beneath it all you're golden

Well, there will always be a critic. I mean, before the internet. Now there are thousands of critics. Experts. So I saw the KONY video. It is pretty and it definitely tries to pull tears from our eyes. I can see that the whole ‘white man guilt supremacy go save the rest of the world because white men are better’ thing can translate from this video. But this is a commentary that I am sick of too; if there had been a bunch of Asians instead of white guys in the film reel, would it have drawn so much criticism? C’mon, it seems TOO EASY to critique good intentions just because the people with these intentions were white. 

SOOOO many people have SOOOO many negative things to say about this video. 

OF ALL THE CRITIQUES I HAVE READ, I found a total of ZERO solutions to this “problem” that is Kony. I mean, you can critique Invisible Children all you want for not spending enough money on the ground effort, but they have been really successful at raising awareness, which is more than most of us have ever done. I will be the first to admit that I have done very little to help this world outside of fruitless “missions” when I was involved in the church.

Sure, this narrator seems kind of like a douchebag. He has this freakin’ adorable son and totally uses it to his campaign’s advantage. Maybe he overplayed his son a little? But WHO CARES. A week ago, most young people had no clue about this guy Joseph Kony. Apparently I have friends on Facebook that took African Studies courses, know who Joseph Kony is, and have a LOT to say about it. That’s the most annoying part. They have so much to say, right? Of course they do, now that this KONY 2012 video has become viral and pretty much every other friend they have is tweeting about it. Joseph Kony was just another name they crammed into the ever so deep crevices of their brains when they were pulling an all-nighter for the midterm. But WHO CARES. They are talking about Kony, aren’t they?

All I can think about is Shepard Fairey and how he was SO PERFECT to put in this video. He is the ultimate scapegoat artist for all that goes wrong in the world. Seriously. I remember a talk that I attended with a bunch of UCSD art students a couple years ago. They ragged on him like there was no tomorrow because he was raising awareness instead of taking action. Sorry, last time I checked, raising awareness IS taking action. It’s actually MORE action than clicking a fucking retweet button and writing a sentence while you update your facebook status with a link to this KONY2012 video. 

So everyone is talking about Joseph Kony. I am pretty sure that this was the point of the entire viral video campaign (since that is what they officially stated) and I am pretty sure that they succeeded. So now that we’re clear on the point of this KONY video, can someone tell me why all these critics are even talking? Are they just trying to bar people from donating to Invisible Children? I mean, I know they intend to educate people. But what is the point of education if it doesn’t encourage people to DO things? What is the ultimate point of critique if it doesn’t encourage us to help in some way? 

I just KNOW there are people who instantly regretted uploading that KONY2012 video to their Facebooks as soon as the first wave of critical articles came out. But even these lame people know how big of an asshole Joseph Kony is. 

At the end of the day, a lot more people know about Joseph Kony and his horrendous acts than we did a week ago BECAUSE OF INVISIBLE CHILDREN AND THE SEMI-DOUCHEY NARRATOR OF THIS VIRAL VIDEO. Seriously. One week. Joseph Kony. Everywhere. This is kind of huge. So I guess even the negative media attention is kind of nice… since it widens the pool of awareness.

Things that I have learned to appreciate in new ways:

Avocado

Sun

Everything Bagels

Hummus

Kombucha

My first language

Hulu

Second-hand stores

Habits I hope I can keep:

Walking

Spending more time with fam

Public transit

Wearing dresses

Sunblock

The worst pain I ever felt wasn’t when I was losing my virginity or when I was getting my heart broken. Because let’s face it; it doesn’t hurt THAT badly when you lose you virginity and I can’t remember the last time I got my heart broken. I imagine though that it would not physically hurt. I do, however, remember the pain that I felt when I got my first wrist tattoo. I feel that pain when I got my tongue pierced for the third time. I remember every tattoo and every piercing because I got each of them individually in order to feel each pain, each experience. 

The worst pain I’ve felt though, according to my memory and my current opinion, is what that fucking laser did to me when it was removing the hair follicles on my face. The extent of hell that I felt when I was lasering off my hairs is what I hope to God I do not feel when I am dying.

I hope that I do not feel the same kind of pain when I die because then I will have hyped up death so much. I hope that I don’t feel the same kind of pain that I felt when I got my hairs removed (impermanently) because then Death will feel so STUPID. Pointless. Like it didn’t really matter at ALL. Maybe it’s media. Actually, I’m sure it’s media. Maybe that’s what made me feel like everything surrounding death had to be romantic. 

(I also hope that this blog doesn’t get published on Huffington Post under “weird news” because I predicted my own death. How depressing would that be? I hate it when strangers try to invent patterns based on peoples’ personal lives.)

After all, if death isn’t romantic, what the hell is? There is nothing in life that could possibly be more romantic than death.

A new year gives me the chance to open a new chapter of my life. A new calendar. A new journal. A new life. I remember the number 1 selling pastry at Peet’s during the month of January was the ever-shitty cherry tart. Why? Because it was low-fat. 

All I know is that I have lived for 25 years and I have gotten nowhere. By nowhere, I mean I am not in some kind of stable job, nor do I have a child on the way with a husband somewhere with a stable job. No seriously though. By nowhere, I mean I have not accomplished any of my goals. What are my goals, anyway? Well, I want to have abs. I want to have a published novel. I want to have beautiful children. I want to have a fucking backyard. I guess at the age of 25, it’s reasonable to think that I do not yet have these things. What do I have to say at this age that could possibly resemble anything significant to another human being? 

Anyway. 

After so many years of setting New Year’s Resolutions that don’t STICK, I have learned one thing, if anything: don’t fucking make them.

The thing about resolutions is that you should just make them happen. If you want to have a published novel, become a loner and just write your brains out. If you want to have abs, just work out and eat healthy foods. If you want beautiful children, just make it happen. If you want a fucking backyard, either produce the money that will get you one or marry into one. 

So here’s to a year where I don’t make excuses. I want to just make shit happen. I want things to fall into place. Sure, that is probably not going to happen just because the ball drops and the time changes from 2011 to 2012. I just feel like I need to get my ass out of this lazy couch and make it happen on my own. I want to promise myself that I will make something happen this year. I will try my hardest to be a better woman. A better person. I will try, this year, to live for my children. 

Mandy drank a whole bottle of wine and said “I feel like shit.”

I said, “Figuratively?”

My thought process was that ‘literally’ would mean ‘physically’ and that ‘figuratively’ would translate to ‘emotionally’ (I don’t even know why my brain did this)

In her drunken state:

n. the exhilarating dread of finally pursuing a lifelong dream, which requires you to put your true abilities out there to be tested on the open savannah, no longer protected inside the terrarium of hopes and delusions that you created in kindergarten and kept sealed as long as you could, only to break in case of emergency.