Tag: bursting bubbles

This Is Where I Keep My Crazy

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I realized the other night that I’ve been keeping a journal for over twenty years.

I’ve probably talked about my journaling before, but I’m prone to repeat myself more often now that my brain is 95% song lyrics and movie quotes. So, I’m just going to talk about it again.

I remember attempting diaries as a kid, but never stuck with it. Probably because I was nine and didn’t have much of a life to write about and even though I was a writer, I thought diaries were strictly for real life escapades. As far as I was concerned, I was not doing any escapades worth writing about back then.

About six months after my oldest niece was born, I was gifted a journal. She’s twenty-two now. Anyway, it took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to write my first entry. Once that seal was broken, though, I found it easier to write down my thoughts. But it would be years before I made it a daily habit.

Despite what my nine year old self thought, I’m still not using my journals strictly for my real life escapades, though the few escapades I do manage to have typically rate a mention.

My journals are where I keep my crazy.

My mind is a hellscape. It frequently gets too full. That one time I saw a therapist for three appointments before she got sick and I never rescheduled, she said that part of my problem is that I hold things in to the point that they overflow, and that retention was contributing heavily to the toxic state of my mind. So, I started putting the things that I couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about out loud into the pages of my journals. It helped. It got it out of my head and onto the page where I could see it and examine it from a safe distance. Poking about the words spewed from my brain has helped me a lot when it comes to figuring out how my defective grey matter works.

My roommate, who once had her privacy invaded thanks to a journal-reading incident, asked me how I can just leave my journal on my bedside table without worrying about someone reading it.

Simple.

If you read my journal, you get what you deserve.

People underestimate the shit that goes on in my head. I’m not just writing about annoying coworkers and petty grievances and people I find dreamy (though I do mention that sometimes). I’m not just jotting down my goals and to do lists and my dreams (though I do that, too).

This is where I keep my crazy. My rage. My self-harm thoughts. My go-to-jail thoughts. My delusions and illusions. My paranoia. My anxiety. My depression. My whacked out, what the fuck thoughts that would make even the strongest whimper and cringe. This shit is not for the faint of heart. It’s not even for the sure of heart.

If someone decides to go sneaking a peek at those pages, they’re going to end up scarred for life. They’re certainly never going to look at me the same way ever again. And it would be all their own fault.

I have every intention of destroying my journals before I die. Or leaving instructions with someone I trust to have them destroy them for me. There’s no goldmine in those pages, nothing publishable, nothing salvageable, nothing memorable. Nothing that needs to be remembered.

They’re just bits of my mind, anyway.

They should go with me to the grave.

What’s My Stretchmarks Rebrand?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Remember when everyone started calling the stretchmarks gained in pregnancy “tiger stripes”? It was done in an effort to make child bearing folks feel better about the changes their body underwent while they were growing and birthing an entire human being. As a collective, we decided to change a flaw to a badge of honor. As well we should. Growing and birthing a person is kind of a big deal.

So, I have to ask…where’s my stretchmarks rebrand?

My first stretchmarks came from puberty, as did a lot of other people’s. Many of these faded marks on my hips I got as I entered my teens. These deep grooves on my breasts came from a late bloomer blossoming so fast that I went up multiple cup sizes in a year. What are these stretchmarks? Boob grooves? Growth charts? Puberty scars? Puberty is a pretty brutal time of life, anyway. Might as well show the stretchmarks as the warrior wounds they are.

And what about the stretchmarks I acquired through weight gain? Why should they be vilified? There are many tasty treats and lazy days behind some of those marks (a lot of depression, injury, and illness, too, but never mind the negative; we’re being positive here). What do we call those? Burrito bands? Cookie cracks? Buffet lines?

I ask these inane questions because stretchmarks are a mark of life. Most people have them. They are proof of growth during life. Why do they need a rebrand? Specifically, why are only one specific type of stretchmarks worthy of a rebrand?

As a society, we’re kind of hung up on exemptions. It’s okay to have stretchmarks as long as you’ve acquired them because of pregnancy. It’s okay to be fat as long as you’re fat a certain way (“curvy” with a tiny waist, flat stomach, and fat ass, also try not to be over a size 14) or you’re a “good” fatty because you’re actually healthy or you’re trying not to be fat. It’s okay to be old as long as you look younger than your age. It’s wild to think of how many of these sorts of societal standards have asterisks on them. Terms and conditions may apply.

In the long run, stretchmarks as a flaw is a bullshit concept. Pristine skin with no evidence of existence is yet another unattainable standard. As I said, many of us get marked in our early teens. Ruined before we begin, no chance at perfection. Of course, there’s no money to be made if we accept ourselves how we are, now is there? I’m not going to purchase a cream to fade my stretchmarks if they don’t bother me. There’s no means to keep us in our places either, so to speak. You can’t shame me for a flaw if I don’t have it, right? Can’t keep me small and insecure, can’t lower my value over a perceived defect if I don’t perceive it.

I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Rebrand my stretchmarks. Not because I think I need to or because I have to, but because I want to. I think it’ll be fun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go learn to love my boob grooves and buffet lines.

An Apology to Everyone Who Has Ever Encountered Me in the Wild

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

If you have ever come across me in public and thought I acted a little (or a lot) weird, I apologize. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s definitely me.

I wasn’t prepared to see you.

Yes, despite living in a small town, I expect to move through public spaces without seeing anyone I know out of the context I’m used to interacting with them in. Sure we went to school together and we’ve been Facebook friends for years, but I don’t expect you to know me, recognize me, or talk to me. This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t. It’s just that I don’t expect you to.

And because I was caught off guard by this clearly unusual occurrence of people who know me actually knowing and acknowledging me, I am fully unprepared for the ensuing social interaction. What follows is several agonizing minutes of small talk that I didn’t study for while my brain screams at me to just be cool, man! The end result is me being painfully awkward and ruining the entire interaction, at least in my mind.

I have had smoother conversations with cops who have pulled me over at one in the morning for speeding. Very unattractive considering as a rule I shouldn’t be talking to cops.

My brain truly short circuits during these interactions. It’s particularly bad if it’s someone I primarily interact with online. We’ve already covered how I struggle with my own object permanence. If I don’t expect people to think about me, I definitely don’t think they remember me or would recognize me out of my own context in their existence. It never fails to shock me when someone knows who I am. And then they try to interact with me and it all goes to hell.

It’s funny how this happens. You would think that someone who works in customer service would be able to function in these situations. After all, I’m making small talk with strangers about their gut flora and peripheral vision on a regular basis (people really will talk to you about anything), so you would think I’d be able to do it relatively easily with people I actually know in some fashion. But no! Not my brain configuration.

I don’t know if the people I’m conversing with are feeling as awkward as I am, not because their brains are plagued with bad wiring, but because my awkwardness is so palpable they can’t help but catch it. It’s none of my business if they think I’m weird and incapable of simple conversation, but I’m pretty sure they think I’m weird and incapable of simple conversation.

And for that, I apologize. It is never my intention to inflict my awkwardness on others. I want to assure you that if we have ever met unexpectedly in the meatsphere (or if we ever happen to cross paths in the future), my behavior has nothing to do with you. You are fine, I’m sure. You’ve done nothing to warrant my terrible small talk.

I just come by weird more naturally than anything else.

I Am a Universe Unfolding

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Once upon a time I was talking to a friend about the disaster of a human being I am and how I find new and interesting ways to fail. And he told me “You are a universe unfolding.”

Damn I love that line. That’s a good line. I don’t mind being a disaster, but being a universe unfolding encompasses so much more than just the disaster element. I mean, when you think of it, the universe was something of a mess when it first got started and there are bits of it now that are most likely in disarray, but there are some nifty areas, too.

That’s something like me.

“I’m not the same person I used to be.” That’s the ol’ personal growth saying, isn’t it? And it’s true. I’m not the same person I was twenty years ago or ten years ago or five days ago. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Growth happens in all sorts of directions, doesn’t it? Cancer is a growth, after all. Can’t say too many people are thrilled with it. In all of my unfolding over the years, I can’t say that I’ve gotten it all right. I know I’ve unfolded some horrors, some really deep dark dimensions that weren’t for the faint of heart. I believe they like to call those times the dark night of the soul and baby, my soul was a pitch black moonless midnight, not a star to be seen.

Not every change I make to my existence is one that works out in my favor. Or in other people’s favor.

The interesting thing about being a universe unfolding is that not everyone appreciates it. Not everyone digs your expansion or your new disasters or your changes or your newness. They prefer you as you were because that’s what’s comfortable, that’s what’s known. Not everyone signed up to boldly go, you know? I can’t blame them. After all, they’re a universe, too.

The comforting thing about embracing myself as a universe unfolding is the unending aspect of it. I don’t mean that I suddenly think I’m immortal or that I’ll be remembered for eternity or anything like that. My legacy is none of my business because I’ll be dead and that presents a different set of concerns. What I mean is that I’m unending. I’m always new. I’m always finding and creating and destroying different aspects of myself and my existence. Even as a person who craves stability and who sometimes struggles with change, there’s something warm and fuzzy about the idea that I’m always…unfolding.

I am still very much a disaster in many ways. I frequently set fire to my own life with my choices. My brain can be an absolute hellscape of anxiety and depression. But instead of offering these things up as evidence of the complete failure of a human I am, I can now show them as examples of the universe I am. These are my black holes. But if you swing that telescope ’round, you’ll see the planets of my creativity and the constellations of my work and the stars of empathy and humor and intelligence, and the meteors of greatness that whiz by.

I truly am an interesting place.

And there’s always more of me to discover.

“Nothing Worth Mentioning”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

When people ask me what’s going on or what I’ve been up to, my go to response is always, “Nothing worth mentioning.” Sort of like when people ask you how you are and you automatically respond with “fine”. It’s all part of the social greeting norms. Nobody really cares how you are. And nobody really cares what I’ve been doing.

I discovered years ago that I’m a dull person. People would ask me what I’d been up to and I’d honestly answer that question and watch their eyes glaze over. Or if I was part of a group conversation, someone else would interrupt and the conversation would shift and that would be the end of my participation. What have I been doing? Nothing interesting to anyone else, apparently.

Part of this is because I’m kind of a failure and didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I didn’t get married, I didn’t have kids, I didn’t get a “real” job. I think people who did all of that kind of find it hard to relate. What do we talk about if we can’t talk about the things we’re supposed to have in common? They tell me stories about their spouses and offspring and full-time work drama. What can I contribute with? I can’t. Let’s just skip it then, shall we?

The other part of this is that I’m introverted. I don’t have the spouse, 2.5 kids, picket fence, and office job to talk about, but I’m also not partying every weekend or traveling the world or other leaving-the-house activities on a regular basis. I go to work at the library day job and I come home and that’s pretty much it most weeks. It’s already been established that we’re not going to talk about what I’m working on. So, what do we talk about? Which patron acted the ass this week? Well, several, but I can’t name names because this is a small town. Gotta tread lightly so I don’t get into trouble.

In the end, “nothing worth mentioning” is the best answer because it’s the truest one. I’ve been doing things and living life, but if I wrote it in a novel, it’d be the stuff most readers would skip because they found it boring. Sure, I took a trip to South Carolina, but it was pretty much to see a pineapple fountain and relax. Don’t need more than a couple of sentences to explain that.

And that’s the thing. In the unlikely event that I actually do something worth mentioning, I’ve gotten so good at not mentioning it that I no longer really know how to mention it.

“How was your trip?”

“Oh, it was great. I had a really fun time!”

End conversation.

Unless you ask me for more details, I will not offer them up. I don’t want to bore you. And if you do ask, I will bore you with those details. What’s exciting and interesting to me is beige paint to everyone else. For someone who calls themselves a writer, I really can’t tell a story well enough to hold an audience.

(Ah. Some additional insight into my unsuccessful writing career, methinks.)

It’s something I”m working on. Both getting better at talking about the things worth mentioning and realizing that there are sometimes things worth mentioning going on in my life.

In the meantime, I’m still available to hear all about what’s going on in yours.

My Ass Might Be Acceptable If I Didn’t Have a Belly

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Living in a society that makes body types trends and fads is wild. I have never once been in style.

The closest I came was when butts came into fashion. Juicy booties were all the rage and I’ve been growing my own backside since puberty. Which was kinda the problem. My big ass wasn’t big in exactly the right way. More wide than round. Which probably could have been forgiven if I’d had a tiny waist and flat stomach to go with it. Alas alack, a little too much waist and a lot too much belly.

Back in the long long ago, heroin chic was in. You had to be rail thin, no butt, no boobs, no body fat. Not many women (and that’s who these trends are usually directed towards) could achieve that look, though a good many earned eating disorders and body image issues trying. That was back when I was thinner than I am now, but had more boobs than anyone knew what to do with. There was no way I’d ever be able to achieve that look, not with all the anorexia I could manage. I’m not built to be small. Could you imagine taking all of the body fat off of me and leaving only a the most necessary hint of muscle behind? I’d look straight up wonky. I’m sorry, Vogue, but my thighs are meant to touch. That’s just my DNA.

That’s what’s really head-tilting about the whole body trend thing. This idea that people’s DNA is a fad, a hot for fall style, don’t be out of fashion. Like…what? How does that even make sense?

But it does. There’s money and power in that sort of manipulation. You sell diets and implants with that sort of advertising. You keep women off balance always trying to achieve the unattainable physical ideal and have a convenient way of putting them in their place if they don’t.

It’s a mindfuck.

As someone who has spent most of their existence in a fat body, I well know the toll this sort of thing can take on a person living in a society when only certain bodies are deemed worthy. And to narrow that field even further with body trends…whew. It feels like an unending failing.

The body positivity movement has been interesting in this respect because even though it has helped push larger bodies more into the mainstream for representation, there’s still certain trends. You’re not going to see anyone who looks like me…aggressively pear-shaped with a belly and bat wings, for example. It’s a bad look. Definitely not in style.

Ain’t that a bitch?

I’ve never been very good about being on trend. Even if I had the in fashion body, my style has tended to out of sync with what’s all the rage. So, it wouldn’t make much sense for me to obsess with my actual body not being the going thing, would it? And yet! It’s something that still creeps up in my mind. Little reminders that I’ll never be in style. That I’ll always be just wrong enough to miss the trend. Society has a Hot or Not page and I’m always in the Not column. And I should feel bad about that.

I admit that sometimes I do. Sometimes I forget myself and I lament about never having a body that’s in style.

And then I remember that I’m not supposed to. Bodies aren’t meant to be trends. They’re just bodies, our soul’s meat vehicles. Whatever model you’ve got is just fine.

And in my case, I’ve always had more fun being out of fashion anyway.

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.

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.