I hate going to the gynecologists, it’s probably on my top 10 things I loathe the most. Obviously it’s something I should do a couple times out of the year to make sure I’m healthy and my vagina is working properly, but the whole thing makes me feel uncomfortable.
I was never physically abused or anything that like in all of my years, and my doctors have always been generally nice and appropriate, but after an appointment I still come home feeling violated. I don’t shake the feeling for a couple hours, jump in my sweats and curl up on the couch until I’m over it.
There’s no motivation behind my feelings, only that in my mind it feels wrong, but realistically I know it’s right because I’m going to the doctors to make sure my health is secure. I commend women such as my mother that go in to the OBGYN offices like its a dentist appointment, no big deal. I have to mentally prepare myself a week in advance to not chicken out.
It’s taken on an abundance of emotions that I have yet to sort out on my own. Unclaimed tears and unspoken words that don’t even want to be apart of sentences.
This is what happens when you have left your sadness unattended for far to long. You’re scared of what is left in the closet, and you’re just not brave enough to face the truth. I’ve established this lay away inside my heart, where I put inside everything that hurts in a specific area to either forget or collect dust. It’s finally taken a toll on not only my sleeping, but also silence.
My heart has grown in to a storage rather than an organ.
all the fanfare that came with birthdays died in my house after I turned 16 when I wished on every single candle lit that I would grow boobs, and come the next morning still have to put on my training bra. Needless to say, my birthday present came 4 years late and during sophomore year of college. I could have used those breasts back in prom night, thanks genetics.
Now with the eve of my quarter life crisis rapidly approaching, boob wishes have turned into job hirings and birthday cake has turned into “you’re getting too old for a cake, kc.” Somebody should warn kids that can’t wait to grow up that Christmas presents and Birthday celebrations have the same line of death as dinosaurs. Extinction.
It also doesn’t help that my birthday is on valentines day, I’d like to blame my mom’s selfishness of not withstanding pain for a couple more hours to shoot me out on the 16th - but every time I bring that up she just mumbles “Or I could have aborted.” Touche’ mother, touche’.
I need to figure out what I’m doing for my birthday, otherwise it looks like I’m going to buy a carton of birthday cake remix from ColdStones, slap a candle in there and play pin the tail on the donkey with Rufio. But I think even he has valentines day plans with the neighbor dog. Bastard, good thing we got him neutered.
I went to the grocery store with my mom to pick up ‘necessities’ both of us are hard on money right now (ie; me being with only 3 dollars in the banking account, and her living paycheck to paycheck) so we could only afford the basics.
We get to the check out, and my mom ditches me with a last minute run back to the Diary aisle since she forgot the milk. Now being left to ‘guard the cart’ as well as holding a place in line when your mother dashes away is already awkward enough when you’re the next one up, especially when there is somebody behind you. He was an older man, and only had 3 things in his hand. Coffee, jelly beans and crackers. I looked back and smiled, “You can go ahead of me” I said, he said “Are you sure? I’m a patient man I can wait” I just laughed slightly and replied “I’m sure, we have a lot of groceries and you only have three, go ahead of me it’s fine.”
He stepped in front of my cart and said thank you, I was looking around waiting for my mom to reappear with milk in her hand. I was browsing the candy bar section and then I heard my mom’s grunt, “why did you let somebody ahead of us?” I go “Really? are we in a rush? Is there a sudden hot date you’re suppose to be on?” She just rolled her eyes and threw the milk in the cart. Now, I’d like to add, being in Atlanta, GA for three years they taught one essential thing: Southern Hospitality. There have been numerous times where I’ve been behind ladies with 800 things in their cart and I only had about 3 myself with no speedy check out aisle, and they have always let me in front of them, always. It was only right I do the same thing for him.
The man grabbed his grocery bag, said thank you again and left the grocery store. Once he left our cashier said, “The gentleman ahead of you put $30 dollar towards your groceries.” HE DID WHAT?! It was probably the nicest and rarest thing I’ve ever encountered! I wanted to run to the parking lot and find him, but by the time we realized he gave us 30 dollars he was surely gone. Once we left, I nudged my mom and told her see what happens when you let somebody ahead of you, you get free grocery money. She just laughed and loaded the jeep, that didn’t stop me from bragging about being the nicest one for once.
I don’t know who that guy is, nor will I probably ever see him again, and obviously he’ll never read my blog, but I’d just like to say.. Thank you.
My options are to either become an overnight youtube sensation or a drug dealer. Do I think blogging will get me anywhere? Most likely not, however, It does serve the purpose of with holding the urge to not continuously ram my head against my desk. “Post Grad Dies By Oak Desk, All She Wanted Was A Job." My family would be proud just because I made headlines. I wonder what my last tweet would be… "Fuck these lucky charms are amazeballs."
I just need a temporary job right now, my degree serves no purpose to me but collecting dust on a wall reminding me that I have to pay $113.64 by the end of this month so I don’t get defaulted. “We don’t need photographers right now” “We’re not hiring as of yet.” Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. I’m either over qualified or my actual job title is considered a ‘volunteer’ duty.
Life was so much easier while I was in college, beer pong, cake classes, sleeping until 2pm, and the only thing you had to worry about is acing the final due to your colossal mid term fuck ups. Now it’s printing out resumes, sending out resumes, reading the classifies, ironing your funeral/church clothes for your next week interview, and then tweeting your woes.
Sigh, I miss beer pong. I can’t even afford to get drunk.
Every morning it’s like clockwork. It starts off with a bark from Tink who just got pissed off at Mattie for rolling on her in her sleep. Then by reaction of the loud bark, Rufio wakes up, stretches his loins and stares at me while I’m currently drooling on the side of my pillow.
I reach my hand over to wake my laptop up, 7:45am. Refusing to go down without a fight, I push Rufio under the covers and tell him to sleep, sometimes this works for an extra hour, sometimes only 5 minutes, in this case it was 5 minutes. I stretch my legs out and kick out the half eaten milkbones that Rufio and Mattie collected during the night to hide. My bed is their treasure chest, from bones and toys to shoe laces and food, they like hiding it in the one place I rest. I dangle my feet at the edge of the bed, stretch my arms up and manage to stand in an up right position.
Grabbing my plaid PJ pants which usually are always inside out, and never turning them back in the right way I stumble to put them on and putting on my thermal at the same time. While doing this, I also manage to synchronize stepping on squeakers, knock over a few books and trip over my shoes. I have the following of three small dogs shadowing my every footstep on my way to the bathroom with a shirt half way on and PJ bottoms with the pockets inside out. Tink waits outside the bathroom for me while Mattie sits by the back door waiting for me to let her out. Rufio however, likes coming into the bathroom with me so he can sit on top of my feet and play with my toes.
Wash my hands, wash my face, brush my teeth, rest my head against the mirror while groaning and sighing. Let the dogs out, yell at Tink for barking early in the morning, tell Mattie to leave Tink alone, tell Rufio to leave Mattie alone. Log on to tumblr, check my e-mail, kick the dogs out to the backyard, clean up all the broken up milkbones and then write a blog entry.
This is what I do every single morning when I wake up. I’m starting to call it the new Birth Control.
Rufio’s ball sack removal went longer than expected this afternoon. He was under for three hours and then recovering for an extra two. Being the snarky woman that I am, I figured my little hooligan would come out being just fine. Needless to say I was wrong.
He was sleeping from 3pm til about 10pm tonight, I expected that since he was still getting over the anesthesia plus the crack medicine he is on. Stank eye and all, my 4lb son of Satan was now a limp quivering little dog. Tink and Mattie kept him company on the bed and slept with him all day, when he finally decided to get up he was doing the drunk man walk. Going more sideways than straight with wobbling legs.
He’s been on my lap the entire night and now he’s nestled up under my arm. He looks so pathetic and sad, it almost breaks my heart. This boy has terrorized me and his father for two years now, and to finally see him at his weakest moment without any nuts is life changing. He had to get emasculated though, for the sake of all my camera equipment that he attempted to cock his leg and piss on, plus the numerous of laundry baskets he christened (there also was the incident of him pissing on my step mom’s new Gucci purse, although I gave him a dap for that one).
I’m sorry Rufio, but you are not your balls - remember that.
Nobody will ever agree with what you have to say. There will always been one asshole in the group with a reblog that will have to completely shit down your throat in order to piss you off. I know it takes all the strength in your computer chair to withstand the urge to retaliate, but sometimes it’s just simple to let it go.
Is it such a hard task to just blog whatever the fuck you want? To sign on a blogging community and surround yourself with people you admire, makes you laugh and motivates you. Or did you simply just sign up on tumblr to dive head first into drama, negativity and turn your blog into a forum?
Congratulations you’ve managed to either gross out, piss off, or intentionally hurt somebodies feelings. What else do you have to offer? Besides looking like a complete dick, is there anything more to you?
The fact remains that when you’re online you can be whoever the fuck you want to be. You can be a Zoo Keeper to Lady Gaga. The asshole online personality is redundant, I’d think you’d rather change your forte and at least have a higher aspiration level for yourself.
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you be, and why? House or apartment? Roomies? City or town? Is it near an ocean? Maybe on a desert island?
Honestly, I’d really sell my soul to live at the Hogwarts that just got built in universal studios. Close that entire section off for good and have it as my living quarters until I die. Get everyone on tumblr who are harry potter fans take the sorting hat quiz and then they can come live with me and their rightful house. (Ravenclawn totally will pwn). Possibly play quidditch.
classical music does bring all the boys to the yard.
Or in my case, just one. During my afternoons I usually open my back patio doors to air out my room and let the dogs run around in the backyard. I turn on my xbox, hook up my ipod, and play whatever music I’m in the mood for, today it was classical.
I was writing letters, pondering life, and sitting at my desk Indian style daydreaming away. I hear my dogs start to bark and I look to my left, there was a guy waving at me. Now normally I’d close my patio door, shut my blinds and arm myself with a baseball bat, but this was a different kind of guy, he was from the church.
There’s a baptist church directly behind my house, and I remember seeing him around with Father Morgan. Come to find out, he’s the son of a preacher man (I’m singing right now). His name was Scott and he heard my music while he was taking the trash out, and wanted to talk to an avid Bach lover.
Tall, strawberry blond hair, green eyes, freckles, straight white teeth, long arms, and owned by the church. Completely untouchable. I could see our future children together, me a stay at home mom baking apple pies and taking our kids to Sunday worship to see their father preach the gospel.
Then reality hit, once we got past Bach, he’d realize I say “Fuck” “cunt” “shit” and “Damn” more than I say “Please” “Thank you” and “Your welcome.” I’d probably give birth to Rosemary’s baby and I have no fucking clue how to bake a damn apple pie.
Over the last couple days I’ve had a couple of conversations about social networks, and in particular, those that lead to opportunities. It seems to me these days a lot of people make a living by being “social media experts” or some kind of nonsense like this. I found this completely ridiculous.
For an individual, the goal should not be to increase your social network by whoring yourself out, adding as many as friends as possible. This simply dilutes your message and makes you look like a wanker.
What you should be doing is finding like minded people to collaborate with and learn from. Often times I think of a social media site like LinkedIn, which is supposed to help you get a job. How many people do you know have gotten a cold call from an employer based upon them finding a profile on LinkedIn? I bet one or two of you may have had this happen, but I bet the occurrence of this happening is slim to none. Most likely someone knew someone who had an open position and the prospective employee was Googled, a LinkedIn account was found, and further assurance was given to the prospective employer.
But if you take the time to nurture relationships, even if they’re over email or Twitter, you’re doing more than just amassing a list of random strangers you’d like to work with. For me personally, I’ve met more people in the last 2 and a half years that were worth a damn than the last 10 combined. People who used to be my heroes are now an email away, and if I need a favor I can simply ask. Why? Because we’re friends now.
Don’t waste your time adding people, create amazing things, be genuine, and good things will come to you.
To justify my actions, honestly, WHO really needs a picture of me when I was 10 in my tee-ball uniform in a 5 x 7 picture frame?
Nobody ever notices until they really start to look at my pictures, “wait a minute, isn’t that my picture frame that had your graduation picture in it? KC ESCAMILLA!!!” Okay, I’m a frame thief who steals her own adolescent pictures and replaces them with my photography. From my 3rd grade ballet recital to my 11th grade state championship team basketball picture, I’ve stolen them all.
I’m killing two birds with one stone, gaining frames and decreasing the chance of bringing home my future husband and my mom whipping out the picture of me in my tommy hilfiger overalls. It’s a genius idea when you think about it.
(okay I’m going to attempt to COMPLETE writing a book). I’m not the greatest writer, and I know I can work on my grammar, but I think I can do it. When I tell people that I’ll be doing this, the initial reaction is “well you do have an interesting life!” but I don’t want it to be a memoir of my life from birth to this age, fuck all of that.
I’m going to write a book about being a Post Grad and living with your mother. Why? Because from Nov 2009 to today, and until August 2010 my mom has given me enough material to write 4 books as to why coming back to the nest after graduating college can be completely comical and horrific all at the same time.
Why am I doing this? Because I know there has to be people like me. I’ve seen movies, and I’ve seen TV shows, but to find people in the same situation to relate to is hard. So I’m lending my “Hey, I live in my moms basement too” hand out for people to feel like they’re not alone anymore. We have degrees, and still can’t afford our own apartment, CHEST BUMP!
Will anybody publish it? Probably not. Will anybody read it? Probably just my mom. Is it still worth writing? Of course. So here I go, I’m saying it as loud as I can, I’M GOING TO WRITE A MOTHERFUCKING BOOK!