Category: Megalomania

20 Tracks

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

A few weeks ago there was an engagement post on the hellsite once known as Twitter asking folks to make a twenty song compilation of their all-time favorite songs. Not necessarily the best ones, but the ones you love, the ones that give people a glimpse into what moves you. The only hitch is that you couldn’t repeat an artist.

Naturally, I decided to take this prompt and turn it into a blog post with the added rule that I couldn’t list any of the Monkees solo work (otherwise this list would be a quarter Monkees tunes) and since this is my blog post, I decided to add a little note about each song I picked.

This was not easy. As a long-time music enjoyer, this was incredibly difficult and I could easily do another twenty songs (and probably another twenty after that). And I just might. But for now, here is my initial twenty song compilation. You’ll find nothing groundbreaking here. I’m pretty dull, actually. However, I fully encourage you to check these songs out on whatever music-acquiring service you prefer. After all, I do love them for a reason.

  1. Sunny Girlfriend– The Monkees- This is my go-to answer for my favorite song ever. I love it. It jives with my soul. There’s also an acoustic version that I love.
  2. This Can’t Be Love– Julie London- I discovered the music of Julie London thanks to Emergency! and I’ve been blessed ever since. I have so many favorites of hers, but this one just gets me.
  3. The Three Bears– Bobby Troup- I can’t include Julie London on this list and not include her husband. I love this song because it’s literally just a jazz version of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”. It’s fabulous.
  4. Flirtin’ With Disaster– Molly Hatchet- My dad’s influence on my musical tastes involve a lot of country and southern rock. This one holds a special place in my heart because that Molly Hatchet tape spent a lot of time in the cassette player in Dad’s car.
  5. Pink– Aerosmith- This would be my mother’s influence on my musical tastes. Toys in the Attic was one repeat in Mom’s car, but this cheeky number is a favorite of mine.
  6. Superfreak– Brucey Hornsby, Ricky Skaggs, and John Anderson- I have a major affinity for random covers. I have a whole playlist dedicated to covers and mash-ups. This is my all-time favorite. It’s a bluegrass-y version of the Rick James classic. It shouldn’t work, but it does.
  7. Beautiful Face– Paula Fuga- I am one of those people that will hunt down a song if I hear it on a TV show and I really dig it. I heard this one on an episode of the 2018 Magnum PI. It’s got a sultry, Julie London vibe that I love. I will own much of Paula Fuga’s music before I’m done.
  8. Werewolves of London– Warren Zevon- Do I need to be cheered up? Then I’m going to howl along with this song. My mood cannot stay foul when I’m singing about ripping your lungs out, Jim.
  9. Let’s Go Together– Circe Link- Circe Link is a Monkees daughter-in-law and three Monkees sons also participated in the track, but this doesn’t violate my Monkees rule. It’s the upbeat tune and the jaunty clarinet combined with the lyrics about plotting to unalive oneself that just sends me, especially as a person who has struggled with this exact thing.
  10. The Seven Deadly Sins– Flogging Molly- A hundred years ago, one of my friends sent me several burned CDs of music she thought I might like. She was right. I liked all of it. But Flogging Molly was the band I liked best out of the bunch. I can’t listen to their music without thinking of her. Thanks, Gin.
  11. Pump It Up– Elvis Costello- I have no idea how I came across this jam, but it’s another one of those instant mood lifter songs. It’s a must dance.
  12. Sin Wagon– The Chicks- There should be more country on this list because I actually do listen to a lot of it, particularly from the ’90s. But I have spent a lot of time scream-singing this song, and if you didn’t know you could do that with a country song, yes…yes, you can.
  13. Dragula– Rob Zombie- Dig through the ditches, burn through the witches, slam in the back of my dragula is my live, laugh, love.
  14. I Wanna Dance with Somebody– Whitney Houston- The video plays in my head whenever this bop comes on. It’s my favorite Whitney song. I don’t care if that’s the wrong answer. It’s true.
  15. On the Hunt– Lynard Skynard- I’ve listened to a lot of Skynard (thanks, Dad), but I actually didn’t come across this one until I heard it on an episode of CSI: Miami. There’s something about their music that I just really like and this song is a groove.
  16. Soldier of Love– Pearl Jam- I was only going to put one cover on my list, but the truth is I like every cover that Eddie Vedder does. I actually bought this CD single for the A side “Last Kiss” (which is also a cover), but I ended up liking this one more.
  17. She Bop– Cyndi Lauper- Of all of the songs about masturbation, this one is my favorite.
  18. Unskinny Bop– Poison- I chose this song to represent all of the hairbands I jammed to back in the day. Because little ’80s me jammed to them all.
  19. Wannabe– Spice Girls- I love this song unironically. It’s my go-to warm-up jam for workouts. It puts a little attitude in a my step.
  20. Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground– Willie Nelson- There’s just something about his voice and those lyrics that give me shivers. If I’m in the right mood, this song can make me cry and that’s not a bad thing.


I Went on an Adventure All By Myself

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’d been thinking about taking a trip for over a year. Because that’s what I do. I think about doing things for a long time before I finally snap and actually do them. I mean, my tattoo cover-up was like a decade in the making.

A combination of things pushed me over the edge and prompted me to whip out my credit card. A hectic Summer Reading program at work; the months long video project I did for my library program Deadly DeWitt; and finally, a derecho leaving us without power for over three days. When the power came back on, I was researching places to go. And I decided I was going alone. I needed a trip that was just for myself.

I admit that my first choice was San Diego. I wanted to go out west and I wanted to see some water. Besides that I didn’t have an agenda. However, I couldn’t quite make myself book that trip. The flight alone was more than I wanted to spend, but that’s because I fly first class. Not because I’m snobby, but because I’m fat. Economy/coach on the four hour flight from Chicago to Seattle taught me that my ass is worth a little extra seat and a little extra leg room.

Speaking of that Seattle flight, it’s the longest I’ve ever been on a plane and at the time I did that trip almost seven years ago that was pushing it. I decided that I’d be better off looking for something a little closer, at least for this trip. San Diego one day.

I pretty much just went through a series of potential destinations that would be easiest to fly from via the closest airport and Charleston, South Carolina ended up winning out. It was affordable, the flights were doable, and it satisfied at least something I was looking for -water to look at. It was a new place in a state that I hadn’t been to yet. Sounded good to me.

I booked it. I was going on an adventure.

Here’s the thing. I’m not very good at being an adventurous person. You could say my untreated anxiety makes every day an adventure. And I somehow forget that when I make these sorts of plans. In July, it all seems reasonable and doable.

In September, I question what I’ve done.

First of all, when it comes to traveling, there’s the packing. I’m not gifted at this. I can never decide what to wear and what to take, what I think I’ll want to have with me. I always end up taking too much. I have no chill.

Second of all, when it comes to traveling, there’s the traveling. I would benefit greatly from teleportation because I am also not gifted at traveling. I’ve flow on five trips in my life, including Charleston. Two of those trips were pre-9/11. Of the three post-9/11 trips, I had my bag searched when I went to Seattle and I got a pat down as my toll for Charleston. Both of these incidents happened at my local airport. I think my anxiety regarding TSA has been justified.

But I also have anxiety about getting my carry on in the bin, crowding any potential seatmate with my width, peeing on the plane (I will push my bladder to the limit if it means I don’t have to squeeze myself into that flying port-o-john). Actually, I think the only thing that doesn’t give me anxiety about flying is the actual flying. I like it just fine. The turbulence doesn’t even bother me (though I haven’t experienced really bad turbulence yet). I just wish I didn’t have to do it with all of those other people.

Which isn’t entirely fair because I’ve encountered many kind and helpful people on my flights, including to Charleston. One lady was kind enough to let me get my carry on ahead of her and another gentleman was kind enough to both put my carry on in the bin for me and take it out after we landed.

The trip to Charleston involved a three plus hour layover in Atlanta. But since the trip also involved me getting up at 3am to make a 6am flight, I was too tired to really enjoy it. And by enjoy it, I mean have the energy and appetite to find something more than pretzels and a Coke for brunch.

Once I got to Charleston, Mr. Larry and his taxi saw me safely to the hotel. When I got to my room, I took a moment to appreciate that I was on my own. Which is I wanted. I just didn’t realize that my exhaustion would cause a profound sense of loneliness and homesickness after only hours of being away from home. Thankfully, that passed after I got settled in and got something to eat.

I wanted this to be a trip for myself. I wanted to go to Charleston just because and I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. I didn’t want an agenda or itinerary. I didn’t want to go souvenir hunting in an effort to bring something back for a list of people because I felt like I owed them a token of my travels. I just wanted to go and experience something new, even if that meant I spent the whole time in the hotel writing and eating room service.

Of course, I didn’t want to do that. One thing I did want to do was see the water and I discovered that the Joe Riley Waterfront Park not only provided that experience, but it also came with a bonus pineapple fountain. I have a strange affinity for pineapples. I like them more as an aesthetic than a food. I decided that the only thing I would do on this trip was eat and see the pineapple fountain.

Which doesn’t sound like a big deal until you factor in the aforementioned unmedicated anxiety. Then it can be something of a challenge. And while I did spend the night before fretting about making my pineapple dreams come true, I woke up the next morning ready to go. Once I achieved my goal of securing breakfast at a place down the street, I set about attempting to get over to the park.

I thought I was going to use the local free public transit option. However, I was thwarted by the trolley bus not showing up at the stop I was at even though the app said it would. Whatever. I’m not taking it personally. The Universe didn’t leave me hanging, though, because just down the block was a congregation of bike taxis. So, I inquired how much it would cost to get me over to the pineapple fountain. Mike informed me that it was $12 for 10 minutes, but he could give me an unofficial 30 minute tour that would take me there for $36. Hell, yeah. Let’s go, Mike.

It was a great ride. I saw the College of Charleston, some other historical buildings and houses, Rainbow Row, the Battery, all with facts and trivia, and finally, he dropped me off at Joe Riley Waterfront Park right by the pineapple fountain I sought. He also gave me a card so I could arrange for another bike taxi ride later if I wanted. Mike gave me a bonus adventure, a side quest if you will, that I didn’t even realize was possible.

Unfortunately, the temperature was in the lower 90s, putting the heat index over 100, and by the time I got to the fountain, I was already a little overheated. I ended up doing a quick picture session at the pineapple fountain followed by a walk down the pier for another few pictures before I decided I needed to get out of the heat.

I once again attempted to employ the use of public transport back to the hotel, but by the time I got back to where I thought a stop might be (I was wrong) I was so miserable I instead decided to find a place I could sit in some air conditioning and maybe grab some water and a bite to eat. I ended up at the same breakfast place I’d eaten at that morning, only on a different street. So, I got myself a crab cake sandwich that was fabulous, and both the host and the waiter were wise to my overheated condition and kept the water coming.

Once I finished my lunch, I got some water to go and called for a bike taxi back to the hotel. I didn’t get my new taxi guy’s name, but he was lovely, too. Seriously. If you’re in Charleston, get a bike taxi at least once. You won’t regret it. If you do regret it, I never said a thing.

Aside from the heat, the only other drawback to my unexpected big adventure was that I caught a little too much sun. I ended up a little bit red for my fun.

My last full day in Charleston was relaxation day. Meaning, I spent most of my time in my hotel room, lounging, writing, reading, and generally trying to prepare myself for the flight home the next day. But no worries. I still ate well. I hit up the hotel’s complimentary breakfast bar, and then ordered in from a place around the corner: chicken and waffles for lunch and a shrimp po’ boy for dinner. One last indulgence before I packed it up to head for home.

Did I still manage to have anxiety about just about everything I did on relaxation day? Yes. My anxiety has little to no chill. But it was also preparing me for the trip home. Because as we’ve seen, my flying anxiety is justified.

Despite the raging anxiety I woke up with, my travel home was pretty smooth. I was sure to give myself plenty of time to get ready and eat something and pack and drink my final cup of terrible hotel coffee (I’m sorry, but whatever kind it was they had in the room was not good) and check out before my taxi arrived so I wouldn’t feel rushed and overwhelmed. Mr. Jerome gave me a safe and quick ride to the airport where I breezed through security (I swear to the airline gods it’s only my local one that fucks with me) and even had time to purchase a souvenir for myself for the flight home. I was once again blessed with very cool and helpful fellow passengers. I hear horror stories about nightmare passengers and I am so grateful that I’ve been blessed with only the best from the very first flight I ever took. Once again, glory to the airline gods.

This is the first trip I’ve taken in a very long time (and I take my trips very far apart, so) that I came home actually feeling refreshed and in a great mood. This is the best I’ve felt in months. This trip was better for me than I could have ever hoped. It was exactly what I needed when I needed it.

I also learned something very important on this trip. If I can do a whole incredible adventure in another state, then I can do whole incredible adventures at home, too. I have proven to myself that I can do this, that anxiety doesn’t always have to get the best of me, and that I have ways of working through it.

Most importantly, I learned that I deserve to do things for myself that are just for me with no expectations or obligations to anyone else.

I deserve to have adventures of my own.

You Underestimate My Ability To Be a Disaster

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I was what you might call a gifted child when I was younger. I was smart by school standards. Got good grades. Learning and understanding lessons and studying came pretty easy for me (except for math; that came with more frustration, but I still ended up being pretty good at it). I ended up getting to do a couple of summers of gifted summer school when I was in grade school and in junior high, I was invited to a gifted science camp for a week (where I spent most of it sick thanks to one of the girls I bunked with). I took Honors English in high school and my algebra teacher wanted me in his advanced class, but my parents, who’d tapped out of helping me with my math homework when I was in sixth grade, wisely decided against this. I probably would have thrown my book through the closet door in one of my fits of frustration due to not being able to instantly understand how a math problem worked.

That was another thing. I felt like (and still do feel like) I should know how to do everything. I should automatically know how to do something. When I was three, my mother founding me crying in the closet with this big ol’ adult book on my lap, mad because I couldn’t read it. In my tiny little head, I thought that I should have just known how to do that. I learned to read and write shortly after that, which started a trend of me learning things quickly and sometimes, learning things on my own. It seemed like you didn’t have to teach me anything because I already knew or I would just figure it out.

As it turns out, this is not a great life plan.

Because I was “gifted” in the academic sense, it was just sort of assumed that I knew what I was doing or that I would figure it out in the rest of my life. Nobody needed to guide me into adulthood. After all, I’d been an “old soul” my whole life.

So, here’s the thing.

As it turns out, in my case, doing well academically doesn’t necessarily translate to being smart in life.

Believe me when I say that you underestimate my ability to be a disaster.

I realize the confusion about this because I’m very good at presenting the illusion that I know what I’m doing. I’ve always been very good in my day jobs because I’m very good at learning things and completing tasks and meeting deadlines and knowing my shit. And when it comes to my creative work, again, it’s a matter of learning new things, completing tasks, and meeting deadlines.

But.

Left to my own devices when it comes to being a functioning adult, I have a tendency to wander into traffic and narrowly avoid being flattened by semis. I have a gift for making questionable life choices that typically do not turn out well, but not so badly that it totally fucks shit up. They’re just bad enough that the people in my immediate vicinity might question why someone thought to be so smart is doing something so less-than-smart.

Which is another funny thing. Either people are so convinced of my intelligence that they just figure I have a plan and those questionable decisions are just part of that and/or it’s not my bad decision-making that created this disaster, it’s just that this choice didn’t work out/was something else’s fault/bad luck.

Or, it’s just so awkward that someone once perceived as gifted is making such bad life choices and they don’t want to say anything.

Probably the latter.

The Golden Rule

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I talked about the Golden Rule when I did a Five Minutes on it for Patreon. But since Five Minutes is no more (though $5 patrons can still listen to it if they want to), I thought I’d bring it to the blog.

I’m not talking about the Golden Rule that you’re probably thinking of- “Do unto others as you would have done to you”. It’s a perfectly fine rule and a good one to use to guide your own behavior. However, it doesn’t take into account the assholes who expect you to live by that rule while they don’t. They want you to do unto them what they won’t do unto you.

That’s why I prefer a different Golden Rule- “Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit.”

This Golden Rule is a fabulous guide to not only your own behavior, but also the behavior of others. You see, if someone chooses to start shit, then that’s their shit and their responsibility. For example, when the Supreme Court chose to overturn Roe-vs-Wade they then found themselves being protested against at their own homes. Naturally, they cried about this to the media. But my be-robed fellows, this is what happens when you start shit. You started shit, now there is shit, enjoy your shit.

This could also apply to the people who are routinely “canceled” for saying openly bigoted and/or stupid shit on public platforms. Listen, Loudmouth Lucy and Fuck Your Feelings Fred, your mentions wouldn’t be filling up like a cistern in a shit deluge if you maybe used the backspace key instead of megaphoning your mush-brained hate to the entire interwebs. You started shit, now there is shit, enjoy your shit.

The Golden Rule is closely related to the consequences of one’s own actions. We don’t operate in a vacuum. Everything we do has consequences because everything we do affects other human beings. If you prefer not to have negative consequences, then don’t have negative actions. That’s just physics.

Is it possible to start good shit? Absolutely. This is called breaking the Golden Rule with intention. For example, making an unprompted, generalized post on Facebook about how homophobia is for squares or racism actually exists is no doubt going to start shit among the bigoted aunts and uncles who are going to take a break from posting their “America First” memes to fill their diapers in the comments of that post. It’s an expected, anticipated response to being so controversial. You started shit, now there is shit, enjoy your shit.

But that’s the thing about breaking the Golden Rule and starting shit. Many of the people who break the Golden Rule have no intention of starting shit. They’re not anticipating the shit and they certainly don’t think they deserve the shit. But they do. When you break the Golden Rule -intentionally or not- you get the shit you deserve.

I live by the Golden Rule. If someone starts shit in my general direction, then I see to it that they get the shit they deserve. And if I start shit, then I accept the shit that I receive and I deal with it accordingly.

I gotta be honest, though. The world would be a lot less shitty if we all lived by the Golden Rule.

When Your Tits Turn 21

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

This week was the 21st anniversary of my breast reduction surgery. The Frankenboobies are officially old enough to (legally) drink.

There’s a misconception around twenty-one year old boobs. They’re not as young as you think.

Stay with me here because I know you’re thinking of twenty-one year old girls and their generally young breasts, all perky and firm, and you should probably stop before you end up on some kind of list. But here’s the thing -the person might be twenty-one, but the boobs aren’t. Think about it. They weren’t born with those boobs. Those boobs didn’t even think about becoming boobs until the person was eleven or twelve or thirteen -if not earlier or later. In my case later. My boobs didn’t start boobing until I was nearly fourteen and once they started, they didn’t stop. By my own logic, by the time I went under the knife, my boobs weren’t even ten years old yet.

So, twenty-one year olds don’t have twenty-one year old tits. Thirty-something year olds (on average) have twenty-one year old tits. My own restart pushed that back into my forties.

Breasts that have been around for a couple of decades have seen some shit. I know mine have. My weight has fluctuated by a good sixty or seventy pounds since my surgery. Weight gain, weight loss, weight gain, weight loss. That takes a toll. Whatever fullness and firmness I had after my surgery has been yo-yoed into the ether. The twins got a little more flapjack going on now. They’re also not twins anymore. Not that they’d ever pass for identical, thanks to the surgery complications, but I could have called them fraternal. Not the case now. So long symmetry. After years of the weight roller coaster, Bela is now bigger than Boris, and noticeably so. This isn’t uncommon with boob havers, In fact, it’s so common that when it comes to uneven boobs, most folks find their left one to be larger (that’s the case with me and Bela here). It’s an actual thing.

And whatever the weight changes didn’t do, gravity did. It does more harm than making your toast land butter side down when you drop it. The force it exerts to keep us all stuck to this planet does some really unforgiving things to the meat sacks we inhabit, and not just when they’re dropped from a great height. What perkiness was installed when these bad boys were remade is long gone. You might enjoy the effect produced by my push-up bra, but baby, it’s exactly that. Special effects. The behind-the-scenes will steal your awe and wonder.

The best part about all of this (if there can be a best part) is that there is a very good chance that nearly every titty title holder reading this post is nodding at most, if not all, of it. These are universal symptoms of a continued existence when you have fat sacks hanging from your chest. Maybe the realistic light I’m shining on older tatas isn’t entirely flattering in a world obsessed with youth and symmetry, but to obsess about the appearance of anyone’s breasts -yours, mine, and/or ours- ignores another universal truth.

No matter the size, shape, perkiness, or symmetry…they’re still fun to play with.

In a legal, consenting way, of course.

My Eyeliner Determines My Day

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

There is a wisdom that some people share about setting the tone of your day. That it’s important to create good vibes when you get up so that you can ride those vibes all the way until bedtime.

And then there are some people –like me- who judge the tone of their day by how it starts off. If you spill your coffee, slop your cereal, and/or have to change your clothes due to unfortunate circumstances, all the good vibes you can muster aren’t going to clear away all of those clouds.

For me, my eyeliner determines the kind of day I can expect.

Back in the long, long ago of my high school years and just beyond into my twenties, on the occasions I wore eyeliner, I only wore it on my lower lids. I simply could not work an eyeliner pencil on my top lids for love or money, so I never bothered with it. As my make-up look evolved, I actually stopped wearing eyeliner for the most part in my late twenties and into my thirties.

And then I decided to go as Batgirl’s mild-mannered librarian alter ego Barbara Gordon for Halloween.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the ’60s Batman show, or the ’60s in general, but the make-up look at the time involved winged eyeliner. And because I am dedicated to my Halloween costumes, I was determined to learn how to work it. Thanks to YouTube tutorials and the advancement in eyeliner technology that led to the development of liquid liner pens, I was able to nail the look.

And I just kept on wearing eyeliner.

I decided that I liked it. It was fun. And with some practice, I cut down the time it took me to apply it from ten minutes to something more reasonable. Usually less than five. I do a basic winged look, but it varies from day-to-day because despite the nearly daily practice, I’m still not exactly consistent with my skills.

This is why eyeliner has become the barometer of my life.

The difficulty I have getting my eyeliner on typically predicts the difficulty level of my day. The days in which my eyeliner goes on smooth and clean and my right eye looks similar to my left eye are certain to be easy days. They are few and far between.

Most days, I must deploy a Q-tip to clean things up. It’s usually just a matter of fixing the wings or thinning out the lid lines because they went from sleek to Goth in a couple of strokes or doing a little extra work to make sure my eyes at least sort of match. I consider this to be an average difficulty day. Things will go mostly smoothly, but I’ll have a couple of hitches in the ol’ giddyup.

And then there are the multiple-Q-Tip, Judas-Priest, I’m-calling-in-because-I-can’t-get-my-eyeliner-to-work days.

These are the days that I just automatically write off. Nothing good will come of them and if anything does, I won’t read too much into it. These are the days that I leave the house knowing I’m going to be fighting for my life my entire shift at the library. And probably on the way there and home, too. Everything is going to aggravate me and be harder than necessary.

I write off those days and hope for better eyeliner tomorrow.

I admit that there are exceptions to the rule. There are days when my eyeliner goes on perfectly and it turns out to be the only easy part of my day. Likewise, there are days in which I can’t get my eyeliner to go on right if everybody’s lives depended on it and then end up coasting until bedtime.

After all, nothing in life is absolute.

Especially eyeliner.

There Are Some Lessons I Won’t Learn

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am one of those people that frequently gets an idea, decides to do said idea, and then completely overestimates my ability to accomplish the idea while simultaneously underestimating how difficult it will be for me to accomplish said idea.

I am an absolute menace to myself in this respect and it is a lesson that I am apparently unable to learn.

My latest escapade in this ridiculousness happened in regards to a work project.

Long story short, in researching a local history episode of the library’s podcast (the one on Mayor Pugh; give it a listen…he was fantastic), I came across an article listing 22 murders that had occurred in my county between 1855 and 1913. A few of them I had already covered on the podcast, but my brilliant self decided to research the other murders listed for both podcast purposes and because presenting a program talking about this bit of sordid local history would satisfy a couple of my work goals.

The research portion took months. For some of the murders listed, there wasn’t a lot of information (names, dates, etc.), which made finding them in the old papers difficult. You would think a scythe murder would be easy to find, but no.

I put together the program, made up handouts with some information for people to take with them, and scheduled it with our program coordinator, capping the event at 20 or 25 people for the sake of my anxiety, but thinking I’d only get a handful of people to actually sign up.

Yeah. So many people around here are interested in murder that I ended up doing two encore programs (I have since done another program for the local genealogical society) in addition to the original program.

It was after the second one that I decided it might be a good idea to do a video version and suggested it to my director, who readily agreed. I thought it would be no trouble to put it together.

That should have been my first warning, me thinking something wouldn’t be any trouble.

I actually wrote the script for the program video first. I had a little over an hour’s worth of material that I needed to streamline. Once that was done, I moved on to figuring out the look of my vid.

I quickly ruled out a simple video of me sitting in front of a camera and doing the program because I couldn’t think of anything more boring than to watch me talk. I thought that even when doing the programs. But I wasn’t exactly sure what I should do. I posited this question on the Twitters and a couple of friends with more experience in the video realm than I -shout out to Stan and Amanda- gave me some suggestions and guidance. I decided that it might be best to do a mix of audio slides and video intros to segments. It sounded easy enough.

There we go again with that warning word -easy.

I divided up my script between video and audio and then further divided the audio into how many slides I thought I’d need to cover each case. It took me very little time to record and edit all of the audio for the slides. Thanks years of podcasting!

Using Powerpoint, I put together the slides first. I did all of the text, found the newspaper articles I wanted to use for each case and added them to the appropriate slide, and then put the audio on all of the slides. None of it was exceptionally hard, but it was incredibly time consuming. I did 42 slides. It took nearly 10 hours. But that’s fine. It was all comp time because at the library I was training new people and any off desk time I could get went to changing out displays.

Then came time for me to shoot the video portion of the video.

I admit to putting this off because I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to pull it off, let alone that I could pull it off. First I had to figure out how I was going to record myself. I decided that the laptop webcam was good enough and proceeded from there, experimenting with angles, lighting, and audio. I thought I had it all figured out.

Once again, I overestimated my skills and underestimated my ability to fuck shit up.

Long story short, the video portion of the video did not work out. I don’t want to go into details of my fuck up because I haven’t quite finished metaphorically banging my head against the desk over my dipshittery, but the point is that I did what I always did. I got pissed. I said fuck it. I gave up. And then I decided to do the whole thing as audio slides.

It was relatively quick work to record and edit the new audio and put together 12 more slides.

Then all I needed to do was the subtitles.

You see, I could have left it up to automation, but the damn thing couldn’t make it through the first two sentences without fucking up the title of the program and my name.

So, I had to do it all by hand.

Now, the good news was that I already had the script. It was just a matter of breaking it up into logical hunks to timestamp and upload and then tweak the timestamps.

Sounds easy. And for the most part it was easy, except for the time I fucked something up (because I will always find a way to fuck something up) and had to go back and redo a chunk of slides. But again. It was time consuming. A lot of time. Like over 14 hours to get it right. And that’s not counting the 2 1/2 hours of precious off-desk time I used to do part of it.

But once that was done, the video was done. All that I had to do was proof it, fix anything I fucked up, proof it again, fix it again, proof it again, and finally call it good. Well, not good. Good enough. It’s not much to look at and may actually be even more boring than just watching me talk, but it’s done and that’s all I care about.

All told, I put something like 40 hours into a 46 minute video. Just an embarrassing about of time invested for such a lackluster result.

Yet, it is a perfect example of my talent to over/under estimate myself.

I thought it would be no trouble to put together a video version of my program even though my experience in video making outside of doing uninspired Instagram stories is non-existent. I didn’t think it would necessarily be easy or not be any work or not take time. I just didn’t think it would be any trouble. Because I (mistakenly, as usual) thought that I’d figure everything out pretty quickly, get the hang of it no sweat, and be borderline good at it with no hang ups or issues or setbacks.

Because I am a fool.

Because I refuse to learn that I am not naturally adept at everything I want to do. Because I refuse to incorporate the lesson that things I’m doing for the first time are naturally going to takes longer and require more mistakes and baby steps and sometimes outright disasters. Because I refuse to grasp the concept that I need to expect new ventures to take three or four times longer than I think they will and not come out nearly as good as I think they should because these sorts of things take time, practice, and repetition to get there.

You would think as a writer I would know this, but I can assure you. I’ve learned nothing.

This is my version of Sisyphus.

I will continue to push this boulder up the hill and be the main source of my own frustration until the end of time.

What I Mean When I Say I’m Not Pretty

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I know that there are many who would not find me saying I’m not pretty to be a controversial statement. They will be more than happy to tell me that not only am I not pretty, but I’m also unattractive, ugly, and downright disgusting. And to them I say…takes one to know one.

However, this is a controversial statement for some folks, typically those who know me, like me, love me, are in some way fond of me, or have some kind of fetish.

I posted this picture of me on Instagram in honor of the 25th anniversary of me graduating high school. It’s the only diploma I have and we’re all going to be happy with that. Also this is one of my favorite pictures of myself ever because I believe it truly captures my essence. The caption I posted with the photo said, “I’ve never been pretty, but I’ve always been vaguely annoyed.” This of course caused people to reassure me that I was and am, in fact, pretty.

Except I’m really not and never really have been.

Yes, I know that I’ve written about a couple of moments in my life when I was actually pretty and the unlikely event was caught on camera. But overall, in general, I’ve never been pretty.

Pretty means something else to me.

Pretty is something sweet and delicate. I’ve occasionally been sweet, but I’ve never been delicate. There is nothing delicate about me. Since I’ve been able to grow, I’ve been growing into a person who was not built to be picked up and thrown into a pool. I don’t just mean fat. Even if I never gained all of the rolls and cottage cheese, I’d still be too big to be delicate. My shoulders and hips are too broad for that.

And my facial features aren’t delicate, either. They aren’t cute. There’s nothing soft and sweet about them. They’re sharp. I’ve got a pointy witch nose and cheekbones (one blessing) and an interesting chin going on. Also the freckles I’ve got on my nose and cheeks are too plentiful and insistent to be called cute. Overall, it’s not a pretty facial configuration happening.

Pretty is also something that’s more inline with societal standards. To be pretty means that you meet those standards -at least in part- and I’ve never come close to hitting those marks for a sustainable period of time. Brief moments, sure. A significant stretch? Nope. Maybe my commitment issues also pertain to my looks.

That’s not to say that’s I’m not attractive. I don’t consider myself ugly (pipe down, peanut gallery). I think I’m quite fetching in the right light and at the right angles. Beauty is subjective no matter how much society wants to dictate the requirements. And while I never call myself beautiful (and there are people who’d trip over themselves to make sure I didn’t), I do possess (like most people) a certain kind of beauty.

But pretty? No. Pretty is for someone else who is not me.

And that’s not a bad thing.

Objects in the Selfie Are Fatter Than They Appear

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m sure that I’ve written about this before in various forms, but it’s always worth repeating. Like the meme that I repost on Instagram periodically. It’s always good to remind folks about my reality because it’s not adequately reflected in my selfies.

There’s a reason for that and it extends somewhat beyond just trying to present my best self, though I am absolutely trying to do that with the angles and the lighting.

So, in case you’re new or you need to be reminded, I’m fat. Not low self-esteem fat, not Hollywood fat, actually fat. Midwestern fat. I ballpark my weight at about 250. 100%, Grade A Fat.

However, I don’t carry weight in my face. Even at my heaviest (which was nearly 270), my face looked a little rounder than usual, but that was it. My face has never reflected how heavy the rest of me is. I do not have a fat face. I’m also gifted with some nice shoulders and a relatively slender neck.

And what parts of me are showing when I’m taking selfies? That’s right. Pretty much the cleavage up.

Now I do have fat arms. We’re talking bat wings for days and nights. But with the right twist and the right angle, you don’t really notice the arms. Especially if there’s cleavage in play and the stretchmarks/scars are hidden. Then you don’t even notice my face.

Likewise, when I’ve been taking pictures of my tights and/or fishnets, I do so with my legs propped up on my dresser. I do this because it’s a better lighting angle and you get a better view of my tights and/or fishnets. However, in doing this, it makes my legs look thinner than they actually are. It’s just the result of gravity pulling on my leg fat in a pleasing way rather than yanking on the bulk the way it does when I’m standing, or my thighs just squishing out to the county lines when I sit down.

It’s not a deliberate trick to make myself look thinner. It’s a consequence of the deliberate choice I make of how I show off my tights/fishnets.

What I need is a full-length mirror (and a place to put said mirror). Then I could show off all of my cute tights and fishnets and outfits and my fat as well. Because I don’t like the feeling I sometimes get that I’m hiding how fat I really am. No one has ever said anything to insinuate that I was trying to work any deception, but when I get comments (especially from het dudes) about how good I look, I feel like they’re not taking into account that -as I’ve repeatedly stated and sometimes provided photographic evidence of- there’s a whole lot more of me to look at that isn’t in the picture they’re looking at. See how many compliments they give me when the can see the totality of me.

And I’m not saying that I wouldn’t present my fat in its best light and angles. Of course I would. I’m vain.

But then I’d at least be able to show not tell when reminding folks I’m fat.

Women Are People, Too

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

There is something fascinating about people who have an issue with inclusive language.

Their main argument is that inclusive language -phrases like “humans with a uterus” or “folks who menstruate” or “pregnant people”- erases women. These reproductive ideals have historically been linked with the concept of cis women and therefore that makes them somehow exclusive to them. To include non-binary and trans folks into that conversation somehow excludes women despite women also being people, folks, and humans.

Like I said, fascinating.

It’s fascinating because the fixation on a woman’s reproductive organs and the reduction of a woman’s entire identity to this biological function puts women into their own special category, exalted and oppressed and in dire need of protection, apparently. According to these people, only women can have a uterus; only women menstruate; only women give birth. Are there cis women who don’t have a uterus, menstruate, or give birth? Yes, but the insinuation is that they are somehow less of a woman because of that. The gatekeeping is intense and it’s damaging to those cis women these people purport to protect.

Why do you think Blanche Deveraux on The Golden Girls had a crisis over going through menopause and even said that she was less of a woman because she could no longer bear children? Why do you think women who struggle with infertility feel like failures? Because of the perpetuation of these bullshit requirements that insist that the only real women are biologically capable of bearing children. The underlying message, of course, is that a woman’s most important role -dare I say sole purpose- is to produce and raise the next generation and if you can’t do that (or don’t want to do that), then you’re failing as a woman.

I think, though, the real trouble these people have with inclusive language isn’t just that it includes non-cis women into this formerly cis-women-only conversation, it’s that it refers to all of them as people.

When the inclusive-language haters talk about people, they’re talking about men. Men are people. Women are not people. Women are women. Trans folks are not people. They’re trans. Non-binary folk are not people. They’re non-binary. Men are people. The rest are categories. And when these categories start using inclusive language like “folks who menstruate” or “humans who have a uterus” or “pregnant people”, it doesn’t just include anyone these things apply to, but it also excludes men. Men are people, but they are not these people. And that bothers some humans to such an extent that they feel the need to police language and defend the use of the word “woman” as they believe it’s going extinct.

But the truly fascinating thing is that the word “woman” isn’t going extinct. In fact, it’s growing in popularity and gaining meaning.

Probably because women are people, too.