i have at least three mental disorders. let’s call them “accessories”. i’ve definitely had undiagnosed anxiety disorder since i was a little kid. i’m fairly certain that i have a clinical case of obsessive compulsive disorder, and the third varies somewhere between attention deficit disorder, manic depression and pizza.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. the speed at which i make associations between subjects and objects in my mind is mild to moderately impressive and has proven itself to be an asset to my creative career. i love this about myself and would never want to change it.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given moment. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. this phenomenon is a dickhole. i can’t focus. i can’t concentrate. i can’t keep my head wrapped around any one idea long enough to allow it to fully blossom and turn into a beautiful swan princess. it usually gets cut off somewhere around swan treasurer. actually i’m not that great with money, so it’s probably more like swan most school spirit.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. this is potentially dangerous. i consider myself a positive person. i work ‘the secret’ and believe in karma and practice the law of attraction. but i guess this dedication to manifesting my own destiny comes back to haunt me when i have thoughts that, if a little kid illustrated them during kindergarten class, i would DEFINITELY need a parent/teacher conference. i’m kind of a sick fuck. nothing REALLY sick fuck - no animals, no children, no dead people: the only sex rules that have ever mattered - but sick fuck enough to fill me with the type of darkness that’s specially reserved for people who are able to deal with it productively. because god’s a sick fuck too.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. pizza is so good though.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. when i like things, i like them hard. i get fixated on things. i get fixated on songs and tv shows and even people (call me, rashida jones). i get so drawn into things, so ingrained, that it makes me happy. in a way, these things make me feel fulfilled. or at least partially fulfilled. or at least temporarily satiated. i love that word, satiated. it’s not particularly beautiful, but it has such a great meaning. everybody wants satisfaction. i suppose i get fixated on words too. but that’s all that these things are: tiny bursts. power-ups. momentary highs that cause you to live your life pursuing disappearing ink. i often wonder if ignorance truly is bliss.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. i’m pretty much always anxious in one way or another. if i’m not stuck on a problem, i’m brainstorming a solution. if i’m not busy discovering something, i’m looking for things to discover. there’s never not something going on in my brain, and lately i’ve found it exhausting. it’s insanely difficult to relax. when i’m in bed early or watching tv, i’m thinking about work or all the other things i could be doing. but then if i don’t do those things, it causes a whole new dimension of anxiety. i live on this hamster wheel of “what’s next?” when all i want is to experience “what’s now?” i’ve trained myself to “be” and live in the moment, but it still causes panic inside of me. i never said i was a great teacher.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. i bite my nails terribly. i always have. when i was in middle school, my drama teacher contacted my dad about it. she asked if i was under a lot of stress at home or dealt with anxiety issues because i was always biting my nails in class. all my dad would ever say is, “worm, stop chewing your fingers.” and i would get embarrassed because i knew people were noticing this flaw in me, but i wasn’t embarrassed enough to stop doing it. it didn’t cause me enough shame to REALLY fuck me up; just enough to let me know that this was something i did and that people didn’t necessarily like it. but i guess that was okay with me. at least i’m OCD enough to bite my nails into even lengths with smooth edges.

i have approximately 8 thoughts running through my head at any given time. maybe not simultaneously, but definitely in rapid succession. every day we get our heads filled with life feces. whether it’s your ignorant cousin who posts some racist-ass shit on facebook and you have to deal with the fact that you share dna with this person, or you accidentally dip your tie into your toothpaste spit water before work, or you catch your pinky toe on the corner of your bed frame and scream obscenities at your cat, shit happens. it’s hard to not let these tiny, “insignificant in the bigger picture” moments run our lives, but we all do it. it’s the law of physics. we’re passing on this shittypants energy because we don’t have the power to harness it, put-your-thing-down-flip-it-and-reverse-it, and send it back out as something else. it’s even harder to not let the “yeah, that’s pretty significant in the bigger picture” moments ruin you. because that’s their job. but it’s time to allocate external resources and outsource, motherfucker.

i want that to be my catchphrase: “it’s time to outsource, motherfucker.” people will be like, “i have no idea what that means, but it sounds AWESOME.” and then they’ll probably make a western or disney movie centered around this phrase. obviously they’d remove “motherfucker” if disney picked it up. they’d change it to “it’s time to outsource, mother hubbard” and turn it into this sci-fi pixar film where the old woman time-travels with her dog using the cupboard as wormhole. 

worm, stop chewing your fingers.

okay, before we start, i’d just like to say that my underarms smell something fabulous right now. thank you, dove, for your free tiny deodorant sample that came packaged with a “dove for men” body wash. you really hit your target market with this 29-year-old woman.

i’m so tired of there not being things for me. and by “me”, i mean the universal me. the like-minded. the boyish girls. the girls that, regardless of their individual morals and values and things that make them cry or not cry, feel different. i’m a woman. i have a menstruation cycle and i have breasts and, if i really wanted to, i could grow a human inside of me. but i don’t. i’ve never wanted to. when i was a little kid and didn’t know how reproduction works yet, i thought god just put a baby inside of you whenever god saw fit. it made me very anxious and upset. i remember times lying in bed in my rainbow brite sheets, staring at the painted ceramic alphabet on my wall, praying my heart out that god wouldn’t do that to me. i absolutely did not want people inside of me. i still don’t now, unless it’s for an entirely different cause. and even then, i’m iffy.

i see the people who surround me and i think that i’m so lucky to live in the world that i do. two of my best friends are women who are married (in some parts of the country) and pregnant. many of the people i choose to call “friends” are women who love women. they’re also successful and talented and kind and they do the right thing. but in the bigger picture, we’re all still others. i’m tired of being an “other”. this isn’t fucking LOST. and if it were, i’d be john locke. the rest of you are free to claim the character of your choosing.

the point is, these people … my people … they’re good people. they’re not “act like good people and really do shitty things behind closed doors” people or “pretend you’re ‘good people’ by obeying some rules in a 3,500-year-old book and turning a blind eye to others” kind of people. just good. solid. people.

and they … we … don’t really have much to show for it. i see all these “be on the right side of history” shirts and posters and cock rings, and as much as it makes me happy, it makes me sad. don’t get me wrong, when i saw that people - specifically my straight friends - changed their facebook profile photos to a red equality sign during the supreme court hearings on gay marriage, it definitely made me proud. but why now? like right now? there have been gay people who have existed since the beginning of time; why is just fucking now the time when equal rights for faggots and dykes coming into question? can you even fucking imagine being the person who opposed equal rights for black people? or women? those people exist. and they’re the same people who are saying that allowing gay people to get married tarnishes the sanctity of “the union” and puts children at risk of not receiving a balanced, well-rounded upbringing. i’m assuming we’re speaking strictly chromosome balance here because “16 and pregnant”. your argument is invalid.

okay, fine. maybe basic civil rights is a little too much for society to currently handle. how ‘bout give me a shirt that fits. yes, i’m aware that i can shop in the women’s department, but those designs are not to my liking, and the flaired nature of a woman’s button-down is about as fitting to me as it is to you, brother. plus i hate old navy. alright, then a men’s shirt. it’s better, sure. but between my substantial chest and my lengthy torso, i’m rocking a sexy midriff before you know it. i’m using “sexy” loosely here, because it looks fucking ridiculous. one wash and i’m a toddler who had a sudden growth spurt. it’s cool … i’ll just be over here playing with my bellybutton and pissing on everything you love.

we first have to get to a point where it’s okay to be other. then - god willing - we’ll get to a place where we belong. where our marriages are seen as commonplace. and where our child-rearing is seen as fucked up … but only for the fact that all child-rearing is fucked up in one way or another.

let us accidentally tell our child’s crush that he or she likes him or her. let us unknowingly wash our son or daughter’s lucky game-day socks. let us be the dopey, losery parents that all children deserve. because we deserve it. we’re people, god damn it. and we cry. and we don’t cry. and we wear ill-fitting shirts.

but we love.

just the same, we love.

it’s midnight. exactly midnight. i always say it’s exactly something that’s already exact: like exactly equal, or exactly tied. exact is exact. but not to me. my brain needs to know like, “seriously, dude, this shit is TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY [this thing that’s already totally and completely whatever it is].” i’m a fucking nutjob.

i talk about poop a lot, but i really only talk about it for the sake of talking about it. i don’t want to see it or be near it or smell it. or - god forbid - have it on me. i’d throw up everywhere. i just think poop is funny. but it’s not funny when you’re pooping and you have your period at the same time and you’re like WHY THE FUCK ARE ALL THESE THINGS COMING OUT OF ME?! science is a real motherfucker sometimes.

speaking of being a woman or a drag queen, you know when you just put on mascara and then you sneeze? WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT SHIT?! ugh. i just wag my fist in the air like, “ya got me again, universe!”

i hate when i have these great ideas and then i’m like, “i’ll just write that down later”, and then i don’t, and then i forget them. it’s really sad. it’s maybe one of the saddest things in life other than me not marrying christina hendricks. and that’s almost as sad as me not marrying rashida jones.

i have all these things in my head. i have all these things that i want to write down. there’s a book inside of me. not like i want to write one, but like i’m into some freaky ass shit and i put a book inside of me. obviously it’s one of those small dictionaries that people give out for free because i only want my vaginal canal to be filled with facts and proper grammar.

now you know how i got the nickname “webster”. HAHA AND YOU THOUGHT I WAS A HUGE EMMANUEL LEWIS FAN.

too bad my mom was a mere peasant when she died. too bad she was poor and i didn’t get any money. too bad that she left me with all this shit in my head and not an easy way to get it out.

i guess that’s part of it, though. the part that will make me.

i gotta do it on my own. i gotta dance my dance.

dance, motherfucker. dance.

IT’S CALLED COMEDY, OKAY?! LOLOL OMGGGGGGG!!!! :::)))))))

i’m writing this article in notepad. that’s how serious this is. 

i like notepad because it doesn’t make me capitalize my shit, and that’s what i’m into, and who do you think you are, word processor, to tell me which words i have to make bigger than the others. 

ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME.

there will probably be things spelled incorrectly in this document, as well. notepad, to my knowledge, doesn’t have spell check. qzrrrd. nope, definitely doesn’t. i spelled definitely correctly. TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WHO CAN’T SPELL DEFINITELY!

i hate being told what to do. i mean, i like being told what to do, kind of. i’m a rule follower, in the grander sense of things. i’m not a criminal of any kind - except for stealing your heart, girl - HAHA, TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WHO CAN’T SPELL EXCEPT!

but i hate being told what to do when the people who are trying to tell me what to do are bags of dicks. because then they’re all like “go do these bags of dicks things and believe these bags of dicks things,” and i’m all, “no. you take your bags of dicks right out of here.” and then i get in trouble for treating these bags of dicks like they’re bags of dicks.

DO YOU GET IT? BECAUSE I’M A LESBIAN. IT’S CALLED COMEDY.

whatthefuckever. fuck these people who are bags of dicks or faggots or dykes or mustard or qzrrrd or whichever noun, verb or adjective is most insulting to you at this very moment, fuck whatever that is. 

just be a good person. and don’t call people faggots or dykes. in case you do, and in that case, call people faggots or dykes. i really don’t care. although the words you choose to use are an expression of your character, they’re usage is subjective, just like pretty much anything else. 

people are all up in arms about lena dunham’s character on “girls,” hannah, playing naked ping-pong with a handsome 42-year-old doctor she was banging during the last episode. WHOOPSIE!!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOLOLOLOLL!!!!! ::)));;00  

i fucking hate people who write like that. i mean, i don’t hate them as a person, but i kind of do hate them as a person. because this is an expression of their character, and they choose for their character to be an idiot dumb dumb who shouldn’t be alone around machinery or small children. or this person has some sort of nerve disorder which causes him or her to spasm and mash the same key a number of times. and in that case, i apologize. i don’t hate you, and i hope you get better real, real soon. unless it’s genetic and you can’t get better. and in that case, i apologize for assuming your disorder was anything short of the GRAND CASTING DIRECTOR’S work. sometimes god likes to be called that when god’s in l.a. doing press. 

either way, it’s a tough life, and i’m sorry for your condition. but seriously, if it’s the nerve thing, you still shouldn’t be around machinery or small children. what if you’re a carpenter and you have a spasm that sets off a tile saw and it slices three of someone’s fingers off? and what if this someone were a child?

fuck it’s hard to be “appropriate” these days.

fuck fucking appropriate. “appropriate” is a bag of dicks.

that just sounded like a gay halmark card from the middle ages. just picture this phrase being said by someone wearing a full suit of armor and looking very stern. 

“APPROPRIATE” - the knight proclaimed heavily from beneath his metal exoskeleton - “APPROPRIATE IS A BAG OF DICKS.”

AND. SCENE.

HAHA, TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WHO DON’T KNOW WHAT AN EXOSKELETON IS OR HOW TO SPELL IT!

man, i am KILLING tonight.

so lena dunham is playing naked ping-pong with this good looking doctor fellow and there’s this debate as to whether someone like that - the handsome doctor - would be caught fucking “someone like her,” and when people refer to “someone like her” it’s almost always in reference to dunham’s body as if it were a personality trait. 

if anyone watched the episode at all, they’d realize that joshua the doctor was totally into playing naked ping-pong with her and fucking her and all of the things you associate with the physical self. he was totally down for all that shit because he was into her as an entity. “you’re a weirdo, but i’m into that, and you kinda make my old guy dick hard.” i’m paraphrasing, here.

it wasn’t until she went a little “young girl still finding herself and getting too weird too fast” and he went a little “oh shit, my wife and i separated and what the fuck am i doing?” that things weren’t quite the same after.

it wasn’t about the physical self any more than it was about ray’s screen time. it was about the mind. it was about the spirit. he wanted to grab that fleshy white ass as much as anyone else in the united states and surrounding areas did. it’s not everyone’s thing, but it’s some people’s thing. just like any other thing is “some people’s thing.” everyone has a thing. right now my thing is laughing cow cheese and audiobooks. i guess that’s two things. whatever. i picked two things.

the point is that it’s about a moment. or a series of moments. a chapter in life, whatever length it may be, dedicated to experiencing that thing. until it gets weird and then you move on. just like you fucking should.

so diluting the episode to something as shallow as a physical appearance - even though lena dunham can do whateverthefuck she wants with her body and there are MANY people who are attracted to her for that very reason - allowing it to be about anything short of hannah’s character have a thing or two to learn about life.

it always comes down to character.

be into whatever you’re into, just don’t be bags of dicks.

my name is courtney and i think people should call their moms.

i’m gonna talk business for a second. everybody’s into “content”. what the fuck is “content”? seriously. no, seriously, i’m asking you. what do you determine to be “the things that are held or included in something,” according to an internet search. that’s the definition of “content”. seriously, what the fuck is content? i’m sorry for all the fs, but i really want to know what the fuck content is. the things that are held or included in something. … so that could be diamonds or pei wei fortune cookie fortunes that you’ve collected for the past six months or grilled cheese sandwiches or pterodactyls or whale feces. you’re telling me that you’re actually looking to procure whale feces? like whale feces is something that’s highly sought after and you’re just itching to get your paws on it (MAMMAL JOKE!) and it’s just this fucking highly valuable thing?

no.

i mean maybe.

i don’t know.

some cultures are into some freaky ass shit. and i say “freaky ass” as an ignorant white person, so i accept no responsibility if some culture out there that worships whale feces is now pissed off at me.

i want everything that is so much more than “content”. fuck “content”. seriously. fuck it right in its asshole. unless it’s into that, and in that case, fuck it in its crisper drawer. this is by no means meant to be a statement about people who like to get fucked in the ass not liking vegetables. on the contrary, really. i’m saying that most people i know enjoy vegetables. well, except this one guy at my work, so i feel like the crisper drawer would be a place to really stick it to someone. i realize now that i’m saying “stick it to someone” and making a buttfucking reference at the same time. it’s called comedy.

what’s the deal with buttfucking? everyone wants to buttfuck. buttfucking: it’s not just for gay guys anymore. whatever, i’m totally into buttfucking. don’t ask questions, just do you, boo boo.

i feel like we’ve really grown with each other today.

i was sitting on the counter banging the heels of my sneakers against the cabinets below me to whatever beat made sense in my head at the time. my reeboks or british knights or k-mart knockoff of either bounced along as a continuous rhythm kept thumping away at my brain. i guess i never really knew how much danger i was in. i never knew how powerful something like that could actually be.

this thing takes people out of nowhere. and once it catches you, there’s nothing you can do about it. there’s no known cure for it. no protection from it at all. one just has to pray that it never touches down close to home. i’m not lucky enough to be able to say it hasn’t affected me. but i’m no longer afraid to tell my story because of one woman. one brave woman who took a stand. one brave woman who gave us something to believe in and created awareness for a plague that seems to be – ironically – a silent killer. one woman who has touched the lives of thousands, no, millions because of her strength. this woman spoke out when no one else would, and if it weren’t for gloria estefan, i would have never known the power of the almighty rhythm. for gloria told me – nay – gloria proclaimed that if i weren’t careful, the rhythm would get me. and by god, it has.

i always have these beats in my head. i’m always … dancing, i guess. and on this day, when my reeboks or british knights or k-mart knockoffs were keeping time in our kitchen, things were no different. so i was sitting there on the counter and she was standing, smoking a cigarette quizzing me on my spelling words. “restaurant,” she said. and i sat there for a second probably finishing the eight-count flowing through my soles, and then i said, “restaurant. ‘r, e, s, t, r, a, u, n, t.” which was obviously incorrect and i can admit that now because i’m an adult. and she took a long drag of her cigarette and exhaled letters at me.  “no. it’s ‘r.e.s.t. A-U. r.a.n.t’” and kind of punched the “A-U” into the air like a vowel cheerleader fisting god. you know, ‘cause god is everywhere. i listened and repeated it back to her in the same staccato fashion, really giving that “A-U” my all. we moved on with the rest of the words and she’d throw in a “restaurant” every once in a while just to make sure i remembered it. she did the same thing with “wear your seatbelt.” to this day, i can’t not wear my seatbelt. i feel like it’s some weird curse and if i don’t obey it, i’m testing god. mom already fisted god. (remember? because god is everywhere.) so i certainly can’t go around testing the ol’ alpha and omega. i don’t want god to grow to dislike my family. i just can’t risk that. well, everyone loves my grandmother, so she’s safe. but if i ever hear of anyone who is unkind to grammy, i’ll break his or her fucking kneecaps because doris bishop is a god damn saint. 

so, yeah. i’m pretty awesome at spelling “restaurant” now.

my stomach rumbles as i scroll through the pages of my two favorite social media sites one-handed. i think the noises are half-due to the fact that i want more tacos, and half-due to the consumption of the tacos, themselves.

she had come home from work and cooked for me tonight, as she has been lately. i like when she cooks for me. i like the regular things. i sat on the couch pounding the keys of my laptop endlessly, waiting for my assignment to feel complete. i’d look up at her every once in a while, catching portions of platinum hair from around the door frame. she’d be taste-testing or cleaning up, not at all noticing how much i was noticing her. it’s funny how something as simple as sunday night dinner can make someone look so beautiful, or make a moment feel so whole.

we crawl into bed and she can barely keep her eyes open. i brush my teeth and apply my nightly lip balm generously. i want to kiss her so badly. i want to open-mouth kiss her and feel her beneath me. i want to be inside of her and feel her warmth.

instead i kiss her softly and her hand ends up in mine. i hear the tick of the porcelain in her chest as i point and click with my other hand. the sharp rhythm of her heartbeat soothes me. she begins to breathe loudly. not a snore, just an audible breathing pattern. she lets out a few little whimpers now and again, and my hand begins to get hot and slightly sweaty. letting go would certainly allow me to navigate the internet more efficiently, but feeling the weight of her arm on top of mine is more important to me than than cyberspace. 

so i continue to scroll through the pages of my two favorite social media sites one-handed, and i thank god for sunday night dinner.