Category: health


Promises, Promises

Anger is the most frustrating of all emotions.

I speak from experience because, though you might not always be able to tell, I’m actually a very angry person.  To be honest, I think most people are.  Sometimes I feel like the whole concept of “personality” is just a defense mechanism that we use to try to keep others from realizing just how close we are to losing control of our emotions.  Personality is what we use to disguise the fact that we’re all essentially just the product of lost dreams, failed loves, and questions that will never be answered.

As I sit here right now, All About Eve is playing on the TV in front of me.  I love All About Eve and I was very much looking forward to seeing it but I’ve barely paid attention to it.

Instead, I’ve spent the entire film trying to deal with the anger that I feel towards one guy that I barely even know.  Without going into too many specifics, he basically made some comments regarding how I choose to express myself. 

Yeah, I know.  That’s pretty vague.

But why I’m angry with him isn’t really that important.  His comments were stupid and self-righteous and, sad to say, that same was probably true of my response.  (The difference between me and him is that I, at least, am capable of realizing this.)  What’s important is why one idiot could manage to piss me off so much as to ruin several hours out of my weekend.

Well, truthfully, he’s not the one who ruined those hours.  I am.  I’m the one who allowed his pointless comments to mean something to me.  Through my response, I gave him a prominence that he really doesn’t deserve.

Why did I do this?  This is a question that I’ve asked myself many times.  Why can’t I just let this stupid bullshit go?  Why do I insist on giving in to my irrational, immature impulses when I know that it’s just going to make things worse?

Because I’m angry.

I was angry before this idiot even knew I existed.  I was angry long before I ever had a twitter account.  I was angry before Facebook ever existed.  I’ve been angry my entire life.  25 years is a long time to be angry but I’ve managed to do it. 

My anger is not born out of hate.  My anger is fueled purely by pain.  Everyday is a struggle not to give into that pain and, with each passing year, I get a little bit better at fighting off that pain.  But far too often, I get hit in a moment of weakness and I give in.

I wish I didn’t.

I never feel good about it afterward.

Every day, I promise myself that I will no longer allow myself to be victimized by my own pain.

Some day, hopefully, I’ll actually be able to keep that promise.

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Yesterday, I found myself trapped in a haze of ADD and it was all because it snowed.

Our Neighborhood on Friday morning (picture taken by Erin Nicole Bowman)

Since, of course, I live in Texas, my response to this was to say, “What’s snow?”  Well, apparently, it’s very white, it’s very cold, and it forces you to stay inside, watching Lifetime movies and old DVDs while posting too much information on twitter and generally trying to see how much you can annoy your older sister until she asks you if you’re interested in playing “the quiet game” for a little while.

(Incidentally, I don’t know about your older sister but mine turned out to be remarkably tolerant and I’m proud of her.)

It also keeps you from going to work and I know some people claim that’s a great thing but for me, it was really, really difficult.  In fact, if not for the fact that my boss specifically called me to tell me not to bother to come in because he wasn’t going to come in, I would have braved the ice and snow just so I could spend some quality time answering the phoner and saying, “I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to meet with you today.”  Scoff if you will but I would have happily done it and I regret not being able to do it because not going to work threw me off my routine and I spent most of yesterday in an ADD haze.

Like a lot of things, though, an ADD haze is only a bad thing in retrospect.  While it’s occurring, it’s actually kinda fun.  For instance, I spent a few hours reading three books at one time while an old Dracula film (Hammer’s Dracula A.D. 1972 to be precise) played on the TV and Siouxsie and the Banshees played on my laptop and the microwave zapped up one of those “super pretzels” that I love so much.  Now you could argue that by doing 20 things at once, I end up truly experiencing not a single one of them but, to be honest, it’s so exhilarating at the time.  It makes me love ADD.

Unfortunately, the exhilaration of ADD is always followed by the times when the entire world just seems overwhelming and all the thoughts in your mind start to you weigh down, making you feel like you’re trying to run through quicksand.

Things like going to my job, watching a movie, spending Friday night with a certain someone, blogging, spending a few hours a night on twitter, or watching some silly reality TV show — these are the things that I use to pull myself out of that quicksand.  These are the things that I look at and say, “As long as I keep these things consistent, than I can force some sort of rhyme and reason on the chaotic mess that is my mind.”

The snow, as much as I loved it, took away all of my rhyme and reason for the day.  Luckily, that afore-mentioned special someone was able to make his way to the house after he got off from his job and that helped to put me back on track.

But until he arrived, I found myself spending what seemed like an eternity watching the icicles outside of the den door get bigger and bigger and bigger.  Seriously, I was scared to even let our cat near the door for fear that this one icicle would come to life and try to attack us.  Here’s two pictures of it, courtesy of my sister Erin:

I mean, seriously — that thing was scary!

Well, today, the sun is out, the temperature is above freezing for the first time since last Monday, and the snow is slowly melting.  And I know I should probably be happy but I’m sad to see it go.  I’m a Texan and as much as it disrupted my routine, I know there’s a good chance I’ll never see this much snow again for the rest of my life.

But that’s life.

You’ve got the celebrate what you have when you’ve got it and be prepared to accept that everything goes away in the end.

(This is one of the couple of thousand poems I’ve written about being bipolar.   Out of those thousands, this one is probably the least TMI. This one was an attempt, on my part, to explain why I decided to stop medicating myself.)

I have no more 2 a.m. demons

pushing words through my soul

No madness to create poetry

on sheet after page of escape

No more hours of contemplation or

freedom wrapped between my thighs

Nothing to purge into metaphor

And nothing left to say

Welcome to 2011!

Traditionally, January 1st is when we break all of our new year’s resolutions.  That’s why, this year, I decided not to make any resolutions until January 1st.  Hopefully, by doing this, I’ll be able keep some of them until the 2nd or maybe the 3rd.

I also know that tradition dictates that you only make two or three New Year’s Resolutions.  However, I am a lover of excess.  So, this year I made 20.

1) I will update this blog at least every other day, even if I have absolutely nothing to say.

2) I will dance everyday.

3) I will make more of an effort to control my natural tendency to act like a spoiled brat.

4) I’m going to make more of an effort to get on a regular, daily sleep cycle instead of just waiting to pass out after three or four days.

5) I will set up a definite, concrete timeline for getting my Master’s and I’ll stick with it.

6) I will never buy tampons at 7-11 again.  And you know what else?  I’m never going to apologize for talking out loud about my period again.

7) I’m going to continue to run and exercise every day.

8 ) I’m going to finish my novel-in-progress, Mizmoon.  I should warn you that this is a carry-over resolution from last year.

9) I will either find a prisoner to correspond with or I’ll stop signing up for prison pen pal programs.

10) I will discover a previously undiscovered species of cat.  It will have long red hair and mismatched green eyes and it’ll be named after me.  It probably won’t always land on its feet either so be careful if you get a Lisa cat.  Don’t let it climb trees.

11) I’m going to stop worrying about pleasing everyone because it can’t be done.

12) I will finally get around to answering all of those questions that have piled up over on my formspring account.  I’ve got about 256 questions left to answer so this one might take a while.

13) I will be more tolerant of people who disagree with me even though they will still be wrong.

14) I will no longer be ashamed about being a victim.  Instead, I will be proud of being a survivor.

15) I will think before I spend money.

16) I will have more confidence in myself.

17) I will stop obsessing about my big, Italian nose.  Or I might just get a nose job.

18) I promise that I will try to try to stop driving too fast.

19) I will start to forgive.

20) I will allow myself to love.

Happy 2011.  Let’s make it a good one because, in case you haven’t heard, the world is ending in 2012.

4 days to go until my birthday and I’ve already started to receive presents.  On Wednesday, I received a collection the first 48 issues of The Walking Dead from my fellow pop cultural blogger, Arleigh Sandoc.  Arleigh is the owner of Through The Shattered Lens, a wonderful entertainment site that he graciously allows me to write for.

And then today, I found out I was getting another gift this Sunday.  In fact, I’m getting a gift that I’ve always wanted but I always figured there was no realistic way I’d ever receive it. 

I’m getting more time.

A whole extra hour of it, apparently.

Yes, as I was informed at work earlier today, this Sunday is Daylight Saving Time. 

I’m going to be honest.  I usually hate Daylight Saving Time.  First off, speaking as someone with ADD (yes, I know — who doesn’t have ADD nowadays?  Still, my ADD is worse than yours), it’s difficult enough for me to deal with time without having the hours just randomly change in the middle of the night.  Secondly, speaking as someone with OCD, Daylight Saving Time means that I’m going to have to reset every single clock I own immediately after 2:00 a.m. (or 3:00 a.m. or whatever time it’s going to be — see, it’s started!) or else I’m not going to be able to sleep.  Finally, speaking as someone who might be a hoarder, I own a lot of clocks.

Yes, Daylight Saving Time is a massive pain in the ass and I have yet to find anyone who disagrees with me on this.  What exactly is the point of it all?  According to Wikipedia, Daylight Saving Time has something to do with farming.  I guess I could read the article further to find out just what exactly that is but, to be honest, the article bores me.  If anything, this whole farming thing sounds like an excuse.  Trust me, I’m a country girl and I can tell you this — it doesn’t matter what time the clock says, roosters are going to crow whenever they feel like it, cows are going to smell terrible, and hay is always going to make me reach for my inhaler.

My personal theory is that Daylight Saving Time is meant to serve as a reminder that our time here on this planet is short and that the hours we take for granted can just mysteriously vanish (or reappear) in the middle of the night.  And, honestly, who wants to be reminded of that?  That’s depressing.

Still, I am liking the idea of getting an extra hour. After all, how many times a year do you get to spend an hour in a state of suspended limbo?  It’s almost like one of those movies where the hero goes back in the past to correct his mistakes.

Here’s my idea of the perfect way to celebrate Daylight Saving Time.  Do whatever you need to do from 2:00 a.m to 3:00 am.  Then, when that extra hour kicks in, do the exact opposite.  See which hour goes better for you and use that hour as a template for the rest of your life.

When I’m at work, one of the things I usually look forward is the daily visit of the FedEx Guy.  He usually shows up an hour or two after I get back from lunch.  I’ll sign for whatever he’s dropping off, he’ll ask me how I’m doing, and I’ll smile and laugh at whatever joke he happens to make that day.  It’s a nice break from the usual monotony of answering the phone and telling people, “If you want to have a seat, he’ll be right with you.”

However today, when the FedEx guy showed up, my boss literally ran out of his office so that he could greet him with, “Well, how about them Cowboys!?”

The FedEx guy started to shake his head and said, “Did you watch the whole game?”

Now, I should probably add that, until this afternoon, I have never even seen either my boss or the FedEx guy share so much as a simple greeting.  However, they were soon having a very impassioned conversation that, though they were both apparently speaking English, I could not begin to follow.

Finally, I managed to figure out that neither one of them was happy with the Cowboys.

Sitting behind my desk, I worked up the courage to interrupt them by asking, “Are the Cowboys not doing well?”

As soon as I spoke, both of their heads snapped in my direction and they both stared at me silently in apparent disbelief.

“No,” my boss finally said, “they’re not doing well.”

“Oh,” I meekly replied.

Now, I have to admit.  I’m not a sports fan.  I never have been.  Some of it’s because I associate most sports with having asthma attacks in public school gyms.  A lot of it is because I only had to hear that stupid thing about there being “no I in team” once before I decided that was nothing I wanted anything to do with.  There’s also the fact that I hate the fact that football players always seem to have sweat stains on their pants.  I mean, seriously.  That’s just really gross.  And I like to think that a lot of it has to do with the fact that some people are naturally into sports and some people are naturally into doing something worthwhile.

Of course, I’m not totally ignorant when it comes to sports.  I live in Dallas, Texas and there’s no way you can totally avoid sports around here.  Dallas is an sports-crazed city.  It’s part of the culture and you can’t escape it even if you want to.

So, I know that we have a football team that’s known as the Cowboys.  I know that Tony Romo used to date Jessica Simpson and I know that another player named Miles Austin is dating Kim Khardashian. 

I also know that Dallas has a baseball team called the Texas Rangers and the Rangers are apparently going to the World Series sometime tomorrow.  I’m pretty sure that they have to win four games to win a championship or something like that.

Dallas has a basketball team but, for the life of me, I can not remember what they’re called.  I do know that they’re owned by Mark Cuban who briefly had a really, really bad reality TV show that was a rip-off of The Apprentice.

I’m about 75% sure that we have a hockey team.  I remember that in college, me and my friend Kendra briefly decided that we were going to be hockey fans.  Kendra actually stuck with that plan but I kinda ended up getting distracted by …. well, I don’t really remember what.

Dallas might have a soccer team too.  Who does David Beckham play for?  And another thing — what’s the deal with soccer riots in Great Britain?  Oh, and yes — I know that soccer is called football everywhere else.  I don’t care.  It’s a stupid game.

Oh!  I just realized that I know the name of one soccer player!  Carla Overbeck.  But, I should admit that the only reason I know about her is because she’s in this PSA that shows up on the Lifetime Movie Network every 20 minutes or so.

Shortly before I graduated college, I attended a workshop for women who were preparing to enter the job market.  One of the lectures I attended (and kinda listened to though, I should admit, it was a very long lecture and I’ve usually only got a 7-minute attention span at best) dealt with the difficulty the some women have communicating in a male-dominated workplace.  And one of the main difficulties cited was that men often speak in sports terminology.  I guess it’s their own secret code.

To be honest, at first, I thought that the lecturer was overstating the problem.  How hard, I wondered, could it be to figure out?  I mean, I’m not into football but I know what a touchdown is and I know that “hitting a home run” is a good thing.  I always thought I knew what guys were referring to when they talked to first, second, or third base (though the specifics — especially the meaning behind second — always seemed to vary depending  on which guy was explaining it).  But the lecturer started to reel off all the phrases and terms that had apparently been causing confusion and, as I listened, I felt like I was attending a Latin Mass.  I recognized the sounds that were being made but they didn’t make a damn bit of sense to me.

So, no, I’m not a sports fan and if that means I’m conforming to some sort of stereotype, so be it.  Quite frankly, as I listened to my boss and the FedEx guy suffering such angst over the Cowboys, I was happy to be ignorant.  Seriously, I already have enough drama in my life without concerning myself with whether or not a bunch of strangers can score a certain amount of points.

Life’s too short to get upset about something as silly as sports.  Especially, when someone like Gretchen makes it to the finale of Project Runway while Michael Costello gets sent home.  Now that’s something to get upset about…

I didn’t get a chance to mention it yesterday but October 22nd was International Stuttering Awareness Day.  To be honest, I’m not totally sure how these “awareness” days are supposed to work or how they’re supposed to change the world.  According to Wikipedia, Central Michigan University actually observes an International Stuttering Awareness Week.  However, the problem isn’t that the world is not aware of stuttering.  The problem is that the world continues to mock and stereotype those who do stutter.

People who know me now never seem to believe me when I tell them that, from the age of five to almost twelve, I very rarely if ever spoke.  It wasn’t that I didn’t have anything I wanted to say or that being quiet was ever, in any way, a part of my nature.  Instead, it was because I knew that if I spoke, someone would hear me stutter and immediately, I would be shunned.  I would be the outsider.  I would be branded as being stupid and damaged and worthless.  I lived my days in terror of being called on in class and forgetting to speak very carefully and slowly because if I actually relaxed and just started to talk the way everyone else did, my stutter would come out.

At home, of course, you couldn’t shut me up.  At home, it didn’t matter if I stuttered.  If anything, I was almost proud of it because my mom had been a stutterer too and it gave me an extra bond to her that nobody else in my family had.  She always told me not to be ashamed when I couldn’t get the words out as perfectly as others. 

I guess that’s why it was such a slap in the face to go out into the “real world,” and to be told that no, I should be ashamed.  I can still remember every time that someone — whether it was a classmate or the occasional adult — replied to whatever I had said by repeating my exact words, all the way down to the stutter.  I can’t remember their names but I can remember the way they hurt me.  I can remember the way they’d smirk when they would do it and the sound of their laughter.  Everyone had an individual laugh but the pain it brought always felt the same. 

I would just sit quietly and try to fade into the background.  For someone like me — who was smart and who did have a lot to say — this was torture.    If you asked me what I mostly remember about my childhood, it was being angry at those who could step into the spotlight and being scared that strangers would discover why I couldn’t. 

My stutter has gotten better over time, to the point where now it rarely, if ever, comes out.  Just as it’s difficult to explain what causes someone to stutter, it’s also difficult to explain why some people stop stuttering and others don’t.  In my case, I’m sure there’s a lot of reasons why I no longer stutter as badly as I once did. 

Some of it, undoubtedly, was due to a lot of speech therapy. 

My own personal theory is that a lot of it is due to the fact that, physically, I was an early bloomer.  Ironically, the discovery that as long as you have boobs, most guys won’t listen to a word you’re saying anyway, actually served to boost my confidence and — though I don’t want to support the idea that stuttering is just a result of insecurity — that discovery did make me a lot more comfortable with speaking to other people (or, to be honest, to members of the male sex).   Even if I did occasionally still stutter, nobody seemed to notice.  And, as I grew more comfortable with the idea that I actually could speak, I found myself stuttering less and less.

(Of course, many years later, I came to realize that this presented a whole new set of problems and frustrations.)

Also, much like my mom’s, my stutter just grew less and less severe as time passed.  Unfortunately, I never realized it was just naturally getting better because, in my mind, I was always that little girl who was so scared of saying something just to have it thrown back in her face of evidence of her own stupidity and worthlessness.  In many ways, that’s how I still see myself and I guess that’s how I always will.  Those years of silence left me with scars of insecurity that I doubt, regardless of how confident I otherwise am, will ever truly heal.

As I said earlier, I’m still a stutterer.  My stutter still comes out occasionally, usually if I’m tired or just unusually flustered.  I wish I could say that it doesn’t hurt to hear it in my voice but honestly, every little stammer — no matter how rarely it’s actually heard anymore —  still feels like a small death to me. 

What’s ironic though is that I’ve grown up to be someone who, literally, can not stop talking.  Not only do I have a job that requires that I spend almost every minute of my workday speaking to others, but I’ve also been involved with various community theaters and I love being in the spotlight.  Now, I spend most of my time actively seeking to be the center of attention even if it means that I might occasionally trip over my words in public.  And it’s all because I spent so many years in a self-imposed exile of silence.

I know the pain of being anonymous.  I know the pain of not having a voice and of being ignored and forgotten.

That pain left me with one goal: to never be anonymous and invisible again.

And I won’t be.

As I write this, I am tired, I am sore, my boobs hurt, and my right leg is determined to cramp up on me.  As I consider my current state, one question continues to repeat itself in my mind:

Don’t you hate it when a foolish new year’s resolution comes back to bite you in the ass?

For instance, I resolved — during the early hours of January 1st, 2010 — that I would start taking better care of myself this year.  No more staying up for 96 hours straight, no more taking pills just to see what they do, no more dealing with boredom with alcohol and anonymous internet flirtation.  No, I decided as I popped an unmarked white pill and stared at the screen of my laptop glowing in a strange man’s bedroom, from now on, I am going to live healthy!

And, to a large extent, I’ve managed to do just that.  I just wish somebody had prepared me ahead of time for just how boring it is to live healthy.

However, one thing that I am coming to slowly enjoy is running.

I’ve always suffered from pretty severe asthma, to the extent that I’m on a first name basis with just about every paramedic and ER nurse at Richardson Medical Center.  Earlier this year, I read that running can actually good for people with asthma and so, I decided that would now be my thing.  I decided I would be a runner.

One thing you should understand about me — when I decide I’m going to do something, I do it.  Even if I really don’t have the slightest idea how to do it, I still manage to do it.  Even if all evidence shows that I’m doing it completely incorrectly, I’m still going to do it.  Some people would call this stubbornness.  Me, I call it…well, okay, it’s true.  I’m stubborn.

So, since I moved to a safer and better neighborhood last July, I’ve been attempting to run on a regular basis.  When I get home from work, I’ll change into shorts, sports bra, and t-shirt, put on my running shoes, tie my hair back in a pony tail, and I’ll run from my house to a Target that’s located a few blocks away.  Then I’ll run back home and try not to pass out.

When I first started running, I literally thought the idea was to run.  I would literally step out of the house and just start running somewhere.  After the third asthma attack, it occurred to me that maybe it would be a good idea for me to pace myself as opposed to just seeing how quickly I could get from one location to another.  That seemed to work a lot better.

Running calms me down.  Everything you’ve  heard about how running can give you a chance to release every-day stress and clear your mind is true.  I always seem to do my best thinking while running.

It also does seem to be helping my asthma.  Honestly, this is a hard point to prove.  People who have heard me wheezing after I get back from a run tend to disagree with me on this.  However, as the person who actually has had to live with it for 24 years now, I can tell you — without a doubt — that I am actually breathing better now than I ever have in the past.

Admittedly, I’m still making up a lot of this as I go along.  Since I’ve started running, I’ve made it a point to watch other runners.  I noticed that a lot of them run in place while waiting to cross the street.  I decided I should probably do that too.  However, after the first two times, I just ended up feeling stupid so now I either just run across the street and hope no one’s coming or else I use the Don’t Walk sign as an excuse to rest for a few minutes.  I also noticed that many runners tends to stop and check their pulse so I’ve started trying to do that as well.  I guess I’m supposed to keep count or something but, to be honest, I’m usually just happy to discover that, after running in the Texas heat, that I still have a pulse.

There’s a few other disadvantages:

Since Texas weather often means a thunderstorm while the sun’s shining, it’s difficult to maintain a regular running schedule.

I broke my ankle in two places when I was 17 and I’ve always wondered if it actually healed correctly.  The way it sometimes throbs after I go running leads me to suspect that it did not.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that boys in pickup trucks will honk their horns and shout comments at any woman they see on the sidewalk, even if she is soaked with sweat and obviously having a hard time catching her breath. 

One reason I didn’t run when I was living in my old apartment is because I didn’t always feel safe out in that neighborhood.  My new neighborhood is definitely safer but that doesn’t mean I feel safe enough to totally let my guard down.

There’s several gyms and health club type places near my house.  A Gold’s Gym just opened up across the street from the Target that I run to.  Every time I go to the movies, I drive by one of those 24 hour Fitness places.  My sister Erin keeps telling me that I should check one of them out if I’m really serious about this whole exercise thing.

But, I don’t want a personal trainer.  I don’t want to have to deal with some pumped up guy who is going to tell me to “feel the  burn” or whatever it is those people say.  I don’t want someone who is going to say, “Today, let’s work on your abs,” because I know that I’ll misunderstand him and think he said, “Let’s work on your ass” and it’ll just be an awkward situation all around.  Those people annoy the Hell out of me, regardless of whether they’re working down the street from me or if they’re appearing in shows like The Biggest Loser or movies like Burn After Reading

(Though, as a sidenote, I do think that was one of Brad Pitt’s best performances.)

No, sorry.  I do not want to run with other people who are going to stop me so that they can spend an hour of my time pontificating about what I’m doing wrong or what the proper way is to do this or that. 

What those people will never understand is that I don’t care if I’m doing it correctly.

I just care that I’m having fun doing it.

And once I’m no longer enjoying it, I’ll no longer do it.

1) I love musicals.  I was in the drama club all through high school.  When I was in college, I was active in community theater.  I’ve never allowed the fact that I’m tone-deaf to prevent me from breaking out into a song.  Taking all that into account, I really should love Glee.  And yet, I don’t.  In fact, I hate it.  Whether it’s Matthew Morrison’s creepy smile or the way Glee pretends to be more quirky than it actually is, the show just annoys the Hell out of me. 

2) When it comes to selecting a favorite color, I’ve always been torn between red or green.  I finally settled on one of them about two nights ago but, for the life of me, I can’t remember which one.

3) I am a German-Spanish-Irish-Italian mutt with a little French thrown in for good measure.  I probably identify most with my Irish heritage even though I’m definitely closest to the Spanish-Italian side of my family.  A part of me wishes that my background was 100% Cajun. 

4) I have a degree in Art History so, of course, I’m currently working as a receptionist.

5) Along with being asthmatic, I suffer from heterochromia, i.e. my left eye is a lighter shade of green than my right.  Unlike asthma, heterochromia is actually kinda cool. 

6) I tend to talk a lot.  I mean a lot.  My sister Megan once said, “Lisa can tell the longest stories about nothing…”  At the time, it actually hurt my feelings but in retrospect, she’s right.  What people often fail to understand, though, is that the main reason I won’t shut up is because I’m actually very shy.  Rambling is my way of avoiding the dreaded awkward silence.

7) For close to a year now, I’ve been writing — off-and-on — a novel called Mizmoon.  It’s been one of the most frustrating and rewarding experiences of my life.  My plan is to have a rough draft completed by the end of 2010. 

8 ) If I had a time machine, I’d go back 11 years and tell my younger self to “wait” and enjoy being innocent for a few more years.  What’s sad is that I know my younger self would probably respond by telling me that I don’t understand how she (I) feels and that it’s her (my) life anyway. 

9) Often times, when I’m having trouble finding any inspiration for a more substantial blog post, I’ll handle the situation by writing down a few very random facts about me.

10) I’m not anti-marriage.  I just have serious doubts as to whether or not I could ever be a part of a succesful marriage.  I’m a romantic at heart but, at the same time, I hate the thought of one day waking up and realizing that I’ve sacrificed my own identity just to be “so-and-so’s wife.”  A friend of mine recently told me that “a succesful relationship is built on trust.”  I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of trusting anyone that much.

11) I’ve often been accused of engaging in a bit too much TMI for my own good (especially when it comes to my twitter account) but there are certain things in my life that I don’t talk about even though I want to.  But I don’t because I know that if I do, people will no longer think of me as Lisa Marie.  Instead, they’ll simply see me as an object of pity or as a victim.  As much as I sometimes need to express my pain, I don’t want it to define me.

12) At the same time, I do find that it is sometimes to helpful to vent (or sometimes even cry out) on a site like twitter because 1) you can block anyone who acts like an asshole about it, 2) others can block or ignore you if they don’t want to hear about it (which makes me feel less guilty about my occasional emo moments), and 3) sometimes, if you’re lucky, someone will actually offer up either some good advice or come up with a response so perfectly absurd that it’ll snap me out of my angst.

13) Yes, I have in the past occasionally posted a risqué picture or two on twitpic, tweetphoto, and plixi.  And yes, I have occasionally had to deal with the total stranger who has taken it upon him or herself to tell me that I need to have more “respect” for myself or use better judgment.  But you know what?  It’s my body and I’m not ashamed of it.  Why is it that society continues to insist that a woman cannot be independent, intelligent, and/or liberated unless she’s also some sort of humorless, sexless celibate?

If I want to show off my body, I will.  Even more importantly, though, if I don’t feel like showing off my body, I won’t.  No matter how many DMs, YMs, and e-mails I get asking me when I’m going to post another “thong shot.”  The minute anything starts to feel like an obligation is the minute that I start to lose interest.

Someone once asked me how I’d feel if, some day in the distant future, I discovered that my daughter was posting racy pictures of herself on the Internet.  I didn’t have an answer for him then and I really don’t have an answer now.  I know it would upset me but I would also hope that if my daughter was doing that, she would be doing it because she wanted to and not because she felt like she had to.

14) Yes, I do want to be a mom someday.  If I have a girl, I’m going to name her Gloria Elena after my mom.

15) When I first started this post, I thought it was going to be a lot shorter and a lot less serious.  🙂

16) I am an obsessive list maker.  Not only do I continually make lists of everything I need to during the day but I tend to hold on to the lists even after the day has passed because the list, if nothing else, will at least help me remember the day.  Yes, I know this is probably an indication of a tendency towards hoarding.  However, I am capable of throwing aways my old lists … just as long as I’m given one last chance to read them before I do so.

17) Continuing on the obsessive compulsive theme, it’s very important to me that any numbers in my life be even numbers.  I can never, for instance, feel secure if I’m in a building that has an address that ends in an odd number.  That’s also why I’m going to end up listing 20 random facts about myself in this post.  (It’s also why, for my Lisa Marie’s Favorite Exploitation and Grindhouse Trailers series over at Through the Shattered Lens, I always include 6 trailers per post instead of 5.)

18) I used to love that Chanel commercial where Nicole Kidman was the actress having the romance with the — well, I forget what he was supposed to be but he was hot and that’s all that really mattered.  Except, for some reason, I always thought that Kidman’s character was supposed to be terminally ill and dying in the commercial.

19) I love old school Italian horror films, the gorier and more sordid the better.  Yet, in real life, I can’t stand the sight of blood.

20) Okay, one last random fact.  Hmmm…alright, I get about two to three hours of sleep a night and I like it that way.  Life fascinates me and I can’t experience it if I’m asleep.

I have been sick since last Wednesday.  Congested, feverish, and muddy-headed, that’s been me.

To put it simply, I do not enjoy being sick.  It requires rest and rest goes against my own hyper nature.  I think I’ve spent more consistent hours asleep in the past four days than I have in the entire year previously.  My good health cannot return soon enough.

Anyway, until my health does return, why not pass the time with a short film that me and my sister Erin put together about two months ago?

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