There’s an epidemic in our society, it’s called “resting bitch face.” And it’s real.

After forgetting my sunglasses and/or judging people’s stupid-disapproving comments on CLEARLY HILARIOUS photos of cats on imgur, I’ve grown a permanent scowl.

"What do you mean you don't like Chris Farley?"

“What do you mean you don’t like Chris Farley?”

Depending on how hard I’m concentrating, the crease in my brow can be anywhere from a smolder on par to that of Colin Farrell’s (yeaaaa right) to a Neanderthal-esque look of confusion.

It’s a trait I share with most of the people in my family, unfortunately. However, I am the only one that is A. vain enough B. financially capable to get something done. So while I walk around with the forehead of a toddler, my sister looks like she’s sitting on the panel of a cupcake competition.

This is me honestly trying to scrunch my brow. Tres Chic, non?

This is me honestly trying to scrunch my brow. Tres Chic, non?

And if you were wondering, YES! I am a hypocrite. I cringe at questionable food coloring choices and think that eating anything that is not bought from Whole Foods will give me cancer. Then I go and get my face injected with unknown substances because I don’t like my brow furrow. To each their own vice.

It costs me about $150-200 and last upwards of 6-8 months. That’s months of being able to look in the mirror and not think to myself that I look bad or worry about my signs of premature aging. I am living life, yo.

And if you’re thinking to yourself, “but the first picture isn’t even that bad”, I know. I am not going to really put a bad photo of me up. You’re going to have to take my word for it.

Don't I look like someone you'd want to take out to lunch and pick up the tab for?

Don’t I look like someone you’d want to take out to lunch and pick up the tab for?

That photo makes me want to go back to blonde. Ugh. Dilemmas.

Maybe when I’m forty and it’s more an appropriate time to actually look forty I will cease to get botox injections, I’m not holding my breath. At the end of the day I do what I need to feel okay with myself, and at least that doesn’t mean bathing in the blood of innocent virgins (see: Elizabeth Bathory).

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If I never leave and consciously decide to come back, it’s as if I just got stuck. As if I settled. Settled is the antithesis of my life’s goal.

I feel like I’m on the verge of something, whether it be an epiphany or a mental breakdown. I need to go and clear my head. I need to find me under all this baggage and expectations put on me by other people. 

Oregon was a place that I felt electrified, alive. I could breathe for the first time in years and I loved every moment of it.

I just want to love moments again. 


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1. Is there an open bar at these work functions?

2. Up to how many abortions does the company’s medical insurance cover?

3. Is my direct supervisor single and/or ugly?

4. Is smoking permitted inside and to what am I limited to smoking?

5. What’s your policy on sleeping on the job?

6. Can I use my vacation time like… right now?

7. Can you hold this? I’ll be right back.

8. Have we slept together before?

9. Do you want to see my belly button ring?

10. Why does your company have such a high staff turnover rate?

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Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t wake up in the morning. Sometimes I’m afraid I will.



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I knew a boy in high school who had a crush on me but I think it’s safe to the feeling was mutual. We never dated but we’d talk on the phone and met up at parties every once in a while. At one party, while I was on a split from an ex, we danced and talked. My friend who accompanied me slyly pointed to him while he wasn’t looking and gave me a thumbs up. “I know, right?” I mouthed back at her. Later that night as we smoked cigarettes my ex-boyfriend approached the house where the party was taking place. I ignored all his calls so I didn’t know that he was invited and was looking for me. I was seventeen and in love with a man who was in love with playing games. As my ex stood on the porch making conversation with me my friend from school tried to intervene. He inserted himself between me and my ex in order to garner back the attention he lost to his competing suitor. I, completely bedazzled by older treacherous lover, dismissed the former’s advances. I knew he was trying because he thought we had something, but I dismissed him. I wouldn’t see him ever again. 

Eight months ago that friend of mine was shot and killed by a police officer. He was stopped for smashing windows out of his neighbors’ cars early in the morning of November 16, 2014. The night before I remember his eccentric Facebook statuses. He claimed to have been being watched and that he was going to do something about it. I do not know if he was on drugs or as a lot have assumed, bipolar. When he was stopped, standing on the corner in a neighbor’s yard, the police drew their weapons and demanded he dropped the baseball bat he was carrying. As he went to lower it a police officer started to step forward. My friend, already paranoid and feeling confronted, raised back up the bat and was immediately shot by the approaching officer. 

There’s no real moral to this story, just grief and guilt that I still feel. I am sorry for what I did to him as well as sorry for what was done to him that morning. Just another tragedy… 

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As I sit naked on my couch, reeking of the Ramen Noodles I just devoured, I can’t help but to question what the fuck am I doing? I started this journey of self-discovery two weeks ago with the highest of hopes. Since then I’ve suffered an incredibly painful ovarian cyst rupture and botched wisdom teeth extraction which led to dry-socket. Between the handfuls of hydrocodones and numerous pudding cups I am starting to feel a little depressed.

The other night I went to a filmmakers networking event and really had a blast. Zarda BBQ catered, of which I could only take whiffs (because of the teeth), but I did indulge in some Boulevard Unfiltered Wheat Ales. After the party was the after party at a downtown hole-in-the-wall with a group of struggling artists such as moi. I excitedly chatted with everyone and even went on to buy a couple rounds. This was the clique I wanted to be part of afterall. I got caught up in a liquor-laced conversation with one such actor quizzing him on his success. He and his wife just got back from Cannes, an opportunity I naively looked forward to attending at some point in my half-assed film career. How hard could it be? (ha) Apparently, incredibly. Both are trained actors and spend all their time devoted to the craft, whether it be in front of the camera or behind. They call themselves “freelancers”. The also referred to themselves as “incredibly broke”. Having just recently caught up on their taxes from the last three years and paid their rent controlled apartment they had no money to go out that night. It’s a luxury I’ve so taken for granted, the ability to go out and have a good time on a whim. So in exchange for their company and advice I offered to buy them a drink. 

Later on in the night as we talked about the ups and downs of this chosen profession I strongly urged to rethink my decision of pursuing such a occupation. He literally looked me dead in the eyes and said “if there is anything else in the world, ANYTHING that you might even consider doing instead, do that.” How disappointing. Acting isn’t something I’m 100% committed to, but then again… I don’t think I’m 100% committed to anything. But this man is and the torment it causes him is apparent. 

I still plan on going about this silly little dream of mine because like I told him, “I’d rather die than to live a life I was not excited to wake up to everyday. The life I’ve lived has not been an exciting one. Money does not buy you excitement.”

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I am the type to recall memories on the whif of a scent. I am also the type to throw out an entire collection of body washes and perfumes after a breakup due to the unfavorable recollections they cause. I own an entire assemblage of body sprays and perfumes spanning the length of my conscious adulthood.  With one spritz I can recall my first kiss or that one Tuesday I got food poisoning at Burger King. I don’t know if this is a rational way of interpreting memories, but it’s how I do. The smell of burning notebook paper reminds me of smoking grass as a child.( Literal grass, I didn’t know there was a difference between that and tobacco.) There was this one time my boyfriend (at age 14) gave me some super fancy Mary-Kay perfume that I slathered myself with at the time. Also at the time he cheated on me with a woman that I continued to harass, because that’s the shit you do when you’re fourteen. I still own the perfume and every now and then I spray it into the air for nostalgic-purposes. The only thing it does is give me stomach cramps and reminds me why I hate myself. Occasionally I look that bitch up on Facebook just to reassure myself that her life sucks compared to mine. (Prelude to future blog posts about the damage of being cheated on at such a young age.) I should have thrown it away as I did him, I know. Yet, I can’t let go of the fragrance or recollection. It’s as if reminding myself of my callowness. 

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