July 10

From Jail

As I am writing this, I am currently incarcerated. Facebook has put me in cyber jail, banning me from posting, liking, and commenting. Am I being a bit dramatic about the whole ordeal? Maybe. But, as someone who spends a lot of time on the Book of Faces, after only twenty minutes in time out, boy did I feel sorry.

How will I gauge my popularity now? Twitter??
How will I gauge my popularity now? Twitter??

I like to fancy myself a freedom fighter of sorts. I champion causes with the fiercest of social justice warriors. So, upon being cast out, banned and labeled a rule breaker; it cut me to my core.

You see, I was only spreading a message about being comfortable in your own skin, when someone decided to report me to the gestapo. If given the chance to do it again, I would a million times over in the name of doing what is right.

It all started when I downloaded the Pokemon GO app. I grew up on Pokemon. In my youth, with Poked in hand, I dreamed of breaking out of my small town and making it to the Indigo League, to become a Pokemon Master. The Pokemon GO app made my dreams possible. Here I was, ready to CATCH EM ALL!!!!!

So there I was, having my dreams realized, when a wild pokemon appeared! I was super excited and went to capture it. The wild pokemon just happened to appear on the front of my boxers.

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I didn’t know the front of my boxers was such a hot spot for pokemon to appear. But, being the 25 year old, mature, adult that I am, I found it HILARIOUS. I decided to snap a picture, and post it on the Gods of Faces that are Books. I even captioned it cleverly with a ‘lol’. Now, most are not comfortable enough with their body’s to post recklessly pictures of themselves online in their underwear. This guy however, he has been known to occasionally post photos of himself on the internet some would see as distasteful.

Couldn't find anything to wear
Couldn’t find anything to wear

I find it important to celebrate my dad bod. I think being comfortable enough to do something in hopes of likes and comments is somewhere we all strive to be.

Guys, I was trying to break down barriers.

In my boundary busting movement, I also titled the art of catching trouser pokemon as Pokemon GO: On My Penis. Apparently, this was not nearly as well received as I assumed it would be. The Pokemon Go On My Penis Movement was swiftly and unjustly shut down as I was censored and banned from the one place I love with my whole heart, The tome of faces. I don’t blame anyone for slut-shaming me. I believe it was more out of ignorance than anything else.

But, I will not be silenced. And although I am currently facing and serving my Facebook jail time with my head held high, I will continue to fight on and champion causes.

You see, if we can’t post things for shock likes and laughs, what social media cyber world are we living in? You would think, between the constant video and images of people being shot, a wild Poke Penis picture appearing would be a blessing.

Guess not, folks. I guess not.

I spent the first hour of incarceration texting my friends to let them know I would be gone for twenty four hours and making it clear I wouldn’t go down without a fight. The second hour, I have spent writing this anthem for freedom of doing things in the name of social justice or gaining likes. With twenty-two long hours ahead of me, I plan to take as many pictures of pokemon on the front of my boxer shorts so I can pump them onto Facebook with the anger and determination of a woman who posts breastfeeding pictures.

I will not be forgotten. Pokemon GO On My Penis will NOT be shut down!

So here I am, getting ready to be the greatest pokemon master of my generation. To bust the stigma that goes with doing things to gain popularity on the internet.

You can not stop me, Mark Zuckerberg. I pay for this domain.

Pokemon GO On My Penis Lives ON!!!!
Pokemon GO On My Penis Lives ON!!!!
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June 24

How To Be The Most Successful Blogger. Ever.

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While the words successful blogger and Punk Rock Papa are not exactly synonymous, I decided to give it a go anyways and write a definitive guide to being a successful blogger. Sure, my ‘stats’ aren’t exactly gaudy, but who cares? I pay hundreds of dollars a year on internet writing so I must know what I am doing. Also, I am sort of published in an anthology, so you know I am the real deal.

There are many things that go into becoming a successful blogger. Do you feel like you don’t have the writing talent to be a successful blogger? Who cares?! Being successful isn’t about being good at anything. I like to call my approach to blogging the  Kardashiyesican Approach.

First and foremost, you have to find yourself an audience. Your audience, at first, can be family and those ride or die friends who always told you how good of a singer you were and how you should totally try out for American Idol. The ones who uploaded the grainy video of you singing to YouTube and then submitted it to America’s Funniest Home Videos. Show those friends your dreams and aspirations.

There are many different kinds of bloggers. Some write lists and some write recipes. Others like to take all their sessions of therapy and condense them into 500 to 1,000 word bursts to spew across the internet in between shares of funny memes and a disgust for the word ‘moist’. These are the successful bloggers, the real MVPs of the blogging world. You want to be one of them.

The Kardashiyesican Approach involves you being completely bare and pretending to be embarrassed about being ‘naked’ in front of strangers. When posting you should use phrases such as;

“This is really important to me.”

“I never thought I would find the courage to share this.”

“This has trigger warnings.”

It is really important to sell to your audience. Sure, the incident required a hundred hours of therapy and happened five years ago but you want to sell it like you are “Not over it but getting there.”

This is how the REAL bloggers do it.

Another good way to build an audience is to accidentally leak your blog at work. Tell Karen, who never keeps her mouth shut, about it. The key is to act super embarrassed.

“Oh, that reminds me of this thing I wrote. I am super embarrassed, I probably shouldn’t show you this. I trust you, Karen. I trust you. Well, I guess since it is on the internet it is there for everyone to see. No, Karen, scroll down. There. Yes, I blog. Don’t tell anyone. I trust you Karen, did you hit subscribe and share?”

A lot of bloggers will advise you to like and share other people’s work as well. That sounds like it requires a whole lot of reading and sharing that you could spend asking people to read your stuff. The best way to get around this is to just drop links to your blog on other people’s blogs. This will show them that not only did you “read” *wink* their work, but related to it so much it reminded you that everyone should be reading your words instead.

Feeling overwhelmed? Building an audience is important, there are many ways to do it. Sure, there may be ways that are more etiquette centric but let’s be honest here, you’re blogging because it is about you. The Kardashiyesican Approach isn’t about doing what is right or wrong, it is about being the most successful blogger you can be.

If you are really having a hard time building an audience, you can always just straight forward attack your peers. This method might even land you TV spots! I like this method, because it cuts out a lot of the social media aspect of successful blogging. Just write some vitriol, write an I’m not sorry post, write an I’m sorry post and then write a post about how you are seeking mental wellness.

Watch the stats stack up.

If you want to go the social media route, there are a variety of social media platforms to play on. I am what is known as a level 3 Facebook Guru. I have a ‘tribe’, a page with thousands of followers and an ability to say I was on Scary Mommy. Having a tribe is really awesome for exposure. You can use your tribe to build this really tight bond with your peers, in case you need to straight forward attack them and call them shit later. Tribes are also filled with really nice people, too.

We aren’t here for friends, we are here to be successful bloggers. This is a really competitive field and if, like me, you aren’t as talented as the rest, you can’t spare time to have friends or anything in your tribe. These are your competition for the trending topic. It is a constant battle of who had a worst childhood and if you want good sites to pick you up, you better start dipping into those repressed memories.

Social media provides a good platform to talk about yourself. I find it really important, in order to be successful, to always be talking about yourself or your family. Sometimes, my kids will want to do something and while it may seem like fun, I know Christine from whatever page has already done that this week so we have to do something else for the precious Facebook likes. Facebook likes equal more people reading your blog, something my children have a hard time comprehending.

Facebook is wildly important if you want to be successful. If you can be personable online, take other people’s statuses and reshape them so it sounds like an original thought, and get people to think you spend as much time with your family as you say you do online then you will be golden. It’s called balance. While I don’t advocate Munchausen Syndrome, I do advocate using makeup to put fun ‘boo-boos’ on your children. Sympathy likes are super in right now.

Lastly, and this is how you truly reach the pinnacle of success, you have to be angry. Not angry about your life, no, you have to be happy with your life. You need to be angry about something that doesn’t affect you. It could affect a sister’s best friend’s cousin, but not you directly. You have to be really upset though, as if your day-to-day routine of pretending to play with your kids at the park was truly affected by something that happened a million miles away from you. Lose sleep over something.

I like to say, “I know I was upset about that thing last week and can’t remember what cause I was fighting- but this, this truly traumatized me because of the magnitude at how everyone else is upset by it. I mean it, this has awakened my inner activist and I want to do somethi- Oh, wait, nevermind. I am really angry about THIS thing now.”

It is important to remember, the internet is a tough place to gain popularity if you aren’t a cat. I hope you can take the Kardashiyesican Approach and use it to turn childhood woe into viral posts. Because, at the end of the day, might as well do it for the likes.

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April 5

What the F*ck is Konmari?

Awhile back, I wrote about needing a new hobby. I got some awesome feedback over the hobbies I should pick up, even putting some of them to action. I am now a farmer, my proud plot of dirt sitting in my kitchen windowsill. Three of the four herbs I planted might even survive my intense glares and constant watering. The forth never popped out the dirt. I thought about sacrificing a child to the great windowsill planter gods, but decided I couldn’t spare a child. And the knives were all in the dishwasher. I mean…

In my quest for hobbies led me towards all the cool and hip things people are trying these days. One in particular stood out to me. Konmari.

My laptop doesn’t even want me typing the word. It keeps auto-changing it to Kenmore.

Kenmore KONMARI is a decluttering method seeming to sweep the nation. While the idea of turning spring cleaning into a hobby seems, to me, to be absolutely mind-numbingly boring, it has really picked up among people I know. Good for them. I can’t hate someone for doing something they enjoy. But, I can hate what they are enjoying.

It’s not you, it’s the Konmari.

I wonder what is next? Is Konmari new? I don’t know, because I stopped reading up on it. On account of I fell asleep.

Maybe Konmari scares me. Is it the final rite of becoming an adult? Does it lead to the mystical Laundrigami where I find myself folding underwear into triangles to better Feng Shui my underwear and sock drawer?

I have a lot of questions about Konmari. Growing up, when we practiced Konmari it went something like this:

“Clean your room or I am going to come up there with trash bags.” 

Is this the same thing? If so, I am very familiar with Konmari as my parents practiced it on my room at least a few times while I was growing up. Now, I am sure at this point, my blog has been put into the ‘does not spark joy’ category, headed to the trash along with that book you’ve held onto for sentimental value for the last decade.

I am sure Konmarenthusiasts (I made this up, but feel free to use it) will scoff and say, “How is this any more stupid than your precious football games. At least we are doing something on our Sundays other than spilling nacho cheese on our shirts”

To which I reply- Football is a NATIONAL TREASURE. Watch your mouth. I just started a diet and this is goat cheese. It isn’t even football season, talk shit on the current seasonal obsession of hockey.

But seriously, if any Konmaraddicts want to come over and declutter my house, this is less an attack on your art than a plea to clean out the piles of shoeboxes filled with random stuff that take up space in my closet. I reserve the right to shout “SPARK OF JOY” at anything I want to keep and offer you permission to fling things at my head for making fun of Konmari. Please don’t use a black trash bag as it gives me flashbacks of when my parents would trash bag my room after I promised to clean it multiple times.

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This is a picture of a puppy, victim of Konmari after too many accidents in the house. 
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March 10

I Need a Fucking Hobby

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I am beginning to realize I need a hobby. Writing started out as a hobby, grew to an addiction and from there transitioned to being a part-time job. Seriously, Monday through Friday a few hours every day I sit and write. After writing, I sift through sites and send them some work hoping they like it enough to open their wallets to slide me a little thank you billfold.

I love writing but I need a hobby. I look at my friends with their fitness or scrapbooking they do for nothing other than personal enjoyment and think I need to be doing something like they are with my free time!!!

I don’t get much free time though, and for a while the little free time I got was taken up by Netflix. Can I count ‘Netflix and chill’ as my hobby of choice? Well, I am unable to binge watch like a true Netflixer. The last show I binge watched on Netflix was Curious George. Did you see the season six finale? Barn burner! My toddlers and I watched it THREE times. On Tuesday alone.

I don’t even  have the credentials to call Netflixing a hobby. I am a mere amateur Netflix enthusiast.

I did try to pick up knitting. I have always been fond of using my hands; whether it be to work, hit people in the face or raise donuts to my own face. I really like my hands. Well, knitting ended in me being frustrated and setting (read: flinging) the knitting needles. As I went for a cool off walk to the kitchen, I returned to my children using the knitting needles to stage a coup. As Ezra stabbed me with a knitting needle, I looked at him and said,

“Et tu, Baby?”

People, I need a hobby. This is me crowdsourcing, to fill the forty-five minutes in a day I don’t have children trying to show me how much they love me by throwing their meals on the floor or coloring on the walls. A couple of things I want to just stop before the crowd source process begins.

Hobbies I am not interested in:

Running

I have running shoes. I went through a nice two-week phase where I quit smoking and began running. In that time I was so convinced I loved running and the freeness it provided. Now, sure, running isn’t that bad but I don’t want to do it and I have a few reasons. One- when I see someone running I automatically have the same reaction every single time. I shout at them. I shout, “YOU CAN’T RUN FROM YOUR PROBLEMS FOREVER” before howling to myself as I keel over and desperately search for my inhaler. I also have these weird daydreams of taking joggers out with my car. Then, there was that one time in high school someone was running on the side of the road and I threw a slice of pizza at them. All this accounts for a lot of bad karma when it comes to running. I would rather be overweight and safe than dead in a ditch covered in slices of pizza. Also, the asthma thing.

Weight lifting

I used to enjoy lifting. Just kidding, I always hated it. Everyday I weight train. I feel like Stanley Yelnats’ grandpa in Holes, everyday carrying the pig to drink from the stream. Except, instead of one pig, I have three toddlers I carry everywhere. I bet the pig didn’t spend the whole walk up to the creek going, “Dad! Dad! Hungry! Dad! Cookies? Dad! Dad! No walk! Daddddddd!” I weight lift enough with these ever-growing free weights. On top of that, I lift heavy stuff all night at work. I work in wholesale, which means bulk product because large families like mine absolutely need to buy their necessities in fifty pound bundles.

Anything similar to knitting.

My children used the knitting needles as stilettos. I have seen these kids take and turn the most mundane items into weapons of mass destruction or disturbance. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if my children taught some sort of shiv making class to people going into prison.

I haven’t gotten over being stabbed with a tool designed to make scarfs. It is just one of those traumatic experiences parents are built from. I don’t want to relive it.

Musical Instruments

This is similar to knitting, but more of a mental assault provided by my children. I used to play guitar for a little. By play, I mean I strummed awkwardly and sung Just Like Heaven by The Cure over and over again because it was the only song I took the time to learn. And why not? They made a movie based off that amazing masterpiece. I really love that song.

I had a guitar. I have actually owned three. The latest beauty cost me a full week’s paycheck and I bought it way before I had kids. It stuck around, enduring dust and drunken strumming, only to be destroyed by my children who fancy themselves to be the second coming of Pete fuckin’ Townshend.

Extreme couponing

I know some quirky person is going to chime in about their weird love for savings and how it has grown into a hobby. No, it has grown out of control. Buying forty bottles of shampoo for 38 cents is mental! Now, I am not judging. A part of me is a bit jealous of the savings provided but it seems a bit unhealthy, ya? Like, you really need fifteen hundred tampons because you were able to buy them for the low price of $1.15. It isn’t frugal or fiscally responsible. It is a TLC hoarding episode waiting to break tv viewer ratings.

I know I asked for help and have been a bit stand offish. I don’t want you to dig out that free machete coupon you have been saving to go all psycho stalker killer on some internet stranger. I really couldn’t hobby coupon because I hear it takes some serious organization. Probably the same level of organization and careful planning put into murders by serial killers like The Zodiac. I am very unorganized, so can we just say that is the reason I don’t want to do extreme coupling?

But seriously, I need a fucking hobby. I am starting to feel like the loser who spends all his time with his kids because he has no real life friends, only relationships fostered over the internet. The kind of person who incessantly posts updates on their children because they don’t have anything else to post about. That is so not Punk Rock Papa, people. Will you help me in my quest to find other things to talk about?

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March 8

What Would You Do For A Klondike Bar?

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I received an email about a year ago to do a review of Klondike Bars. They offered to pay me in…Klondike Bars. Enthusiastically I fired off an email back saying,


 

Dear Klondike People,
If you’re asking me what I would do for a Klondike Bar, the answer is anything because those little chocolate coated frozen happiness bars are fuckin D-Lish. I will write the graces of your product while putting myself into a sweet Klondike Coma.
Love,
Forever Yours,
KlondikeFan69

 

Okay, that isn’t EXACTLY how the email went. I am using creative license here. Sadly, Klondike People never got back to me, which meant I had to purchase my own Klondikes and I got tears all over them as I lamented the $3.50 or so I would have saved. There I was, not getting a response, like when I told Bri sophomore year that I really liked her. (I don’t like you anymore, Bri. In fact, I am better off not having the four or five blog posts I would have eventually written about you had you let me take you to Homecoming.)

Why didn’t they respond? This was before I decided to take some weird moral high ground and not run advertisements I found unappealing myself. I would have sold the shit out of Klondike bars. The Girl Scout Federation of American Obesity would have called and asked me to stand outside Walmart for them, slinging Samoas at elderly folk like some sort of Cookie Matchstick Man.

“Why yes, imagine if instead of the condo in Florida, you invested in a truck load of cookies. With these cookies, your grandkids will always love you.” 

Seriously, I can sell with the best of them. Now, I am sure by this point in my post, I have undoubtably garnered the attention of ALL the brands. Hi, Nabisco *wink face*. Make me swoon and I will push Fig Newtons down everyone’s throats.

But, Klondike never responded to me, which did not rub well with my fear of rejection. I endured, rose stronger from the rejection, if not five pounds heavier from shoving ice cream in my face hole like my date stood me up.

When I decided to try to get in on advertisements again, there was a Wendy’s campaign. The idea of clogging my arteries with a Baconater made me sizzle like a fresh patty. They asked me to strip down and show them my numbers. It was my first time and they could tell. I awkwardly stood there, naked in front of a corporation with way more experience than I. As they passed on me for bloggers with gaudier numbers, I picked myself up off the ground and promised never to show my numbers to someone again unless I truly loved them and they loved me.

But, Papa, didn’t you sell flatbread?

Wrong Papa. Also, don’t call me Papa. It is fucking weird. Fifty shades of not okay. And flatbread sucks, there I said it.

My name is Briton, nice to meet you.

Here I am, a broken blogger who has sworn off advertisements. I have to wonder though. What if? What if the Klondike People did respond? Would I be sitting here surrounded by promotional things, my children wearing brand name shoes? The brand being Hostess. Little TWIN-kie shoes!

See, brands are really missing out. Quick, another one!

When you feel the need to pour vodka into you and awaken your inner Russian, pair it with Cranberry Sprite. Your hiccups will taste delightful. Cranberry Sprite, the little Russian in you approves. 

What would I do for a Klondike Bar? I will tell you what I will do when Klondike People don’t get back to me after, I don’t know, three emails. I will write a long jilted blogger post showing what they are missing out on.

Also, I have never had flatbread. I don’t trust it. Why would you flatten bread? Personally, the bread rides passenger side with me so as NOT to get flattened. What is wrong with society that we now are buying our bread already flattened? This seems the same as buying ripped jeans and I fell into that trap for a few years in high school. Flatten your own bread instead of paying extra for someone else to do it for you. Just throw it next to the milk on the car ride home and it pretty much flattens itself. Maybe I don’t understand the concept of flatbread.

And Klondike People. I have moved on. But, if you send coupons I would use them. ExKlondikeLover68 (because you owe me one, *wink face*)

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January 13

Billion Dollar Child Care Package

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I’m gonna trade this life for fortune and fame.

I cracked open my children’s piggy bank. Not literally, as on the bottom is a rubber covering. Okay, I sat there violently shaking my kids’ piggy bank and catching coins as they ricocheted this way and that way. Investing THEIR money in the lottery wasn’t a sign of a growing debilitating gambling addiction, I was ante’ing up on their future. Could I have used my own money? I mean, most the money in the piggy bank was mine at some point. I have yet to see these toddlers work a day in their life. Since becoming an adult, I didn’t ever carry actual tender on my persons. It is always SWIPE, SWIPE, SWIPE of the magic plastic. How much money does this little plastic card hold? No fuckin’ clue, but I swipe it like I am Daddy Warbucks. Unfortunately, I needed cold hard cash for the lottery.

 *Shake*

*Shake*

*Shake*

There I stood, shaking and catching precious pieces of silver from the piggy bank. Thoughtfully helping my kids learn about investments. You got to spend money to make money! Right? RIGHT? I wish I had some sort of Crown Royal bag to carry all the change in. There are two thoughts flying through my head anytime I pay out with change.

I need to learn to be more fiscally responsible so I have more than this handful of change on Thursdays. 

Or

Holy crap, I feel like I am living in the Medieval Times! *Tosses sack of change at cashier* “Here, peasant, it’s all there, no need to count. Okay, I will wait while you count. I am sorry for throwing a sack of change at you. No, I didn’t call you peasant. Okay, I am sorry.”

Now, picking the perfect lottery numbers turned out to be a bit difficult. Of course, this was for the kids, like Wu Tang, so I felt maybe they should have a part in picking their future.

Test your might!

While I momentarily entertained the idea of giving three-year olds’ who were terrible counters (1,2,3,4,5,4,6,9,10 YAY!) the chance to pick their own winning numbers, unless I planned to release them in a ball pit filled with giant lottery balls to pick, it was probably best I pick the numbers. Although, this sounds like one hell of an idea. Saturday, I placed their birthdays as my lucky numbers, knowing for certain that God Almighty graced me with twins and the least he could do was grace me with a couple hundred million dollars to take care of them. We know how this story plays out, as I am now going for the billion dollar child care lottery package.

Are you there God? It’s me, Punk Rock Papa.

I am not going to tell you the billion dollar numbers I picked. Sorry, I have very little intention of sharing my “Get out the ghetto” Powerball digits. Now just know, my intentions with a billion dollars are nothing short of wholesome. My kids have needs. This is their investment which I plan to surprise them with after they realize the piggy bank is lighter. Seriously, I think they weigh the thing before bedtime. Last time I borrowed from it, I was exiting the bathroom and there stood two scowling children, one violently shaking the yellow pig in my face. I had to put a legitimate dollar bill in it to appease them. Sometimes I hear the jingle of that pig in my sleep, with tiny toddler voices saying, “We know. We know!”

Yes, this money is for da kidz! I am sure at the top of their list of wants and needs is a really nice car for daddy to escort them around in. Followed by making sure daddy gets the bar he has wanted since realizing he was going to be a father of twins. Oh, and college funds, of course.

Punk Rock Papa’s Pub GRAND OPENING!!!

As “If I Had A Million Dollars” played in the background, I scoffed at The Barenaked Ladies. I am a few hours away from a billion dollars. I mean, my children are a few hours away from a billion dollars. I haven’t looked in to the odds of winning. I hear they are astronomical. But, it is the 13th and that is my lucky number. All I am saying is the stars have aligned.

Now, excuse me, I have to hit three more gas stations to draw numbers. My kids still have a few investment coins to throw down on a life of luxury.

Thank you, Misfit, for inspiring me to write a lottery post. Happy Bestie Day!!

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January 12

Bloggers Killed The Novel Writers

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You have to make sure your numbers are good! Publishers are now looking at your stats! Numbers, numbers, NUMBERS!

My fellow blogger friend continued to chatter incessantly about social media and Facebook page likes. According to her, publishers wanted you to now build your own audience before they even considered publishing you. It sounded like a tonne of crap, but she wasn’t the first one to spew it. According to popular theory, the only thing that now matters in the quest to make the leap from internet diary to New York Times Bestseller are the number of followers accrued along the journey.

This scares me in an “I am an artist and my feelings are fickle” sort of way. Not that I have a size problem. Ladies, I have a full five thousand PLUS on my Facebook page. I will let you calm your heavy breathing and flustered cheeks. But why do my 358 Instagram followers matter? Surely the 474 twitter fiends don’t matter, right?

Oh My God, Becky, look at his social media. 

Remember the fickle feeling artist? Well, it isn’t because he isn’t well endowed with a strong, erm, following. My problems lie in what this means. If publishers are only interested in my social media following, why do I even have a place like my blog to showcase my writing?

Publishers, I have words too. Stop just eyeing my followers like a piece of meat. 

Does this mean publishers are no longer looking for substance? I mean, if you have a large following, they can string your statuses together in one long run on sentence and print it for the masses. Because, you know, fuck literature.

Excuse me while I sit over here, up on my pedestal, wanting to be acknowledged for my skill and not the size of my social media package.

I thought you fell in love with my personality. 

While I have yet to write a book, I do look forward to sending draft after draft to editor. I excitedly anticipate for it to be soul-crushingly rejected. I want to sit here sobbing late at night about my inadequacy as a writer before a company sees something in my manuscript and gives me a shot. I want to toss back rum and cokes with JK Rowling and laugh about the journey as we polish our literary awards.

I want to stay hungry, forever maintaining the image of starving artist. Call me old-fashioned, sure, but I want my talents to be looked at. I don’t want a publisher after me because I have already built myself enough people to sling my wares at. Isn’t that part of the publishers job?

In fact, I will be bold enough to say that my “analytics” are none of a publishers business.

This is great, Chuck Palahniuk, really great. I love the whole premise of “Who is Tyler Durden”. Unfortunately, you are just not active enough on The Twitter for us to publish your book at this time. 

The great writers, past and present, weren’t published because of how many circles they belonged to in Google+.  While I sit here, making Change.Org petitions to permanently change the term blogger to Instant Gratification Authors (Seriously, give us our legitimacy. We need an author turned blogger. A transblogger if you will, to support our cause and raise awareness.) I want to have a level of legitimacy as a writer.

Legitimacy and affirmation don’t come from being published based on popularity.

I am modest. Look at my skill, not my back-end. 

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November 20

The Meaning of Christmas

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With Christmas fast approaching, it is time to put on winter wear, drink a cup of coffee (out of a Christmas approved cup, obviously), and brave the shopping centers in search of presents for children. While doing so, it is important to make sure not to present shame other families by putting an over abundance of gifts under the tree. At the same time, there is that tugging need to give kids what we might have wanted but never got as children ourselves.

When the fuck did Christmas get so difficult? Thanks a lot, social media, for adding a whole new level of etiquette to the holiday season. Don’t these people know it doesn’t matter the color of the cup, as long as the rum is mixed evenly with the eggnog? (Two thirds rum, the one third of eggnog softens that burning sensation just right, you’re welcome)

Christmas should be about getting kids the stuff they need, like gaming systems that will keep their attention so the dishes can get done. There needs to be a tin of butter cookies to eat before purchasing the gym membership I will use for the first two weeks of January during the “New Year, new me!” phase. The  crafts are getting out of control this time of year, so a popcorn tin needs to be bought and emptied so it can be refilled with craft items while we sob at the realization that no longer are we becoming our parents but now we are becoming our grandparents. We are one season away from asking for a Life Alert button.

As we Instagram pictures of us dropping clothes off at Goodwill and donating canned goods, lets not forget to grab a selfie with the Salvation Army guy because Karen on Facebook doesn’t think we know the true spirit of the holidays. Fuck you, Karen- I saw that red cup in the background of your profile picture, Christmas hater.

As social media sets itself upon Christmas, no longer is holiday spirit measured by the amount of lawn ornaments and lights hung up, but now on the amount of likes the picture recently shared of baby Jesus in the manger got. If that picture doesn’t pass thirteen likes, the holiday season is officially ruined.

Tis’ the season to be jolly, not jelly. It is the time of year to argue over real trees vs. fake one. Those pine needles, they linger until July. It is time to drink too much spiked egg nog out of coffee cups, while drunkenly signing up for caroling for the third year in a row. You can’t hold a note, not even if the fate of Ol’ Saint Nick depended on it. Seriously, why do you do this to your self?

It shouldn’t be about what the Karen’s of the world think. The Debbie Downers, determined to publicly reprimand the choices of others during the wintery season. Hearts are supposed to grow three sizes from being clogged with cholesterol and kindness. The Christmas Carol is supposed to be played too many times in all its leg lamp and Red Ryder BB gun glory. You’ll shoot your eye out!

It is a time of year to do things with family, like drink too much with that uncle or aunt who may have a drinking problem we turn a blind eye to because they are so goddamn funny after a few glasses. To go sledding down hills and build snowmen. To place the carrot not on the snowman’s face, because no White Christmas is complete without a little dirty humor.

It is a time to provide, in whatever manner you see fit, for those you care about. Little faces lighting up brighter than the christmas lights. Rosy red cheeks and ugly sweaters. The holidays are for togetherness with the people that matter to you. It should be spent drinking out of whatever cup you see fit, while handing out as many presents as you want. Happy Holidays is, quite literally, the greatest alliteration in the history of alliterations. Let’s put the Happy back into Happy Holidays with some rum and a whole lot of love.

 

The Meaning of Christmas

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