TL;DR -> it makes AdSense obsolete.
I tried to sell a story on Subbable earlier this week. Oh gods how I tried. ReadWrite, the Guardian’s tech section, even Variety… but I failed to generate interest, and/or communicate just how drastic of an impact Subbable can have on the YouTube space, business-wise.
To most of the press, Subbable appears as a gentle, crowd-sourced monthly pay-what-you-want subscription platform funding web shows that already exist. Doesn’s seem that disruptive, until you consider the allure of YouTube. The heart of the indie YouTube dream is being free, or at least above, corporate influences. If successful, Subbable could potentially do away with the advertising/hit-mining rat race on YouTube. Hank Green doesn’t exactly say this in the video introducing the platform, but he might as well.
In a private chat, I got Green to elaborate:
“Advertising values all kinds of content the same, but different kinds of content delivers different amounts of value to users. We want there to be a system that rewards the creation of stuff people love, not stuff that people will spend three minutes watching when they’re bored.”
Subbable — which is unaffiliated with YouTube — changes the YouTube money-making game because it emphasizes community and a supportive fan base over viral hits with fleeting popularity & large monetary payoffs. It’s a slow, steady win as opposed to that big payday. (It’ll be interesting to see how the addition of Minute Physics, Wheezy Waiter, and Andrew Huang next week on Subbable will play out. )
Green never came right out and said this during our chat but it got me thinking: if a content creator worked it out with his fans, he or she could essentially never bother monetizing their channel…EVER. There’s literally no reason now to go through Google corporate to make money. Their high ad cut and ad sales team are already alienating users and businesses, so why bother with that hot mess? You don’t.
I, for one, still believe in that YouTube dream.
My favorite time to take selfies is when I am drunk and alone in the bathroom. I tend to take the majority of them while inebriated, actually, and online evidence proves even middle-aged women do the inebriated selfie in the bathroom too.
Yes, even the Boston Marathon Bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, when he wasn’t sober, whipped out his cellphone and took selfies. And one of these non-sober self-portraits (speculatively) is on the cover of Rolling Stone right now and making a name for itself as the most controversial selfie on our planet.
Media critics are calling Rolling Stone everything short of evil for using his selfie photo as cover art, never mind that Instagrammed self-portraiture is becoming a legitimate form of art and feminist self-expression. This universality is exactly why the self-portrait of the young and handsome (and murderous, don’t you forget) Tsarnaev as cover art choice is outrageous. How dare we relate to a killer! How dare a magazine make us feel this way! If I were the art director over at the Rolling Stone right now, I would be creaming my pants: this is the type of feedback creative types have wet dreams about.
Tsarnaev’s selfie effectively normalizes him, and as the three-day long controversy has shown, we just cannot deal with that. We would rather depart reality and delude ourselves into thinking national-headline-making killers are ugly and have nothing in common with us than see them engaging in everyday behavior. If we could somehow magically teleport to a place where we all believed Tsarnaev didn’t know how to operate a phone, we would.
In fact, to portray Tsarnaev as ordinary is dangerous, they imply, because in order to feel better about the bombings we need to see the differences, not the similarities, between ourselves and the cruel killer. It sounds absurd, but this is more or less what the critics are saying. The New York Times thinks this kind of madness is a result of the heatwave. Possibly. I think it might be a combination of Tsarnaev’s image making fresh the horror of the bombings, much like that just-healing summer scrape you accidentally pick at only to have it start oozing.
The selfies we share on the web are supposed to be the best reflection of ourselves. This skewed mirror is precisely why the Boston Globe in a Thursday post echoing the collective rage calls the use of the selfie “ill-advised” and “irresponsible.” While many of us cannot fathom Tsarnaev’s terrorist intentions, we can all relate to photographing ourselves and dare-I-say-it, creating a typically blemish-free personal brand online. The self-portrait via cellphone is a “language we all understand,” but …we don’t want to understand a bomber. Please don’t make us understand one.
This now infamous selfie, originally displayed on Tsarnaev’s twitter profile, was the “mask” he chose to portray to the world and glorifying it by featuring it on a rock-and-roll magazine is akin to “collaborat[ing] with Tsarnaev in the creation of his own celebrity,” continued the Boston Globe.
Need I remind everyone, Tsarnaev was already a “celebrity” before his Rolling Stone cover, having graced the front pages of newspapers the world over with some even featuring that same image. Rolling Stone is not responsible for this mass media interest, the spread of the photo, or for Tsarnaev’s fanbase of young girls cooing over the soft locks in his approachable selfies. To suggest Rolling Stone is appealing to Tsarnaev’s misguided female fans by choosing this already-widely circulated photo when this same criticism was not levied against the New York Times, is logic I’d only be able to process if my head was in the sand.
CVS banning the sale of the magazine in its shops (and now Walgreens too), and folks celebrating this decision, is akin to saying “monsters must be clearly portrayed as monsters, or else.” Who wants to live in that black-and-white society, presumably filled with bad art? Not me. (Not to imply Tsarnaev’s selfie as cover photo of a magazine is good art — it is in fact the opposite for a variety of reasons and not just because of the bad captions.)
The disconnect between the villain within and the exterior shell of Tsarnaev as a potential sweetheart through his selfies is precisely why the self-portrait should be used for feature-length pieces about his descent into terrorism. But don’t just take my word for it.
Cover Think points out Rolling Stone’s cover is “doing nothing more than reflecting back to us the vanity of a young man’s narcissism, complete with his Armani Exchange T-shirt.” The Washington Post writes “the photo in question jibes with the impression of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev that has emerged from countless interviews with friends and schoolmates” before calling the cover art choice “an accurate and journalistically responsible portrayal of this young man.”
To not use the photo as cover art because it humanizes, then, reveals a willful ignorance on the modern human condition. It is not only “irresponsible,” but bad journalism too. Art that elicits strong emotions is powerful, but banning it only increases its strength.
We can’t will away Tsarnaev’s cellphone, his looks or his seemingly normalness, just like how we can’t will back the lives and limbs his actions stole. And maybe that’s okay, because sometimes we need to see the similarities between ourselves and the villain in order to help us understand the differences. Cellphone selfie and all.
As for the cellphone selfie as legit art form, well, this controversy took care of that.
This is a guide for people who are more interested in the cultural and societal implications of technology from a non-technical background. (I’d recommend attending all the “future of TV/media” talks as a beginners guide to video distribution and social media use.)
Thursday, June 27th:
The US First Robotics Challenge, from 12pm – 4pm.
“US First’s mission is to inspire young people to be science and technology leaders, by engaging them in exciting mentor-based programs that build science, engineering and technology skills, that inspire innovation, and that foster well-rounded life capabilities including self-confidence, communication, and leadership.”
“The debate around how we should view the concept of intellectual property and copyright in the digital age has continued since the launch of Napster in the ’90’s until today. Why is file-sharing still so limited and how has it affected the world at large?”
Friday, June 28th:
Funny or Die‘s “When Humor is Serious Business,” from 11:00am – 11:30am, featuring Funny or Die CEO Dick Glover. (I have an inkling what Glover will discuss, but being as I have never heard him speak, he might surprise me.)
“Funny or Die is now synonymous with Internet humor…What makes their business model so successful? How do they acquire high quality content with a low budget? What does the future of Funny or Die—and Internet entertainment in general—look like?”
Digital Art; From Easels to Pixels, 12:00pm – 12:30pm
“Art infilitrates everyday life, and every surface, object, or open space is fair game for medium. See how artists are incorporating technology into their work, whether as a means to an end or as the finished product itself. These people are innovating on what it means to be a traditional artist and the burgeoning interest in creating art meant to be consumed in digital form.”
The very ambitiously titled “How the Second City Can Become the First in Fashion,” 5:00pm – 6:00pm
“Take the tech from the West and the high-end fashion from the East and meet somewhere in the middle. Where do you end up? Chicago, of course. Combining the best of both coasts, a slew of Chicago startups are leading the pack in terms of the merging of high-tech and high-fashion.”
Saturday, June 29
In the wake of Hasting’s mysterious death and the conspiracy theories suggesting his car was hacked I feel compelled to attend “Driverless Cars: Speeding to the Future,” 12:30pm – 1:00pm
“While flying cars are still just a figment of our collective imagination, self-driving vehicles—such as the Google Car—are on the imminent horizon. Not only does this technology have the potential to prevent millions of injuries and save countless lives, it also has the power to disrupt the flow of trillions of dollars in industry revenue. Nearly everyone will be affected: suppliers, automakers, service-and-repair shops, insurers, energy companies, hospitals, and car rental companies, to name a few. Undoubtedly, there will be huge implications for all transportation and logistics—the backbone of every company’s supply and distribution chains.”
Entrepreneurship in Eastern Europe, 1:30pm – 2:00pm
“Eastern Europe’s tech scene is small but growing. Find out what Google is doing to facilitate the growth of the tech sector in Poland and beyond, what ideas are brewing in that corner of the world, and how they plan to impact the future.”
“Is the Internet Destroying the Middle Class?,” 2:00pm – 2:30pm
People tell jokes about violence against women all the time, either because they don’t realize violence against women is a cultural norm, or because they think laughing at said cultural norm will somehow make it less horrible. This is the only way that I rationalize the astronomical rise of the tumblr “Exploding Actresses” and the lack of any adequate critique of it as a form of Internet art.
As the title of the viral tumblr suggests, actresses explode. Not any random actress in any random movie either, these are actresses in movies very much beloved by women. There are GIFS, YouTube videos and stills.
“Have you ever imagined your favorite actresses and Disney princesses without heads?” opened one gleeful blog post about the subject. Huffington Post labeled their “hilarious” post about it “satire” but was unclear as to what was actually being culturally commented on: that women iconography was being destroyed rather violently, or that a male was behind it?
Them exploding is no big deal, it’s a joke, it’s supposed to be funny, all the write-ups imply. This is problematic for a variety of reasons but Lindy West can explain those best somewhere else.
Perhaps the tumblr creator Simone Rovellini — who lives in a country the UN flagged for having particularly bad domestic abuse problem – didn’t mean to be sexist with his movie choices or in picking the “greatest actresses in film history,” and merely chose the movies he did because the depictions of love in those movies make men’s heads explode. Or maybe he was implying that while watching these movies might make women happy, it will really leave them braindead. Oh wait. Both of those reasons are still sexist.
It’s interesting to note that as Rovellini’s mini-art project picked up press all over the world, he began exploding men’s heads in his work. Still only in movies beloved by women though. Hmm.
I can’t believe I made two of my previous posts private the other day. Part of me was ashamed– the mental health issues, mostly — and I felt like they were unfinished bits, which was why I took them down. But that was me doubting myself. Diary-like entrees don’t have to be perfect personal essays. I can always use the material again for a healthcare or mental health post, and the republishing of some bits shouldn’t be a problem if I do sell a piece anywhere. Now I am ashamed I hid them, to think that I faltered like that. I am ashamed I was ashamed.
I am still focused on fixing myself, which is still taking precedence over writing for money, so that has remained consistent at least since March. A therapist is still in order now that my crotch pain has subsided and I feel like I can walk like a normal person. Some people would put mental over physical health, but I am lucky to have a patient mate.
When I’ve talked about my mental illness before to friends and family, I always talk about me “waking up” because I describe it as if I am no longer sleeping, I know who I am again. But then, something happens to shake up my worldview and I realize I had fallen back asleep and didn’t even realize. Going to NYC (and seeing friends and family) always wakes me up, and this time I hope, pray and wish I stay awake longer than I have previously. (I was in NYC recently to write about GF2045 for VICE’s Motherboard.) Another way to describe it is I have lost myself, or personality, somehow so to fill the personality void I absorb the ones of those around me. Or I could get really emo and link to Tor Amos’ “Silent All These Years” but my situation isn’t really like that. I’ll go with the obscure Von Iva’s “Same Sad Song,” which doesn’t really fit either, but… maybe if they were combined.
I am telling you all this, dear Internet, because while looking at the VICE suicide fashion photoshoot I was overcome with thoughts of Emma Bernstein, and in examining my behavior while remembering her it became apparent I have now completely processed her death. Her influence was what made me want to be a writer, and in thinking of her, I looked at my writing career with a new perspective.
There were many times when I was flakey, promised things I couldn’t deliver, and let people treat me like a doormat. I had issues meeting deadlines and failed to negotiate properly for what I wanted or needed and misunderstand what people were trying to teach me. My ability to produce good work is what saved me during my post-accident mania, I think. (My accident roughly 5 years ago also relit my writing desire, so I guess that is the one positive outcome out of all of that, even though right before the accident I was serious about modeling and improv. Why I am still doing journalism despite preferring creative writing and performance art — and even going to school for it– is something I will need to transition to, and soon. )
Another pattern emerged during last night’s porch-in-the-moonlight reflection: I’ve had relatively manageable depression since high school and was also “moody as fuck” (my troubled parents failed to notice this but my therapist freshman year of college was not the neglecting sort), but following my accident — specifically the concussion– I became what one therapist described as manic and maybe ADHD. My moods would fluctuate from uncaring, cold and full of hatred to overly enthusiastic exuberance of emotion and energy. I engaged in reckless, selfish and intentionally hurtful or self-sabotaging behavior. I have many apologies to give now… and many mistakes to correct. Here’s hoping that come tomorrow I still give these same fucks.
as I would like to use snippets from the last two, as they relate to health care, elsewhere. For money.
If you were linked here, well, you’re out of luck.
Possible alternative title: My vagina gives me much trouble in 2013. (Oh no, that’s so victim-blaming. Maybe try, how the current health care system failed my crotch! Or make it something about the lack of bike lanes! Or the dangers of a sedentary life style! The modern condition! I have many ways I can take this… )
Stadtmiller, recently profiled in the Observer as being a “gross over-sharer” and a “crazy woman” is dare-I-say it, fast becoming an inspiration to me. (Not linking to piece because it was rude and reeked of internalized misogyny.) I’ve always found Mandy’s writing fearless, and her transparent but self-deprecating style — she makes herself the butt of her jokes many times — has made me an admirer. I wish she talked about mental health more though, so I would feel less a fool.
So yeah, if my mother and my mate want to harass me about all these posts about my crotch, well, I am going to direct them to Mandy. I’m already getting slack from gamer males, whispering in my head-setted ear late at night while I try to take a control point or shoot a sniper, about me liking to slice my pussy — a reference to my Thought Catalog piece about my vagina. It’s unsettling, which was probably why they were doing it — to mess up my game — and I took the verbal abuse and shrugged it off without comment.
Anyway, see that photo above, of my favorite flats that I have been wearing since last summer? It is the perfect visual metaphor of how unstable my life has been, both mentally and physically.
Of all the things the grey-haired veteran journalist-types taught me before they were laid off, one was ringing true now: I must first take care of myself. Which explains all these posts about my crotch, see. I must take care of myself before I can take care of anyone else.
As you can probably guess by this post, the pain in my crotch woes continue because nothing is ever that quick-fix easy. (A lot of my other woes continue too like some same old Sam, including me failing at various work plans like leaving the house or sorting my freelancer issues, of which I now have 6. Ugh, help. Co-working spaces in Chicago, anyone?)
Once again, the pain is partially my doing too: I was too delighted this Sunday with having full hip rotation that I pulled a muscle – the psoas – in my crotch, right side. I was feeling sexy at the time, and still only partially regret it — having full movement made me so very confident. But then it came, like a punch from the universe. In my goddamn crotch. I floundered in bed for at least an hour sobbing from the pain, a long hot shower did nothing to soothe it, and I thought very seriously about going to the ER. I didn’t go, because what can they do besides fondle my crotch and give me painkillers I’d refuse to take?
It was quite possibly the worst pain I have felt since the accident, and I was limping well into the night. When the pain and the muscle spasms finally subsided around 3am, I masturbated furiously and to my satisfaction everything down there was still working. Thank the gods. Yeah, I am so male in that way, of wanting to make sure my junk is still fine. This way of thinking, as a woman, is a luxury in many parts of the world I realize.
(Is no one going to hire me full-time now that I mentioned masturbation in multiple posts? Am I a disgrace? These are interesting branding questions… questions Mandy probably knows the answer to.)
Speaking of Mandy, Stadtmiller gave me an interesting idea yesterday, about crowd-sourcing my medical bills. I don’t know if I am cool enough to pull it off, but I really do want some x-rays down there and actually go to a physical therapist instead of doing shit from home. I also think my last doctor missed some things. My essayist friend Rachel Rabbit White suggested I clean up my last post and submit it to xoJane, but I am unsure of what to focus on in the re-edit. If I do though, I would ask for some medical bill help.
I am officially getting tired of all this pain shit. I want to be running, dancing and biking already goddammit, but I know that is out of the question right now given walking normally is still a motherfucking problem. I feel like my crotch pain — what I’ve currently self-diagnosed as a grade 2 psoas strain — has been slowing me down for years. I am getting incredibly impatient with the limits of my body right now, if you can’t tell, and it is not helping my mental health or work issues. Ugh.
Not to end on a completely negative note; all this pain and self-reflection has forced me to slow down and re-evaluate things in my life. (Like, not freelancing for so many places, learning how to say no, figuring out better time management and what not, etc.) So, there’s that.
Alternative title: Why working from home for years as a depressed person injured by a car while riding their bike is a really fucking bad idea! (also, always do your physical therapy!)
Other alternative title ideas: Please look out your windows when opening car doors, and in general as a car driver, please be kind to cyclists. I know you guys and gals currently have a war going on for the road with the bicyclists, but it’s not worth killing, paralyzing, or injuring a person permanently over.
It’s been a little over a month since I’ve updated this blog, and so many things have happened in that time – including me smoking weed with Snoop Lion (and then lighting my hair on fire and vomiting in a diner bathroom because marijuana and alcohol don’t mix duh-I-should-know-better) – that I am having a hard time keeping up. The most important bit of news though, is of course the title of this personal blog post.
I’ve actually been struggling to get any major work done since my emergency doctor’s visit last Wednesday. All I want to do is dance around my apartment, have sex or masturbate, or sleep because damn am I sore and tired now that I can walk and balance properly. The last thing I want to do is sit still and type away on a laptop. I’ve been typing my life away, glued to my Internet machine, for a few years now and it has caused me a world of physical and mental pain. I mean that in the most literal way possible – my sedentary, hermit lifestyle made my injury and depression worse.
See, the last issue left over from my biking accident – which included a concussion, cracked rib, and puncture wound in my chest above my right breast – originally manifested as a mild back pain. When I woke up on the concrete now almost four years ago due to a searing pain in my torso, I looked down at my legs and thought I was paralyzed: my legs looked odd and tangled up in my bike frame. Emergency xrays found nothing broken or wrong with my back, but something still ached as they stitched up the hole in my chest while I was on morphine.
I go back to the ER three months later complaining of what feels like a sunburn directly under my skin around my back, ass, and leg, but the nurse doesn’t think I have a slipped disk. The sunburn under my skin sensation mysteriously disappears during the visit, and feeling foolish (and broke) I sneak out of the hospital without paying.
A hike in Yosemite nine months later leaves my right knee horrible and throbbing and limiting my vacation activities on the very first day. While running for the bus drunk one warm day a few months later, my right leg gives out unexpectedly and I skid across the cement, obtaining large scabs on both elbows, forearms, knees and wrists. The next day I tell people at a bar I saved a kid from being hit by a car when people ask about the (rather gross and leaking) bandages, and the story gets me free drinks.
More than a year passes and I start complaining to a resident doctor from the original hospital about my leg feeling off, even being a different size and shape – particularly the muscle on my right thigh – but he finds nothing via x-ray of my back nor nothing wrong with my leg. He doesn’t actually touch it though, and I am unsatisfied with the entire experience.
Doctors at another hospital decide to also x-ray my back but they too find nothing, except what they call a healthy spine. They do send me to physical therapy for my back and while there, the therapist notes muscle atrophy all over my body but particularly the right leg, a really stiff right hip, and bad posture from sitting all day. Since I am there for my back though, the problem isn’t addressed except in scribbles in his notebook.
By now I have joined a startup web publication that has me working from home. My beat has me covering the Internet including the time-consuming YouTube and hackers that only come out to play late at night. I stop regularly spending time outside and hanging with friends, instead living on my couch sitting Indian style or with my foot tucked under my butt… all ways I have been sitting since I was a little girl, and ways unbeknownst to me, would make my pain worse. I stop moving almost entirely, still too afraid to ride my bike, and I start putting on weight. The electric shocks on my right side that sometimes make my muscles twitch also start interfering with what little sleep I get, too.
Two years post accident and the trip to the liquor store – the only time I am leaving my apartment daily – starts to hurt. My right leg tingles, feels weak, sometimes burns, and I have to actively pay attention to how I put my right foot down – I really just want to drag it. I also start accidentally swerving into people on the sidewalk. When this happens at a bar, I pretend to be drunk and apologize profusely.
I am now the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and I am ashamed of my body that once used to do ballet but is now inexplicably failing and off-balance. My mate of now-8 years unconsciously starts fat-shaming me.
To make matters worse, sex becomes painful to the point where I can’t come properly any more. When I do, it is a dull, almost numb ache or the exact opposite- it is so sharp I start tearing uncontrollably. It definitely feels different, but given all the problems already on my plate I ignore it. I blame it on mental illness.
Lack of human interaction and cabin fever make me even more miserable and the depression mixed with paranoia I am absorbing like a sponge from my late-night hacker sources lead to a period of intense mania that lasts for months. My mate emails an old therapist, worried I have schizophrenia or manic depression as I have started raving about my right leg being a different size (among other symptoms) and alcohol, weed, and standard over the counter painkillers are no longer keeping me comfortably numb. I have fleeting thoughts of suicide I sweat away in hour-long baths. (If I didn’t have a writing career, a supply of weed and Team Fortress 2, I think I would have offed myself for sure. )
June arrives and I finally get health insurance (for a month), and the chiropractor I go to tells me my hip is out of alignment and that my right leg is longer than the left. I feel vindicated – I may be a little crazy, but at least I am right about this! She snaps and stretches me back into place and I visit her a couple times and become good at walking for a few months. She recommends I do yoga and ballet at home, and when I do, become fully aware of how weak and unstable my right leg is.
The pain returns tenfold by August, however, given lack of funds for chiropractic visits they promptly end. The difficulty level of walking to the store to buy alcohol increases exponentially, with my right ass cheek hurting at a beyond distracting level of 8ish on the pain scale. “My ass is falling off,” I start saying with alarming frequency. No one knows what I mean.
At one point I think I have kidney stones, as it feels like tiny rocks are moving through organic tubes in my hip, crotch and back area. Giant bee stings regularly radiate down my right leg and into my toes, no longer content to live in my hip, thigh and back. I can no longer talk and walk at the same time because if I tried, I would trip. Walking requires that much of my concentration. I fantasize about getting a cane and making it fashionably cool outside the steampunk crowd.
Less than six months later, I eventually save up to go to a new doctor – a female doctor- and she feels my right thigh and notes the swelling by my crotch. She gives me vicodin for what she is determines is severe arthritis in my hip. I refuse to take the vicodin because I hate the way it makes me feel; namely, I can’t write or work while on it as a nauseous zombie.
While visiting a Jain temple in India this February, I slip on the marble and fall on my right side. Somehow the fall lessens the pain enough that by the end of the month we climb Chembra Peak to the lake.
Promptly upon returning to the States, I start fretting again because my pain has become unmanageable once I settle back into the sitting-all-day-for-work that is my lifestyle. I try stretching, sitting, standing, walking, – none of it alleviates the pain. I take a really long bike ride which seems to work, but 2 days later I am roaring with pain, ready to go to the ER (but don’t because it is expensive). The female doctor prescribes me Prednisone as now she thinks I might have nerve damage; I have begun to properly describe the pain that shifts around my right side. Prednisone is a much needed blessing and I am practically pain free for the week I am on it. She also wants to do a gynecological exam since I told her of my sexual dysfunction, but I don’t have the money so don’t schedule.
Which brings me into last week, into Dr. Heddles care, where he determined my sciatic nerve was not sliding properly along the muscle and bone in my hip. It was getting stuck and rubbing on things it shouldn’t and when it did, emitted signals that basically froze my muscles including my right ass. Instead of working, the muscle just hung there, which was why I kept thinking it would fall off if I walked more than a block. Using ART on the soft tissue, he opened up my hip and almost immediately relieved pressure on my sciatic nerve.
Less than 48 hours after Heddles unstiffened my hip by a little bit, and I find myself watching porn and having orgasm after orgasm from 1 – 4am. My pussy feels almost as it did five years ago. I can’t believe how much I missed it.
I am not out of the clear yet – the pain is still there in my hip and ass, but at a manageable 3 – 6 level. I’ll visit Dr. Heddles a few more times in the coming months sans insurance- but I am determined to do so as I like being able to walk, bike, and feel things in my crotch. I am not paying my student loans currently in order to afford it, but right now my attitude towards those loan companies (which until recently were collecting double my rent) is they can simply suck it.
Long-term goal is to pay for an EMG, but until then, I am making sure I move once every hour. To correct my sitting posture, I keep my shoes on while at home, and when sitting at my desk have a stool between my legs to keep me from crossing them.
Short-term goal? Finally learn how to moonwalk.
Looking back on the years of pain, I see staring back at me an insecure, fearful, lost and irritable woman. Look ahead to the future I can’t really tell what I will look like, but do know there will be a ton of walking, biking, maybe running, but definitely some sweet sweet dancing.
Because what is this personal blog for, right? I hardly use this damn thing but here goes:
I took a really long vacation – well, more like an adventure – in India. For all of February. I learned quite a few things about myself (more remembering and reflecting than anything – yeah, depression’s a bitch like that) so I know I will be processing the experience for months to come. It was a kick in the gut. No, really. One night, after 48 hours of being sick and unable to hold down water or food, I had a fever dream of such crisp details.
So I returned to the States determined to be a master of my fate, in a way that I couldn’t be if say, I was born in India.
- I started blogging for VICE’s tech blog Motherboard (a place I like much better than Slate for many reasons) after a piece I wrote about this group of online “trolls and hackers” known as the Rustle League. I think VICE is a good home for my contrarian and weird Internet stuff, and we’ll see what happens there.
- A piece I wrote about labiaplasty was published on Thought Catalog, and it made both my mate and my mother mad. They didn’t understand the value of the piece at first, objecting to its personal nature. I ended up telling my mom I don’t want to live in a world where you can’t talk freely about your body as a woman (aka, an abstinence only education nightmare where women all get plastic surgery) and that convinced her. I had originally written it for VICE which was why there is all those curse words in it. (Ha! ) I need more non-tech venues for my writing. I’ve been tech-exclusive for about 2 and a half years now (half of my writing career!), and the stay-at-home lifestyle sometimes exacerbates my mental health issues.
- My third piece for the Guardian’s op-ed section Comment Is Free should be up any time today. Yes, also very exciting. My first piece went up in January. I want to be an Evgeny Morozov/Nick Carr type (I think my blog subhead of multiple years communicates that desire, but maybe not), but we will see what happens there too.
- I am still at ReadWrite despite it being a constant sea of changes. Now an old boss was recently hired there, so, I am feeling more comfortable there now than when I first returned from my trip.
- Last week I started writing for a content start-up focused on the business aspects of web video, Video Ink. I am excited about this for a few reasons, even if it is a pretty boring job and feels like a job more than any of the other places I am writing for, because 1) it takes the digital space seriously and understands just how disruptive it is 2) out of a core team of 4 people, only one is male.
Now for some (potentially) bad news!
I am 28 now and I have yet to finish any of my books. AHHHHHHH. The one I wanted to finish first was a bit memoir-like: former Soviet Satellite refugee version of Amy Tan mixed with Obama’s Dreams of my Father done in the Collected Works of Billy the Kid style. It touches on having a single teen for a mom, among other darker themes. It’s heavy, but I know I can make it funny. My mother, however, broke down while we were preparing Easter dinner: if I publish what I want to about being a child of domestic violence, it would bring shame to her and her name. She is embarrassed. I should have known, as her and I only began having open discussions of what kind of man my birth father really was, just a few years ago. After he died, actually. But … I think that is also part of the problem – the lack of conversation. She didn’t even tell her second husband, or her last boyfriend.
I don’t know what to do here, as I feel like writing about my experiences is within my right as it was also my trauma – it is part of my coping process – and I actually think my book would make the world a better place. On the other hand, it is very much her life too. Maybe I can suck it up and finish my science fiction novel, but I am very inspired to work on this particular project. RIGHT NOW. But I can’t finish it if she won’t talk to me any more about it, can I?