My Soul is made of Hooded Sweatshirts

My entire life up until this point has been a sham. I haven't been honest with the world or myself. Ive tried to hide who I really am and after almost 30 years I think its time to come clean.

I am not fashionable. And I don't care. There, I said it.

 I have never really been interested in clothes or shoes or if they match or if what I'm wearing is acceptable for this decade. But, being a girl and then a woman, Ive had to pretend that the act of hunting, capturing, and securing garments is one of the reasons I get up in the morning. I've faked it pretty well and over time I even learned to enjoy it the best way I could, but really, its always been an empty gesture. The times I do go out with the act of buying clothes in mind, I get distracted by accessories instead. My weaknesses include crappy rhinestone costume jewelry, baseball hats, and sneakers. None of which qualify as actual clothing.

I mainly care that what I'm wearing is comfortable and if I will be able to handle wearing it for more than 15 minutes without instantly hating wherever I'm going just because I'm uncomfortable as hell. The inability to stand this type of physical discomfort is deeply ingrained. My fashionable, interior decorator mother used to lament the time it would take to first, get a pair of tights on me, and then count the minutes she could get me to keep them on without constantly saying my legs itched or pulling at my crotch. I remember almost nothing from my early childhood. Hating tights, I remember.

Because I'm eternally mentally preparing for the worst disaster scenario in any situation, I like to dress knowing that I will be able to fight or run from whatever bombing, mugging, tornado, shooting, runaway fire, or animal stampede that may possibly occur without being hindered by what I'm wearing. Skinny jeans--real jeans, not glorious jeggings--and super cute 5 inch nude pumps are not going to help you when you need to get away from an impending fireball while carrying a 22 lb baby. Because you can bet your ass me and my kid are the ones that survive that. Team Q wins at the apocalypse.

This isn't to say that I don't appreciate fashion or beautiful clothes. I love looking at them. Fashionable people are delicious eye candy and I enjoy watching them walk into somewhere and think "wow that outfit is so cute, I wish I cared enough to go get all 12 pieces of it". I do not. Id rather stare at you in it. I think that's one of the main fallacies that people have about unfashionable people. That we don't appreciate beauty or looking nice. We do. We just don't have the patience to do it ourselves. So keep your 3 hour morning routine and extravagant shopping trips because I want to continue staring at you in public.

If it was permanently Fall, and if I didn't ever have to go to social functions that required looking nice or if I ever became famous enough to get away with not looking nice at social functions, my wardrobe would only consist of the following items:

12 Hooded sweatshirts
6 Hoodies with a zipper
7 flannel shirts
72 pairs of jeggings
6 pairs of yoga pants
5 pairs of warm sweatpants
7 pairs of short shorts
15 perfectly fitted cotton tshirts
7 fitted cotton wifebeaters--Im sorry I don't know what else to call them I'm classy
6 pairs of rockstar adidas
1 pair of black Carolina boots
1 pair of fake Frye boots from Target that make me feel like a pirate

 That's really all I require to be happy. And comfortable. And thats fine. No matter what Stacy and Clinton will tell you. Its ok to not care about what you're wearing. Don't let people make you feel bad about it. Because deep down under our eight layers of skin and under the muscle and bones, way deep down in there, in some hidden place, there is a real you. And if it could live outside your body, you might be surprised what you actually look like. Ive come to accept that if I could see the real me, it is probably is a smallish but sturdy pile of flannel and hoods and zippers and fake leather and jean material with some Christmas lights peeking out of pockets and button holes with a fakey rhinestone jewel thrown in every so often. Inner me is comfy and warm and able to survive whatver manmade or natural disaster is thrown its way. So you let your freak flag fly and wear whatever the hell you feel like.

Because Im going to target today wearing this and may end up on People of Walmart by mistake:

Enjoy your week. Wear a cat sweatshirt un-ironically.

~Maria

Commentary on Trayvon Martin

I have gone back and forth about writing something or not. Why add my opinion to the multitude? Why make enemies? Why cause more conflict? Why add to the drama? Because after everything Ive heard and read and been told, I have to say something. Because when shit hits the fan, I have to take a break from looking at the funny side of life and get real for a moment. If you don't want to read it, don't. Its that simple.

My goal with this post is to get to the barest of the bare bones in the hopes that I can adequately express  why I am so emotionally destroyed right now. Think of this situation as a living thing. It has skin and hair and teeth and nails and organs and veins and blood and muscle. All of those parts are equivalent to the basic facts of the case, individual state laws, witness testimony, 911 tapes, past behaviors, the verdict, etc. These parts are the ones that we as observers love to dissect, endlessly going over and over. Pulling them apart, putting them back together, reorganizing, reshaping, remolding, until we have recreated the event into something we can recognize as making sense in our own minds. The shape and texture of this event are unique to the person who formed them, meaning even if we both go through all the details and both come up with an event that looks like a purple elephant, your purple elephant is not going to look the same as my purple elephant. Where the real tension and anger and devastation occurs is when we both look at this situation, and I end up with a purple elephant while you end up with a green alligator.

This is where the bones come into play and where I'm finally going to stop speaking in metaphors. The skeleton of the Zimmerman/Martin case is this: an unarmed 17 year old black child was shot to death while walking home from the store at night by an armed adult male who was told twice by a 911 operator to not engage the child and that the police were on the way. That's it. That's literally all you need to know. As a member of this thing called humanity, that in and of itself should make you scream or weep.

The argument I keep hearing over and over incessantly like a gnat buzzing around my head is that "if Trayvon were a nice, well mannered kid, none of this would have ever happened. If hes wasn't some thug wanna be, he wouldn't have started a physical fight with Zimmerman and Zimmerman wouldn't have had to shoot him." He should have done his little dance "yes sir no sir, how can I help you sir" and Zimmerman, being the vigilante neighborhood watchman of the year would have given him a stern talking to about not walking around at night looking so black, and then would have graciously let him continue on his way.

Ive also heard, "Trayvon was a bad person- he smoked, he drank, he fought, he wore baggy clothes, he punched a bus driver" as if being a teen and making stupid decisions somehow invalidates your life.

"Act like a thug, look like a thug, get treated like a thug"

"If you want to be treated professionally, dress professionally. He didn't, so he got what was coming to him"

"Perhaps blacks should do more to do more and better themselves instead of killing each other and living the thug life"

"One black kid gets shot by a Mexican its racist, but NO one says anything about 3 black kids that beat a white girl to death. Its sad"


The list goes on. It grows like some kind of parasitic tapeworm feasting on the hateful thoughts and misunderstood rationalizations of the internet. And because of blessed anonymity, not one of these people will ever have to look into the faces of Trayvon's parents and tell them why they think its ok that their son is dead. Because that's what you are saying when you defend a murderer. That you believe the life he chose to take wasn't worth it anyways, so who cares really? Self defense. He had no choice. He was being beaten, his head pummeled into the concrete. He had to shoot.

George Zimmerman made the choice that resulted in the death of Trayvon Martin the minute he ignored 2 warnings to not engage him and wait for the police. That's it. Truly. There was a crossroads, and Zimmerman took the path that made him feel something. He wanted something to happen, he wanted to be part of the action, to feel like the hero. He didn't bargain on the suspicious looking black kid resisting. Why would he suspect that? Zimmerman was the adult. He was the neighborhood watchman. He had the gun. He had the power. But Trayvon didn't see it that way.

I think the real reason people are so upset about this is because Trayvon fought back. He didn't run over to Zimmerman with his tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness for being young and black and male on a lonely street at night. He said Fuck You Man, I am who I am, I'm walking home, do something about it. That is what society fears. The fact that a young black male has the power to stand up for himself. I don't advocate for violence, that's not my point. I'm saying that the real fear lies in any trampled down person realizing their own power and strength in the face of their oppressors.

I hope Trayvon's parents can eventually find peace.

Douchecanoes of the Internet

Oh hi there everyone. Today is Monday so Im sure you are having a lovely time of it. Unless you are in a country where its Tuesday or Sunday. In that case I dont know what to tell you other than time zones are neat.

I began participating on Twitter over a year ago even though I swore that I would never be involved in something so ridiculous. The idea of broadcasting your every move in 130 characters or less did not appeal to me. I dont even care what Im doing 90% of the time, why would anyone else? But then I learned that Twitter is fun to fuck around on with your homies and to get real time news updates, but that overall, the real point of it is to creep on the famous and semifamous.

And because of twitter Ive found myself in better connection with whats going on around the globe, and I get to see pics of Amanda Bynes tweerking in her mirror after snorting dishwasher flakes, and most of all, twitter has helped me come to the conclusion that if I ever see Rob Delaney in person Im going to run up and hug him while either humping his leg or peeing on his shoe.

Becoming part of the twitter community means Im also exposed to the completely asinine shit that makes up 99.9% of everything else there. And amidst all of the dumbfuckery, the spelling mistakes, grammar errors, boob selfies, and food pics, there is one thing that continues to baffle me. The large number of people who use twitter to say really terrible hateful mean shit to someone that if they met in real life they'd either ask for a picture with or would be too starstruck to speak.

Example:

Why does anyone find it socially acceptable to call this woman a whore--no matter how much of a waste of space she may be-- when she posts a picture of her pre Kan-baby self in a silver bikini? It confuses the hell out of me. You are literally replying to her tweet "@kimkardashian DIE". You have a picture of yourself and people you know know who you are and can read your tweets and can see that you are being a giant asshole for no reason. Did Kim come and make a sex tape with your husband? Did she tell you you looked fat in your prom dress? Did she shit in your refrigerator and ruin your Benihana leftovers? She didnt? Then what is your deal? You have nothing better to do with your one precious life than to call someone who doesnt even know you exist a slut via the internet? Cool. Good for you. Lets be friends.

 I've become mentally exhausted with the anonymity of online being an excuse for people to be dickheads without repercussions. You cant go up to someone in real life  sitting on a park bench doing their thing and yell "SLUT!!" at them without there being some kind of reaction from them or the people around you, hopefully violent in nature to some part of your face. You shouldnt be able to do it online either.

I dont think that celebrities  and other famous persons necessarily even see 1/10th of the things tweeted at them, but if I were famous and occasionally saw that the first comment to a picture I was willing to share with the world was "DIE WHORE" I think it may kind of hurt my insides a little bit. And then to see that there isnt just one person being an asshole, but lots and lots, well, I think that shit adds up. All that negativity has to go somewhere. My hypothesis is as follows:

ASSHATS OF THE INTERNET: Your negative hate speech is collectively bringing down the emotional intelligence of our species and you are personally responsible for the reversal of evolution. You are the reason aliens are going to take us all out instead of inviting us to travel through their advanced worm hole technology to their super cool planets made of glitter and candybeans. Its your fault. Because aliens with advanced technologies arent stupid and why the fuck would they invite such juvenile hateful creatures to come swim in their glitterponds and travel the universe with them? They wouldnt. So fuck you for making the world a worse off place and for ruining our chance at interstellar travel.

 The world is hard enough as it is without all of you shitting in the kool aid to boot. So knock it off. The internet is this really amazing alternate reality where we have the ability to communicate instantly with people around the world. Our great great grandparents had to wait months to get their out of state BFFs reaction to them accidentally knocking over the milk bucket "lol omg smdh!!" so you should be on your fucking knees worshiping the technology gods for your ability to communicate in such a quick fashion. Not wasting everyones time saying hateful shit while you are sipping your Jamba Juice in between classes. Use what you are given wisely. Or Im going to take your smartphone and put it in my blender.