Ally Maynard

Get Lost

11/30/2015

I write short stories and poetry that I mainly refrain from sharing because:

1. Most of it is bad
2. Who cares?
and
3. But, seriously, most of it is bad.

I'm sharing this one I recently wrote for a friend's birthday; a friend who inspires me deeply to be my own hero. While the tone may read somber, I crafted this piece with much joy in my heart. It is a hopeful reminder that being lost is both extraordinarily relative and a crucial part of any worthwhile journey.

"Found"
for my Dearest Elena

She had given up.
Surrendered to the snow, to gravity and to herself.
Days had passed without food or shelter, love or strength.
The solemn moon hung still above, but its reflections danced across the whiteness a million moons strong.
“They’ll find me,” she thought.
But they would not.
“Someone will save me,” she shivered.
But no one could.
She reached for her pack, sore fingers struggling to find a forgotten shred of food.
But there was none.
She had lost herself long ago, and in this moment she lost her hope.
When and where she became lost is debatable. Which bend or turn had been right or wrong was too hard to discern, all that’s clear now is the cold.
Her intuition had pushed her this far, to the outskirts of nowhere on the edge of nothing. Or so the snow would have her believe.
Suddenly, a light.
A moment of fire?
She rubbed her eyes, sure the dancing moons were simply over-indulging themselves on their pristine white stage.
Another sparkle.
A flash?
This time she was sure and took off toward the place from which hope was reborn.
A branch to the face.
A root to the foot.
A face full of snow.
Up again she leapt toward what may very well be a dream.
Found.
In the middle of a clearing, perfect and circular and moonlit and…. Empty.
She trudged to the center, figuring it, at the very least, a nice enough place to die.
Then, they came.
Candles in hand, each emerged soundless from the edges of wilderness. And despite their slow advancing steps, fear escaped her.
She squinted to see who her saviors would be.
Or were they captors?
Killers?
Companions?
To run? But where?
There was nowhere to go, but face whatever fate lies in the hands of these strangers.
The final steps brought them into view, and one by one she saw their candlelit faces.
Her at age twenty.
At fifteen.
At ninety.
Her at seven ran up for a hug.
Every part of her converging on the lost woman.
Liberating her.

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That Time I Was Honest About My Medical History

5/19/2015

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2:00am. What a magical hour! A time when intellectuals find solace in the quiet of the night. A time when girls in tiaras ditch their high heels and cry outside bars. A time I spend cruising groupon buying random shit I forget about until my sad coupons are about to expire. Well, I recently redeemed a why-did-I-buy-this-I-don’t-know-but-I-guess-I-won’t-waste-it groupon for acupuncture and.. it was weird. Yes, weirder than a grown woman wearing a tiara.

When I arrived at the reception desk of [redacted] clinic, a jolly Chinese man with twinkling eyes enthusiastically handed me a clipboard. I reached over the crowded counter, past the aromatherapy tinctures and decorative bamboo and thanked him with a nervous, involuntary half-bow. “I’m such an idiot,” I thought. “I can’t take me anywhere.”

I’d had acupuncture years before and believed in its merits, but as I slipped a pen out of the ceramic Hello Kitty mug, skepticism began creeping in.   I really had to stop grouponing.

“Fuck it,” I thought, as I sat down to fill out my medical history. It was already paid for, and my regular doctor hadn’t been able to offer anything for my hand short of surgery or constant pain medication. And despite the clinic’s unfamiliar scents and unintelligible signage (and the fact that I was about to be stabbed with dozens of tiny, baby needles) I felt more at ease in that eastern inspired waiting room than any western medical office with their sterile lighting and Highlights magazines. (I should also mention that I was pretty stoned and, come to think of it, I would’ve been totally down with some Highlights.)

Name. Age. Where do you ache? How bad is the pain on a scale of 1-10?

Standard questions on a standard form, all culminating with where I sign so I don't sue. I was interested in addressing a boxer’s fracture I had suffered years earlier as a freshman in college. A guy at a party called me a “cunt” so I decided to retaliate by breaking my hand on his face. Smart, I know. Violence doesn’t pay, but it does give you the power to predict shitty weather through your hand pain.

Are you currently pregnant?

Well, my most viable egg is traveling inside a metaphorical barrel over a very bloody Niagara Falls and straight into my pants. So no, definitely not pregnant.

Have you ever been pregnant?   When? For how long? How did it result?

Under “result” were three letter choices: A/M/B, which I deciphered as “Abortion,” “Miscarriage,” or “Birth.” (Or “Baby” or “Bummer") I thought about it. I knew the answer. I had, had an abortion. In fact, I had more than one. But did I really want to write down the details? Was it relevant to pain in my hand? Should I lie? Should I have to lie? What is China’s stance on abortion?

Lazy Ally was getting impatient - insisting to lie, skip it and move on, - but present Me was conflicted. I had an abortion – multiple – and to this day I don’t think about them, except in the context that they were necessary. I don’t feel guilty. I was never sad. At the time the choice was practical, straightforward and emotionless. But somehow, owning up to it, even to a medical professional, felt alarming. I was scared of strangers thinking I was a bad person.

I thought about the consequences of being honest. What if abortion is socially unacceptable in China, or maybe even illegal? (It's not) What if the cheery receptionist stops being nice and starts getting real/curses me with his bamboo shoots? (That's racist, Ally) What if my information is entered into some government database and I end up blacklisted when some right-wing idiot inevitable becomes president? (Okay, that's legitimate)

I tapped my pen and looked around for answers. The Hello Kitty mug, with it’s empty, yet somehow friendly gaze, made me feel silly. What did I have to lose? Hello Kitty had my back. Honesty it was.

I started writing down the details. When? 2006.  How long? 5 weeks.  Result? A.  When? 2008.  How long? 7 weeks.  Result? A. I should’ve contributed my own write-in answers.  Result? Finishing my bachelor’s degree.  Result? Not being tied indefinitely to a terrible dude.  Result? Contributing to society and the greater good.  Result? Moving to LA to follow my passion. Result? Having money to spend on groupons.

I breezed through the rest and returned the paperwork feeling relieved. I was a friendly, nice, (relatively non-smelly) young person, and I had, had an abortion. Multiple abortions. And I didn’t cave under the pressure to hide or feel ashamed.

As I sat back down my confidence immediately began to waver. My anxiety simmered as the Chinese gentleman patiently entered my information into the computer and I tried not to fidget while I watched him carefully type my answers. I waited for his buoyant temperament to melt into solemn, stone-faced displeasure, convinced that once he read my "scandalous" reproductive history he would surely chase me out with a dagger-axe.

A moment later, a Chinese woman, Dr. Hyun, appeared with small-rimmed glasses perched delicately on her nose. When she smiled the faintest wrinkles framed her kind eyes, and when she moved, tiny hints of gray sparkled in her hair.

“Ah-lee?” She spoke so softly I held my breath just to hear her.

“That’s me,” I said, relieved my words weren’t joined by vomit.

Dr. Hyun lead me to an exam room with a Meridian Chart (in Chinese) and another Hello Kitty, this time in the form of a sticker, on the wall.

“Hello Kitty, indeed,” I thought as I covertly adjusted my tampon string.

Dr. Hyun wasn’t very apt at small talk, which I appreciated because neither was I. I suffer from a severe language barrier with people in general, people who speak English as a first language, so I found relief in the mutual acknowledgment of our communicative limitations.

She continued where the receptionist had left off entering my medical information into the computer. Line by line she inquired what my ailments were, their duration, and to describe the pain.

She asked how I hurt my hand and I told her “my emotions got away from me.” She didn't look up from her typing. Despite my nervous jokes she was doing the right thing in keeping it professional/ignoring me.

Then came the reproductive history. “Ooohhh….” She trailed off. “Pregnant two time.”

“Yes,” I said, as evenly as I could manage, trying to withhold the hint of shame or defiance society was demanding of me. Dr. Hyun removed her small glasses and swiveled in her chair to face me. She leaned forward and looked me directly in the eyes. The moment hung. I braced myself for her to slap me.

“You know, seaweed very good for this. After. Women take seaweed stew and it relief for them. Seaweed very good for woman.”

I nodded and smiled. I also breathed for the first time in years.

“You have seaweed soup with beef?” I had not. “Good for woman. Lot of iron. Make us strong again.”

“Us,” she had said. I wanted to cry. There I was, assuming I would be, at best, subtly shamed for a legal and protected procedure, and at worst, slowly bled out by tiny baby needles as retribution for my sins. Instead, I was getting womanly advice outside the scope of any nationalism, politics or medical training. She was offering up practical wisdom from her own cultural experience. In that moment, we were two women with a current running between us. And regardless of language barriers, we both understood and knew what it meant to be in control of our bodies.

I was scared she was going to chastise me for my mistakes. Instead, she told me how to recover and become strong. I felt silly for worrying. Point: Hello Kitty.

She continued on a ten-minute lesson about recipes, herbs, and how to best manage the reproductive system that can wreak havoc on our lives. In my own relief, I recognized the same relief in Dr. Hyun. She was candidly speaking about something important to her, to someone (me) who was certainly not going to pass judgment. We were speaking the same language.

She joyfully talked about blood flow, vitamins, inversions and teas. I was fascinated. I wanted this woman to adopt me. Dr. Hyuan (WHO IS A DOCTOR) enthusiastically sang about the female body and how to heal it, something I imagine is met with the same level of ignorance and mysticism in her own backwards-ass country as ours.

Eventually, she stuck needles in me. It was good at first. And then it was great. And then it was suddenly, unequivocally bad, so she took them out and I went home.

My hand feels better -- I think. It still hurts when it rains and my period still rages on like the mighty Mississippi. But my soul feels better. My mind feels better. My faith-in-humanity-meter moved its stubborn needle one degree in the positive direction. I was reminded that I’m not ashamed, I’m not bad, and I shouldn’t feel the need to lie.

Honesty is usually met with one of two things; anger or more honesty. No matter what happens in the future, I know now that I can handle either. And whatever anger I may meet from many, the honest connections I find in a few is what life is really all about. Now, I’d buy a groupon for that.

8 Comments

Size Doesn't Matter If You Know What You're Doing

4/20/2015

5 Comments

Here’s a fact: female orgasm is achieved through stimulation of the clitoris.

Here’s another one: female orgasm cannot be achieved through any method besides stimulation of the clitoris.

I’ve had women friends of mine argue over the second fact quite vehemently. However, it is in fact, fact, and after discussing the subject, every one of my friends had the light bulb go on. Yes, of course. The clitoris. Duh. There's still much confusion about the female orgasm thanks to Freud’s teachings being embraced for decades as the epitome of women’s psychological sciences. Gross, but we can't blame him entirely. Abstinence focused education and the female anatomy maintaining a “mystical” and “icky” quality in mainstream culture isn’t helping any either.

Throughout much of the 20th century “frigidity” – the inability of women to achieve vaginal orgasm – was a common diagnosis among housewives. Women sought help from psychologists and psychoanalysts desperate to explain their physical dissatisfactions in the bedroom. Frigidity was diagnosed en masse and described as “the failure to adjust to their role as women.” Freud posited that a woman who develops properly achieves a transfer of her pleasure center from the clitoris (considered undeveloped) to the vagina (properly developed). In 2015 this sounds as insane as it actually is, but you can imagine why a scientific body comprised entirely of men would perpetuate such nonsense about vaginal vs. clitoral stimulation. It’s wishful thinking at its best and most transparent. Probably the same type of people who think the uterus will "shut itself down" if a woman is being raped. These are the people running our country, but I digress. CLITORIS! FOCUS.

Any study of the female anatomy would, and has, disregarded this pseudo-science and brought the attention squarely back to the true pleasure center: the clitoris. In reality, the vagina is not a highly sensitive area and isn’t designed to achieve orgasm. Any woman who has used a tampon knows there’s no pleasure to it. Any woman who has ever gone to the gynecologist knows she’s not aroused and anticipating instruments being put up there. In fact, the vagina walls are less sensitive than most other parts of the body and are – by design (to accommodate child birth, intercourse, etc.) - meant withstand tremendous amounts of pressure and strain. Any pleasure derived from the vagina walls is an extension of the clitoris, just as any pleasure derived from nipples, lips, ears - fuck it - even your arm, is an extension of a woman's physical pleasure center: the clitoris.

The clitoris, unlike the vagina, is immensely sensitive and the nucleus of female pleasure. Some women are initially skeptical of the vagina vs. clitoris debate because many, myself included, have achieved orgasm “vaginally.” Or so we have thought. This confusion lies is the miraculous-ness of the female anatomy, and how the clitoris can be stimulated to the point of orgasm without direct physical contact (JUST LIKE A PENIS CAN). It can be stimulated through an array of mental processes, fantasies, and fetishes (the brain is the largest sex organ in the body). It can be stimulated through touching other body parts, by witnessing someone else touch their body parts or by moving in a certain manner. That scene from “40 Days 40 Nights” comes to mind when Josh Hartnett (hey, 90s heartthrob!) makes a girl orgasm by caressing her with a flower. (Not sure if that’s based in science but I’ll get back to you after I test the theory)

While the cause of female orgasm, no matter how it is stimulated, may often be psychological or a combination of psychological/physical stimulation, the orgasm physically manifests itself through the clitoris, the clitoris only, 100% of the time. Women have often reported only being able to orgasm in particular sex positions such as being on top or in the missionary position. It’s not a coincidence that these positions provide pressure to the clitoris via the pelvic bone. Additionally, direct stimulation to the clitoris causes it to swell in size and increase sensitivity, allowing any friction during intercourse, no matter the position, to be more effective in procuring pleasure.

No proof to the power of the clitoris is more definitive than the gross prevalence of FGM (female genital mutilation), a popular practice among religious fanatics and terrorist groups alike. Cut the clitoris and women cannot be sexually stimulated to achieve orgasm. FGM, a cruel and convenient tool in the control and suppression of women and their human rights, is still forced on millions of women and young girls every year. Taking a woman’s pleasure out of the sexual experience removes her from her rightful place as the equal, the Moon, the Goddess, the mercy, the light and sensibility in all things, to… simply a reproductive vessel. A tool used to help breed armies.

The female orgasm is important in that it requires two people to say, “I need you to help me do this amazing thing.” Whether it’s for achieving pleasure for pleasure’s sake, deepening the emotional/spiritual connection between two people, or for creating life itself, sex is the investment of two parts of a greater whole using their bodies together for good. Removing female pleasure from the equation results in a domination, a man saying, “I am going to use your body and do what I want with it.”

The clitoris as the nexus of the female orgasm is good news for women and men alike. We all joke about struggling to “find the clitoris” and the poor schlub who hopelessly searches for a woman’s clit like the Ark of the Covenant. (Side note: Indiana Jones totally knows where the clit is) The reality is all it takes is a finger, or a tongue, or the right angle during intercourse to make a woman think their partner is a sexual god. Girth and penis length are like suped up extras you order with a car. I’ve met my share of men with all of the top-of-the-line equipment but, when it came to getting me off, were total lemons.

The clitoris is right in the front. If you can’t find it, ask. If he can’t find it, tell him. If you don’t know where it is on your own body, feel around. You’ll know when you find it. Google it if you must! One millimeter in one direction or the other is all it takes to be completely lost or hit a bull’s-eye. It’s so easy to find that sometimes it accidentally rubs on narrow bike seats and horse saddles, which can make family outings awkward and should also give you a new perspective on the fanatical nature of “horse girls.” Embrace the clit and all of its power. It’s all you need. A tiny, magic button from which all sexual pleasure and stimulation is derived. Man or woman, find the right way to press it and female orgasm is as easy to achieve as microwaving a hot pocket.

References:

Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, Alfred C. Kinsey, Pocketbooks, 1953
Female Sexuality, Marie Bonaparte, Grove Press, 1953

Human Sexual Response, Masters and Johnson, Little, Brown, 1966

The works of Georg Ludwig Kobelt, 19th Century

5 Comments

Oh Shit.. My Rebound Dude Became My Boyfriend

10/7/2014

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It happened very slowly. Somehow over the weeks and months of carefree sex I went ahead and developed feelings for someone I hadn’t intended to. This guy caught me so hard on the rebound from a previous relationship that I had basically bounced into his arms. These feelings I developed were the same kind of feelings that, in the wake of another detonated relationship, had left me stranded on an island of emotional suck. If I had a figurative gun on said figurative island I would’ve figuratively put myself out of my very real misery.

The wake of my breakup included a lot of tears and very few showers, the latter strategically fashioned to keep away any self-respecting males. I was a train wreck, but I wanted to be a train wreck in private, not a piece of pulverized meat for the vultures to try and jam their dicks into. In this case I managed to find solace in the unexpected, and months after my relationship ended, my rebound relationship became a legitimate one.

How the fuck did this happen? Is this normal or healthy or possible? Possible, certainly. The rest I don’t know. But the key, to be honest, was honesty. I had nothing to lose by being completely up front with this new person in my life. In fact, it was lack of honesty that had obliterated my previous relationship(s), so I figured why not lay all the crazy cards on the table? I had assumed being honest would make this guy leave me alone, when in reality it made us undeniably close. I had nothing to hide from him. He knew I was heartbroken. He knew I didn’t want, nor could handle, another relationship. But he didn’t want one either. He just thought I was cool and found transforming my bitch face into a smiley face a rewarding feat.

I tried to push him away when shit started getting real. I already didn’t want a relationship, so if I could remind him how he didn’t want it either, all the better. When we met, being emotionally vulnerable wasn’t on my docket, and feeling responsible for someone else’s emotions was far beyond my grasp or interest. Yet somewhere along the line of not caring came the immense freedom that brutal honesty affords us, and that, in itself, is inherent vulnerability. The not caring manifested in ways like "forgetting" to shave my legs for six months, a new personal record and something he was surprisingly cool with. It took him a solid eight months to work up the courage to discuss my lack of deodorant use, which rather than take offense to, I found sweet that he had dealt with for so long. Other not caring included not giving a flying fuck what either of us did on social media. If you’re in a relationship, try it. It’s like amazing clouds of endless cake heaven.

We never fight outside of which sushi place to order from. We're both easy going, and each bring up things that bother us when necessary. It's so simple it seems stupid. I can’t credit our success with anything other than taking it day-by-day, by honoring what our relationship is, but more importantly, what it is not, and admitting that our carefree foray could end at any time. It’s freeing to treat a relationship outside the confines of “IF THIS DOESN’T LAST FOREVER WE ARE SHITTY FAILURES UNDESERVING OF LOVE.” It’s the most drama-free, easy relationship I’ve ever had and extremely unexpected when you figure where we started from. Considering the shit storm of a love life I’ve had in the past, I wonder how the fuck I ended up in a relationship this stable. It’s as if we’re honest with and respect each other. Super weird.

I assume that most rebound relationships are doomed to fail. Using other people as personal bandages for your own broken heart is a shitty thing to do, and burying yourself in flirting and fuckery rather than deal with your own pain isn’t good for anything, sex parts aside. So forget using humans as heart Band Aids and turn to alcohol like a normal adult. (Just kidding. Use weed obviously.)

My final take away is this: Talking about your ex on first dates is a no-no of epic proportions. However, if you happen to meet someone and are still hung up on someone else, be up front about it. Let them know your past relationship is over, you’re just not necessarily over it. Chances are they’ll leave you alone to grieve, figure yourself out, eat cake, whatever, which is what you obviously fucking need. But maybe they’ll keep you company while you put yourself back together, just be honest and don’t promise anything. And as in my case, there’s a slim chance they might actually stick around.

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A Note to Fathers

9/3/2014

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My father played catch with me. He taught me how to throw a ball. As the oldest of three daughters I didn’t have much of a choice in being raised as a son. My dad played college ball and in farm leagues up until he died when I was twelve. An emotional investment in America’s favorite pastime has been as much a part of my life as it was a part of his. My dad loved it, so I loved it. To this day baseball makes me feel close him.

A dad playing catch with his son is an important rite of passage in any boy’s life. If your dad never tossed with you movies teach us you had some kind of neglectful, absentee, deadbeat of a father. But if you’re a girl and your dad never played catch with you, you’re just a regular girl. What the fuck is that about?

As I got older I began to hear things like “run like a girl” and “throw like a girl,” phrases used to disparage the unathletic. I looked on with wonder. I truly didn’t understand. Runs like a girl. Throws like a girl. Fucking enough already. I'm calling bullshit. Girls can throw. And if they can’t, it’s not their goddamn fault.

“But, ALLY, stereotypes are rooted in truth. Girls can’t throw or run as well as boys!” Fine. Then I ask you, why does this stereotype exist? Is it inherently true that women are physically incapable of throwing hard or running fast? I could name a few softball players and competitive sprinters that would disagree. And if it were true, that women were physically incapable of throwing or running without embarrassing themselves, what kind of asshole would make fun of them for a biologically-imposed handicap? Would you tell a mentally handicapped person “you throw like a retard?” Would you shout, “you run like a cripple!” to someone who was crippled? While both statements are technically true, you would just sound like a dickhead Captain Obvious.

Is it true: girls as a whole throw less adequately than boys. Hence, “you throw like a girl” has been a perpetuated turn of phrase.   But here’s why it exists: NO ONE TEACHES THEIR DAUGHTERS HOW TO THROW A DAMN BALL.

(Not, no one. Thanks dads who do. Moving on.)

By systematically disregarding half of the population’s abilities, by refusing to teach them a basic skill that their male counterparts learn en masse, a stereotype comes to fruition, and it’s then perpetuated as a slur. Girls are taught, by society, if not in some roundabout way by their parents, that they are incapable. That they are delicate. That they are less than. And if they act strong they're chastised for being too man-like. This is patriarchy. And it is bullshit.

Here’s the thing; sons are given life lessons, daughters are taught how to protect themselves. Throwing a ball is one of these lessons. It’s deemed worthy of a son, and unnecessary for a daughter. If you can’t throw a ball, you’re not a real man. You’re as useless as a girl. These are the subliminal messages we send to our children. These are the undertones engrained in our society.

My dad teaching me to throw a ball was indicative of other wisdoms fathers pass to the next generation. In my case, I benefited from being the oldest and brotherless so I was given the attention my sisters were not. My dad taught me to stick up for myself. How to handle bullies who harped on my braces and glasses. How to pick myself up and bite my lip when I fell hard. He taught me how to face my fears and to look people in the eye when I talk to them. He taught me that if there’s anything I ever want out of life; to work hard for it, not wait for someone else to give it to me. Most importantly, he taught me that I was enough. Surprisingly, these are not universal lessons. They are important lessons, but these are boys’ lessons.

How I was raised is a far departure from how my younger sisters were parented, so I can’t give credit to my dad for being some kind of humanist, striving for equality in child rearing. He just really wanted a son and I was the only option.

My sisters did dance and gymnastics while I played farm league with the boys.   My sisters got all of the princessy pink shit while I was given a microscope, Legos and K’nex. I was told to explore. My sisters were told to be careful.

It was within the context of my own childhood that I learned boys and girls are treated differently. We place different expectations on them, expectations we make excuses for and tell ourselves are rooted in reason and biology. But again, I call bullshit.

All the ways in which I was raised seemed normal at the time, and in every way they were. For a boy. We raise our sons as arbiters of the next generation. As the ones we choose to instill knowledge and valuable skills. We tell our daughters to be whatever they want to be, but then demonize women who grown up and don’t want to be mothers, but instead focus on career. I consistently say "we" because I believe we are all responsible for one another. Society's injustices are all of ours to fix.

Yes, boys and girls are different, but the human condition is universal.   We have the same fears, wants and needs, and that goes beyond gender, crossing lines of race, religion and socioeconomic status. We are all much more similar than we care to admit. At the end of the day we’re all human. The larger world is place enough for women to be dehumanized with terms like chick, bitch, doll, anything to make her seem more like a thing and less like a human being. All this is in addition to making less money for equal work and being valued based mainly on her physical appearance. Let's be honest. It sucks.

“Yes, I kick like a girl. And I swim like a girl. I walk like a girl and I wake up in the morning like a girl. Because I am a girl.” (watch the embedded video above if you want to cry) Every eight-year-old girl believes in herself. By the time she’s fourteen her confidence has been broken. Girls should be proud of who they are, not embarrassed because some dipshit’s dipshit father taught him that girls are inadequate. Because she’ll meet plenty of those guys at frat parties and on the street and in her office. And if you don’t teach her who she is, that she is capable, and strong and worthy of respect, then she’ll end up having sex with the same pieces of shit who belittle her.

Teach your daughters how to cast a fishing line. Encourage them to get dirty and play rough and run hard. Teach them how to handle themselves in the face of adversity, to sweat and to strive. Teach them not to apologize for being strong, being creative, or saying what’s on her mind. Teach them how to change a tire and build a fire and, screw it, how to tie a tie. Women can wear ties.

And please, above all else, teach her how to throw a fucking ball.

4 Comments

Last Christmas (ish) I Gave You My Heart

2/4/2014

7 Comments

Rarely do I remember what I was doing precisely a year ago. As someone who revels in the nonobservance of benign, bullshit holidays (i.e. Valentine’s Day, Talk Like a Pirate Day, anything with a mattress sale) and who spends the majority of the better holidays pumped full of enough weed smoke to forget the festivities all together, those trusty markers of remembrance aren’t something I rely on with confidence.

Last year was different, particularly February, when my heart was essentially ripped from my chest and figuratively hurled into a dying star. Are the dramatic thematics enough for you yet? Basically, I was hurt. Badly. Horribly enough that I still hurt pretty regularly, with my own little Marla from Fight Club; the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can’t. I’m trying not to be a pussy about it but, alas, this pussy is a pussy when it comes to getting her heart broken. Boy, do feelings suck sometimes.

Heartbreak is sickening. It’s like the continuous inertia of getting hit by a bus, but at least once you get hit by an actual bus you’re probably, thankfully dead. Heartbreak is the moment of bus to body impact stretched through days and weeks and months, until you’re so exhausted and in so much pain that those around you are scared you’ll break. All the while you’re expected to function normally.

“Hey, Ally, do you want any coffee?”
“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M GETTING HIT BY A BUS”

The last time I felt like this was when I lost my dad to cancer when I was twelve-years-old. I know that may sound insensitive and extreme, I mean, of course the long term psychological and emotional effects of a breakup can't compare to those of losing a parent, so that's good(?) I guess? But losing someone you love, however you lose them, is a similar sensation to having someone die.

Getting dumped goes something like, “Oh wow! This is awesome! I like having this person in my life!” and then suddenly that person is gone. It’s jarring to say the least. And the memory of them, the habituals of your relationship hitting dead ends, leaves you hopelessly in love with a ghost.

Pretty fucking sad, right? Boo hoo me, right? I hope you’re laughing, because heartbreak for me has been a long, long time coming. Not one to value monogamy or any semblance of a long term, stable relationship I lived a hippie-dippy, polyamorous existence for the first half of my twenties. I was upfront about my escapades of infidelity with very few of my male counterparts, and those who did know were about as cool with it as a snowman chillaxin’ on a radiator. But I didn’t care, “No man is gonna hold me down!” I bellowed from my feminist turret. I was actually just being a shitty liar who wanted her cake and to eat it too. Mmmmm.. cake… FOCUS. This was all fine and good (for me, not them) until I found someone I actually cared about. Until my soul was like “I pick him” and conscious, butthole me ignored it. Until it was too late.

You hear a lot about the five stages of grief and loss, yet they don’t tell you about the seventeen less famous ones; like binge eating and self loathing and driving yourself crazy. Surprise! Those are bonuses. It’s one of the beautiful causalities of life, when the same person that made you feel whole is the same person that later, upon hearing a particular song, makes you want to hurl yourself out a window.

So much of the past year has been telling myself "I deserve this. I totally deserve this." Which, since I’m responsible for my predicament, I guess isn’t wholly untrue. But what it comes down to is, you can’t make somebody love you who doesn’t. You can’t make someone want to be with you who just doesn’t. And so in a way I do deserve what happened. I deserve to be with someone who wants both of those things. To love me, despite all of my quirks and occasional instability, and wants to be with me while we figure out our weird lives together.

Basically I’ve accepted and embraced my pain. I wear it like some sort of beat-up ‘badge of honor’, and know that if, after this kind of heartbreak, I can manage to function like some semblance of a normal human, I can get through anything. Are you cliché induced barfing yet?

I’m pretty okay with it mentally these days. It’s taken a lot of writing, some traveling, and a shit ton of love and support from my friends. You really find out who’s in your corner when you’re down and out; a bloody, pathetic mess in the boxing ring of life. And despite the pit in my stomach that occasionally peeps up like “Hi! I’m still here!” I feel pretty okay physically too. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been. I’ve been treating myself with a care and sensitivity I’ve never before been able to manage. I’m in a monogamous, healthy relationship based on kindness and mutual respect. It’s weird. Good weird. And I’m making new memories, good, albeit hazy, weed filled ones, that will be what I look back upon next year. If I can manage to remember.

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Running

11/15/2013

8 Comments

Well, I'm in MOTHERFUCKIN' BUDAPEST! That's right folks. Got my shit together and was like you know what, ˝lets go to Europe!˝. That's one of the beauties of working from home. Home can be lying in bed not showering for four days and covered in crumbs. OR it can be at an internet cafe in Hungary. Whatever floats your proverbial boat.

I almost didn't make it here, because I'm Ally, the most organized, on-point free spirit ever -- which isn't very. Besides always running late, I lose EVERYTHING. My wallet, weekly. My keys, daily. My mind, always. It's hard to keep track of myself.

Side note: This Hungarian keyboard is about to get thrown through the GODDAMN WINDOW. Switch the Z and Y on someone who types 90 words per minute and you'll get a fuck ton of cursing. Sorry friendly Hungarians, Americans aren't all like this. Yes we are.

Anyway, back to how I'm an idiot. I planned this trip last week, and I use the word planning loosely. I don't know if I'm searching for something or running away from it but I up and left without a second thought. Two weeks alone with only time to think and write and fancy my brain with things I've never seen.

Turns out, my passport expires December 13th, which wouldn't have been a problem (I get back Nov 24th) except Hungary, among other places, now require at least 3 months left on your passport to be accepted into the country. Fabulous. And I found this out, well, yesterday. EIGHT HOURS before my flight left. So yesterday was nuts. BALLS TO THE WALL NUTS. After surviving a day that took years off my life I got issued a spankin' new passport and landed in Hungary greasy, smelly and wearing the clothes I had picked up off my guy's floor from the day before. I barely had time to pack, forget deodorant and a change of underwear. I'm an awesome ambassador for the states, guys. (every time I have to type a Y I want to kill somebody)

ANYWAY, I'm off to Prague after a few days here in Budapest, then to Amsterdam and eventually London. We'll see what happens.. I'm down for anything short of losing my fucking passport. Huzzah!

8 Comments

Friendshit

8/12/2013

15 Comments

RELEASE A NEW ALBUM, ADELE, JESUS CHRIST

This funny thing has been happening to me for the past year and by funny I mean utterly and completely fucking terrible. It's actually so unfunny I want to literally cry myself a puddle and drown in it. So yay, sad blog post!

Anyway, my issue is probably not something I'm alone in, and in fact, I think it's probably more common than we'd all like to admit. But here it is-- my guy friends keep falling in love with me. I'm not saying I'm awesome and irresistible (if you've met me you know); but I think it's simply a natural phenomenon that happens when two people spend so much intimate time together eating sandwiches, smoking weed and watching Space Jam.

It's not really anyone's fault, and some will go on to argue that men and women can't really ever be just friends. I've refused to believe that up until recently when I finally experienced the brutal consequences of falling in love with your best friend (twice).

It's the same story on repeat. We're cool. Just friends. He's not really my 'type' aka I don't think about him when I masturbate. We hang out and do all of the things two dudes would do -- except we're not two dudes -- and eventually my non-showering, unshaven, freely burping self is just too irresistible for him to handle (a real 21st century femme fatale, guys). He has to have me. So in an epic display of courage he tells me he loves me. "I love you too" I say, because I do love my friends and I've probably already told him this many times. But no, he explains, he REALLY loves me. As in, IN love with me loves me. As in, can't stand seeing me with other guys loves me. As in, wants to rub our junk together exclusively with each other's junk loves me.

Part of me knew this all along as I began to notice the longing stares. The hugs that went a moment too long. The change in attitude when I talked about other guys. His lack of interest in other women. The awkward brush of hands as I'd pass the bowl when we watched Planet Earth.

And to be honest, I had feelings for him too. They crept up on me slowly over time until I suddenly saw a man who hadn't been 'my type' was exactly what I needed all along. Someone who knew me better than anyone, someone I trusted unequivocally. Someone I could smell like a vagina around, cry around and who challenged me when I acted like a cunt. The person I liked laughing with the most and enjoyed spending time with more than anyone. It had always been him.

as fuck is right

My love for him dawned on me like the sun peeking over the horizon, rising into view until it was finally overhead blaring so warmly and beautifully and strongly that it was impossible to look at directly. He's who I wanted. Who I needed. Who I wanted to love well. So simple and beautiful, it was in front of us all along.

Cut to the sad part-- So I stopped seeing other guys. I told him "I'm on board, I want this, I'm committed." And he runs for the hills. He flees so fast I have whiplash from the departure. I'm fucked. And alone. Now short a friend, my best friend, and wholly heartbroken over what could have been.

He hurt me before I could hurt him. He ended it before it even began. We were both terrified of the possibilities and vulnerability of a real relationship, of true respect and love. The short of it is I was ready, and he pussed out. Can I really blame him? I mull over what I did wrong and what I could have done differently. But as I've come to realize, love is scary. And love with me, love with anyone, is no joke.

In the end there's nothing I could have done other than not have a vagina. Stupid vagina. I don't know the answer or how to end this post. I guess don't fall in love with your friends unless you're A.) ready to take the leap or B.) want to turn your relationship into a big pile of crap. Stupid, stupid crappy vagina.

15 Comments

Getting Real

8/9/2013

7 Comments

Yeah right, honey. Try again.

So I'm a little drunk right now, not gonna lie. Why else would I be trying on every pair of pants I own, including the ones I know for a fact haven't fit since we had a white president. But here I am, digging through boxes, ready to face the justifications I've made time in and time out for the clothes I've been hanging onto for years. Hoarders beware.

I just recently moved, and carting around these boxes of clothes from one house to another is exhausting, exhausting enough to contemplate, "Bitch, do you really need all this shit? Get real."

And I could give the Pillsbury Doughboy a run for his money on some of these gems (see above), but I'm an artist, and I'm doing this for you. I'm not happy with my body, but I'm not happy with anything (remember I'm an artist) and my self critical dialogue of doubt is running at full speed on a full time work schedule-- so please bear with me.

It's funny how as a woman I love myself more when I treat myself well, and hate myself like a Nazi when I do the opposite. Each poses an inevitable cycle of gain or loss that is nearly impossible to change no matter what the occasion. Sometimes I'm told I'm a beautiful person yet don't feel it when I just ate two packs of gummy bears and have Limbaugh style gas. Sometimes I look like I got hit by a bus, puffy eyes, bloated gut, yet I feel alive and open and maybe had a great conversation with my mom that morning. So fuck it all. So much of our self worth is projected onto us by our beauty, most directly by our weight, and quite frankly, I'm sick of it.

I stick my fingers down my throat every so often when I binge like a hog. It's a disgusting, degrading habit and I say that not to belittle the sentiment, I say it for the ladies who look at me and think I'm some sort of superhuman, like it comes easy-- like those celebrities who say they eat Big Macs and whatever they want and are skinny and stupid and liars and stupid.

It's not easy. Sometimes it's hell. Sometimes it's ok. But it's never great. The struggle is just that; struggle. But you don't give up, you pick yourself up and you go on to live another day. After all, it's JUST a cookie, even though some days that cookie may make you want to throw yourself off of a cliff.

Hey look these fit. WOO!

And there's no one I can blame. Not my mother and her own questionable eating habits. Not my exboyfriends for not loving me enough. It's not even my fault, simply my work to do. So my pants don't fit. Ok. Lets breathe and take a minute before ripping my own head off. My pants being snug doesn't mean I'm not a good person. It doesn't mean I'm not a great sister or daughter or friend. Doesn't mean I'm not working hard. It just means there's more road to walk, more to learn, another mountain to summit. Which is EXCITING, not depressing. Bring on the adventure.

Bring it on size zero pants, because struggle isn't about fitting into them, that day will probably never come. Victory comes with realizing I'm good enough without them. (And maybe I should stop drinking)

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Dreaming Through the Sleepless Night

6/25/2013

6 Comments

Sleep is up on my list of Favorite Things To Do in the History of Ever but also eludes me like a bitchass shrew. Particularly, since my mind is inclined to spin itself up into a feverish frenzy of illicit madness, sleep is both rejuvenating and elusive.

This weekend was wild and mad and perhaps the best of my life. Since moving to LA last summer I've had more than a few "best weekends ever" a feat of which I feel blessed and also self satisfied since I work tirelessly at living and being awesome.

I didn't sleep for days but instead stayed up with my best friend - also a writer - rolling face in an attempt to really feel. Sure we danced but mostly we talked. We vibed and understood and at times we were One. We were shamelessly alive.

I couldn't sleep last night, as with many nights, but this night was particularly brutal following the mentally and physically exhausting adventure of an emotionally charged weekend. I ache with a broken heart over a man far away. I lie with a man who is kind and generous and doesn't understand the half of it. I'm always careful not to confuse discontent with unhappiness and last night, as with most nights, the weight of possibility bore down on me in the darkness.

So I drove. Phone, keys, notepad and pen and I was out the door, headed north or east not caring which way, simply on fire to go. 4:30am I drove along unfamiliar highway away from the lights of LA, away from my lover, from my discontent. All lights vanished and it was me alone; only my thoughts and my wonder and my regret in pursuit. As the first light of morning began to break through the black I came to a lake, lonely and untouched.

I reflected in the quiet. This is the only thing I wrote in its completeness:

With the sound of the highway behind me, wakening sun at my back, I face a fading moon. Headached and foggy eyed I bid farewell to the darkness, welcoming the chances born of a new day.
As the light bores upon me I can't help but worry of the man I left behind.
He is Irrelevant.
I listen softly to the tiny birds waking from their slumber, their knowledge of I nonexistent and beautiful-- I, myself, irrelevant to them. Irrelevant to all of Nature.
Only the Sun and the Moon as company, the only connection to the Earth on which I sit, an alien in my own right.
I want to go Home.
I yearn for them, this unseen mother and father as if I were the birds, chirping loudly for which I crave.
I am mad at Man. Mad at the path I was placed on with not but a marker to lead.
Where am I?
Where am I going?
You gave me the will and intuition to GO, Lord, yet not even with the wings of a bird could I find my way home, could I find you.
I shiver in the morning light as the world turns and our sun kisses away the moon. A reminder that I am only man, my flesh not fit for this world on it's own. Instead I am Yours.
Like the flora around me I have no choice but to grow toward the light. Unlike them I can choose to water myself, to uproot and resettle in greener pastures.
I am but a seed and you are but the Sun. I suppose I should be grateful, as a bird in reverie of her morning song.

Make of it what you will. I guess I needed a moment with my Creator-- whatever, whoever, or perhaps nonexistent.

I came out of this weekend on fire and full of purpose, a purpose I can only thumb with the edge of my mind and struggle myself to define. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to put words to that purpose and perhaps in the end go mad. I suppose, ultimately, refusing to have it any other way.

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Get Lost

That Time I Was Honest About My Medical History

Size Doesn't Matter If You Know What You're Doing

Oh Shit.. My Rebound Dude Became My Boyfriend

A Note to Fathers

Last Christmas (ish) I Gave You My Heart

Running

Friendshit

Getting Real

Dreaming Through the Sleepless Night

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