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Let me tell you about my favorite grudge

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I know we aren’t supposed to keep grudges or wish ill will upon our fellow humans, but let’s make a pact to start working on ourselves later. For now, I’d like to continue bathing in the blood* of my enemies.**

*whatever annoyance I can extract from them

**those who have slighted me to varying but mostly inconsequential degrees

As you know, I live in Denver— which means I pay $1600+ a month for a two bedroom apartment. That might seem reasonable to some of you fancy people, but where I come from you can buy your very own McMansion with a $1600/month mortgage. Yes, your neighbors will be burning trash in the backyard because global warming is a myth, and yes they will also be a pair of 16-year-olds who are about to celebrate their 2nd wedding anniversary, but STILL.

It just feels very expensive here.

But I’m cool with it. Because mountains and beer and chipmunks are totally worth $1600 a month. That even covers the cost of two parking spaces in our garage.

And here we circle back to my grudge.

About a year and a half ago, Alex and I woke up, got ready for work, and tromped downstairs to discover both of our cars were missing. To be honest, I was pretty excited because this meant I didn’t have to go to work and see the Grand Wizard of Assholes. But it was also a bit concerning because I knew we’d eventually run out of food (in like six hours) and really need a car.

Turns out our apartment complex towed our cars– from the spots we pay for– because we didn’t have the latest version of their parking pass. To be fair, they’d sent an email about this a week before, telling us to come by the office to get our new passes.

So I went by on Monday: “Sorry, we ran out. Come back Wednesday.”

And I went by on Wednesday: “Sorry, we ran out. Come back on Friday.”

And I went back on Friday: “Sorry, I just got hired and don’t know what I’m doing because no one works here for longer than three months because clearly this company’s headquarters is situated deep in the bowels of hell.”

So on Monday morning our cars were gone.

I tried to be a reasonable person. I overcame my deeply entrenched fear of interacting with other people, and I went to the office to speak to the manager. TLDR; they didn’t care. They weren’t going to bring the cars back, they weren’t going to refund the money, we were shit outta luck.

Between the Uber and the towing fees, it was $560.

And lo, a grudge was born.

I knew I should probably write a letter to the management company and use all my skills of persuasion to make them see the light and write me a cheque. But if you’ve been here a while then you know I’m disinclined to follow the path of “should probably.” So instead, I decided I’d let them repay me with the pure unadulterated amusement I get from being annoying as hell.

Write a letter? Psh. I’m going to write notes.

I’ve started leaving them on anything and everything I find disagreeable about our building. To be fair, everything about this place is disagreeable to me now because I’m a Burn Bridges and You’re-Dead-To-Me kind of person– but I only get around to writing notes when my annoyance coincides with having a marker and piece of paper on hand.

It started with a door. This is the door we use to take Zola outside when we remember we own a dog. It’s also the route by which 40% of the occupants would flee the building if it were on fire. Which is why it was low-key concerning when the handle stayed broken for two weeks.

And then there was the light in our hallway, which blinked on and off in rapid succession. Um, sorry, but unless this is the set of Stranger Things and I’m about to meet Winona Ryder/Josephine March, then clearly something must be done.

But let’s not forget about the stairs. Like the world’s drabbest example of Expectation v. Reality, they decided to cover the staircase with this thick skid-proof rubber. Which would’ve been a great idea, except it’s constantly slipping forward. Which is less skid-proof and more skid-enabled.

I realize I’ll never be able to give my apartment complex anything in writing– unless I use my left hand– but I’d like to think that by nurturing this grudge with all the love and light of an Instagram Mom, I just may have saved some lives.

Your turn– Tell me about your most precious grudge. 

Let me tell you about my favorite grudge

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Things I’m not supposed to say about writers and writing conferences

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I went to a writing conference last week, and I have a lot to say about it. Most of it I won’t actually say—not because it’s terribly scandalous but because it’s positive* and thus boring. But I’ll say this: Writing conferences are very different from blogging conferences. Blogging conferences are wine-fueled bacchanals where you’re constantly gasping, “I recognize you from twitter!” and “I know I haven’t met you, but we’re best friends!”

Writing conferences are all about getting published– which is great– but it also paves the way for fringe elements to creep in and lure desperate victims into emotional pyramid schemes.

Hold on, let me back up and be less dramatic: Beware of Cool Guys in T-Shirts who pass out Kool-Aid so you can line up and plug the massive gaping cavern of their souls. 

Wait. That wasn’t any less dramatic. 

Here’s the thing: Writers are often needy. It’s hard to want something this badly and work this hard (while balancing your day to day life that has nothing to do with writing) all while dreaming of the moment you’ll be plucked from the dirty masses and placed on a golden throne with a sign that says YOU ARE WORTHY YOU MATTER YOU ARE A WRITER.

Except this is all in your head.

No one is hoarding golden tickets. You don’t need cosmetic surgery for your personality or to learn Jedi mind tricks in order to woo a literary agent or editor into handing you a rose at the end of the episode. They’re humans, just like the rest of us: They buy clothes at Target and drink out of water bottles that haven’t been washed in far too long. 

But of course we don’t want to believe that. We’re scanning the room for someone who can MAKE US without realizing we should be MAKING OURSELVES.

And now we circle back to the opportunistic bearers of Kool-Aid: Literary Little Fingers are taking note of this perceived caste system. They hear the chaotic heartbeat of writers– VALIDATE ME lub dub VALIDATE ME lub-dub—and they’re like:

little finger chaos is a ladder

Do me a favor, all of you: When someone pats their knee and says “sit down, tell me where it hurts, tell me all your deep dark secrets,” then UNLESS THAT PERSON IS YOUR THERAPIST AND THEY HAVE RELEVANT LETTERS AFTER THEIR NAME you need to exit stage left while screenshotting and texting your friends about how someone is trying to abduct you into a cult.

I get it, I really do. I want someone to tell me I matter and my book is good and I’m worthy of my ambitions and that the eclipse endowed all INFJs with mystical powers to unlock their greatness, etc. 

But can we all agree to please stop looking for validation and self-acceptance from other people? It’s not fair to the people we put in those roles (literary agents, spouses, friends, bosses) and it’s not fair to us.

Want to be seen? See yourself. 

Want to be heard? Hear yourself.

Because there’s a pretty good chance the person who’s mining soundbites of your most cringe-worthy vulnerabilities is actively trying to convert you into a paying customer for a product that doesn’t exist. 

One more thing, since apparently this is Writerly Festivus and my list of grievances is as long as a Westerosi winter: One of the speakers said this to a crowded room of people who spent over $1k to attend a conference about publishing: “None of you in this room are the next Veronica Roth.”

I’ve never read one of Veronica Roth’s books, so I don’t know if I want to be the next her (pretty sure I want to be the first Aussa Lorens…) but you know what I’d be willing to bet the naysayers told Veronica Roth? “You’ll never be the next JK Rowling.”

F that noise.

Instead of walking around with hat in hand, trying to master the right amount of quirkiness + timeliness + human appeal, let’s all do this: Put work into the things that matter.

You probably shouldn’t take advice from people who don’t have a demonstrable record of knowing what they’re talking about, so maybe disregard everything I’m saying– but I have a theory: If you want to get a book deal, the thing that probably matters most is writing one hell of a book. I think I’m allowed to say this because I’m reigning Queen of Putting Energy Into Writing-Adjacent-Pursuits-That-Aren’t-Actually-Writing. I’ve fallen into this trap so many times I should eminent domain the territory and start taxing people who dare to encroach.

Learn from my self-induced and unproductive panic: Write your book. Flee from snake oil salesmen. Develop a real understanding of what it is YOU actually want, and stop thinking anyone else is the key to getting whatever it is you want.

You are the key. You are the gatekeeper.

Now, buy my book for $30 and sign up for my webinar that’s only $759 to the first 200 attendees.

Things you’re not supposed to say about writers and writing conferences

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*I’m going to list the great things about the conference in the first comment. It could probably be its own post, but I had a point to make in this one.

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Failure stories are great fodder when you’re rich and famous

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As you may recall, I had a minor breakdown a couple weeks ago. It’s embarrassing. Honestly, at this point both EVERYTHING and NOTHING is embarrassing to me.

If I were me, reading me, I probably would’ve screenshot that post and sent it to a trusted hater with the eye-roll emoji. I’m sure at least one of you actually did this but thankfully I’ve yet to develop my long-awaited superpower—which is to see into everyone else’s password protected screenshots.

Anyways. You guys saved me. Seriously. 

A part of me felt like I’d just put out an open call for everyone to attend my pity party– and maybe that’s true, but DAMN if you guys don’t know how to party: The blog comments + Facebook comments + emails + messages + texts = my cup running over.

I heard from some of you that I haven’t heard from in YEARS and I swear this cold little vacuum in the center of my chest grew three sizes. Or shrank three sizes, depending on how you look at it. 

Apparently I’m not the only one who’s felt this way about writing or art in general. And because of that, I want to fling your own advice back at you, just in case you need it. For the full Facebook threads go here and here or check out the comments on the original post. 

“Rest yourself for a little bit. Get distracted by something else. Then when you look at it again you will see it is not full of as much suck as you think…” — the incomparable Julie

“You are right where you’re supposed to be. This is your writing journey (barf- so cliche) so ride it out, respect the need for time away from your MS, know that you will eventually get back to it, and your head will be clearer, and you will finish your amazing story. I’d love to tell you it gets easier, but I’d be lying cuz that hasn’t been the case for me (yet…one can hope), so I’ll just tell you that it’s worth it. Every self-loathing second of it. Because stories.” – Beth Teliho

“Every fail is a step towards non-fail anyhow. Fail stories are great fodder when you’re rich n fam xxxx” — Sara Litchfield

“You know you shouldn’t let self-doubt bother you, but it’s a sneaky critter. Sometimes, you just can’t contain it and it slips past your barriers. Don’t say that you will never be good enough. Instead, ask yourself, “What can I do to become better?” And then take baby steps.” — Elyse

“Think of it as letting it heal for a few and then give it some therapy the next time you take it out for a checkup 🙂” — lolaveed

“It’s like toiling away a whole year writing ten chapters then realising your first few chapters are like watching an embarrassing home movie of yourself as a child. It’s okay to take a break.“ — Gayathri Ramanthan

And the one that I most need to hear, all the time:

“You’re not dead yet. There’s plenty of time.” — Elyse

So yes, I’m slowly getting back into it. I’ve been doing all sorts of obnoxious and pretentious bullshit to try and liberate my creative soul and whatnot. I take long walks at lunch and lay on my back across stone benches and watch dappled light filter through the leaves high above, and I’m like:

Feel inspired. This is life. Breathe deep and feel things. 

But mostly I’m like:

“What do I do if someone attacks me in this position?”

and

“wow, my stomach sticks out almost as far as my boobs.”

I’ve also become mildly obsessed with tending to my plants (and we all know what happened last time I resolved to be a gardener).

So— what about the rest of you? How’s the despair? What are you working on? 

Want to keep in touch? Find me on Facebook. 

Come warm yourself in the fires of my despair

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I’m having a hard time accepting the fact that I might not be a good writer.

Okay, stop, stop. Please—hold the compliments and praise (jk tell me I’m pretty).

Most of you know I’ve been working on a novel for the past year—but everything about this has been so much harder than anything else I’ve ever written. Writing about my ex or my family is just a whooooosh of words-bazinga-pow that come shooting out of my fingertips. But fiction? Not so much.

Alex came home the other night and I was curled in the fetal position on the couch with my head in the cushions. Thankfully, he knew just what I needed.

Dr. Alex: “Where does it hurt?”

Me: *opens laptop, shows him my browser tabs*

Diagnosis: Writer.

Prognosis: It’s probably going to last the rest of my damn life because the one common thread in all these articles was a statement of “basically it never gets better” backed up with quotes from Pulitzer winners and people like Neil Gaiman.

Treatment: Picheezitsa 

The biggest problem is that I know what I want my book to be– but I have absolutely no idea how to get there. I see this a lot when I paint with someone for the first time. For me, painting is judgment-free. I like to get weird. Everything is a brush, including my knee pit and/or a tree branch wrapped in toilet paper that’s beaten against the canvas like a drum solo.

But for most people, there comes this moment of frustration: They dip the brush in the paint, they carefully drag it across the surface, and it looks absolutely nothing like they imagined in their minds.

This is exactly how I feel about my book. Like I know what it should be, and yet… it’s just not happening.

So I’m going to take a break. After a year of drafting and re-drafting and revising and editing I’m going to put this manuscript in the trunk.

This decision is killing me.

I have to contact my beta readers and tell them “never mind” (because obviously I asked them way in advance and gave them a specific date I would send them my draft because I’m insane like that). If you know me at all, you know I live and die by my goals and my systems and my calendars.  I think I can 1-2-step-formula my way to almost anything. And, honestly, I usually can.

But not this.

I feel like such a failure– but at the same time, I’m very lazy. I’m not going to keep beating a dead horse when my returns are diminishing. And at this point, I’ve read this draft so many times that the sentences no longer contain meaning. They’re stand-ins for what I *think* I’ve written. You could go in and change every instance of the word “walk” to “hop” and I wouldn’t notice. Because I’m seeing what I think is there– not what actually is.

Which is mostly a steaming pile of shite.

I know this is very much a first world sort of problem. Last week I went to the doctor (go me, adult stuff!) and she asked if I was dealing with any major stressors– I started laughing and said something about how all my problems are made-up problems.

Still, it’s hard to let this go. My first thought, when realizing I had to stop, was: “What am I going to think about when I’m at work?” Because obviously I don’t actually focus on work when I’m at work.

I told Alex that putting this book away felt like the equivalent of him asking me to move out because we have problems– but hoping things will magically get better in a couple months and I can maybe come home. There’s a slight chance I’m being melodramatic, but still… I feel like I’m giving up on something, even if it’s just the idea that I can have control over my creative output.

Which apparently I can’t.

So I’m just a girl, standing in front of my manuscript, asking it to stop sucking so much. Wish me luck.

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Notes in the event of my impending murder

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Alex is going out of town this week. Thankfully that means I’ll have lots of extra space in our marital bed to store my weapons. Still, there’s always a chance I’ll be murdered and you guys know I’m a planner. I tried to start a dialogue with Alex about what he should do in the aftermath of my death, but he wasn’t here for it.

I just want to make sure you guys know I didn’t quit you. All I’m asking is for him to login to Facebook and post a quick farewell.  Theoretically, he knows where to find my passwords. But realistically, he doesn’t know where to find anything. 

Even my security questions are utter bullshit, based on weird associations that have no basis in reality.

Question: What was the model of your first car?

Answer: The ginger from Downton Abby

Thought Process: The first car I ever remember was some old green plymouth that had tatty upholstery, and I’d play with legos in it. Legos make me think of Honey I Shrunk the Kids, which makes me think of giant rabbits, which makes me think of Donny Darko, which makes me think of Jake Gyllenhaal, which makes me think of being drunk on Christmas 2009, which makes me think of snow, which makes me think of Jon, who knows nothing, and I’m still upset about Ygritte.

(I just hope whoever comes for me has better grammar than this)

After five minutes of silence, Alex offered: “I’ll publish your book posthumously, like Go Set A Watchman, and I’ll make all the monies.”

As though he doesn’t stand to gain enough when I die.

I think I need a will. At last count, I have 11 nieces and nephews but there are others to consider:

1. My Old Boss At The Psych Ward: I’d like to pay for her to receive driving lessons, specifically regarding roundabouts.

2. The Guy Who Offered Ten Goats in Exchange For My Hand In Marriage: I think we should send him 10 goats, because feminism.

3. The Owners of The Hovel Where I Lived With Shleisel: Let’s send them a tutorial for how to be landlords, so future tenants don’t have to pay with cash at a dry cleaner and receive handwritten receipts from a spiral notebook.

4. All My Former Employers: Please donate my salaries back to them, because we all know I didn’t do shite to earn that money. Except for my asshole boss– please just send him links to everything I wrote about him. 

5. My Ex’s Naked Photo: This will be time-released to the public, so buy one of those big banner ads in Time’s Square. Because being the bigger person is less fun when you’re dead.

Thanks for everything we’ve shared together.  Make sure to burn my journals and drink IPA at my funeral. And just so we’re clear: I was probably murdered by a middle aged white man with a well-kempt goatee and exemplary church attendance.

Sorry this escalated so quickly.

Notes in the event of Aussa’s impending murder

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A 12 Step Program for Unfriending All Those Assholes on Facebook

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I’m going to give you the TLD;R up front: Life is too short to let toxic people remain on your Facebook friends list. I know everyone tells you “the unfollow button is your friend” but the Unfriend button is a secret lover who wants to make you feel things.

I know there are many reasons to allow garbage humans to retain Friend status:

1. They might be useful to you at some point in the future. What if they become massively successful and you need their coattails? Or they might be distantly related to Ryan Gosling, and that could be your in!

2. You’re a nice person and you don’t want to offend someone, even if they’re a hate-spewing wound to the collective body of human existence and you wouldn’t trust them to watch your goldfish while you ran errands.

3. You tell yourself “it’s just Facebook, it doesn’t matter” even though you spend more time mindlessly scrolling through it than you do reading books, talking to your parents, or spending time in nature—combined.

But let me break it to you nice and gentle-like: None of these are good reasons to avoid the unfriend. Here’s why you should go ahead and go through with it: 

1. They’re an asshole.

2. They’re an asshole.

3. They’re an asshole.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, here’s how you actually go about doing it:

Step One: Open your computer. Facebook will probably already be open and on the screen, because this is who we are now.

Step Two: Scroll past the conveniently placed ads at the top of your feed— Those $7 dresses from China and webinars on how to make a million dollars by teaching other people how to make a million dollars will have to wait.

Step Three: Indulge your impulse to like any and all photos of animals.

Step Four: Identify the asshole as soon as they come across your feed. You will know them by the asshole content they share and the asshole point of view that comes across in the words they type with their asshole fingers. They will probably also look like an asshole so even if there’s a language barrier you should be able to easily identify them.

Step Five: Click on their profile.

Step Six: Dry heave at all the hateful shite you can’t help seeing.

Step Seven: Navigate your cursor over the little button that says “Friends.”

Step Eight: Go ahead and let that feeling of guilt-by-association wash over you. Yes, you are affiliated with a swamp monster on social media. How did it come to this? I don’t know, but today you take back the power.

Step Nine: Push away the doubt you feel when you realize you still have 56 mutual friends. No, you aren’t missing anything. Those 56 people just aren’t as brave as you. Be their Mockingjay.

Step Ten: Let go of your schadenfreude-fueled desire to lurk and judge them from the periphery. You still have hundreds of other Facebook friends who are ripe for judgement.

Step Eleven: Push the button. Push.The.Button. PUSH THE BUTTON.

Step Twelve: Take a screenshot of the little box that pops up and says “Remove as Friend?” Revel in your accomplishment as you confirm the expulsion of Assholery from your life. Send the screenshot to your tribe, so they can congratulate you on the steps you’re taking towards a better life. 

That’s all it takes. Now you can be like Djimon Honsou at the end of Gladiator, and bury some little stone people in the dirt of the Colosseum.

Do you unfriend or unfollow? Are you a lurker?

Who is your favorite type of social media user to judge?

Want to keep in touch? Find me on Facebook. 

Notes on my most recent attempt to be interesting

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I’m sorry to say we did not die on our trip to Spain and Morocco. Nor did we ALMOST die. I know, super disappointing. Why even travel?

But I took a lot of amazing photos and ate a lot of tapas tapas tapas (I don’t know how to say that word only once—it exists to be chanted with a fork in your fist whilst banging a table and sloshing wine about).

I take a LOT of notes. Whether I’m hitting my 20th country (shameless brag), at a stoplight, or in line for my annual trip to Walmart (kill me) I just have a lot of thoughts. But when I pulled up my notes from this trip, most of them were not really about any of the places we visited. Go figure.

Note #1 – We had to call our bank because the ATM wouldn’t work. They asked us to verify who we are by giving an estimate of how much money we have. Sorry, robot. I can tell you what shirt I’m wearing in four days but I have no idea how much money we have. Which is probably a bad sign. I CAN tell you it will be about $10 less because I’m calling you from Madrid on my iPhone right now.

Note #7 – It’s remarkable how much Spanish I didn’t learn in school and yet how helpful In the Heights has been. Though my fifth grade Spanish teacher is entirely to thank for the fact I didn’t try to fight the woman cutting in line for the bathroom because she just needed to wash her hands.

Note #12 – Alex just ate my face and when I asked him what it tastes like he said “edits.”

Note #14 – If I had to define my ideal travel destination it would be: “stray dogs and sheep. Uneven sidewalks. Chickens in the car driving next to you.”

Note #22 – Pretty sure the #1 argument in favor of marriage is so you have someone to go through US Customs with you.

Note #23 – In my passport photo I look like I want to kill someone. In my Customs photo I look like someone else tried to kill me.

Speaking of all the ways I let you down (by not almost dying) it DID rain while we were in Morocco. Which is in Africa. I promise I blessed them, you guys, I blessed those rains down in Africa so hard. But I didn’t get a video, which means it didn’t happen.

I’ll do better next time, promise.

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Let’s sacrifice this on the altar of “Life Experience”

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I turned 31 last week. To combat my existential dread and fear of aging, we spent the week in Spain and Morocco. I’m aware of how pretentious that sounds, so I’ll immediately follow up with a list of unglamorious things that probably occurred:

  1. Someone vomited all over me on the plane
  2. I died and Alex is a rich widower now
  3. We both died and Zola is a millionaire now

I’m not sure how much I’m actually afraid of aging. I think I’m more afraid of how quickly time passes. Every Monday morning Alex and I groan and are like “ugh, is it the weekend?” and then the TV screen through which I view the world flickers and S H A Z A M it IS the weekend! How did that happen! Who cares, let’s drink a bottle of wine apiece!

Much of my life has been defined by my identity as A-Person-Who-Is-Younger-Than-The-Other-Humans. I was always younger than my friends, the youthiest of the people in my office, and the golly gee “you want to see my ID?” one of my peers.

Something tells me those days are numbered. Now I’m seeing people get book deals and I look them up on Wikipedia and I’m like “You’re 26?! What sort of wunderkind genius are you?!” And then I realize that’s not that crazy and is actually kind of normal.

I’ll hear some amazing soul-baring song and go to Spotify and the artist is just barely old enough to have gained sentience and the ability to survive outside the womb.

Am I stunted, or is everyone else just gaining on me? I am my own Master and Commander of the Maturity and Life Accomplishment spectrum, and whatever my age is = the age at which one is just on the cusp of figuring things out but still needs to percolate a bit longer. I keep pushing that future age of having it all together just a bit further down the spectrum.

I felt this way at 19. At 24. At 28. And now at 31.

That’s not to say I haven’t accomplished anything: I’ve become incredibly snarky and trigger-happy with calling out bullshit. That’s a pleasant development– see, I’ve always been judging you and thinking you’re terrible, it’s only recently that I’ve stared calling you on it though.

So in some ways I guess getting older is a good thing.

If there was ever an argument in favor of having children, this would be it. I’m told time slows to a crawl those first few months. If I just pop out a baby per year then I can live in a suspended animation of wishing time would pass.

Tell me that’s a bad idea.

I wish I could shake this lurking fear of not having done enough or become enough. Comparison is the thief of joy, and all that.

To be clear, I wouldn’t go back to my 20s for anything. They were terrible. Magical at times, full of kick-ass stories, but wrought with anxiety and that out-of-control feeling of continuously ingesting life experiences that are clearly labeled as “Toxic. Not for consumption.”

I’m curious about people who find mega-success in their 20s. Were their families perfect? Do they have supportive parents? Did someone fund their dreams/self-esteem? If I’d had all they have, would I be just as successful?

Gross.

First off, probably not. I don’t really like doing anything I’m supposed to do. I’m probably not ready for high levels of success. It looks like a lot of work. I’ve only just recently managed to start getting regular oil changes and wearing socks that match (most of the time). I think I would have imploded from the pressure of having anyone expect anything of me a decade ago.

Maybe that’s the secret to true success: take an entire decade of your life (doesn’t have to be your 20s, you can pick and choose) and sacrifice it on the altar of “life experience.” See how quickly you’re able to bounce back. Spend a couple years reflecting on the close-call that was your existence.

Then, maybe, start doing the things you’re supposed to be doing. Not the floss-daily, contribute 15% to your retirement account (though maybe that too) kind of things, but the marrow-sucking, rosebud gathering, Carpe Yolo of shirking off everyone else’s ideas of what your life is supposed to look like.

That’s what 31 feels like. It’s not that I have any clue what I’m supposed to be doing, or that I’m on the cusp of any such greatness, but that I’m less and less concerned with trying to fit into what someone else expects of me. All those other people, the ones who think I need to be anything other than what I am? They’re probably not what I’d want them to be either, so at least we’re on even ground.

Let’s sacrifice this on the altar of “Life Experience”

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How many weapons do you think I can hide on my body?

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There’s a slight chance I’m already dead by the time you read this, because I scheduled it in advance. Alex and I are (hopefully) in Spain right now and you know what Bilbo says—it’s a scary business, flying coach to Europe when the (supposed) leader of the free world is trying to start wars all over the place.

We’ve both done our due diligence to be prepared.

Alex:

… Googles the entire history of the country

… Learns the seasonal weather patterns of the region

… Signs up for State Department travel warnings and notes the nearest US Embassy

Aussa:

…Selects the most raggedy “I don’t have money I’m not worth it” clothing in her closet

… Backs up iPhone because it’s probably going to get stolen

… Hides money and weapons all over body

When it comes to travel, Alex now does most of the major planning. I only have a few basic questions:

How much safety/personal liberty/dignity must I sacrifice to save $10 a night?

Is it a bad idea to wade across crocodile infested waters? 

Should I accept rides from strangers I meet on the flight over? 

How many times do you think I can re-wear this same pair of pants before I have to throw them away?

Beyond that, the majority of my planning comes in the form of deciding which audiobooks and actual books I’ll be taking along. I’ve abstained from binging S-Town for this very reason and am waiting to start A Torch Against the Night until my seatbelt is fastened and my tray is in its upright and locked position.

I guess it’s a good thing I married someone like Alex. He buys travel insurance and forwards our itinerary to his parents. I’m not sure why his parents need to know where we are, but I assume it’s so they can start an IndieGoGo if we’re captured or imprisoned or something.

I mean, if I’m going to be held hostage then Spain seems like a good choice. I’ve seen Chocolat, I know what tapas are. 

Also. We’re spending a couple days in Morocco. Which is in Africa. Rains might get blessed. 

You can probably find out if I’m still alive by checking Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook.

Fingers crossed.

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This is the only #RelationshipGoal I’m interested in

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Alex and I have officially been married for as long as we dated, which is super weird. I’m still waiting for things to become terrible. Aren’t marriages supposed to get horrible at some point? I think I read that somewhere on the internet.

If our marriage were a baby, it would hit the following developmental milestones:

1. Bigger nastier poops

2. Bigger nastier tantrums

3. Ability to point at objects then scream when presented with requested object

Speaking of babies, we’re not having one anytime soon. Unless by “baby” you mean AWARD WINNING WORK OF FICTION THAT TAKES THE WORLD BY STORM. Then in that case, yes. That bun is in the oven. 

I could reflect on all the swooning whatever of the last 730 days, but I think I’ve covered that in plenty of previous posts. Yes, Alex slays beasts. Yes, he’s incapable of finding things in front of his face. Yes, we are both financially incentivized to kill each other. 

People talk about #RelationshipGoals. Want to know what mine is? To never ever become one of the “smug married couples” in Bridget Jones’ Diary. Gross. Why does everyone think getting married is some sort of Achievement Unlocked victory in The Game of Life? Because I’m really not sure I actually recommend it. 

A former (worst ever) college roommate told a mutual friend, who got engaged at 27, “I’m so glad you found someone, I was getting worried about you.” Really? Because I’m worried about YOU and your peel-and-stick wall décor that says “Live. Laugh. Love” over your 19,000 family portraits. The wifey doth protest too much, me thinks. 

If it weren’t for Alex and his persistent nature, I’d be fulfilling my destiny of living in a dilapidated house on top of a hill/near a swamp and casting spells on schoolkids while making art with my menstrual blood.

But I guess plans change, and that’s a good thing.

I’m too lazy to google, but I think Sheryl Sandberg said something about how the single greatest decision a woman makes is her choice of partner (or, I’ll add, whether to have one at all). That probably annoys some people– like it’s a throwback to Disney Princesses who need a man to come along and make their life matter– but I think it has more to do with all the horrible ways you can choose the wrong person.

I have a well-documented track record of choosing the wrong person. All this does is leach energy from your life force. People in general tend to steal energy from me, but having an inefficient bulb on the other end of your romantic relationship? Beyond draining.

The person you choose to spend the rest of your life with is in the perfect position to wreak havoc on your ability to do anything beyond just exist in the world.

Alex is the rare human who doesn’t steal my energy. He’s my back up battery pack, a human made of solar panels. Sometimes I just need to touch him so I can rejuvenate my will to live/get up and wash my face before bed.

So that’s why it’s exciting to hit two years of marriage. Not because Marriage = the be all and end all of a fulfilling adulty life, but because I found someone who makes me want to use clichés and listen to acoustic renditions of Sara Bareilles songs. I’m happy he has my back, does red panda impressions, and tells me when I’m viewing the world through past-shite-colored-glasses.

I recently caved to Third Love’s relentless advertising campaign and ordered a super expensive bra. They have you do this exhaustive questionnaire with all sorts of questions about your boobs. I consulted Alex, because he pays a lot more attention to them than I do, and these were his answers:

Q: What kind of boobs do you have?

A: Perfect boobs.

Q: What problems do you have with your boobs? 

A: No problems.

If that’s not the height of romance, I don’t know what is.

This is the only #RelationshipGoal I’m interested in

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I hope you get eaten by a family of bears

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The worst sort of sadness is the sadness you feel for other people—because when it’s someone else who’s hurting, you can’t do anything about it. Powerlessness is a thousand times worse than pain or rage. When it’s your own hurt, you can psychoanalyze it. Your ego can step off to the side and pull out a legal pad and take notes on the id so the super-ego can later turn it into art and/or viral articles on the internet.

But feeling someone else’s pain? That shit is emotional herpes. There’s nothing you can do to make it go away.

Here’s why I’m an arsehole: I texted Alex the other day and told him “caring for people is such a burden.” Naturally he responded with anguished emojis + “my wife thinks I’m a burden.”

It’s good to know he knows I care.

But come on, it’s true. It’s so much easier to not care about other people. In my heart of hearts I’m a crusty old hermit with a scraggly beard and a bird nest in my dreadlocks. If I could sequester myself in the wilderness, I would. But we all know I’d run out of cheezits by Day 2 and die from poisonous berries. 

Maybe I’m self-absorbed, but I’m on a constant quest to understand myself. When people say stuff like “Today I married my best friend,” I scoff because I’m like “psshhh you can’t marry yourself.”

And yet, in trying to comprehend who I am, I run into all these maddening dichotomies.

50% of Aussa = Lizard brained monster with a heart made of whatever Pluto’s made of that got it demoted from being an actual planet. I can be so cold and exacting and detached from anything that might sway my resolve.

50% of Aussa =  Network TV trauma victim, staggering through life with a head wound and a skewed-camera angle view of the world. I look at people—PEOPLE I DON’T EVEN KNOW—and worry about them. Not just the normal people you’re supposed to worry about (panhandlers, skittish women, haunted children) but people who by all appearances are probably perfectly fine: the guy at the stoplight next to me. The girl texting while walking down the sidewalk. The person who just asked if I have a Target Red Card yet.

I worry about all of those people. I want to cut myself open like that Star Wars Space Alpaca and let them crawl inside my body so they stay warm. Does it matter if this kills me? No. Because I’m not even alive right now, I’m a disembodied bubble of worry for the 7 billion other people on this planet.

10 seconds later I’ll see a picture of someone who’s been in my life for the last 15 years and all I think is: “I hope you get eaten by a family of bears.”

Honestly, though. How do you keep living when someone you care about is in pain? Point me in the direction of an IV drip and I’ll skewer myself like a bag of saline if there’s a chance it might help.

*drip drip drip*

“Here, I will literally give you my life force if it will just make you OKAY.”

I could really use some Harry Potterish type magic. Give me a wand or a timeturner so I can undo this entire situation for you. And yet– despite years of trying—I’ve yet to manifest magical abilities. I’m subject to the same laws of the universe as everyone other muggle, which means my remedy to pain is the same as yours:

T I M E 

Ugh, time. I do not understand you, I rarely appreciate you, and I do everything in my limited mental capacity to pretend you don’t exist. I want to defy you, to gain some second sight that frees me from linear perception. But if this is the way it has to be, then fine. I’ll let you do your thing. But please, hurry.

I hope you get eaten by a family of bears

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