Black Hole in my Soul (And Other Stuff You Weren’t Warned About)


I can’t even trust Starbucks. They spell my name like I’m a StarTrek character. AND THE HAPPY FACE. Hmph.

Soooo today’s blog is about baggage, in case the title didn’t tip you off.  If you’re having a happy happy joy joy Monday, don’t read this post. If you’re like me right now, and you’re soul searching with the best of the other emo-bags, be my guest. Don’t say I didn’t warn you ;).

Baggage is, well, everyone’s bag. I’d like to say that mine is Paris-Hilton-sized, but it’s more like my mom’s suitcase when she has a 3-day-vacation anywhere (read: huge). Inside, there’s a bunch of smaller bags. There’s the Trust bag, full of lists of why everyone in general are mean/shitty/self-centred and out to prove me right. There’s a big box of chocolates and Kleenex floating around in that one, because it’s by far my saddest bag. Then there’s the disability bag. I constantly underestimate the amount of stuff thats inside this one, until I’m bawling my eyes out over some wheelie shit I can’t control and the poor schmuk that’s witnessing my meltdown is awkwardly patting my shoulder and stiffly whispering, “There, there”. My last bag is my Pixie-Dream bag. This load is the one full of my confusion about how I want to be light and silly and generally dumb and have a guy fix my internet/ rub my back but GODDAMNIT, RESPECT ME AND LET ME WEAR THE PANTS. As I walk around in his too-big t-shirt. BUT FUCK YOU, I AM MY OWN PERSON AND I WEAR WHAT I WANT. Confusion.

The trust bag. Ahhhh, shit. If your heart beats, you probably have this bag. Mine is most commonly evident in my inability to believe people are telling me the truth. I mostly just assume everyone is lying to me/forging their emotions/trying to keep me under there thumb. Slit slit.

For a time, I went to a counselor (Mandatory! Gross.). She made me feel liked and comfortable, as counselors have to, and one day I was blabbering about my best-friend at the time, we had a complicated friendship and it was getting more and more complicated because of a number of factors. Most prominently though, was that I had stopped believing him. About everything. Even though he had never lied to me. Totally unfair, right? Yeah, that’s why it’s my biggest bag. With chocolate and Kleenex.

Disability Bag. Ugggghhh, really? I don’t even want to talk about this.

Pixie-Dream bag. Hey, im the worlds worst feminist. And sometimes–okay alot– my feminisim morphs in to man-hate, when really I should just shove my hand into the trust bag and realize that I’m running through my people-lie list.  This bag, is also called my New Girl bag, because a) It always makes me feel quirky and silly (but still cute thooooo) like Jess from New Girl, and b) because some days I feel like it’s my first day being a girl and heyyyy i get to go around batting my eye lashes and getting boys to help me with my homework. It’s finding the balance between the advantages of my internalized sexism and still being my best-kristen-i-can-be outside of my gender, that is at the heart of the struggle. Who dafuq am I?

Solutions? Ha. My solution is to drag this monster bag around and throw it at the next person I see. Hey dude/slut, have fun dealing with that second bag, I can’t even open it.

In other news, I’m planning on starting a new bag called World Worst Feminist. Hahaha, no I’m not. Be thankful.