the baby bangs

4th Aug 2018 | 96,093 notes

yesterday i listened to a podcast stephanie allynne was on and she said at one point before they started dating she wrote tig this long email pouring her heart out about how she really liked her but they couldn’t date because she was straight and tig just replied ‘okay dyke’ and i’m still screaming about it

(via samcmontgomery)

Most Things Don’t Matter: Vol. 1

You know when you’re a kid and you think you’ll have such a cool life once you’re 16, then it’s 18, then it’s 21, then it’s, I don’t know, a cooler time in your 20s when you think you will for sure have found your perfect job and soulmate and are loaded and can throw on any shirt and pant combo and look like you’re “not trying too hard” and then that age gets pushed back further and further until you realize you’re still the same you in a lot of ways at all these ages? Well, that finally hit me. Surprise, surprise. None of us ever reach an all finished, you’ve won at life, everything is so great point. There’s always total shit parts. You just become better equipped at not letting them ruin the other parts of your life.

I talk in run-on sentences. I write in run-on sentences. Just go with it.

These last two years have been rough. I didn’t think they had been that rough until I gathered the sense to start seeing a therapist again and during our first session she said “oh, you’ve been through a lot of trauma.” In my mind, trauma means getting your limbs ripped off by a shark and having to tell everyone all about it for the rest of your life. (Honestly, which experience is worse? I’m gonna go with telling your business to a stranger who won’t stop gawking at you in a gas station.)

Anyway, let’s begin the highlight reel:

I moved halfway across the country in 2016. Got to Austin on a Friday and got dumped on the following Monday. On the 4th of July, nonetheless. Freedom ain’t free, y’all. She wanted to be free. (As I said to myself, crying in bed watching Jim and Pam clips on loop.) This is the tricky part. I think I knew deep down our relationship wasn’t going to work out in the long run. Now, did it hurt when, less than a year after breaking up with me, she was already engaged and living with a taller, skinnier, Martha Stewart version of me? Maybe. I DON’T KNOW. Yes. Yes, it did. I cried in a bar bathroom when I found out.

But really, it began to hit me, we both tried for so long to make something “good” into something “great.” Whether you believe in marriage or not, the idea of having to try so hard for so long probably isn’t a a glowing sign for happy days ahead. Things began to become clearer. I wasn’t heartbroken over missing out on my future spouse; I was heartbroken over missing out on my best friend’s life going forward. We had been through too much together. I don’t think many people are capable of attempting to build a future with someone for years and then being able to switch it off and be buddies. We had to go our separate ways. The hardest part of ending a romantic relationship for me has always been the person closest to you becoming a stranger.

I don’t let go easily. I’m a packrat. I’m sentimental. I fear change as if it’s a life threatening illness. I had to let go. I was killing myself playing the what if game. I let go of trying to figure out if it could have been different, if I wouldn’t have done this, or actually done that. I let go of feelings. I let go of anger. I let go of actual possessions connected to the relationship. I had to let go for good. It was a chapter of my life needing to be closed. A very big chapter. One of the best and worst and scariest and most meaningful chapters of my entire life. Moving on is a process. It takes days and weeks and months and years of making a consistent choice not to get lost in the past and letting it ruin your goddamn present. And yet, somehow, some day, you just start looking at their Instagram less. You start thinking about them less. You stop wincing when you hear their name. You begin feeling lighter. You begin feeling okay without that person.

However, it is 2018. I work in social media. Of course, I fucking creeped on wedding photos and videos. And this is going to sound like bullshit, but I was happy for them. Tears in my eyes, watching the end of a new episode of Queer Eye type of joy, because they’re happy. Like really happy. Obnoxiously so, too beautiful for words, god this better happen for all of us kind of happy. Two people found each other and as jaded and cold as I attempt to be with my “I’m basically Cersei” exterior, I’m goo inside. Probably queso. Very sappy queso. I love love and I hate it about myself. But I also know it’ll work out for me eventually.

This is already becoming much longer than I intended.

I’ve avoided writing for a long time because I knew I’d have to feel everything that’s happened all over again. For me, writing has always been the hardest thing to start and easiest to actually do once I start. It’s sort of the last piece of the puzzle in letting go for me. The nail in the coffin. (That sounds more violent than I’d like, but you get the point.) I’ll save the next bullet points of trauma for next time.

Tay

12th Apr 2018 | 5 notes

Thirty, worried but trying.

I’ve started this post an embarrassing amount of times. I’ve erased so much. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like I’ve had anything to say that was worth typing out for another human to read. But a couple of weeks ago Tay and I sat on her couch for 5+ hours spewing thoughts on the things we’ve learned and felt since the last time we really gave this a go. It’s weird for me to type this at 30 after reading back to the last posts we really wrote years ago. It’s unfortunate to think of how long I allowed myself to believe I shouldn’t write things like this anymore because I had nothing left to say. Well, I do. And I’m 30 now so… that means I’m automatically like a genius. The blind optimism that forced us out of our own heads 10 years ago is still kicking around. What’s been happening in the interim? Not much. JUST KIDDING.

We moved to LA. We were paid to write. Paid to perform. We hustled and worked. Cried quite a bit. Got some good laughs. Wrote some more stuff. We moved away. (We moved to separate places for the first time in many years. I sobbed the whole way to the car the last time I saw her in her LA apartment.)

My husband and I moved back home to Pennsylvania. It was humbling to come back when everyone is sure you’re here because you’re either broke or pregnant. It’s not a particularly fun or interesting story when it ends with a natural and practical transition.

It was exciting leaving a job I truly hated.

It was tough finding out where we fit in here once we were back.

It’s hard when you’re paranoid you made a mistake.

It’s easy when in your bones you know you made the right choice.

It’s scary starting over.

I took a 6 month ‘comedy leave’ now I’m sometimes scared I’m no longer going to be funny or the same. A ridiculous thought.

I’m learning to be more reliant on the people around me. I’ve always been the advice and comfort giver. It’s tough learning how to be on the other side.

I’m pushing myself to try new things. Did you know if you tell people about stuff you’re working on they might ask you about it again and it will make you feel weird enough to maybe actually do it?

We’re starting a garden this year. I’m getting into painting again. I’m writing new jokes and material. I’m typing this here now.

I’m 30 and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

Maybe not that much has changed.