I don’t know how to put it in a flattering way, so I’ll go out on a limb here and be real: I am a serial ghoster.
Halloween is coming in hot, but I’m not referring to the two-holes-in-a-sheet type of ghost or the haunted house variety. I’m talking about ghosting, the act of ditching your friends, responsibilities, and life as a whole without warning. Stepping out of everything so fast, it’s spooky.
It’s like my headphones are on but there’s no need for music to drown out the world when I feel such disconnect, so I sit in silence with my ears cupped in black.
Or maybe the music plays but I hear nothing but muffled noise.
Or perhaps I forgot to pick another song because I spaced out too long to notice when the last one ended.
I wish I could say that was a poetic metaphor, but the truth is, it’s a figure of speech that plays out literally some days. Right now serves as a good example. …
As a queer person — and human being in general — I have a lot of preferences.
I prefer feminine attire for some days and masculine clothing on other days. I prefer a partner of the same sex to a partner of the opposite sex.
I prefer quiet evenings at home to the buzzing late-night bar scene. I prefer brand name American cheese to the generic variety (I think we all can agree that not all cheeses were created equally melty). I prefer sunny skies to rainy drizzles.
I prefer rainbow sprinkles to chocolate sprinkles.
Contrary to popular belief, the last one has nothing to do with being a part of the LGBTQIA+ rainbow. I simply like the bland flavor better. …
After 23 years in denial, I have finally come to accept that I am a socially awkward human. Not a quirky human; not a cute but clumsy human; not a nerdy bird.
None of those euphemisms suit the extent of my ineptitude.
For over two decades, I could fake mingling until I made everyone around me believe I was the ultimate “People Person.” I talked the talk and walked the walk so well no one would dare guess I was a friendly fraud.
Scratch below the surface, though, and you would see that I naturally suck at smoothly navigating a conversation. I make up for this lack by leveraging a grasp of societal conventions and a mental bank of body language to my benefit. …
Today is a tough day in my neck of the woods. For most people, it’s just the fifth of January, the first Sunday of the new year. Maybe a birthday or the day they take down their Christmas tree. Unfortunately, it’s not so innocuous for me.
January 5th is seared in my mind as the day I reported my rape to the police and left the station discredited and disbelieved. …
Last night, I prayed for the first time in a long time. Not to God or Jesus or to a deity who goes by any name. I addressed my spiritual thoughts to “God or the Universe or whoever is listening.” These days, I like to keep it vague. It feels more peaceful that way.
Keeping the entity on the other end of the line anonymous triggers less of the old Christian guilt programming that I’m used to than starting a prayer off with “Dear Lord.”
My urge to invoke the powers that be was spurred on by the crazy current events. Almost overnight, it seems like the planet is spiraling out of control. We’re sitting on an impending World War while a man with questionable motives (and mental stability) sits in the captain’s seat. …
Hi, I’m Maya.
Here’s where you say: Hi Maya.
That was less than enthusiastic, but I’ll take it.
Let me tell you a bit about myself. I’m an introverted insomniac who loves two things: Writing and making money. Well, five things if you count my husband, my cat, and the season of autumn.
In other words, I could write 24/7 without a hitch. Short of missing my spouse, cat — and the outside weather depending on the season — I’d be living the dream.
As I disengage from the physical realm into somewhere between the internet and my brain while typing away, I would be happy as a clam that never needs to emerge from its cozy little shell. …
The first nugget of advice a seasoned freelancer can give a newbie looking to trade their content online for some extra cash is this: Steer clear of content mills and writers mills.
Any freelancer who’s been in the business a minute will tell you that these places are the Walmart of the writing world. They’ll nab your best work, enforce unrealistic expectations, and then bottom you out with a pittance for pay.
I hear ya, I hear ya.
For years, I’ve been telling friends who are new to writing online that you should never sell yourself short even as a beginner writer. …
With its recent same-sex couple commercial controversy, I’m already a little on the fence about commenting on the giant greeting card manufacturer Hallmark as a queer person who happens to be married to another queer person.
That being said, their recently corrected slip-up is not the only place where I take issue with the company’s content. Hallmark has a history of using their films to subconsciously nudge the public to associate service industry workers with unexpected amore.
I have a bit more stake in the matter than your average Hallmark Christmas flick fanatic.
Let’s just say I used to work in a popular card shop that’s known for warm-and-fuzzy films and Christmas ornaments. …
As a child, I took you for granted. Plucked every single hair until only a sparse collection of thin sprouts remained. It wasn’t an aesthetic move, more like an anxiety-induced habit that was hard to break.
I can’t hold it against myself. I used you to cope with my chaotic home. I couldn’t rip myself from the high-stress walking-on-egg-shells environment but I could rip you from my flesh and cast you onto the ground.
In hindsight, I have a name for this anxiety disorder: Trichotillomania. I picked the skin around you, too. …