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[lizadoeslife]

To all the men who hurt me before

Dear Nora’s son (from when I was 4-5 years old),

    You were assigned the task of checking up on me after school. You were a few years older than me. Your mother was a sweet Peruvian lady who lived next door and, as I remember, eventually owned her own Peruvian restaurant that served an amazing rice dish and sodas in glass bottles. You had a sister who was younger than me. Her name was Alejandra.

I suppose I was an easy target. You knew no one would be around. You took me in a closet. You groped me. The whole thing was easy.

But even as children, we are aware of how things make us feel, and we run from the ones that feel bad. And eventually, the feeling became too much, so I started to make excuses.

You would show up to check on me, prompt me to get up from the desk, but I remained planted in the seat. I told you my mom was forcing me to draw something, and if I didn’t continue drawing it, I would get in trouble.

You insisted.

I said no, again. I rushed you out of the house, physically pushing you out of the door.

I don’t remember you ever coming over again.

Then, I saw you years later when we lived in the 15-floor apartments. Nora lived a few floors below us, and I was close friends with Alejandra.

I had come over for a sleepover and you were having a party with your friends in the living room. We remained in Alejandra’s room, but that feeling couldn’t help but emerge.

I ran into you in the hallway. I looked into your eyes, wondering if you remembered.

It seems you didn’t. And if you did, neither of us was going to bring it up anyway.

So we brushed past one another, leaving the memory to what it was in my brain.

__________________________________________

Dear Luis (from when I was 5-7 years old),

You were a pervert -- let’s not beat around the bush. You were also a soldier in the American Army, stationed at Camp Casey in Donducheon, Korea. You were a family friend, but that certainly didn’t stop you from touching me in places you weren’t supposed to. You were a child molester -- maybe you still are. After all, I never reported you when I was 17 and my mother found out. You weren’t even in my life by then, and you hadn’t been for many years, but while memories can deceive us, feelings remain true. And I’ve always had a bad feeling about you.

Even if I convinced myself that maybe I had imagined the whole thing, every disturbing interaction with you, the heavy feeling of distrust was too apparent to ignore. I remember the day my mom found out about you. The car ride is almost ingrained in my memory.

“I ran into Luis the other day,” she said, glancing at me once before returning her eyes to the road.  

I remained quiet.

“Do you remember him? From when you were little?”

I did. The feeling was there.

“He asked about you -- what you’re doing now.”

That one stung. You really had to go there, Luis? Smug piece of shit.

Eventually, my mom caught on to my silence and became frantic. She said we needed to report you to the police. When I said no, she tried to guilt me into it.

“What if he did it to other girls?”

And you know, Luis, you probably did do it to other girls. Most child molesters are repeat offenders. Maybe I got off easy because I was only groped. Maybe you had raped another girl -- maybe impregnated another. I had no way of knowing. However, I felt my story was mine. My experience was mine, and I didn’t deserve to have it tarnished and torn apart by some cop that would tell me “there isn’t anything we can do for you.” Of course, I know there isn’t anything they can do for me, it’s been nearly ten years.

So if you have molested anyone since, I feel for them. I want them to know they aren’t alone, and that I remember. They didn’t make it up. I remember.

__________________________________________

Dear Sarah’s dad (from when I was 8-10 years old),

    I really wish I knew your name because I would plaster it everywhere. I would put it on every billboard, flagpole, and PX message board. I don’t, and that frustrates me, but I’ve made my peace with it.

    You were my best friend’s dad. You were tall, you had a short military cut, you were a soldier, and you took us on base all the time.

    There were times when Sarah and I had a magical time with you, and then there were times when that same feeling sat in my chest. It was heavy as a boulder and confusing to me because you never actually did anything to me, but the psychological implications were big enough to stick around for my whole life, and the anxiety I feel from having no knowledge of where Sarah is and if she stayed safe being your daughter sometimes suffocates me.

    You had a sick way of being a pervert. It’s like you were a psychological pervert. You never laid a hand on me, but you would try to pry me into doing things like lift up my skirt or touch the elephant trunk on your red, elephant boxers.

    Even now as I write this, the feeling is simmering in my chest. It’s a mixed bag, really.

    You offered to buy me a Winx doll set and a replica of the Alfea castle if I would show you what was underneath my clothes. Sarah was right there, only a few feet away, witnessing the whole thing every time.

    Then, the next day, you would bring us kids meals from Burger King. Sometimes I was allowed to have the pretty toy, other times Sarah was. Usually, Sarah got to choose. “She’s my daughter,” you would say.

    You would show us videos of children doing things they weren’t supposed to. Things that adults would categorize as a different kind of play. You suggested we try it with each other sometimes. One time we did. One was enough.

    You would take us to the PX and let us revel at the beautiful, giant stuffed animals on the shelves. They were all characters from popular Western cartoons -- that was the magic of going to stores on Camp Casey. It wasn’t like the other Korean stores where all the characters were from Asian cartoons. These ones looked like us, we could identify.

    You left us alone at home with a hentai movie on. We watched a tiny fairy get a mushroom head stuffed inside of her.

    You took us to the pool. We had fun.

    You let us use your Playboy cards, allowing us to look at the naked women plastered all over one side of each card. We would take them out with us. We never showed anyone else, but they were virtually ours to keep. You didn’t care.

It was strange. You both cared and didn’t care. You never told me to stay quiet and keep things a secret -- I just knew. I knew I couldn’t tell my mom. I didn’t want to. In a way, the attention was exciting. It became normal, just a part of being Sarah’s best friend.

I sometimes wondered if you were this way with all of Sarah’s friends. Looking back, I realize I may have been her only friend. She had a learning disability, which made her less likable with kids our age.

I think the reason I never really thought anything about it was because you were usually never home. And if you were, Sarah and I played outside. Sarah was left alone a lot.

But the fact remains that your perverted ways were my first introduction to sex. I saw it everywhere, and it was ingrained in me that I was somehow inherently sexual.

I’m sure Sarah has had more friends since, and I don’t know if they’ve gone through something worse. Maybe I caught you at the beginning stages of your rapist tendencies.

What worries me the most, however, is whether you ever did anything to Sarah. When I was around, you never sexualized her the way you did me, but she was there for all of it. I have no way of knowing if you did anything to her when I wasn’t around or if you did anything to her later on in life.

My hope is that she eventually got out. That maybe you were stationed somewhere else and she decided to stay with her mom in Korea, that her mom decided not to move to a foreign country. That she came to her senses and realized how dangerous you are.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know, even if I really want to know. I want to know she’s okay. I hope she’s okay.

__________________________________________

I write these letters to the three of you because I want to let go of the heavy feelings you shoved inside of my chest. I don’t want to carry their weight anymore.

That’s why I forgive you. I forgive you for shoving me in a closet, for grabbing my body, and for planting the wrong ideas about women and sex in my brain.

My hope is that you’ve learned from these demons inside of you, and you’ve brought the shadows to the light. I know you’re not monsters even if you did monstrous things.

This is just part of being human. Humans can be saints, and they can be cold-blooded murderers. Just like my childhood experiences with sexuality -- it’s sort of a mixed bag.

Thank you and goodbye. I hope to never feel any of you again.

[lizadoeslife]

the value in people that don’t stick around

The last person I went on a couple dates with was casually smart in a way that fascinated me. He would mention all these scientific studies and artists off the top of his head that added to whatever I was saying. I loved it. I soaked it all up.

This past weekend, I took a weekend trip to Dallas as part of my six month pact to date myself. I visited the Dallas Museum of Art, where they had a special exhibition on Berthe Morisot -- a French female impressionist who focused a lot on figure painting. Almost every plaque accompanying her paintings read that she was great at “capturing the psychology of her subject[s].” While I could stare at figure paintings for hours (I love them so much), the casual smarts of the last person I dated began to take camp in my brain.

I remembered telling him I didn’t like minimalist art -- those stupid canvases painted black or just containing three colors of stripes annoyed me. He countered this, saying he loved minimalist art because it’s meant to draw focus to the space around. Not just the piece of art itself, but the whole of where it was hung. He then began to tell me about an artist that would purposefully create art that was meant to draw attention to the space around it, forcing people to take notice of the architecture and their environment. Again, I soaked this all up. I stared at him in complete fascination. How could someone be this intelligent in exactly all the areas I loved hearing about? But enough about my feelings.

As I walked through the exhibition, I began to take long strides away from the paintings, making sure to look at the entire room. I noted the color the walls were painted. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. The air smelled faintly of paint and a hint of perfume. I looked at the way rooms appeared before I entered them, what I could see from where I was standing -- what was on display to draw people into the room? It felt salutary.

Now, as I look back at this, I begin to see the value in people that don’t stick around. I’m a firm believer that things happen for a reason -- people happen for a reason, and while I think there were a few reasons attached to him, I’m really glad that one of them was to teach me how to deepen my appreciation.

Even when we don’t get the desired outcome from our relationships, people have so much to offer in and of themselves. It’s the reason I often plop down on the asphalt with someone in need of a friend, listening to their stories of how they’d ended up on the streets. Feeling their pain. Seeing their hope. Every person carries so much value that is just waiting to be shared, and that’s an amazing thing I’ve taken for granted.

So I’m here to say I want to listen more. Observe better. Appreciate people for who they are and what they have in their hearts and their brains, letting go of any ulterior motives. Without expecting anything. I just want to let people be and enjoy them for who they happen to be. I think we all deserve that much.

[lizadoeslife]

man, this trauma thing is weird

About a month ago around Valentine’s day, I decided that after several months of failed attempts at a relationship, perhaps the world was sending me a message. Looking back, I now realize I’d been thrown into a feedback loop, repeating the same mistake until I finally learned the lesson I was supposed to.

Let’s take this back to November. As some of us might remember, I wrote a pretty nasty blog about a dude that just really wanted to get pegged. I didn’t peg him, but I did realize that perhaps I tend to rush into relationships way too quickly and catch feelings at an accelerated rate. So he messaged me about that blog, he apologized, and we sorta did the sex thing a few times (not pegging, you can relax, or be disappointed -- whatever). Then, I met someone pretty fucking cool and I was like, yep, don’t wanna do this sex thing anymore, byesies! And that was that.

BUT. Had I taken the time to really learn my lesson? Oh, no, no. Not at all. This is where homegirl gets in trouble… again.

I ran into this guy headfirst and, just like the last time, I’m not exactly able to pinpoint when things went wrong because there was definitely an exact moment that they did, and I felt it afterwards, but didn’t see it coming -- or maybe I did. I’m trying to get better at listening to my intuition. Either way, things fell apart, as they have in the past, and I was once again crying on my bedroom floor and wondering why. this. always. happens. I always think someone is super into me, and then BAM, they’re not. It made no sense.

So I took a step back and thought maybe it was time I stayed intentionally single. I’d already been unintentionally single for months, why not give it some purpose?

Right before Valentine’s Day, I decided I would stay committed to being single until August 16th, my 22nd birthday. I googled how long that was; it was six months. It felt right. Then, as if this was the Universe’s way of assuring me I had made the right decision, Leeor Alexandra mentioned in her Valentine’s Day YouTube video that Jewish Valentine’s Day fell on a day in August. Curious, I looked it up. It landed on my birthday. Yep. This was my sign.

So I began a Love Mastery course, which basically teaches you how to encompass love using every hippie-dippie method you can imagine. I’ve been working through the course, saying my daily affirmations, doing foot baths to cleanse out negative energy, rewriting my limiting beliefs, and, suddenly, as I was doing a writing exercise in the healing portion of the course, I had a breakthrough.

The exercise required that I write down a list of people who have hurt me the most, and explain how they had hurt me. I wrote down four people:

My dad

My mom

Sergio (If you’re reading this... Hi!)

My step dad

I already knew about most of the traumas I wrote down and had mostly worked through them in the past, either through therapy or very intense, obsessive journaling, but I paused when I got to my mom. I had landed on something. I looked up from my notebook. This was the reason for the feedback loop.

“Burden.” I repeated what I’d written down. “She always made me feel like a burden.”

In the past, any time that I’ve gotten a little more serious about a romantic interest, I would suddenly place all my self worth on that person, feel insecure and anxious that I was inadequate for this super rad person, and intensely crave validation from them. I never understood why this happened. Even when I was in a good place with my self love and self validation, even if I was entirely sure of myself and knew what a Bad Bitch™ I was, I suddenly lost all that and felt like a loser compared to this cool person. Even when I KNEW I deserved a cool person because I was a cool person, I felt like a burden.

Now, looking down at the word, it all made sense.

Because I had been conditioned to believe my whole life that being loved equaled being a burden on someone, I subconsciously applied that to every relationship I began to feel loving towards. I told myself I was a burden on people whom I wanted to love and to receive love from, and then because I did that, I would become a burden. I was manifesting this without even realizing it.

Fucking nutso! And what a relief! I felt like I could finally breathe. I knew what was wrong. All those failed connections were a result of this limiting belief I had internalized since childhood.

Thank. God.

Needless to say, I’m incredibly excited to rewrite this belief and continue my healing journey towards complete, genuine self love. Let’s see what else I discover on this wild ride. 

[lizadoeslife]

on being grateful

I have a gratitude regiment I try to stick to. It’s simple. In the morning, after I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I sit down at my desk and open my gratitude journal (yes, I have one) to the next blank page to write:

Thank you for _____.

Thank you for _____.

Thank you for _____.

I write that until the page is full, at which point I end it by writing “Thank you, Universe!”

There are a number of reasons I do this. For one, gratitude journaling helps me remember there are always things to be thankful for, even when it feels like there aren’t. Two, in order to manifest, you need to already be happy and thankful for the life you currently have.  And since I’m always manifesting things, a bitch gotta be ever-grateful. The universe isn’t going to give you more to be thankful if you don’t give it a base of gratitude from which to work it’s way up. Plants need roots to grow, so do your manifestations. Three, it’s a good method of “Acting As If.” (Here’s a link if you’re curious to find out more). Simply put: this method of acting as if involves slipping a few items into your gratitude list that you don’t have yet, but are in the process of manifesting. For example, I sprinkled “Thank you for my new, paid-off car” several times in my journal before I had any idea of how I was going to get a car. Then, boom, I got a car! Four, it forces me to focus on something for at least 3 minutes, which is a nice way to get my brain working in the morning. Five, it gives me an excuse to listen to “thank u, next” by Ariana Grande and “TREAT MYSELF” by Meghan Trainor a million times on repeat–although, this usually leads to an impromptu dance party that interrupts me mid-journaling, so who knows if it actually serves any purpose. Either way, here are a few of my favorite 2018 gratitude items from which I think are wholesome, hilarious, or good to remember every day. Enjoy!

Thank you for beautiful sunsets and the night sky

04/04/18

Thank you for Latin music

04/08/18

Thank you for the Clitorati

04/09/18

Thank you for laughter every day

04/22/18

Thank you for my mom

05/06/18

Thank you for all the people that checked on me today to see if I was okay

05/25/18

Asked to feel appreciated. Got Paul. Thank you!

??/??/??

Thank you for always giving me valuable work I love to do

06/27/19

Thank you for all my improv pals

07/24/18

Thank you for always sending me $$$

07/25/18

Thank you for my friends that helped me move

07/30/18

Thank you for Jenn’s safe surgery

08/01/18

Thank you for art museums

08/03/18

Thank you for One Direction

08/14/18

Thank you for my family pictures

Thank you for never letting me feel alone

Thank you for all the gays

08/22/18

Thank you improv for making me feel loved

09/09/18

Thank you for female comedians

10/08/18

Thank you for therapy

11/08/18

Thank you for my life

11/11/18

Thank you for my childhood in Korea

11/15/18

Thank you for my mom’s happiness

11/19/18

Thank you for my future

11/22/18

Thank you for my capacity to heal

Thank you for all the light

Thank you for how loved I am

11/24/18

Thank you for keeping me smiling

11/27/18

Thank you for curly hair

12/10/18

Thank you for working it all out

12/20/18

Thank you for all my blessings

12/22/18

Here’s to a more thankful 2019!

[lizadoeslife]

Let’s get these goals!

As 2018 comes to a close, I’ve decided it’s a good time to reflect on the past year and share what I’ve learned. A lot happened, and I almost can’t believe how much actually DID happen this year, yet here I am, lessons and experiences in hand, astonished at how far I’ve gotten.

So what did we learn? We meaning me, the royal we. Well, here’s a few…

#1: BOYS ARE DUMB

This isn’t exactly new information, but it’s an excellent reminder. First of all, I still haven’t wrapped my head around why I’m good enough to have sex with but not good enough to date. Who knows. We’re all figuring it out. If you figure it out before me, please give me a call. Or a text. Because, like, ew. Who uses their phones to call people? Gross. (jk, please call me. please).

#2: YOU CAN LITERALLY HAVE ANYTHING YOU WANT IF YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO WORK

In the spring, I got back into the Law of Attraction. I wish I could tell you it was because I had a sudden epiphany during my vacation while sitting in a beautiful coffee shop in New York at 11pm, staring out onto Broadway street with a warm cup of tea (something I DID do in 2018, just minus the epiphany). But, no. I got back into it because I was moping around my best friend’s place during my vacation, wondering why the guy I liked didn’t like me back, and then suddenly I thought “I’M GONNA MAKE HIM LIKE ME.” Pause. “WITH MAGIC.” So I started watching LoA videos on YouTube. Then I started manifesting a thing here and a thing there. THEN I MANIFESTED A PERSON. THEN A CAR. THEN BEING CAST IN A SHOW. AND THEN A PAIR OF SATIN PASTEL-PINK PAJAMAS (I’m particularly proud of that one). And I realized that I could have literally anything I want if I put my brain to it. Granted, I didn’t get the dude I had initially set out to manifest (or did I??? THERE IS STILL TIME), but me wanting to desperately attract him as a love interest lead to me manifesting so many other beautiful things and experiences and people that I truly couldn’t have planned it better myself. So, thanks, dude.

#3: LOVE YOURSELF EVEN WHEN YOU’RE BAD, LOVE YOURSELF EVEN WHEN YOU’RE SAD

Man oh man, this one is my favorite. This was actually a song lyric from a Big Gay Musical show–which I did makeup for this past summer. It’s such a simple quote, but it encompasses so much. To me, it means that you need to make time to take care of yourself. It means you need to put time into therapy, thinking and writing about your feelings, forgiving yourself first, and always standing by your own side–even when you feel like a total piece of shit in every way. I had so many times this year when I just felt like I wasn’t doing anything right, but I always believed that everything would work out. I maintained faith that everything happens for a reason, and even if everything seems out of order right now, it’ll all work out eventually. Even when you’re bad or sad, there will be a good outcome eventually. Things will turn around. And they did. As soon as I truly let go of my worry and anxiety over a situation, it almost immediately resolved itself. But even if it doesn’t resolve itself, there’s so much love in your life already. So focus on that instead! Even if you don’t feel like there’s anything to be thankful for (which there always is, I promise), you always have you. You can love you, and that’s enough. You’re enough (which is another BGM lyric we sung to Bridget in a circle anytime she had a bad day or got down on herself–god, that show was amazing).

At the end of the year, I find myself in a new, beautiful apartment, living with two incredible women I feel were destined to be in my life, enjoying so many aspects of my life than ever before, doing more comedy, setting amazing new goals I’m excited to achieve in the new year, and surrounded by so, so much love. Sometimes I can’t believe how friendless and alone I felt a little over a year ago. I had no support system, yet here I am now with so much happiness and love in my hands and in my heart and in so many places I can’t even imagine. So, thank you.

Thank you to everyone who made this year so wonderful for me. Thank you for those who made it challenging and taught me valuable lessons. Thank you to strangers who I saw in passing and made me smile. Thank you to all my friends for always lending a helping hand and laughing with me and listening to me cry and working through my problems. Thank you to my mom for just being herself. Thank you to my dad for making me feel like we can finally be a family. Thank you to my best friend for growing with me. Thank you to my spirits for staying up. Finally, thank you to the universe (yeah, yeah, I’m cheesy, whatever). I couldn’t have had the same year without you all. Thank you!

Here’s to a new year of kicking ass and being the best me I can be. Let’s get this bread these goals!

[lizadoeslife]

putting on my big girl pants and dealing with heartbreak

After a month-long affair-ish thing of sorts, I’ve ended up single and intensely feeling the Big Sad. Currently, Meryl Streep is soothing my soul with her beautiful voice as I sit at my desk wondering why the hell this one missed connection has hit me so hard. Maybe because it moved so quickly? Because we had sex too soon? Because he lied about how much he actually liked me? Because he kept saying “you’re my favorite person” and “I miss you” every chance he got? Because we did that cutesy “let’s joke about our hypothetical future and pretend we’ll get married and have kids and travel together” thing a little too excessively? Because I fall in love so easily with my own projections of people? Because Scorpios can’t be trusted? Who’s to say.

Either way, I’ve come out of this mostly okay but sometimes feeling a pain in my chest when a sad song comes on. And I honest to god don’t know why this time has hit me so hard.

I had a similar relationship in the summer. A month long. Passionate. Moved very quickly. Lots of “I like you”s and “I miss you”s. However, it was fairly consistent, unlike this time—which was about a week and a half of GO GO GO and then sudden radio silence. The summer relationship ended because I thought I might be poly (still to be determined), and he wasn’t into that. So that was that.

Yes, I was sad. Yes, I liked him a lot. But did I cry and feel random internal knife stabs in my chest? No, I didn’t.

Here I am now, though, feeling sad and betrayed. I wish he hadn’t called me unreasonable for being upset. I wish there was an explanation to why the hell this fell apart other than the classic case of He’s Just Not That Into You— that makes it so simple and maybe it is that simple. Maybe everything he said was actually a lie and the only time he was honest was when he said “I’m just trying to get pegged.” Should have taken him for his word.

The thing that hurts most, though, isn’t that he probably lied about how much he liked me. It’s not even the fact that he told me a relationship didn’t seem feasible for his busy schedule and big life plans, but then started dating a girl he’d known for less than a week as soon as we agreed to remain friends. What hurt the most was him telling me “you just didn’t seem to be into me, you were into IT.” That I didn’t like him, I liked the idea of being with someone. That it just seemed like I tried with so many people in a row and it hadn’t worked so I just kept going.

That stung. It still stings.

I shouldn’t have to explain why everything he said is messed up because it honestly sounds like a lot of bullshit excuses he made up instead of simply saying “I’m not that into you,” but I will slightly plead my case. FIRST OF ALL, I haven’t been involved with anyone since June. Before that, it was March. Why? Because I’m not “trying” anything “in a row.” I’m not walking around with a cow bell in my hands, yelling “WOULD ANYBODY LIKE TO DATE ME” at the top of my lungs. Like a fairly normal human, I sometimes come across a person that sparks my interest, and I pursue them. THAT’S. HOW. DATING. WORKS. Someone rad comes across your path and you go, “Hey, that’s a rad person! Maybe we can have a rad time together! Let me try to hang out with them to see if they’re into my radness, too!”

But, no, no. Apparently that’s not me. Apparently I’m a serial dater that doesn’t actually like people, just the idea of being with them.

So, evidently, I’m pretty salty about what he said. And now he gets to be happy with his rad new girlfriend and feel zero remorse while I’m sad. Barf. And I’m mad. It’s unfair that he just gets to mosey on with his life while I pretend the Mama Mia soundtrack is somehow getting my life back on track.

And I know, I know. I’ll move on soon. I’m still young. I’ll be happy and forget all about the Big Sad feelings. I’ll find someone who doesn’t call me unreasonable for expressing my emotions and actually opens up to me and talks to me about stuff and is genuinely interested in me and my life and who I am. Plenty of fish and all that. But I’m not there yet. Right now I’m still at the stage where I’m grieving the loss of our potential, imaginary future and tearing up because I’m re-reading sad journal entries.

As the Russians say, I hope he lives to be a 100, especially after this emotional rollercoaster he strapped me into. And I hope his rad girlfriend is as rad as she seems and that he doesn’t fuck her up the way he did me because no girl deserves this. And I hope someone finally pegs him so he can know what it’s like to get fucked over.

Regardless, I’m returning to dramatically listening to “The Winner Takes It All” and reminding myself that even if I’m sad right now, there are always so many beautiful, amazing things to be thankful for. So I’ll be sad for a while, but then go back to being a Bad Ass Bitch. I guess it be like that sometimes. It really do.

[lizadoeslife]

writing when I’m well

I hate when my mind fixates on negative shit. Even if amazing things are happening (i.e. I got a car! I’m working on improv shows! I’m sort of passing all my classes!), it just takes one bad thing to completely throw the scales off balance. And I never know which one thing is going to throw everything out of proportion! I’ve gotten really good at handling and letting go negative feelings, but then something random triggers me and I’m thrown into a muddy ditch of emotions. Is this depression? Anxiety? I don’t know! I’m not a doctor!

I often write a lot when I’m in a good mental space. If everything is going peachy and I’m grateful and inspired, I can write and write and write. Then, my mind gets fixated on ONE thing that isn’t working out or a traumatic event from the past will creep into my thoughts, and I can’t write about anything else. I write about the problem or the memory, I edit it, I read it over. Then I keep it to myself. I’m not ready to share it with the world. What will people think? Will my mom ask me about it? Am I ready to discuss it with people once it’s out in the open? Be put on the spot? I guess that’s a step towards vulnerability I’m not comfortable with yet.

I watched Natalie Diaz, a queer, Native American poet, speak at my school once. She’s incredibly talented and writes a lot of incredibly raw poetry about being a person of color in America, her brother’s drug addiction, and her queer experience. I asked her how she was able to effortlessly write about such traumatic events and difficult feelings. She told me she never wrote about things that she still felt strongly about. Once she could look at a situation objectively, without the risk of being consumed by it, she was ready to write.

I think about this a lot, and I wonder how I’m supposed to know when I’m ready to share something with the world. Maybe I’ll never share some things, but how do I know when to share the others? I’m still working on embracing and validating my truth.

Natalie Diaz also mentioned that even in the midst of chaos, there’s beauty. That’s why we write about wars, heart break, death—there’s always beauty. I wonder if I haven’t discovered the beauty in my own problems and trauma. Maybe that’s why I’m not ready to share them.

So when I begin to fixate on an issue or a specific memory, I stop writing. I want to find the perfect words to capture it. I want to get it down on paper. I want it to exist outside of my brain. I just want it out. Gone. Maybe it’ll help me heal. Maybe writing it down will extract it from my brain and finally bring me peace. Out of mind, out of sight. But I know it won’t go away, so I just sit there, struggling with this one piece of writing for weeks, wanting it to be perfect. How can something broken be perfect?

Then eventually the negatives fade away and I can focus on the positives. I write again, about the good things now. Maybe I sprinkle in some of the negative, but it isn’t so powerful that it consumes the story.

I’m waiting to be well again. My brain is in a weird in-between place, where it’s a few weeks after trauma started fixating, but far away enough that I don’t just want to keep revisiting the same piece of writing. So here I am, waiting.

[lizadoeslife]

a room full of artists

I don’t think that I will ever feel more love than when I am in a room full of artists. Surrounded by so much talent, every single time, makes me fall in love all over again.

Doing all these improv shows, was it ever really about the art? Or has it always been about the room after the show? Sure, I felt validated receiving laughs on stage and being told that I “literally changed” a man’s “opinion on improv.” He had “hated improv before but now wanted to take a class.” It made me feel grateful for the things I was doing and what I was capable of. But that dude was definitely shitfaced drunk. So I guess you take what you can get.

I love being on stage. I love having fun with my friends in front of an audience. Performing is exhilarating, but I never felt happier than when I was hanging out with my cast afterwards—probably comparing how good our show was on a scale of orgasms. It’s an improv thing.

There’s something about seeing people smiling at each other and hugging friends who congratulated them for doing a good show. I love watching people. I love watching the love. Seeing how much people admired my fellow performers filled my heart with a kind of joy I can’t describe. I was almost happier hearing praise for my friends than for myself. Is that weird? Love is some weird shit.

Tonight, I felt that same love while watching a cast full of my friends stun the audience with their talent. The show was okay. What truly made me fall in love was seeing all these people I had started my freshman year with thriving and filling out an entire cast of a show. I smiled as they gave ridiculously cheesy and lengthy monologues and gave birth and died. It was all very much a Drama and Theatre. But god, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I fell in love with these people all over again. Perhaps for the first time.

Like I said, the show was okay. The best part was the room after the show. The lobby of smiling faces as they received compliments. I stood there, watching the room. Everyone was so happy. It felt warm and comfortable and kind. I hugged a few of the people I’d known for 2 years now. I felt so proud and honored that I knew them. That I could hug them. That I could tell them how amazing they were and how they all murdered me with their talent. When would I ever be able to do that again? In 2 more years, they’d all go off to New York and Los Angeles, eventually winning Oscars and Tonys and Sundance Film Festivals—but at least I have now.

I finished the night giving a hug to someone who always holds a small special little place in my heart. She’s an actual ray of sunshine and incredibly talented and never an asshole about it. I admire that about her and always have. She’s just a regular human being who happens to have a god-like talent and an immense variety of facial expressions (yes, they are hilarious). To be honest with you—you know, between you and me, reader—2 years ago when I had first gotten to school I felt so intimated by her. We had similar physical features and after watching her kill a few monologues in our acting class, I felt like she was my direct competition. Note: For obvious reasons, the reality was that I was never her competition because she could squash me like a tiny bug with her too-big-for-this-world talent. I was no competition at all. But at the time, I felt like it Big Time. I was intimidated by her, but at no point do I remember disliking her (for reference, see above “actual ray of sunshine”).

I hugged her and told her she had murdered me with her talent and said I couldn’t wait to see her receive three Oscars in one night some day (and I truly can’t wait. I won’t be surprised if she is the next Meryl Streep, but y’know, that’s just me—or is it? Pay attention, casting directors! This girl is it! I CALLED IT AND SO IT SHALL BE, DAMNIT). And I can’t wait until the day I see her on a screen in a movie theater and say “I know her” and feel so happy that years ago I had hugged her and told her she was so talented and deserved everything that was coming to her.

I bring this up not to make you think I have a strange obsession with an actress from my school (even though I kinda totally do but like who wouldn’t??? Have you met the girl???), I bring this up to be a completely selfish jerk that points out “look how far I’ve come!”

I went from being a little resentful asshole and getting into improv out of spite (a story for another time) to being completely comfortable and genuinely happy in a room full of people that I loved for no other reason than the fact that they exist. A room full of people that maybe at most give half a shit about me! Look how much I’ve grown! I just love them! I love them so damn much!

I hope everyone gets to experience this level of contentment and true happiness for another human being’s success. Because it feels damn good. It makes me want to break out into a musical number in the middle of the street. But that would all be a bit too Drama and Theatre. Like I said, love is some weird shit, but I hope to god that everyone gets to experience the love in a room full of artists. There truly is nothing else like it.

[lizadoeslife]

sleeping next to someone

Written who knows when

Sleeping next to someone is a dangerous game to play because you risk a greater chance at loneliness when you crawl into bed alone and long for the warmth of a person pressed against the back of your body, an arm securely wrapped around your waist. The simple touch is enough to make you crave it more and more, regardless of who you may receive it from. It’s like a drug. You can’t get enough, then when you don’t have it, you have withdrawals. You lay in bed as the cool air rests heavy on your isolated figure. You’re alone with your thoughts and all you can think about is the missing breath you once had on your neck as the chest behind you used to rise and fall slowly with each soft inhale and exhale. You become acutely aware of your pulse that beats at its own rhythm, lacking a partner to synchronize with. Your own breath sounds like a duet missing a partner, breathing alone into the silence that makes a horrible partner.

[lizadoeslife]

scarf of melancholy

Written January 31, 2018

Melancholy floods my senses like an unexpected wave. It’s often regarded as negative, undesirable. But I feel good. It feels cathartic. If you’re not feeling melancholy every now and then, what is the point of living? Why do we have these emotions, laid out before us like a wide selection of elegantly woven, complexly designed scarves, waiting to be worn for the day. The colors overwhelm us, but is it not true that we put on the scarf we feel the most like? I’m feeling optimistic today, I’ll try on the light fabric yellow scarf. Today I feel melancholy. The last few days I’ve felt melancholy. There’s a reason for my sadness, so perhaps it isn’t melancholy at all but plain, simple sadness. Perhaps it’s healthy for me to feel this way for a bit. Perhaps this was what I needed.

[lizadoeslife]

to bitch or not to bitch

Often, it’s easy to determine when you should be a bitch to a dude. Usually if he’s being pushy and making advances on you, it’s acceptable to tell him “suck my dick” and walk away.

I’m the master of ignoring men. If a dude yells at me or is being increasingly creepy, I’m usually pretty good at stoically acting as if all I hear is the faint sound of a barking dog.

But there are times when you’re not entirely too sure if a dude is trying to fuck you or if this is a normal human interaction. Those are the times that get me in trouble.

See, the issue is, if the dude IS trying to hit on you and you don’t shut it down because you think it’s a normal human interaction, then you’ve been caught in his trap (usually some completely random conversation he started in an effort to talk to you). But if the dude isn’t trying to hit on you and you shut him down, you’re a bitch (with good reason, of course, but nonetheless. Thems the rules, I didn’t make them).

Either way, sometimes it’s impossible to differentiate between the two, which brings me to literally 20 minutes ago.

I’m sitting on the bus. It’s 7:20am. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I pull out Tina Fey’s Bossypants. Not even half a minute into me reading this book, the dude in the seat across from me leans my way and says “excuse me, what book are you reading?”

I mentally sigh, looking over. Here we fucking go. The guy’s in his twenties, probably Latino or Hispanic, and wearing a white shirt with grey sweatpants and those adidas shoes everyone and their mother wears with the two black stripes across the front (you know the ones). He also has a necklace of wooden beads across his chest. He’s decent looking, I guess. But what the fuck does that matter? A dude dressed like Prince Charming could follow me home and kidnap me right at my doorstep, doesn’t matter what he’s dressed like.

I point to the cover and say “Tina Fey’s book.” He then continues to give me “book recommendations” and some “theory this dude developed blah blah blah.” I honestly wasn’t listening. “Anyway, those are the best books I read this year. You should read them if you’re into reading.” I nodded and went back to my book.

I was getting off at the next stop but apparently so was he. I mentally sighed again, deeper this time. Surely he wouldn’t be getting on the same transfer bus as me.

He went to the same bus stop as me. SIGH.

Once I get to the stop after him, I’m already writing this blog, staring at my phone as Tina Fey rests under my armpit.

Up until that point, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just really lonely and wanted someone to talk to. Maybe he doesn’t have friends or a family so he was reaching out for someone to talk to and I had a friendly aura. You never know. It’s not nice to always think the worst about people.

As soon as I got to the bus stop, I was completely convinced this was not the case. Dude was definitely trying to hit on me. You know how I knew? As soon as I got to the bus stop, HE STARTED DOING PUSH-UPS.

DUDE. W H A T.

Right there, on the sidewalk. Did the drivers passing by stare at him? Sure did. Was I looked at him? Hell no. I’m not a female peacock. Put your rainbow feathers away, sir.

Once his pushups didn’t get my attention (because I am already writing this blog and have zero energy for some peacock man), he just straight up walks up to me.

“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier, my name is blah blah blah (I don’t know what he said I wasn’t even looking at him). I was just curious, what’s she famous for? The one you’re reading the book about?”

“She’s a comedian.” Still not looking.

He chuckles. “Are you gonna be a comedian some day?”

“Yeah.”

Then I got on the bus and went to the furthest seat possible in the very back.

He hasn’t talked to me since, but I will leave you with this thought.

As a woman, every interaction I have with a man involves the initial 10 seconds of me mentally determining “is he trying to fuck me or not fuck me?” Women can usually tell which one within the first 10 seconds because men are dumb and women are basically magical psychics (fact).

But there always comes a time when you meet a deceptive man that’s REALLY good at pretending he doesn’t want to fuck you so you let your guard down and relax and the BAM he actually DOES and WILL DEFINITELY try to fuck you.

The peacock in this story is not an example of that. He gave away his intentions when he started huffing and puffing on the pavement next to me.

What really sucks is that, as a woman, you have to choose between two options in every conversation with a dude: to bitch or not to bitch. Because that’s our protection, the only protection we have. A bad attitude can be an easy way to get rid of a dude. Women can’t afford the luxury of being overtly friendly with strangers and treating every conversation with as much ease as we’d like to. We don’t have that privilege. This is a man’s world and that is a man’s privilege.

I want to be kind and genuine and caring and loving and protective and the best person all around to have a conversation with. BUT I CANT ALWAYS DO THAT.

So I’m left here, feeling guilty and a little sad that I have to come off as bitch. Because that’s all we can do. It’s our only protection.

[lizadoeslife]

the biggest reason I fucking hate catcallers

If you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman. I look like a woman. I’m attractive like a woman. And guys get a real fucking hard-on for almost anything woman-passing (even sex robots! They’re not even people! What are y’all doing?!?).

But that’s not the point. The point is that I get catcalled night and day, all the fucking time, especially since I have to get around everywhere by foot or bus. And this morning as I walked up to the bus stop a white mini van honked at me as he drove past. For those of you who don’t know, this is also a form of catcalling. Just a way lazier one because c’mon dude, you couldn’t even gather up the balls to use your voice? Weak.

I’m so used to this, even if it is infuriating every time. But you know what I realized? The most fucked up thing about this lazy form of catcalling? Men do it to see what we’ll do, like we’re animals.

You know when you were a kid and you used to flood the ant hill to see what would happen? Will the ants run out like there’s a fire drill? Will they just drown in their tiny little sand rooms? You had to know! Or that time you disected a bug? Another time when you threw rocks at the neighborhood cat? Why did you do those things? Sure, you can make an argument that all kids are malicious, cold-blooded serial killers by nature that are eventually taught they can’t keep dissecting bugs on the sidewalk if they want to be accepted in society. But that would take way too long. The reason you did those things is because you were curious about the reaction. Every action has a reaction (or something like that, I didn’t really pay attention in physics).

That brings me back to the men. See, men are just like children. They’re malicious, cold-blooded serial killers by nature that-

Kidding (or am I?). ANYWAY.

When men honk at women, they’re placing us on the same level as the ants and the neighborhood cat. We’re just there for their entertainment. We’re there so they can revel in our reaction. No man is out here thinking that when he catcalls a lady, she’ll get down on one knee and propose to him. Maybe they do. I don’t know. Men are really fucking dumb.

Either way, it made me really mad when that mini van honked at me because I can’t even do anything about that. Before I can yell anything in response, the car is far far past me. Sometimes I wonder if I could just keep a bag full of rocks with me at all times and throw them at every car that honks at me. Then I realize that’s completely unrealistic because I’m not athletic and rocks are heavy.

So I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to deal with men seeing me like some sort of weird sex robot or a frog on the dissecting table. I guess all I can really do is say men are trash but their shitty ways are evolving. Fewer men yell at me in the street, but a whole lot more honk at me. It’s a power move.

I fucking hate men.

[lizadoeslife]

so, so much that was

It’s strange to think there was a time when I had a normal, happy family. After the age of 8, I was adjusting to a life that had shattered right before my eyes, without my realizing exactly when or how it had.

Well, the how was easier to understand than the when. The rest is a little blurry.

To give you some context, I’ll start by saying that I grew up in South Korea. Then, after about 4 years we ran into visa troubles and my dad was forced to fly back to Russia. They didn’t let him back into Korea, so my mom was basically stranded alone with three kids and zero financial help (which would remain the case for the next 5 years, but that’s a story for another time).

I grew up from then on in a not very good environment. My mom was always angry and exhausted. I was constantly beaten for the smallest reasons. And with my mom working nights, my brothers became my responsibility. See? No bueno.

As a result, I began to form a very distinct picture of my family in my memories. It was one of sadness and desperation and financial insecurity. A depressed mom. An absent dad. And later on, a horribly bigoted and abusive step dad. Family’s never had the best rep in my memory.

Despite this, I’ve tried to be grateful because lots of people don’t have a dad, even an absent one, let alone a mom. But there’s one thing I always overlooked, even in my gratitude.

A couple days ago, I decided to call my grandma Natasha (my dad’s mom), who lives in Russia. I usually never ever call her because of the time difference but I had already called both my mom and dad, neither of whom had picked up the phone.

She picked up and immediately began cooing at me like I was a little girl, calling me her sunshine and saying how happy she was I’d called her. (Side note: if your grandparents are alive and you don’t call them, PLEASE CALL THEM! They’re just sweet old raisin people that want to feel like they still matter to somebody. BE THAT SOMEBODY. Also, there’s no better way to boost yourself esteem than hearing your grandma call you “sunshine” and “flower” every other sentence.)

Then we talked about my school and shat on Donald Trump, until she surprised with an absolute gem of a memory that I hope to cherish forever.

She was talking about how inlove my parents used to be. So inlove that everyone around them was always jealous of their relationship. “Friends would come over and notice the peaceful silence in the appartement. Everyone wanted what they had, even in Korea.” Then she gifted me the most darling image.

“I remember when your parents were living with me in the house. Your mom is so much shorter than him, which I always thought was adorable. Every time after she took a shower, Vanya would carry her out of the bathroom like a baby wrapped in the towel.” My heart nearly melted. “I was always glad he did that. I felt so happy that my son was like that, that I had a son like that.”

And I knew what she meant. It was such a tender memory, one that could only be kept by a grandmother and shared years later with her grandchild that needed it most.

We both agreed it was sad and unfair what had happened, but that was life. I recently learned that life can fuck you over even when you do absolutely everything right. Maybe that was the case with my parents. Who’s to say?

But after we’d hung up, our conversation got me thinking. When I think of my childhood, I always think it wasn’t good. Mostly bad. But that’s not true.

I remember dancing around the house with my dad. I remember watching movies cuddled up next to him. I remember that time he took me to Seoul to see a play with Russian puppets (it was probably as strange as it sounds). I remember sitting side by side on the subway as he told me Russian jokes. I remember one time when I really wanted a bright blue Dumbo plushie from a claw machine that I tried to win for days until he finally joined. We couldn’t get that damn sucker out and I have no idea how much money he spent trying to get it. Finally he called the maintenance number on the machine and asked if he could just buy the toy because his daughter really wanted it. I think I got it. I remember the two of us running around amusement parks from rollercoaster to rollercoaster while my full-term-pregnant-with-twins mom waited in lines for us. I remember playing a game called “tickle pickle” which consisted of my dad chasing me and my 3 year old brothers around the apartment and grabbing a hold of one of us to tickle us until we peed our pants. I remember when he would stretch out his long legs into the air, lifting me up like a plank when I was still small enough for it, and how much fun I had being so so high up in the air. I remember one year before the boys were born when we went to the ocean for my birthday and got a really fancy cheesecake that said “happy birthday” in cursive chocolate writing and I won a giant brown dog plushie at a carnival game (which, let’s be real, was probably purchased by my dad).

My point is, there are so many of these memories that I’ve buried because I’ve always been more focused on pitying myself.

I’ve gotten so used to associating my dad with abandonment and most of my teen angst that I’ve forgotten there are good memories, too. Valuable memories. Tender memories. Beautiful and heartwarming. Ones I hope I’ll share with a child some day that needs them more than I do. Even if I can’t always remember them clearly and they’re not at the top of my mind, I’m so grateful for these moments. I was surrounded by so much love without ever realizing it. I never once questioned if I was pretty or worthy because my parents always made sure to tell me I was The Most Beautiful Girl in The World and We Love You So, So Much. I was one of the lucky ones. I was truly blessed.

Family is strange and life loves to shit all over us, but there’s always light. There’s always a grandma who saw things as they were, and there’s always a quiet love that sits still among us, blantantly obvious to those who aren’t lucky enough to feel it, but nearly invisible to those who are enveloped by it every day. It just takes one memory to bring these things to the forefront and make us see again.

So, see them. Please. Please, see them and focus less on what could have been, and more on what truly was. Because there was so, so much more that was.

.

.

.

And now, a picture of me and my mom eating pizza with forks and knives. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. (No, this picture is not a joke, we were actually eating pizza with forks and knives. Why? I don’t know! Pizza was a delicacy in Korea! Stop asking questions.)

[lizadoeslife]

the prime age of a school girl

Written April 15, 2018

You make me feel like a school girl.

Smiling at the thought of you, gasping at the sight of you. Giggling when you text me back. Longingly for your touch.

Then, no. No, I tell myself. I’m beyond these feelings. They’re so silly and childish. Hoping you’ll talk to me, making up excuses to see you. What am I, sixteen again?

Then I realize, our hearts do not age the way that our minds do. The feelings that we felt then, which we feel now, we’ll be feeling for the rest of our lives. That giddy little bubble in my chest that makes my head light when I think about you, it’ll never go away. I’ll be seventy years old, feeling sixteen, always sixteen. Well aware of my needs and desires, yet still so irrational with these feelings. Irrational with the fantasies. Constantly thinking, what if? Maybe he’ll come... Maybe I’ll see him. Just maybe.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe I’ll drive past his house. Maybe I’ll see him at that coffee shop. Maybe.

Sixteen. The prime age of a school girl.

You make me feel like I’m stuck there, forever in this pink bubble of illusion.

[lizadoeslife]

my impatient ass needs to chill

I’m impatient as fuck, which is why I have so much trouble with the Law of Attraction. I. Don’t. Like. Waiting. If I can’t have what I want now, THEN SCREW THE FIRST THING IM GONNA SHOW THEM ALL THAT I’M GOOD ENOUGH I’LL JUST FIND SOMETHING ELSE I CAN HAVE.

Is this healthy? Probably not. Should I just learn that maybe I need to be more patient? Probably so. But the issue most of the time is that I don’t have the resources or skills to get what I want right that second.

Take improv, for example. I’ve auditioned for two improv shows now that I REALLY wanted to get cast in. Given my lack of experience, I always figured I definitely would not get cast—y’know, unless pigs suddenly learned how to fly. But what did happen both times is I’d get an email saying “welcome to the show!” and I’d get super happy thinking I got in but once I scrolled down I was listed under “tech.”

Thump. That’s the sound of my heart falling into the pit of my stomach. My ego doesn’t handle rejection well. But did you see what I did there? I found something else I can have: another way to be a part of the show. Tech is attainable.

So whats the moral here? I don’t know. Do I need to learn to be patient and let the things I want come to me with time? Or continue being a sneaky snakey and slither my way into things another way? Or do casting directors just need to send out a separate email for the cast and tech so my big fragile baby ego doesn’t get bruised when I see the headline of the email and freak out for a second because I think I got cast when I didn’t? Maybe all of the above.

Whatever the answer is, I do know this: everything is an opportunity. Everything I do in improv is going to lead to more opportunities and personal growth. The fact that I’m even given a chance to be a part of these beautiful and touching shows is a miracle! I always make friends and memories in the process. So that’s all I can do: trust the process and be forever thankful because, oh my god, I love these people so much. And hey, rehearsals are free improv shows!

p.s. Techs are incredible, beautiful people that are just as essential to the show as the cast is, if not even more. I love doing tech and I’ve made the best friends by doing tech, so don’t think for a second I don’t appreciate this role.

p.p.s. Who do I talk to about making these damn emails separate????

[lizadoeslife]

on riding the bus

I lost my car in an accident on March 25th. Since then, I’ve had to revert back to riding the bus.

When the accident happened, the police officer told me I was handling it “much better than most people” as I calmly answered his questions. It was 10am when I got hauled home by the same tow truck hauling away the remains of my car. I crawled back into bed and finally felt failure sink into my chest. All the time and money I had put into getting this car felt like a waste. I had nothing to show for my hard work. And now I had a 300 dollar ticket to pay. Then I cried. I cried and I cried until my mom came up to Austin to spend the day with me.

As I got in the back of her boyfriend’s red mustang, she told me, “Good. I’m glad that car is gone. I hated that fucking car.” Then she handed me a can of apple cider and told me to drink.

To her, the grey Volvo station wagon was a constant reminder of her abusive husband that she had left less than a year ago.

To me, it was the first big purchase I made with the money I had saved up from what little pay I made while going to school full-time.

So the car was gone (rip Caroline) and I was left to figure out how I was supposed to get around.

The first few weeks, I got depressed at 8PM. That was when all the improv shows were starting for the night. Here I was, incapable of going to any of them. I felt shut out and powerless. I couldn’t come and go as I pleased. But eventually the depression passed.

I would take Car2Gos, Lyft sometimes, rely on my friends, but mostly I took the bus.

I have a complicated relationship with Austin’s transportation system. On one hand, our buses are better than a lot of places. On the other hand, they’re a whole lot shittier than a lot of places. The wait times are long, the buses are dirty, and once in a blue moon you get a really mean bus driver.

Despite all this, when I felt defeated and climbed on the bus after a long day, I felt my soul settle. I was given an opportunity to do nothing. Do nothing and think.

I loved looking out at the lake as the bus crossed the bridge between South Austin and Downtown. I loved seeing children sitting beside their mommies and looking out the windows. I loved journaling and reading. I loved saying “thank you” to the bus drivers and seeing them wave me off with a smile. It was on the bus that I felt pure bliss, truly grateful for this life. Thankful for lakes, mothers, books, and friendly bus drivers.

Even when life shat on my plate and threw whole lemons at my face, I felt so thankful I even had a plate and a face in the first place. Because a plate can be washed clean and a blackeye always heals.

Life wasn’t so bad after all, even if it was throwing a tantrum like an angry monkey at the zoo. There were so many beautiful things still happening. I took a drivers safety course and paid less than 150 dollars for the ticket. I continued to work on improv shows and saw plenty of them with friends. The world kept spinning. It always does.

So step away from the monkey. I promise you’ll find something to smile about, bruised face and all. The monkey will calm down after a while, and maybe even bring you a flower. But for the love of god, step away from the monkey.

[lizadoeslife]

on doing nothing

I have always thought of “doing nothing” as actions that have no productive value, like coloring and reading shitty fan fiction. However, I think that this mentality is a recent development. Today, there’s so much pressure to constantly do something at all times that will benefit your career or life goals. If you’re doing anything other than that, you’re “doing nothing”-wasting your time. But “doing nothing” didn’t always have such a bad rep. In fact, it had a whole different meaning.

I miss the days when people spent hours on their porches. They’d read, drink, chat with neighbors, but most importantly, sit around and stare at their surroundings in silence. I like to think there’s something about the stillness of those acts that we, the current busy bee generation, have lost.

I like to imagine that’s how’s poets became poets and novelists became novelists and artists became artists. They sat around and ideas whispered into their ears through the wind. The breeze carried stories through trees and houses and porches that would flow into the ear of a poet on his porch. Then, there was a Wordsworth. There was a Jane Austen. There was a Monet. Where are our creative minds now? What’s feeding their imagination?

The creatives busy through their lives, hurrying through jobs that are only designed to keep the large machine that is society running, leaving little room for enjoyment. They shuffle through the streets, bumping past each other, barely making eye contact with another human for hours. They follow a daily routine of eat, shit, sleep, and remember to stare at your hand-held shiny screen. What are the creatives doing now? Where’s the nature? The wind whispering inspirations? It’s been fogged by green gas emissions and buildings taller from the outside, smaller on the inside. Rent is high. Money is tight. Debt is suffocating. Everyone walks walks walks and talks talks talks and silence. Silence doesn’t not exist.

“Doing nothing” is no longer a relaxing, healthy activity. It’s useless. We scowl at it and tell people to avoid it all costs. It’s all about the moving, kid, no time to rest. Time is money, don’t waste it. But wouldn’t it be nice if we could, just, stop? Stop.

Stop and do nothing. Reclaim what the means. If it brings you relaxation, joy, or any positive feeling, you do that nothing. Let’s stop and focus on ourselves. Sometimes doing nothing is exactly what we needed all along.