Carin' About Karen

In the midst of Autumn 2017 I was deep in the throes of psychosis. It was my second trip to the psych ward in as many years; the first trip was tied with a cute little narrative bow of too many uppers chased with downers, no sleep, and the wig-flipping disbelief that America let Biff Tannen win. During the 2016 episode I proclaimed I had successfully “slayed patriarchy” and “killed the Universe” using the power of my mind. My, my, my, check out the big brain on Brad!

The manic episode I suffered the following year was an unasked for present slobbishly shoved inside a reused gift bag with the card signed “You’re welcome. XOXO, #metoo.” Also weed. I know I’ve mentioned this before but I cannot stress enough, if a dealer offers you a strain called “Freddie Krueger,” politely decline and go for the Gorilla Glue instead.

Enough about drugs. Back to Carin’ about Karen. During that 2017 stay I spent most of my visit on another plane in another time. Sometimes I was transitioning into a unicorn, other times I was Robin Wiliams or a pigeon from Sesame Street, or a miniature Brienne of Tarth. But as I became more present into this, the darkest and dumbest of timelines, I was making proclamations to anyone who’d listen. And at that time, the only people who were listening were my husband and sister, who were a two-person super squad advocating for me in a hospital that neglected to keep me bathed and fed when I was too far gone to do those things myself.

I don’t remember a majority of my stay, but as time progressed I slowly slinked out of catatonia into an altered, almost-there return to normalcy. On one of these nights my sister and husband visited, I felt like I was levitating in my bed not unlike Zuul from Ghostbusters. I kept alternating cat/cow and child’s pose, complaining that I was an “overfed horse.” I then proclaimed we needed “to start caring about Karen.”

“Okay. But who’s Karen?” My sister asked, half humoring my crazy ass/half genuinely curious as to what I meant. The only Karen we knew was a woman who lived a few houses down in our childhood home, the wife of a cop and the mother of a handful of odd kids who attended the same parochial grade school we did. I didn’t mean that Karen at the time (I think I was referring to either Karen Kilgariff or Karen Walker from Will & Grace; it’s anyone’s guess). But maybe I do now?

A Karen, as we are all collectively aware, is a specific subset of white lady crusaders who believe it is their God-given right to police the world against any people or actions that don’t align with theirs. Karens confuse their whiteness with authority. Karens don’t rail against patriarchy, they grip onto the coattails of it with all their white might because if their husband (Karens are rarely single) is number one atop the pyramid of identity politics, they come in at a close second. Phyllis Schlafly is not a Karen but she is their architect. Schlafly’s anti-feminist housewives-in-solidarity are Karen’s ancestors, and they are terrified as they watch their worldview becoming more and more out of focus.

Trump, a celebrated chauvinist and misogynist who bragged about what a hot slice his daughter is well before his campaign, won 53% of the white women vote. That’s a shit-ton of Karens, and I realize now that those are the Karens we need to start caring about. They’re becoming increasingly disenfranchised, and not without reason! There is a shit-ton of footage posted online of Karens policing people to “speak English” or “go back to their country” or questioning whether or not some kids have a license to drive.

Karens retaliate against the poor depiction of themselves caught on countless unedited uploads. They liken the “K-slur” to the “N-word.” They’re frantic, worrying that if their patriarchal daddy-husbands go the way of the dinosaur, they will too. But, Karen. There is hope.

Surely, some of you have a Karen in your life. Perhaps it’s a relationship that can’t be broken. But maybe you’re a Becky. Or a Megan. Or worse, an Amy. And even though you’da voted for Obama three times if you coulda, or you’re a monthly donor to Planned Parenthood, or you were proudly wearing your pussy hat while marching in frigid DC January 2017, you’re just as complicit as Karen in the stabilization and insularity that white supremacy promises.

Hopefully this isn’t news to you. And if it is, you’re getting it from the wrong source, bb.

I had my last manic episode last month. It netted me another two weeks in the psych ward. This time there were no substances involved so I now have a diagnosis and the correct meds to keep me feeling sane in an increasingly batshit crazy world. I am on the bipolar spectrum apparently. Works for me. I was discharged on July 4th. I declared it the Emancipation of Me! Me! because there is very little to celebrate about living in America. Even for scaredy cat Karen.

Grandiosity is a symptom of being bipolar, and for a long time I thought it was my personal responsibility to rescue all the marginalized people I’m indebted to for bringing me so much joy in music, art, or text. My hubris kept me from understanding my place in all of this, or the knowledge that the queer black people I admire so much have already been doing this groundwork for centuries and I should just stop worrying where my place is and get out of their way and let them do the damn thing. They’ve been fighting for a long time and they know what they’re doing without input from a well-intentioned-but-out-of-her-depth Megan such as myself.

"Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare," is Audre Lorde’s oft-repeated quote, and it’s no joke. We are not free until everyone is liberated, which might mean forever and that's a mighty long time. But while we’re here, in this blip of a second we are a speck of dust on this wacky planet, let’s find some joy and light up others who are doing the same. We can even let Karens have some joy too, as a treat.

Media has always been my go-to tool for education. But there is a wealth of garbage out there. I should know, being Garbage Girl. I used to find joy hate-watching Bravo reality TV, but I no longer get satisfaction as a voyeur ridiculing whites behaving badly. I’m grateful I was able to get that hate-watching monkey off of my back ‘cause she was a hard one to shake. I’m also detoxing from social media, which has been more difficult during a pandemic. But I would die happy never having to see another white dude playing armchair activist over BLM messaging or castigating a Karen fighting for her rights to get a haircut or get some frozen yogurt. It’s so boring and the same playbook and why don’t we try something different this go-around.

Like instead of castigation, why not compassion? Karen’s world is in shambles. Up is down. Left is right. White is an impurity staining every fiber embedded in the world. Instead of shame, try some show and tell. Maybe not with the Karens who are strangers on the internet, but the Karens on your block, or in your house, or in your brain.

I wish I could follow my own advice, but I’m afraid the Karen in my life is too far gone. I gave birth to myself (metaphorically, obvi) during my last hospital stay, and I like having a Megan as my mom. Megan’s cool. Megan’s caring. Megan loves colors and dancing and singing and walking children in nature. #notallmegans

I'm Having Too Much to Dream Every Fuckin' Night

I’m painfully aware of the fact that no one likes to listen to people relay last night’s dream. I know this because I do it and I see your eyes glazing over and yet I continue anyway because frankly I’m mostly talking for my own amusement. Also, I’m not like the others. My dreams are fascinating because I am fascinating.

Like many Gen Xers, the grooves in my brain developed while I was being incubated by the warm glow of my mother, the TV set. So my subconscious is chockablock with pop culture iconography with no room for important things like self-discipline or executive function. When I spent most of Fall 2017 in a psych ward, for most of my stay I was in a dreamlike state on another plane. There I wasn’t a bedraggled, begowned mental patient who hid pills in her bed and was amassing an enviable collection of slipper socks. I was celebrated chanteuse Eartha Kitt. Buxom bobby soxer Audrey Horne from Twin Peaks. RuPaul’s Drag Race alum Katya as her boy self as Mork from Ork. One of Bert’s beloved pigeons from Sesame Street. Tyrion Lannister. Crow T. Robot. When I was getting an MRI I was cozied up in the MRI machine with Jon Hamm and Rachel Bloom. That didn’t suck. I was Miss Cleo. I was The Sentinel. I was a messiah. Not the messiah, just one of many. I’m a modest messiah, m’kay. There was a brief moment there when I was gonna transition into a unicorn but ultimately I didn’t go through with it. I regret that sometimes.

So, yeah, my brain’s a freak bitch y’all! And while I am not certifiable at this juncture, my id remains vivid.

In my manic days you could not convince me David Bowie wasn’t God, but these last few years have proven that if there ever was a God, he went out for cigarettes sometime around 350 BC, and hasn’t been back since, not even to drop off a nerf football at Christmas.

Since I was a little girl, Bowie visited me in my dreams. We recorded an EP together in my bedroom while wearing matching striped pajamas. I don’t remember any of the songs but trust, they were brilliant. Not as good as anything from Low mind you but it was at least a million times better than Never Let Me Down. Which isn’t a brag because that album is unlistenable.

Anyway, ever since the Covidening, just like that deadbeat deity who owes all of Earth’s children several millennia of child support back pay, dream Bowie’s abandoned dream me. Instead of chatting over Salmon Niçoise with David and Iman en plein air in the Marais, I’m dodging die-ins in front of Hobby Lobbies. Instead of trading cheeky barbs with Mr. Jones over an overflowing ashtray of stubbed out Cowboy killers, I’m being walked in on in the bathroom by Britney Spears mid-pee who’s threatening to remove my legs with an oversized nail file because she wants them for her own.

“Can I finish peeing?” I ask her.

“No!” she responds.

I do anyway and luckily overpower her, apprehending the nail file that I use to decapitate her. I’m a dream warrior.

In another dream I’m Vince Neil performing live with the Crüe. I’m on scaffolding surrounded by groupies who dance like the Mary Jane Girls. We sound more like Def Leppard than Motley Crüe but my huge dong looks awesome in my tight leather pants. This was one dream of like 20 I had that night. In another one I was witness to Madonna recreating her Blond Ambition tour 30 years later and her lip fillers made Amanda Lepore’s mouth look as thin as John Waters’ mustache.

I’ve seen other quaranteenies muse on social media that their dreams have been especially Banana Town too. Welcome to my world, friends! There are theories floating around as to why. Who knows. What are dreams anyway? Mystical oracles? Pernicious premonitions? Our brains taking a huge dump? I don’t know. I’m not a scientist. But I am a dreamer. And a schemer. And a writer (allegedly). So, when I need a break from stuffing my maw with spaghetti, weeping for humanity, and zooming with pals, I’m gonna keep a dream journal. Here. On my blog. On the internet. I welcome you to share your own dreams and perhaps offer your own interpretations of my subconscious droppings. Let the conversation begin!

Get in Shape, Garbage Girl!

Newton’s First Law of Motion posits that bodies at rest tend to stay at rest, and bodies in motion tend to stay in motion. My body’s normal state is the former. The activities I am naturally drawn to (reading, watching TV, sleeping all fucking day) have made me a Sedentary Sally.

There have been attempts at athleticism throughout my life. When I was little I took ballet. I was good at it too. I loved wearing pale pink leotards and matching tights. I loved the smell of brand new Capezio slippers. I loved arranging my hair in a tight bun with loads of bobby pins. When I danced I felt lithe and dainty like a little gazelle even though I was reminded constantly that I was more like a wart hog. “Instead of a tutu, we’ll have to get you a four-four,” my dad teased one night after I helped myself to seconds during dinner. When my ballet instructor, a grown woman with a child on the way, made a disparaging comment about my soft little pre-pubescent body, I repeated my mother’s words, excusing it as “baby fat.” “No, this is baby fat,” she remarked, pointing to her pregnant belly. “That,” she motioned to my torso, “is too many Twinkies.” I didn’t even like Twinkies! After class in the dressing room, a group of girls cornered me. “Do you think you’re fat, Megan?” they asked. Honestly, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind until it was hammered into my head by everyone else. After that it consumed me.

All of these unsolicited opinions about my body poisoned my love for dancing. Instead of feeling scrutinized for my dancing technique, I felt gaped at for having a problem body. When I failed to pass the Nutcracker audition (passing the audition= fitting in the costume) I quit, retreating to my stacks of Nancy Drew mysteries and Sweet Valley High.

During middle school and junior high, the onslaught of insults about my body was constant. Like the accusation in a game of Clue, each insult is purloined in my brain with the name of the perpetrator, what they said, and where it happened. Instead of “Col. Mustard with the wrench in the billiard room,” it’s “Tommy O’Meara with ‘Oompa Loompa’ in Mrs. Schmidt’s art class” or “Emily Berger with ‘boar’ in the cafeteria at Camp Oakledge” or “Kevin Wrenn with ‘Kirby Puckett’ in gym class” or “Kevin Wrenn with ‘jelly roll’ in Mr. Donnelly’s math class.” That last one still smarts. Every time I hear “Dirty Boots,” I cringe.

I was learning that my body was a problem. But it wasn’t my problem. These were other people’s hang-ups, I comforted myself between bites of processed cheese. Their words bothered me, but I never let them see that. I learned that from Tracy Turnblad, who never let Amber Von Tussle’s jibes get to her. Tracy remains my patron saint. Still, I didn’t understand what drove a person to hurt someone else just for the sake of hurting them, especially when that someone else (me) did nothing to compel them. Except for daring to breathe the same air as them while being overweight.

When someone is fat, why is their fatness their sole signifier? Like that’s the only thing that matters about them? If I were to make a list about the things that define me, “being fat” is way down that list, despite years of being distilled to just that by school bullies, snooty ballerinas, mouthy strangers on the street. And was my shape really so horrendous it could not exist without comment? Was I really so grotesque? Did I have the Challenger disaster of bodies? Every summer break I’d fantasize about losing weight and coming back to school totally skinny and therefore totally beautiful and the Emily Bergers and the Kevin Wrenns would grovel at my feet, gnash their teeth, curse their hubris, and beg for my forgiveness. But losing weight would have taken discipline and sacrifice. Those words weren’t in my vocabulary, so it never happened.

The fat jabs continued in high school, but with less frequency. Instead of “fat,” boys called me “lesbo.” On occasion it was “fat lesbo.” But being a punk rock alterna-girl whose nascent misandry was rapidly festering, I took it as a compliment.

In my twenties, things got really complicated. For the first time in my life, men started paying attention to me. I was indoctrinated to think that my body was gross therefore I was gross ergo I would be a permavirgin. But men, mostly bass players, made moves that convinced me otherwise. Sort of. Thus began a decade of debasement, soaked in Miller High Life, tinged with regret. Delving into this cesspool of sexual discovery is another blog entry for another time, just know that it was the early aughts and I had a really warped idea of what feminism was thanks to Maxim magazine, Girls Gone Wild, and only skimming third-wave literature on sex positivity, skipping over the entries dedicated to stuff like bodily autonomy and sexual agency.

I eventually got around to reading more feminist theory about stuff like bodily autonomy and sexual agency, but I’ve only just recently come to understand that my body belongs to me, not purely on an intellectual level but on an emotional one. It’s not something that’s ingrained in young girls nearly enough and it is shameful that it often has to take some kind of violence for a woman to regard her body as her own.

Despite the cruel, uninvited words and actions my body has endured from others, it is my body. Mine. And it is my problem. Not in the sense that it’s a problem body, which it is, as I’m often reminded by some of the more outspoken children with very bad manners who I babysit for. It’s my problem as in it’s the only one I’ve got, and, if I want to live out the rest of my days happy and healthy on this weird, dirty little planet with its mixed-up priorities, I need to move my body. Until it gets all sweaty and tired. Every single day.

I need to move my body until it gets all sweaty and tired every single day. Not to become totally skinny and therefore totally beautiful to shut up the Emily Bergers and the Kevin Wrenns of the world. The Emily Bergers and the Kevin Wrenns of the world will never shut up because they are empty inside and they think putting others down will fill them up. Besides, totally skinny=totally beautiful is a myth perpetrated by the heteronormative male gaze and my nascent teenaged misandry has since become full-blown middle-aged misandry, thankyouverymuch. I need to move my body until it gets all sweaty and tired every single day because it’s good for my mental and physical well-being. While it doesn’t always feel like it, it’s a self-kindness, which is, to paraphrase Audre Lorde, an act of political warfare. And fuuuuuuck Trump.

The words “discipline” and “sacrifice” are still foreign tongue, but I’m working on it. I ran today. I ran yesterday. And I ran the day before that. Not very fast, and not very far, but I did it. And it made me sweaty and tired and that’s all that matters. I’m going to run tomorrow. And the day after that. And so on. And maybe this habit I have of not making habits stick will finally be in my rearview mirror and I can keep moving forward, someday faster and someday farther. And maybe someday I might even take a ballet class again. So long as four-fours are welcome.

<3 Brenda & Dylan 4-eva <3

Growing up, TV taught me everything. How to live. How to laugh. How to love. How to look really really fashionable wearing a pair of bike shorts with an over-sized tee knotted to the side. In my life, I’ve had many TV boyfriends. The first was Michael Nesmith from the Monkees. Nickelodeon aired re-runs of the madcap 1960s sitcom about the pre-fab Beatlesque band when I was 7. While everyone else seemed to gravitate toward the impish Davy Jones, I only had eyes for Michael. I loved his stocking cap and his “aw shucks” sheepish twang. I often fantasized that I was a poor little street urchin and the Monkees found me and scooped me up into their Monkeemobile and let me live in their ramshackle beach house. The Monkees, Mike especially, thought I was fascinating and hilarious and adorable, unlike the boys in my school who just thought I was fat and weird.

I cursed mortality and the passage of time, knowing that I could never have Mike Nesmith the way I wanted him. Life was so unfair! For years I carried a torch for my bestockinged baby boy, thinking he could never be usurped. Oh, how wrong I was.

Being the telephile that I am, I had a subscription to Entertainment Weekly. Every week I pored over every article written by Owen Gleiberman and Lisa Schwarzbaum, reading up on the latest TV and Movie news. I remember a fall feature previewing the upcoming premieres of shows focused on teenagers, including Parker Lewis Can’t Lose, a small-screen adaptation of Ferris Bueller, a musical soap called Hull High, and an Aaron Spelling joint called The Class of Beverly Hills. Later renamed Beverly Hills, 90210, the Fox series centered on the exploits of Minnesota twins Brenda and Brandon Walsh (Shannen Doherty and Jason Priestley) navigating the slings and arrows of the fast-paced LA lifestyle. While those other shows are forgotten footnotes, 90210 was a cultural juggernaut, primarily for its provocative themes and captivating cast. The kids of Beverly Hills, most of whom were well beyond high school age (Gabrielle “Andrea Zuckerman” Carteris was pushing 30 when the show debuted), became my new best friends. Their joy became my joy. Their pain my pain. Brenda especially. I really identified with Brenda’s post-adolescent awkwardness. Like Brenda, I too struggled with unruly bangs. I admired her unapologetic bitchiness. And I championed her budding love affair with Dylan Michael McKay.

Dylan. Oh, Dylan. While Mike Nesmith was an approachable goof, Dylan was troubled and aloof. A comely puzzle that was begging to be solved. He had the most adorable scar on his eyebrow (Tiger Beat explained it was the result of an accident between a young Luke Perry and the corner of a bowling alley vending machine) and the biggest, wrinkliest forehead that was somehow super hot, and the most improbable pompadour. He was the most beautiful man my ten year-old eyes had ever viddied. Journalists often compared Luke Perry to James Dean, which he laughed off because he was so modest which just made him all the more attractive.

Photos of the West Beverly gang, ripped from the pages of Tiger Beat and Teen, adorned my bedroom walls. One wall was dedicated solely to pictures of Luke. My innocent childhood fantasies of meeting the Monkees were replaced with steamier make-out sessions between me-as-Brenda and Dylan in the back of his vintage Porsche, serenaded by R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” which was their song. It was kind of a weird choice, but whatever. Better than “Rolling with the Homies!”

Before I knew fan fiction was a thing I made up stories about Dylan and Brenda, their blossoming young love a promising blueprint for what a relationship could be. When Brenda confessed to Dylan she was a virgin, he didn’t shame her or pressure her to go all the way. He was patient and let Brenda explore her sexuality on her own terms. When she did decide to have sex for the first time, the night of the Spring Dance, he was tender and loving and he even brought a condom. And when she had that inevitable pregnancy scare, he didn’t ditch her like this asshole or this asshole.

Their love was an awesome love. Until it all came crashing down. As you might recall, Brenda and Donna (Tori Spelling) went to Paris the summer before their Senior year, leaving Dylan alone to surf and chill and choose sobriety at the Beverly Hills Beach Club. Kelly (Jennie Garth) was supposed to go to Paris too, but at the last minute she decided to stay behind in LA to help her mom Jackie take care of her new daughter. But that was all a ruse of course to steal Dylan away from her BFF. Dylan and Kelly only shared a kiss on the beach that summer, but the betrayal was as devastating as finding out you’re eating veal brains.

The moment Kelly and Dylan confessed their digression to Brenda is more important to me than my first kiss (ick!) or the first time a boy told me he loved me (woof!). Brenda’s indignation was mine too. I never forgave Dylan or Kelly for what they did to us. When Brenda was written off the show and Kelly became the show’s central character a world of shit came her way. She became addicted to cocaine. She got shot. She got Single White Femaled. I chalked up every atrocity wrought on Kelly to karmic retribution for breaking girl code.

After Brenda left I was still dedicated to watching 90210, however my love for Dylan fizzled out. The show took his character trajectory weird places; his dad blew up, he married the Noxzema girl and then she blew up, he ran the Peach Pit After Dark, and then he left. And then he came back, but it just wasn’t the same. Still, his legacy lived on in later teen heartthrobs like Jordan Catalano, the brooding, misunderstood illiterate from My So-Called Life, Ryan Atwood, the brooding, misunderstood ruffian from The O.C., and Chuck Bass, the brooding, misunderstood catfish from Gossip Girl.

Years after its 2000 demise, 90210 continued to be a part of my everyday life. My friend Nora gifted me an autographed photo of the OG cast as a wedding present. Each Christmas, my stepmother gave me a season of the series on DVD. My family and I would come together and spend the holiday in our PJs binge-watching episode after episode, much to the dismay of my dad and brother Justin. My sister Maddie, who is decades younger than myself, would break out in a sweat with each increasingly dramatic turn. “The stakes are so high!” she’d exclaim.

Beverly Hills, 90210 continued to be a part of the cultural zeitgeist with a just okay but ultimately inferior reboot that aired for five seasons on the CW. Although it was a whole new cast of Beverly Hillians that included Lucille Bluth, Becky from Full House and Michael Lee from The Wire, some of the old guard returned, including Donna Martin and Kelly Taylor. But more importantly, it marked the return of Brenda motherfuckin’ Walsh, who left the show all the way back in season 4. I was so fucking psyched! So psyched that when I found out the premiere coincided with a writing class I was going to take at the New School, I swiftly dropped the class so I could tune in (this was in a world before Hulu, mind you). But the show was a fucking bummer! Kelly Taylor was a sad single mom who wound up as a guidance counselor at West Beverly. Brenda Walsh was a washed-up actor who was directing a high school production of Spring Awakening at West Beverly. It’s revealed that Dylan is Kelly’s baby daddy, but he’s not in the picture. See? Bummer Fucking City. The Nu-9-0 did its beloved characters a real disservice. I was furious. Not enough to stop watching, because I am glutton for punishment, but still. I was steaming! Luckily there exists some fan fiction to rectify all these wrongs. If you’re a total fucking psycho like me, please to enjoy!

Just last week, it was announced that there would be yet another reboot, this time a Curb Your Enthusiasm-esque redux featuring most of the original cast. Neither Luke Perry nor Shannen Doherty were attached to the project. Perry was likely too busy with his role as Archie’s dad on CW’s Riverdale. But then came the news earlier this week that Perry suffered a massive stroke. The 9-0 cast has had health scares before. Jason Priestley was severely injured in a race car crash. Shannen Doherty battled breast cancer. Ian Ziering was swallowed by a shark. But they survived. I thought Perry would too. He was 52, but he was forever a teenager to me (or a 25 year-old playing a teenager at least) and teenagers are supposed to be invincible. Surely he’d pull through, I thought. But the world found out he died today. And like a lot of women (and men) my age, whose burgeoning sexuality was sparked by the likes of Luke Perry, I am devastated.

I know part of getting older is watching everyone around you get old too, and that it’s more than a little silly to mourn someone I never met, but I invited this man into my childhood bedroom, which is hallowed ground. A TV character will never again spark giddy excitement in me the way Dylan McKay did, and while that dizzy, pants-throbbing thrill of the unattainable crush is the stuff of adolescence, it is foundational to who I am and for that I am eternally grateful. So tonight, as I rewatch my favorite episodes of 9021-HO for the eleventy-zillionth time, I give thanks to Luke Perry for teaching me that men could be kind and sensitive and TOTALLY SMOKING HOT.

Taking Out the Trash

Hello! And welcome to my home. This is my second attempt at a blog; the first was in 2010. I called it “Brave Dumb World.” It chronicled my foibles in fumbling toward adulthood in my early 30s. And here I am, in the last year of my 30s and still I grapple with most of those themes, minus the fact that I now poop wherever I want. With abandon.

Despite some half-hearted attempts at cleaning up my act, I’m still flailing at this thing called life. Always crashing in the same car. I am not alone. “Adulting,” the oft-maligned Millennial buzzword, pertains to the completion of any mundane task attributed to grown-ups, i.e., doing your laundry, cooking a meal, not spending your hard-earned money on stuff like these tank tops. In a 2017 op-ed, WaPo contributor Jessica Grose explains she hates the term “because it’s a self-infantilizing rejection of female maturity in a culture that already has almost no love for grown-up women.” I don’t disagree with that sentiment, and while I’m not about to rock a “Wine. Because Adulting is Hard” t-shirt anytime soon, being an adult is, like, still really hard for me. But why? I need answers. And solutions. Going out in public in my sweatpants is not activism, it’s surrender. And I’m not ready to give up.

Life is comprised of rituals and routines. Habits. The cultivation of habits is a neurological process, and I genuinely feel like the synapses I needed to develop good habits never developed. My parents, barely adults themselves when they had me, never enforced consistent discipline or healthy habits. I ate chicken nuggies with sweet ‘n’ sour sauce and sipped Dr. Pepper all the live long day. I stayed up all night, supervised by the warm glow of the MTV blaring in my bedroom. Left a permanent imprint of my pudgy little body on the living room couch. My inner-mantra was “No parents! No rules!” So it’s not my fault, see? Because childhood. But like the produce currently wilting in my crisper, that excuse has an expiration date that has long since passed.

On November 16, 2016, in a deeply manic, post-election-holy-fucking-shit-the-world-is-on-fire state, I had a profound shower thought. In my formative years I fortified myself with garbage TV, garbage food, garbage drugs, garbage men. I was a garbage girl, and the world was dependent on me changing my ways. This epiphany also came with the realization that I was a messiah—not THE messiah, but a messiah—so it wasn’t entirely unshaky, but I think that part was just my higher self checking in to let me know that I mattered. Or it was God. Or David Bowie. But same difference, right? I don’t know, I’m still working out the kinks.

Since then, my world has been severely fucked with. Hospital stays, a diagnosis that was later retracted, getting on and getting off medication, depression and anxiety, joblessness, self-imposed isolation from friends and family. And through it all, I remain garbage.

But it’s not all bad. Some of the garbage I’m rather fond of. Like my love for all things irreverent including the work of the Pope of Trash himself, John Waters. Or the personal satisfaction that comes in intellectualizing dumpster fires like Vanderpump Rules or Bachelor in Paradise. But there’s a lot that needs to change. Or the world, my world at least, will continue its crash course to loserdom. So let this inaugural blog post be my clarion call. I’m taking out the trash! I’m going to take a deep dive into Lake Me and get to the bottom of why I can’t for the life of me develop good habits (hint: it’s probably a hopefully very treatable undiagnosed mental illness). I am going to stop listening to the chubby, disheveled little devil on my shoulder who tells me to give up every time something feels difficult or uncomfortable (her name is Trish and she’s a real bitch). I am no longer going to be an American Idle, sitting passively while the world, still ablaze, passes me by. I am not going to let my approaching maturity (hello, 40!) become an invisibility cloak. I’ve carved out this user-friendly little corner of the world wide web (thanks, Squarespace!) to make my voice known. And if it’s all shouting into the void, like most of the internet is, well that’s okay too.