deliberately obtuse description of a really great movie. Seriously, everyone. Go see BLACK SWAN.)

I watched it the first time a few years ago and it was ridiculous how scared I was. It's an intense movie, sure, but I was probably so freaked out because it hit me on a really deep level. Like the way I get super-scared at ghost movies or possession movies, because deep down, I really think that I'm extra-susceptible to hauntings and/or demon possession.

In the case of me Black Swanning myself, I need to remember that spending hours nit-picking every line I draw and color I paint will not lead me to Perfection.

In fact, I'm fairly certain that Perfection doesn't even exist, which means we're all basically stuck on a Hedonic Treadmill that's never going to stop until we just collapse in a heap of sweat and old paint-jar water.

So, uh, yeah.

There's that.

Free Wallpaper Thing

I just like... Really love Isaac from Children of the Corn, you guys.

So much so that I made him into my desktop background.

click for full-sized image, outlander!

Do you love Isaac, too? Maybe? If you do, feel free to snag this little dude and set him as your background. I, for one, find it very inspiring when he glowers at me.

Diary Ghosts

Last night, I was writing in my journal and--

Okay, no. "Journal" has a patina of factuality and intellect. What I keep is a "diary"--it's personal, emotional, and usually shows off the worst parts of my character.

Which is a good thing no one is going to read it, ever.

I'm pretty sure.

But then, I don't think Teddy Roosevelt imagined anyone was going to read his diaries, either. But you can just hop over to Amazon and buy them for like, a buck.

Which makes me wonder... like, why aren't there more pissed-off dead people just HAUNTING bookstores?

Teddy Roosevelt, maybe, could come to terms with this. He was a president--he probably figured, at some point, that people were going to look through his shit after he died.

But don't you think, at the very least, that Anne Frank would be royally pissed off about this? She was a teenage girl, for fuck's sake. I'm not trying to downplay the historical significance of her diary, but there's a lot of personal crap in there, too.

Some Thoughts on CHILDREN OF THE CORN

This movie still kicks ass on so many levels. And while I'm still coming to terms with whether or not I love it in that Ultra Ironic, I'm-So-Cool-Because-I-Know-This-Sucks kind of way, I do have a few observations I'd like to share about the first Children of the Corn film.

First of all, this movie has Linda Hamilton in her pre-Sarah Connor days, playing the ditzy girlfriend. She spends a decent amount of the first twenty minutes asking Peter Horton why he's not marrying her. When they get to the creepy, kid-infested town of Gatlin, she immediately gets kidnapped. For the next 3/4 of the movie, Linda Hamilton is used as a prop to compel Peter Horton to kick some ass.

Because Peter Horton is our action hero in this movie.

Peter. Horton.

Remember that Baby-Sitters Club movie they made in the 90's, where we meet Kristy's shitty dad and he stands her up at a carnival and she waits, crying, in the rain for hours?

THAT GUY.

It's super weird watching Sarah Connor get overwhelmed by a bunch of children, even if they are carrying scythes. But that brings me to this movie's next bit of awesomeness...

There just aren't enough movies where adults are earnestly fighting children. Because honestly, that's the only way that most of us would be able to kick any kind of ass. We all want to be Ellen Ripley or the Terminator, but most people I know would probably start crying during a fight.

But against a bunch of nine-year-olds? I might stand a chance.

And for anybody who's ever had to endure a plane trip beside an unruly twelve-year-old who will NOT stop causing a ruckus, Children of the Corn should come free with your in-flight meal.

That said, the kids in Gatlin aren't actually all that scary. I did end up loving Isaac, the leader kid with the weird, old-man face. He's like twelve or something, but he sort of looks forty?

Anwyway, I was really into how authoritative he was, especially when he was bossing around that homicidal ginger kid, Malachi.

I wish I could be that assertive every day. There are so many things that annoy me that I should speak up about. Like... When someone asks me how I'm doing, and I say I'm okay, and then they just go...

"Are you sure?"

What in the natural fuck is that? Of course I'm sure. And even if I weren't sure, I certainly don't want to talk to YOU about it, now do I?

Cheese and rice.

If I've learned anything from Children of the Corn, the best way to make sure that never happens again is to just practice my crazy eye and reply...

Let's Party!

My nephew had a birthday party recently. It was pretty okay, I guess.

Being a youngish, childless adult puts you in an interesting position during children's birthday parties.

You don't have much to say to the other grown-ups, but you're too old to join the children without someone calling the police. Or, worse, asking you to babysit.

Testicles, Complaints

by Rose David


I do this thing where I get really mad about something, but not at first.

Like when Colin was saying how annoying work-themed blogs are, specifically those written by baristas.

Which was pretty funny coming from a guy who was so shit in the cafe we worked at that he was pretty much almost fired a couple of times.

I was too polite to point that out, though. Instead, I told him, in the middle of the dinner hour at a busy-ish restaurant:

Which was kind of a shitty thing to say, even if it got a laugh.

But now it's been like, a week since then, and I find myself randomly annoyed about the whole situation.

You'd think I would just feel vindicated. I got a zinger in and everything, so shouldn't I just be reveling in my stupid, little victory?

Sometimes I wonder what the hell is wrong with my brain.

This Guy

Another weird drawing of my weird friend, Colin. Which you kind of saw a little while ago, but this was me experimenting with a brushy line-style, versus the dip pen I used on the final piece. I kinda like it better this way, come to think of it...

At some point, I'm going to do a whole comic about this kid, such is his Harvey Pekar-isma.

(See what I did there? Harvey Pekar + Charisma? Eh?)

February's Experiment: No Mirrors, No Problem!

As part of My Big, Weird Year, I'm testing out a new, daily habit every month. It's part self-improvement, part social-experiment, part girl-you're-crazy.

So, this month, I'm ramping things up a notch. My challenge for February is inspired by Kjerstin Gruys' incredible year of ditching the mirror.

I'm going to try and copy Gruys' routine as closely as I can, which means also avoiding reflective surfaces and not looking at photos of myself, either.

As I'm writing this, I've been at it for a few days and I have to be honest and tell you that I'm fucking up with alarming regularity. But that's another post.

I don't spend a ton of time looking at myself, but even so, this is proving to be interesting. For a month, I'm not going to be able to look in a mirror and evaluate whether my stomach is flat enough, as if anybody besides me ever gave half a fuck about that, anyway.

I'm not going to be able to stare at my reflection in a glass door and wonder whether or not my shape has changed for the worse after last night's salty dinner.

Nor will I occasionally feel like I've dodged a bullet when, after a particularly stressful week, I haven't gained 1.2 pounds from stress-eating half a plate of nachos.

In a way, this will simplify my life, but not at first. Because this is going to be tough. I'm so used to looking up every time I enter the bathroom, not to make sure I'm still there, but to grade myself. I'm wondering how much time I really do spend, every day, rating myself against a scale that may or may not be imaginary and probably isn't relevant.

So... Here we go.

My Life In Coffee

by Rose David

Just a little two-pager for now. Not sure if I want to turn it into a full-fledged thingy.

January Wrap-Up

by Rose David

Yeah, okay. So...

This went pretty well. Admittedly, I gave myself a real softball challenge this month.

But look at me, doing that thing where I minimize my successes just because I didn't put myself through hell to accomplish them.

I know that's a Thing I Do because this month's challenge has really been good for increasing my self-awareness. And I'm grateful about that.

Know what else I'm grateful for?

A lot of teeny, tiny things that sound kind of stupid when you list them out publicly. Like firewood and shovels and streaming Netflix. Also cocoa and fresh oranges--the latter is best consumed during winter, while sitting by a drafty window and staring at the ice rink that is your driveway.

I guess this whole gratitude journaling thing HAS changed my perspective on life. Not in any crazy, earth-shattering, total-paradigm-shift kind of way. It's not like I went to a Tony Robbins seminar and I'm riding an endorphin high of forced extroversion and fire-walking.

Going through my day, I don't feel soaked in the warmth of my new gratitude and awareness. If I'm significantly wiser, it doesn't color everything that I SAY, DO, and SEE. I wish it did, but I kind of don't care that it does.

Because I'm just, you know, grateful for the little changes.



Oh, God, that's really sweet and happy, isn't it? I feel self-conscious now. Yeesh.

A Day at the Office

by Rose David





I have a friend, Jessica, who works a normal office job. It's got its perks--it affords her a normal schedule, vacation time, health benefits. There's a degree of security there, too, not necessarily because her company is financially impenetrable, but because office jobs carry with them an inherent sense of calm and stability. It's just their nature.

I had forgotten what that was like after working in coffee houses and bookstores for the past few years. I've only ever had one "real" job. There was an office component, sure, but the job mostly involved driving into bad neighborhoods to convince parents that it wasn't really a good idea to hit their children. And, oh yeah, maybe they could try to get a job and a diploma in the meantime?

It was the kind of career that sounds wonderful and fulfilling, but quickly turns to shit.

Jessica, on the other hand, seemed completely happy with her data administration something or other, which was why she had been at her current position for three-plus years.

My friend, Colin, and I were meeting her for lunch. It was the middle of the week, which for most people, would have been a working day. But being in retail affords you the odd luxury of freedom on a Wednesday afternoon.

Anatomy of a Starbucks Drink

by Rose David


Writing at a Starbucks can be an awkward experience, because the employees really seem to hate it there.

I know what this is like. Putting an your all-black gear and puckering on a smile, knowing that you're toiling for a company that would happily replace you with a trained monkey if it would save a few thousand dollars, all while serving customers that you feel don't really respect you.

I try to be extra nice to my baristas--not because I myself am extra nice, but because I'm desperate for someone to think I'm the Cool Customer, the one-in-a-million that really GETS them, man. And technically I would stand a better chance at this, considering I was one of them all through college.

But then, it's like those people who immediately think they're going to charm children just because they have the terribly un-unique credential of having once been a child.

In both cases, it's far enough in the past that you won't be immediately adored the way you think you should.

Triceratops

Drawing dinosaurs is fun, but it can be challenging. I'm trying to figure out how to express joy, pain, rage, and et cetera without anthropomorphizing them too much. It's kind of a downer how unemotive they can be.

I assume it's because they are, in fact, dinosaurs.

Animals in SPACE

by Rose David


I woke up this morning feeling really sad about Laika, the Russian space-dog… although now that I've actually typed that out and seen the awesomeness of that sentence, I feel a little less bad.

Anyway, Laika was a Russian dog that they put into a rocket in the 50s to see whether space travel was safe. The good news: Laika didn't immediately explode upon reaching the Earth's orbit. The bad news: the capsule hadn't been designed for retrieval. So... Yeah.

The thought of a dog dying in the middle of space, having no concept of why nobody was telling her she was good anymore, really messes me up.

Which I guess is kind of silly on a certain level, since I eat meat and dairy and eggs, so I can't be totally into making animals happy and comfortable.

There's a difference, though, between eating the meat of an animal you've never met (and probably wouldn't like that much anyway) and being cool with sending a cute terrier into space to get suffocated to death.

What if Laika survived and somehow had puppies and they took over a planet, like sort of how they did Planet of the Apes, but it's Planet of the Dogs? Are cats a marginalized population there? And how do the doggy overlords regard humans? Do they believe in us, or are we simply myth to them?

What if I crash-landed there and they captured me, but they didn't know I could talk and stuff?

Honestly, I'm just wondering why they never sent up animals that weren't as charming. For example, bunnies are cute, but they don't really have much of a personality and word is that they don't even really like cuddles.

I'd even settle for a cat, but not just any cat. Some of them have awesome personalities. I'd like for them to have sent up a cat with a history of violence and a true, overwhelming, incredible disdain for humanity. And perhaps even life itself.

Or maybe like… a frog. For no other reason than they are scary to me.

Or a parrot! Yes, absolutely a parrot. Strap that fucker in and shoot him off into space.

And since I'm feeling at least a little bit guilty, maybe we could replace the animals with that waiter who flirted with me incessantly, and then stood me up a few years ago. Yeah. Shoot that bastard into the moon. I hope he lands on the Planet of the Dogs.

Stuff in Progress

Progress, progress, progress...

It's been a while since I did real, sequential art. I was all about comics for a long time, so much so that I think I burnt out that part of my brain for a few months.

But last week, I started poking around on an autobio comic about my "career" as a barista. That's got quotey marks around it because, like... Yeah.

But I'm keeping it casual. No real posting schedule. Episodes will be short, probably.

Mid-January Thoughts: Rumblings, Ramblings, and Half an Epiphany

by Rose David

Well, we're a little over mid-way through my month of gratitude journaling.

After the first few days, I started running out of things to be grateful about, which I understand seems like a really shitty thing to admit.

But it wasn't that I'd actually run out of things to be grateful for. It was more like I had run out of superficial answers, and now I had to actually THINK.

Because, you know, it's so easy to start with the totally obvious, stereotypical stuff. "I'm grateful that I'm healthy."

Which is true. But since I've never had to worry much about my health in the first place, I wasn't practicing gratitude so much as practicing my cop-out.

Which I'm pretty good at already, so no help needed there.

Anyway, I haven't had any brain-exploding bursts of gratitude yet. I do understand that I'm fortunate to be where I am--youngish and healthyish, living in a culture where I have the time to write and draw and, you know, stream TV shows and stuff.

But, by now, I feel like I should be more grateful on a visceral level. The more I try to force it, the worse I feel.

So, over the past week, I've started journaling my gratitude about smaller, random things. Things that make sense to me right now.

Like how my husband brought home a juicer he found on clearance. And also that he even THINKS to bring home stuff like that.

But not all is fluff! I think I have had one semi-epiphany--let's call it a half-piphany.

I'd had a frustrating writing-and-drawing day, and I was in a really crap mood when I started filling in my journal. It came time for me to write what I was grateful for, and lacking any other ideas, I wrote, "I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to try."

Because TRYING was what I was doing--NOT succeeding.

But... Yeah. After a second, I realized that I WAS grateful for this. I have the luxury of time and relative obscurity, so if I don't do something very well, it doesn't matter too much. And though I'm still an epic fail at colored pencils, all the crappy pictures I've produced have helped me better understand color theory. So, because I TRIED (never mind the outcome), my skills have grown and gotten better, even if it's not in the way I intended.

So... Yeah. There's that.

Oh, I've also started thinking about next month's challenge. I'm still too enamored with bread and cheese to go vegan just yet. So I'm thinking... A month without looking in the mirror? I was going to skip TV for a month, but then the Walking Dead should be back, I figure I'd just be begging myself to fail.

Sorry About That

by Rose David


So, I guess by now you've noticed that you're on my blog.

I mean, maybe not Literally You.

Well, maybe not.

But if it is, I just want to say... Well...

"Sorry" just doesn't cut it in some situations, does it? Because what are apologies, really, besides an acknowledgement that you've done wrong and a vow to do better in the future?

But let's be real. I'll probably do this again.

You would think I'd at least know how to cover my tracks, but no.

Magical Me

by Rose David

I stared at the spread of cards, the thickly inked illustrations nudging at my psychic powers. “I’m sensing a lot of conflict in your life right now,” I said. “A lot of people going through changes.”

My sixteen-year-old cousin’s eyes widened. “Yes. That’s exactly what’s happening.”

I nodded sagely and plucked another card out of my deck. Breathing deep, I turned over its blue-and-black patterned surface to reveal--

Oh, I forget which card.

My Big, Fat Panic Attack - pt 3

This is Part Three of a 3-part post. Check out Part One and Part Two. Or you can read the whole thing in one post.

INT. ROSE’S LIVING ROOM, NIGHT.

Our heroine is curled up on her sofa and freaking the fuck out, clutching her chest like she’s having a heart attack.

But, of course, I wasn’t. Though in some ways, a heart attack might have been a little bit easier for me to understand.

The night that my panic attack finally hit me was... Not awesome.

There was a lot of crying and scary thoughts. Lots of wishing that I would feel better and, when that wouldn’t work, simply wishing that I couldn’t feel anything. No such luck, though.

Eventually, miraculously, I somehow did get to sleep. Crying is pretty exhausting, if you’re really putting your back into it.

I hoped I would feel better in the morning.

I didn’t.

When I thought about going into work to do an 8-hour shift at Corporate Coffee, I felt like my chest was caving in.

I tried to imagine getting dressed, driving over, and clocking in--but my brain kept getting stuck on a fantasy about steering my car into a traffic median so I wouldn’t have to go to work.

Here’s a useful tip: if you start thinking bonkers shit like this, do not try to tough it out. Do not do anything. Just freaking stop for a second, okay? I wish someone had bothered telling me this.

That day, I didn’t go to work--and I felt like a total asshole about it.

My Big Fat Panic Attack - pt 2

This is Part Two of a 3-part series. Check out Part 1.

All right. So, there I was. Stressors piling up, forming a ton of bricks that was shortly going to dive-bomb me. And there I was, pretending that everything was

JUST FINE, OKAY? GAWD!

Never mind that I was drinking more than usual, which (for me) means drinking at all. I wasn’t getting drunk-drunk, understand. Only people who have a problem get drunk-drunk. BUZZED was what I wanted.

If I played this right, it was just enough to take the edge off and distract me from whatever pesky emotions I was feeling.

My Big Fat Panic Attack - pt 1

I have a sort-of history with depression, and by that, I mean that it was something I could keep under wraps enough to pretend that it wasn’t happening.

Every few months, my accumulated stress would coalesce into a big snowball made of Suck, at which point, I would develop a case of the Freak Outs (I believe that’s the scientific term).

Then, I would confine myself to bed for an hour or a day, usually doing nothing more than staring at the ceiling or, if I was really ambitious, reading a book. Eventually, I would start to feel well enough to emerge from my hiding place, renewed.

I was okay.

Everything. Was. Okay.

Except of course, it really wasn’t.

January's Experiment : Gratitude Journaling

As part of My Big, Weird Year, I'm testing out a new, daily habit every month. It's part self-improvement, part social-experiment, part girl-you're-crazy.

Starting a gratitude journal has been on my "should" list since forever, Probably ever since Oprah told me that it changed her life, which was maybe... fifteen years ago? I was just a wee Rose watching Miss Oprah after school, probably snacking on Totino's pizza and drinking too much soda. Interestingly, not much has changed, in that regard.

For a while, bookstores were displaying the Oprah-approved brand of gratitude journals in prominent places, and starting my own journal seemed simultaneously intimidating and enticing. There it was, a life-changing experience for only $12.95, but there was always something shinier and more interesting to spend my money on, which meant that I usually put it off until later.

And the thought of starting a gratitude journal on non-official card stock? Blasphemous, I tell you.

Fast-forward a decade or two and here we are.

So, what do I hope to get out of this month's experiment? Oh, you know... Just like... Stuff?

The problem with answering this question honestly is that it's so difficult for me to just be earnest for fuck's sake. It's so much easier for me to be sarcastic or funny or (on a good day) sarcastic and funny. I hate to say it, but I've fallen into sarcasm as a default reaction, and sometimes, that isn't pretty.

Is it lame to say that I want gratitude journaling to sharpen my experiences and make me happier, that I want to be more aware of how great my life actually is--instead of distracted by all the noise and entitlement and weirdness that sometimes seems to cloud my brain like some kind of douche-fog?

Yes. To all those things, yes.

Especially the part about douche-fog.

My Big, Weird Year of Big, Weird Experiments

How in the hell did I get it in my head that this would be a good idea?

The concept is pretty basic... Every month of 2014, I'm going to commit to building a habit that's new and uncomfortable and supposedly good for me. It's like eating vegetables--but sadly, without the butter. Some of the experiments will be easy, but most will be hard.

Like... 

Not lying--for a whole month.

Or staying away from TV.

Or, sweet sassy jean, going vegan.

The idea of a month without cheese makes me want to pack it in and just resolve to lose five pounds, like I do every year. Maybe buy a gym membership that I'll never use, like that one year.

And yet... I'm intrigued.

Am I glutton for punishment if this fear of discomfort makes me want to go forward with the project?

It's the kind of idea that sounds great at the time. I know that I'll be very, very happy that I got off my ass and made an effort this year--you know, once 2015 rolls around and the weirdness is all behind me.

But, as far as how I'll feel when I'm in the thick of it, desperate for cheese or "The Walking Dead" or probably both at the same time, I guess we'll have to see.

And hey, at least Oreos are vegan.