Under Constrution

I am transitioning my blog to a real website/portfolio. As such I will be deleting a few things that don’t quite live up to all their promise.

On the other hand, in the next couple of months or so, you’ll be getting shiny new content and links to other projects.

Stay Tuned!

Categories: serious, shameless self promotion | 1 Comment


Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Nothing gold can stay. The AUX cord, which allows me to hook my iPhone to my car stereo, is wearing out.


Right now it still works if its held in the exact right position. If not, a speaker will give out or static will punctuate the songs. I’ll replace it when it gives out entirely but more likely two weeks after it gives out entirely.

While I admit I spend far too much time fiddling with the cord to fix my sound, I also enjoy the static. When I was a child, the family took long annual road trips to visit my mother’s parents and siblings in South Dakota. To get there we had to drive through Nebraska which, largely due to such trips, I now hate. Texas could restart the civil war and Nebraska would still be the worst. When I die, bury me in Nebraska; I will get up and walk to Colorado.


Nebraska is void of three things: pleasure, anything good to look at through the window and anything worth listening to on the radio. When we drove through, we held on as long as possible to NPR or the rock stations my sister and I enjoyed but eventually static over took them and we were left with christian rock, the Nebraska of musical genres.



Understand the Canter family has been dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century. It was a red letter day when my parents purchased a used car with a built in cd player.  Before we had survived long road trips with only the radio and a boombox in the back seat which I kept stocked with D batteries and musicals. Before we got the boombox we would drive through the Nebraskan hellscape every summer with nothing but silence or our own voices. I assigned my parents parts in The Lion King, only to become frustrated at their refusal to memorize the lyrics and sang everything myself. My mother asked hypothetical questions where in we figured out what she would do with a million dollars (refinish the basement) and her eventual funeral plans (cremation but serve my father’s favorite food at the wake). When the static over took the radio and the conversation lulled, we read or slept or just sat with our own thoughts.

I was driving to my sister’s when I noticed the static on my AUX cord. The California coast is much more interesting than Nebraska but there’s little call and some danger to take one’s eyes from the highway. In those moments where the static over took the songs, I thought of my mother driving us across Nebraska to see her sisters. How she must have made the journey alone, before and after we came into her life, with only static and her thoughts as company. What did she think about, beyond her gas tank and the speed limit? What goes through my sister’s mind when she drives to visit me, or my father’s when he’s alone in the car?  Most of America’s history involves risking life and limb in long, boring journeys. That was me and my mother driving to LA with an AUX cord and a California play list in 2014. My grandmother rode a train to DC to help the war effort with only the noise of those around her and room waiting. Lewis and Clark tramped over the Louisiana purchase in silence, blithely unaware that Nebraska should have come with a receipt.

I am the first to defend destinations and music and modern technology but the spaces between, the journeys and silences and decaying AUX cords also have their place. Boredom births brain storms, static silences or signals sound as we push toward our destinations.

I’ll probably buy a new AUX cord though.

Categories: funny, philosophy, travel | Tags: , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Death by Inaction

The following contains mentions of depression and frank discussion of suicide and suicidal thoughts.

I’ve tried to kill myself twice. The first attempt was purposeful. Without getting into detail, I made a plan and wrote a note. As suicide attempts go, it was standard. The second time I tried to kill myself I did not even realize what I was doing.

One might argue that the defining quality of suicide is intent but I’ve been suicidal for a long time. Death was an ambition for many years. After my first attempt, I used death as a carrot to get through my life. Once I graduated college, published my novels and became an international success so that my death would be mourned by thousands, then I could slip into that sweet eternal sleep. Maybe once I got everything I wanted, I wouldn’t even want to kill myself.
This line of thinking worked, in that I stayed alive, until I started getting what I wanted. Success in publishing and relationships did not give me the euphoria I expected. I questioned if anything could ever make me actually want to be alive. If nothing would ever make me happy, why should I do anything? I stopped trying on beyond the most basic levels. When I showed for class, I doodled or slept through lectures. When I remembered to eat, it was junk food and booze. I went to work with irish cream in my coffee, principally because I didn’t want to be homeless in Iowa winter. My suicidal thoughts became almost constant. My reasons for living narrowed down to avoiding pain for my family and seeing how my tv shows ended.
Most people have had some form of suicidal ideation in their lives. Suicidal thoughts are generally divided into active and passive. An active suicidal thought would be “I am going to slit my wrists tonight,” where as a passive thought would be “I wish I’d get hit by a car.” I’d like to think most suicidal thoughts are passive and rare, products of temporary emotion. Generally, passive suicidal thoughts are not taken as seriously as active ones.

This is a mistake. The underlaying goal of all suicidal thoughts is the same: you don’t want to be alive. Being alive requires work, work that people will avoid if the end result seems pointless. At my second suicide attempt, I could not cross the street without hoping a car would hit me. I could barely preform the necessary functions of living for months. It was suicide by inaction and it lasted for months. Had I not recognized and gotten treatment, I am convinced it would have killed me as surely as a gun or a razor would have.
Depression is an insidious illness because it is invisible. Symptoms are dismissed as sloth or selfishness. For many years, I felt guilty for my condition. My death wish was an insult to people who had actually suffered. I hadn’t earned the right to feel worthless because I had a loving family and achieved what most people consider success. Even though it took years to admit my Depression to myself, let alone other people, I was making it up for attention. Any praise or love or reassurance I received, I undercut with self loathing and there was no reason. Intellectually, I knew I was smart and funny and kind but none of that mattered to my emotions because I felt fundamentally unworthy. Nothing I did mattered so I did nothing and hated myself for my lack of productivity.
One never gets over suicidal depression. Even if I never want to die again, I will know those hopeless feelings lie dormant inside me. Years of my life have been lost to an accident of brain chemistry. My saving grace was recognizing the problem was an accident of brain chemistry and not truth.
I’m not seeking sympathy or admiration with my story. In fact, I wonder if I’ve made any sense at all. If people see themselves in my story, I hope they can seek help.  Talking about a problem is the only way to start the coping process. You don’t have to talk to a therapist or even anyone you know. The suicide hotline gave me concrete, practical advice when I felt my lowest. Even a journal can help until you’re ready to talk to another person. There’s no simple solution but silence and inaction will kill you as surely as any bullet, blade or pill.

Suicide Lifeline: 18002738255

Categories: bodily functions, School, serious | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

Letter to My Five Year Old Self

Dear Kate,

It’s 1996 and you have been five years old for about three weeks. This is right around the time you learn to read.

I am you, 20 years in the future. I will keep this short and limited, as I remember my own attention span. I also don’t remember following much advice, so do with it what you will.

You are finishing kindergarten right now. You have a teacher who you’re still resentful of 20 years later. I know she keeps telling you to sit down when you are. This is the same woman called your parents in when she thought you made up the echidna. You are a tall child. That’s why she thinks you’re standing, why you get in trouble. Do not make yourself smaller for this woman. Do not make yourself smaller for anyone. Later you will learn what a metaphor is but this is the first one I will remember.

What else? You’re doing pretty well actually, if memory serves. Dragons are still awesome into 2016. You are still best friends with Danielle. You’re actually about to see the new Star Wars with your sister! There’s a new Star Wars! (you skip the prequels and it’s the right decision) You have an apartment and a job and a college education.

Of course, I know you don’t care all that because you’re five and you’ve probably wandered away by now. That’s fine. Milk the days you can play outside and not worry as much as you can. Things will get harder soon but it will make you stronger. At least it will make you me and I generally enjoy myself. You’re gonna get sad and there won’t be a reason for it. That’s okay.

You’re right when you think that brains and personality are more important than being pretty but you’re wrong to think you’re ugly. You’re beautiful. You don’t become beautiful by dressing in the clothes you hate right now or bathing regularly, though it helps. You’re already beautiful. It took me too long to realize this.

You’re smart too. I know other people have told you that but you need to know that it’s not because you’re doing well in school. Smart isn’t about knowing things but learning things. Books and school will take up a lot of your life and they’re important but learning about yourself, other people and the world is just as important. There is so much inside you and so much in the world. Enjoy it.

All My Love,

PS. Ok, in 1998 a couple guys in Stanford, California (like 500 miles from your aunt’s house) are gonna come up with a company called Google. Their names are Larry Page and Sergey Brin. You have two years to convince your parents to invest in that company. It’s gonna make a lot of things a lot easier for you, trust me. Tell your parents you from 2016 said it was a good idea. I’ll remind you again in 2013, before they go public.

Categories: Kinda Funny?, School, serious | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

One More Cup of Coffee

I never drank coffee regularly before I moved to LA. I think that is the greatest shame I ever caused my parents.

My family has strong opinions about coffee, opinions that have been pushed since my earliest memories. My parents drink black coffee, no decaf. My father makes their first pot the night before, placing the 1/4 cup of ground beans into the electric coffee maker, with the filter and water in place. There it stands all night until my mother rises, always first, in the morning and turns the pot on. Between the two of them, they will consume the entire pot before nine am. My mother will make more and consume it through out the rest of the day. My sister started drinking it in high school, just the same as they did, except in her wilder moments when she would buy frappachinos from Starbucks. I remember my mother gasping audibly when she casually mentioned it in conversation.

My parents are actually coffee liberals, compared to certain extended relatives. My Aunt and Uncle actually carry around their own coffee pot from city to city, either because they consume so much than they must provide their own or because they don’t trust other people to make their coffee right. My mother once carried fourteen cans of coffee across state lines for these people, like she worked in a drug cartel.

Coffee is the first way my family relates to new people. Before my parents were married, my paternal grandfather, Papa, ingratiated himself with his new in laws by plunking down at their kitchen table and demanding “Where’s the coffee?”

Later my grandmother pulled my mother aside and assured her Papa was good “common” people. Everything would be alright. Until their second child spent the first twenty three years of her life quietly preferring tea and soda.

I think at first they chalked it up to my youth. Coffee would find me when the time was right. Yet, when I reached college and still got my caffeine boost from energy drinks, they must have wondered when, if ever that time would come. If I would ever give them coffee grandchildren.

I started experimenting with coffee during my study abroad in India. I stayed at an actual coffee plantation for a couple weeks in Karnataka and did not wish to offend my hostess by refusing the signature drink. Fortunately, the coffee was loaded with enough milk and sugar that it was all but unrecognizable as coffee. I still preferred chai when I could get it but coffee would serve, provided it tasted nothing like coffee.

I don’t think I would have started drinking coffee in Los Angeles if my roommate’s aunt hadn’t gifted us with two large jars of instant Folger’s. I drank it, loaded again with milk and sugar, because it was free and I needed to stay awake for whatever silly thing I was doing to make rent.

And so it continued until I was having a plastic 7-11 glass every morning as if it were my life’s blood. I am not, by any means, a completely straight coffee drinker. I still enjoy tea  and women and soda, but coffee is there when it’s needed. Years ago, my method of drinking instant, with three table spoons of sugar and a 1/4 cup of milk added, would have shocked and appalled my family. I think we’ve all grown as people. It’s not that I have to drink coffee all the time. If I never had another cup of coffee for the rest of my life, my family would still love me just as much as if I only had coffee for the rest of my life. I don’t have to chose a beverage, just as long as I am happy with what I’ve got to drink.

If you liked this thinly veiled metaphor for bisexuality and also literal explanation of how my family and I feel about coffee, and you want to help me out, please download my original 100% free short story: To Move On! Each download  gets me closer to cash prizes that I can use for coffee and student loan payment! We’re currently in seventh place! Please download and share as much as you can!

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Nine Months

“It’s weird to think we’ve been out here almost nine months,” my roommate remarked to me one day recently. I nodded, considering what doughnut I wanted once we got to the store. I wanted glazed.

“We could have made a baby in nine months,” said my roommate who is only interested in other men.

“I’m glad we didn’t,” I said, again wondering if I could donate my uterus and ovaries somewhere they wouldn’t bother me.

My roommate nodded.

Nine months ago, I was packing for the move, if only in my mind. I was considering which of my possessions would make the cut and come with me to my new home. I’d been a bit of a hoarder up until that point, holding onto worn out items of clothing, books with stains and missing pages, and literally everything I ever wrote, including my homework assignments, for “posterity.” After moving six times in four years of college, I got a little better but I still obsessively held onto things in case I needed them, either practically or emotionally.

I wanted my move to Los Angeles to be different. Only absolute necessities would make the trek across state lines with me. My bookcase would not be fully of titles I never read, nor would movies clutter up my new space. For the first time, I was moving somewhere for no other reason than because I wanted to go there. Yes, I hoped to find my niche in television or film but I didn’t have a college waiting for me, or an internship or a job. Nine months ago, all I had was the lease of a one bedroom apartment in Hollywood and a roommate I had known for seventeen years.

Did the prospect intimidate me? Sure. I worried about finding work, navigating the city, paying rent and whether I’d eventually murder the only person I knew in a city of four million.

Mostly, though, I was excited. My life up to that point had been a series of hurdles that I had to overcome to finally create something. I would be going to a city known the world over for making movies and music and I was certain I’d be come a part of it. Maybe it would take time but for once my wanderlust didn’t gnaw at me. I could, and can, see myself living in Los Angeles for decades to come. I could become who I always wanted to be in Los Angeles, or at least have a hell of a tale to tell when I failed.

In the end, I brought only a few, professional and casual pieces of clothing, a nightstand to store my underwear, my important papers, my vibrators and my jewelry, a book case, a few kitchen items donated by my relatives, including the table and chair currently in my kitchen which served my grandmother for sixty years, a couple of throw pillows I made out of old t-shirts and a painting of Lenny Bruce I made in high school. Everything else would be provided, either by the apartment itself, my roommate or a gift from the family I have in San Diego, or bought by me. My sister had already promised me a mattress as a combination birthday and christmas gift and a chair and footstool that she no longer had space for. Everything eventually loaded into a uhaul served a practical or emotional purpose, and would provide a solid foundation to start my life in California.

Nine months later, not much has been added to the apartment. I bought screens to separate my sleeping quarters from the rest of the living room with in the first few days. My bed frame is most the recent, chosen, paid for and assembled with mixed results my yours truly. At some point in the future my roommate and I will buy a couch together but for now an air mattress will do the job but the next thing I want is a dry erase board for the fridge so we can leave each other notes for the days when we both have work or social engagements. I will probably end up drawing a squirrel on it at some point.

Yet, as my apartment remains the same, my life changes on a daily basis. I never know what will happen to me in this city, who I will see or where I will end up going. Some days I drive to Beverly Hills in cut off jean shorts that slide around my hips revealing laundry day underwear. Some days I hike Runyon canyon in flip flops and a sundress. Some days I leave the apartment only to buy a soda from the corner store. Preparation, beyond sunscreen, a full wallet and a water bottle, usually amounts to nothing. It is terrifying and glorious.

My roommate is right. Nine months is about how long it takes to make a life. While words will never quite capture how glad I am to have never had another creature inside me, living off the food I have already consumed and crushing my inner organs, I think I did create a life while I was here. I created my life and it is great.

If you liked this and want to help further improve my life, please download my original short story To Move On! Every download gets me closer to a $15000 grand prize! $15000 would pay off most of my student loads which are really not improving my life. Make my life as awesome as my apartment! Download!

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Keep Up

I was lucky enough to start my workday yesterday hiking Griffith Park with a lovely dog named Señor Gustavo (The names have been changed to protect the adorable). The particular trail we blaze most often is also preferred by a nearby stable and horseback tour company. I have absolutely no problem with this since I love horses and I love seeing them in the middle of Los Angeles. Often when I pass these trail rides, I get snippets of their conversation.

“Of course, this was back when television was good,” mused a man in an unironic cowboy hat, “before reality got involved. Now we’ve got the Kardashians.”

“People like to blame the Kardashians for the decline in our media,” I said in a squeaky voice, “but we choose the shows we get, don’t we, Señor Gustavo! Yes, we do! Yes, we do!”

Let me be abundantly clear: I have no great love for the Kardashians. Frankly, reality television is some of the worst television I have ever seen and it takes jobs away from writers which is what I would like to be paid for someday. Keeping Up With The Kardashians has earned its place in my ire since my first roommate used to fall asleep to it because she “didn’t like silence” so I had to wake up to the adventures of the alliterative family constantly for three months. I am well aware that most of my distaste for Keeping Up With The Kardashians revolves around my distaste for that particular individual, rather that a hatred for the Kardashians themselves.

As a matter of fact, and I am sure I will lose followers, possibly friends, with this; I like the Kardashians.

I like the Kardashians solely because so many people hate them. I like the Kardashians out of spite.

Even when I lived with that Roommate, the one my mother refers to as “Hannah Montana Gone Wild,”, I did not hear as much about the Kardashians as I do from people who hate them. With the exception of the recent Bruce Jenner interview, everything I know about the Kardashians I know from people who claim to hate them. Most recently, on my Facebook feed, an App that blocks any mention of the family was met with loud praise from a former teacher who uses the Kardashians, rather than any number of more violent or offensive public figures as an example of everything wrong with the world. If I had gotten that App, it would have blocked most of his posts.


Why do people need to fill their discourse with complaints about a family they have never met, never will meet and purportedly dislike? Why would you think so often about something that pisses you off? Why not talk about shows you think people should watch, before they get canceled because they have no web presence.

Keeping Up WIth Kardashians has been on the air for nine seasons. As of February, it was renewed for three more. The reviews are pretty much entirely negative but people are still watching. 4.39 million people watched the episode where Kim Kardashian married Kanye West. The show is doing something right. I have to wonder how many did so just to see how bad it would be. How many are watching reality television just so they can feel better than other people? How low is our national self esteem that we will continually marvel at people we do not like because we need to be better than someone?

Screw that. I like the Kardashians. I like Kim and Kanye and the mom and the other ones and Bruce Jenner, if only because they’ve become scapegoat of everything wrong with the world.

“Oh, but they’re so fake!”

Yeah, calm down, Holden Caulfield. Everyone is fake. This frank, abrasive voice on my blog is not the voice I use with my boss or with my mother. I put on personas and masks to navigate the world, as does every person on the planet because the truth is complex. A person’s essence cannot be distilled down into a TV show or a blog or really anything. It takes a lifetime of work to actually know yourself much less to know other people. Why do you despise this one particular family for doing what everyone else in history has already done.  If you know that they’re fake than you must know that you can’t know who they really are so why even have an opinion?

“Oh but they didn’t earn their wealth and fame!”

Again, so many people didn’t “earn” what they have for it to justify you despising one particular family more than anyone else. Do you resent Anderson Cooper, son of Gloria Vanderbilt, his privileged upbringing? “No, because he’s a good reporter.” Yes and the Kardashians are celebrities. It is their job to be entertaining and they are (see the ratings) just as good at it as Anderson Cooper is at reporting. Also, if you’re so upset that the Kardashians are famous, stop talking about them.

“They’re a bad example!”

If you are looking to reality television for examples of how to live your life, you are already in more trouble than I can imagine, but why exactly are the Kardashians bad examples? Because of Kim Kardashian’s sex tape? The one released without her permission which she then used to increase her wealth and notoriety, effectively turning a bad situation to her advantage? Even if you, like so many, believe she intentionally released it, what is so wrong with having consensual sex and releasing the tape? Is it because they’re shallow? Again, this is television. Literally everyone is shallow.

I suppose I am just irritated that this fairly innocuous family is the designated punching bag when so many more horrible people are venerated, especially in Hollywood. In 1988, oscar winner Sean Penn tied Madonna to a chair and physically and emotionally assaulted her for hours. That same year, Mark Whalberg threw rocks at a fourth grade field trip while shouting the N word and assaulted two vietnamese men which got him sent to jail for a hate crime which he is currently trying to get expunged. Roman Polanski is still allowed to make movies even though we know he raped a child. Why can we forgive all of that but we can’t forgive The Kardashians for being “shallow”?”

If you liked this, or if you didn’t, please download my original short story: To Move On. Every download gets me one step closer to winning the contest and paying off my student loans!

Categories: Kinda Funny?, screenwriting, shameless self promotion | Tags: , , , | 1 Comment

Positive Selfie Esteem

I initially hesitated to post the pictures below as my romantic preferences (I am wildly, jealously in love with myself) prevent me from dating. It’s cruel to make people randomly fall in love with me over the internet but I believe my beauty is meant to be shared. So consider this a disclaimer: you are not actually in love with the goddess you’re about to witness. It’s an infatuation because I am so incredibly gorgeous. Dating me would be like staring into the sun for days at a time. It’s not worth it. Don’t give into despondency because you can’t be with me, just appreciate that I exist.

Anyway, this was the glory I saw in my bathroom mirror this morning.


Do you need a minute? Go get a glass of water. You’re probably very dehydrated on account of how hot I am. Go get a glass of water. I’ll still be stunning when you return.

Are we all back? Are we hydrated? Good.

I am a huge believer in selfies! I love that the women of my generation, after years of being told we are not pretty enough unless we look like this or that celebrity or ideal, have begun making these shrines to ourselves. Technology has given us the option to capture every moment that we feel good about our selves and the way we look and, by God, we are taking advantage of it! We are the most documented generation in history and I am so proud of that! Years from now, I will know exactly what I looked like when I was twenty four, which days I felt good when I was twenty five, what miracles occurred when I was twenty seven and who my friends were at thirty! Thanks to social media, I’ll be able to know most of those things about my friends and family too!

The one issue I have with selfie culture is that much of it still seems to revolve around, traditional beauty rules. There’s nothing wrong with make up or traditional femininity until it becomes a prerequisite to beauty. There should be no prerequisites to beauty, not make up, size, race, health, height or anything else that changes from person to person.

I never remember feeling proud of my appearance when I was a child. Any compliments from other people meant nothing because I was convinced that I was predestined to always look weird and ugly. Eventually, I started taking pride in that weirdness, more out of resistance to change than positive self esteem. I was determined to be Me, even if that me felt forever on the outside of what was normal and beautiful. Eventually, I realized that whatever I looked like would be fine because I am inherently beautiful, as if everyone else on the planet.

I started posting bed head selfies to Facebook a little over a year ago, in an effort to remind myself of my inherent beauty. I am beautiful when I first wake up and after I have manipulated my appearance with clothes, combs and coffee. I believe that people should be able to see both and thanks to Facebook and this blog, I can show them both on my own terms. That is the other amazing thing about selfies. By their very nature, the total control of my selfies falls to me. I decide what pictures to take and what pictures to post, assuming of course that no one hacks my phone and violates my autonomy illegally.  When I post a selfie, I am controlling my own destiny, I am sending a message that I do not need the approval of advertisers to be beautiful, and to be seen without a filter. I post selfies of me dressed, me with bed head, me messing around and me accomplishing my goals because I am worth sharing precisely as I am. And so are you.

Also, my bed head is hilarious.


Bedhead: August 17 2014:

just after I moved to Los Angeles


July 24 2014

Bed head on my grandparent’s farm


July 4th 2014

Independence Day Bed head on my first visit to Los Angeles to find my apartment


June 26th 2014

Rockin’ Pompador Bed Head

If you liked this and want to help the vision of loveliness pictured above, please download her original short story, for FREE! It’s called To Move On and it is in 7th place in a contest totally dependent on downloads! Prizes include enough money to pay off a heap of my student loads so please download, like and share as much as you can! Thank you, beautiful people

Categories: bodily functions, Feminism, funny, shameless self promotion | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Brief Reviews of All The Alcohol I’ve Consumed

Beer: Beer is what you drink when there’s nothing else to drink. I believe it’s hops distilled with poor life choices. sometimes you get fancy beer and its hops distilled with poor life choices  mixed with delusions on insight. It’s a Raymond Carver story, is what I am saying. And like a Raymond Carver story, it’s very fun to smash it on the sidewalk when you’re finished. Drink Beer when you hate yourself and you want to hate other people. Smash the bottles on the sidewalk when you’re done.


Wine: Wine is adult grape juice. It’s very useful for when you need to deal with your people but not tell them what you actually think of them. I like sweet wine because the other kind just tastes like a substitute teacher that slept with your dad during a PTA meeting. Drink wine when you have to deal with people you’d rather not. Pretend you’re a Bond villain.


Hard Cider: Hard cider is the best of both beer and wine because it tastes like liquid candy and you can smash the bottles on the sidewalk when you’re finished with it. I also like it because its as though apple juice had a rough childhood and now helps troubled teens “You don’t have to be what they say you are!” Drink Hard Cider whenever you want to. I’m not the boss of you.


Bourbon: The only good bourbon is Jack Daniel’s Kentucky Bourbon with a shot of honey. This is liquid gold. Put some in your Dr. Pepper glass at a Carl’s Jr. and have your friend drive you around, you will not regret it.

Vodka: Vodka is what you drink when you want to be drunk. It tastes like rubbing alcohol and I’ve yet to find the mixer that makes it at all palatable. Except Kinky Vodka which is delicious but only when consumed through a red vine straw while you watch twilight eclipse and pause it during that fake imaginary battle sequence so you can pretend they all died at the end. It’s hilarious. Drink Kinky Vodka to make bad movies Hilarious, Drink Regular Vodka when you hate yourself, but not enough.


Rum: Rum is fun when you want to pretend to be a pirate or you have a bunch of coke that you don’t know what to do with. Coke is only good with rum in it but rum is good with everything, especially cake! I like to eat my rum cake in a bowl. Drink Rum when your shopping gets away from you.


Irish Cream: Irish Cream is a breakfast liquor, for when you can’t afford antidepressants but you still need to go to class in january. Put it in your tea or coffee and you can barely graduate! Drink Irish Cream when everything’s terrible but you still have to be alive.


Tequila: Tequila is what you drink when you want to be drunk immediately and have a lot of fun. Also, a lot of vomit. Drink Tequila when you hate your future self and want her to vomit.

Schnapps is a dessert drink for when you want to be awake but not like, functional. Put it in your cocoa and hang out with your mom at Christmas.

If you liked this; please download my free short story To Move On! It’s great! I’m in seventh place with 569 downloads! The most downloads win fabulous cash prizes which could totally be used to pay off my student loans or buy Jack Daniel’s! Combination of the two? Let’s find out together!

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Five Minutes

I am not generally an industrious person. Generally, I have to force myself into any sort of consistent work schedule in order to get done what I do. I am a firm believer in writing every day if you want to be a writer. I believe that no words are wasted, that the act of writing, even if what you produce is absolute drivel that should never see the light of day, will make you a better writer. In practice, however, my best work has come from thinking about a thing for weeks while I surf the internet, reread books, nap and snack and then hash it out at the last minute, The process of lightning strike writing is exhilarating but not sustainable, especially if I hope to have a career. So I force myself to write everyday.

Forcing myself to write on my own projects is usually easy, since I can pick and choose what I want to work on and go at my own pace. Making myself work on actual paid stuff is absolutely the worst. Being paid to write is actually fairly easy. Being paid to write anything but the most mind numbing reports and data collections might as well be witch craft for as much as I can manage to do it. Yet, rent needs to be paid so I persevere, five minutes at a time.

I have to give credit where credit is due and say that my mother was the impotus for this work strategy. Since I was a very young child, my mother has worked primarily out of the home. When I got my first stay at home job and discovered how insanely difficult self motivation can be, I called her and asked her how she did it for all those years. She suggested setting a timer for five minutes and only working for that amount of time. Once those five minutes are up, go off and do something else for another five minutes. When that five minutes is up, return to work for another five minutes.

Of course, if you really get into whatever you’re doing, keep on doing that, especially if you’re getting paid for it.

The Five Minute Method works really well for writers and other people working from their home or on computers. I have no doubt that I would get fired from my dog walking gig if I stopped five minutes into a walk to do something else. My personal method is five minutes of actual paid work, followed my five minutes of writing or blogging because writing has to be a full time job years before you get paid for it, and finally five minutes of something not related to writing or work at all.

Five minutes is really ideal for me, since I can usually write a little over a hundred words in that amount of time. Five minutes, when I am not writing, is just enough time to fix a snack, or wash a dish or go to the bathroom. This blog so far is 510 words and I am only on my fourth five minute cycle. 521.

Do what you love, the saying goes, and you’ll never work a day in your life. There’s a follow up to that, saying you won’t work because no one is hiring in that field. One is inspiring and the other is funny but neither is exactly true. Even if you get the job of your dreams, there will be days when you don’t want to do it. Even if you become a successful water slide tester there will be days where your swim suit rides up and you get stuck on a loop de loop. You can accomplish what you want to do. It might be unlikely, depending on what it is, and will definitely require a ton of work but you can do it. You won’t always enjoy it though but you can still do it.

But you only have to for five minutes.

Guess what else takes five minutes?! It’s downloading To Move On! Actually, downloading only takes like 30 seconds so you could download To Move On like ten times in five minutes. We’re in seventh place which is six places away from me paying off my student loans and devoting more time and energy to writing! You guys like my writing, right? Thanks so much to everyone who has downloaded, liked or shared! Please keep doing so!

Categories: Kinda Funny?, Money, shameless self promotion, Work | Tags: , , , , , , | 1 Comment

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