WWYCD?

My dad, never a man of few words, has several phrases that he keeps in his back pocket and likes to use at the most infuriating moments. One of these phrases is, “be the bigger person,” which I know I heard at least a million times growing up because he found a way to work it into almost every tear-filled, dramatic moment I presented him with.

At age five:
Me: Daaaa-aaaad! Tori pushed me down and now I’m bleeding!
Dad: Why is your sister crying if she’s the one that pushed you down?
Me: Because I pushed her back.
Dad: That’s not what big sisters do, Quinn. You have to learn to be the bigger person.


For the longest time I’m pretty sure I believed that being physically larger than the other person in question counted as “being the bigger person.”

At age 13:
Dad: How was school today?
Me: Terrible. I hate it. I’m never going back.
Dad: Oh really, why is that?
Me: Because—because there’s this really popular girl and she’s mean to me.
Dad: She’s probably just jealous of you.
Me: Ugh! Dad! Not-uh! No one is jealous of me, stop saying that!
Dad: Well what did this popular girl do?
Me: She wrote mean things about me in like this like notebook thingy she shares with other popular girls.
Dad: Well, all you have to do is ignore it and just be the bigger person, Quinn.
Me: No! I don’t want to be the bigger person!

My dad began substituting “be the bigger person” with “take the high road” sometime after my agonizing adolescence when it had lost some, if not all, of its influence. But I hated “take the high road” even more. Where the hell is the high road? Did I miss the exit for this elusive high road? And, damnit, why is my road automatically the ‘low road’?

At age 19:
Me: I don’t know, dad. The T.A. is just a big jerkface.
Dad: What the hell is a T.A.?
Me: Teacher’s Assistant, duh.
Dad: Okay. So, basically you’re not getting a good grade because you never go to class?
Me: No! I go to class! But he’s trying to say I didn’t turn in this assignment but I totally did! I showed him the paper, it was dated and everything and he refused to believe me. I think he’s out to get me...
Dad: Well, obviously, you need to talk to your professor about this and not this P.A. or T.E. or A.T.—whatever the hell their name is—and get this cleared up. But, just remember, take the high road—no need to make any enemies.
Me: Oh my god, dad. It’s not like I’m going to go all "Jerry Springer" on him, but this is really, really, super unfair. He should be the one to take the high road, not me!
Dad: Whatever the case—you take the high road, Quinn…

At age 24:
Me: We keep getting in petty arguments.
Dad: Right, well that sometimes happens when you’ve been together for a long time.
Me: It’s so stupid, dad! We fight about doing the dishes, how to pay the bills, letting the dog out, buying groceries—crap like that.
Dad: I know it’s frustrating, but you know what…?
Me: Yes, I know, I know—be the bigger person, take the high road—I KNOW!
Dad: Exactly.
Me: Right...

I think these phrases were so ubiquitous throughout my childhood that I failed to ever think about the meaning and find a way to apply it to my own life. You can only hear “be the bigger person” and “take the high road” so many times before you start tuning it out as one of those antagonizing things your parents will inevitably say whenever you have a crisis. But the good news is that I get it now, and it’s only taken 24 years! (Ah, youth, there was so much I didn’t understand then. Luckily, I’m brilliant and know everything now…)

I’ve never been one of those overly optimistic people; I prefer to see my glasses as half empty because that leads to a quicker refill. This being said, the last six months were particularly rough. I lost my job, and then some sanity, respect and dignity. Of course, I was never that attached to the last three, but when it all hits at once and you find yourself wearing the same pajamas you spent the last three days and nights in because you haven’t left the house in a week, you start searching for a new outlook on life before your friends start planning an intervention.

After searching for inspiration in all of the places one might normally find it—nature, books, love, friendship, art—I gave up and threw myself on the couch for what I planned on being a day of utter nothingness and self loathing. With a coffee table full of candy, chips, soda and gossip magazines, I started surfing the channels for some cheesy movies I could let my brain zone out on, and that’s when it hit me as if I was the target in a particularly cruel game of dodge ball: If I was watching the movie of my life, is this really how I would want my character to act? No! The main character in the movie of my life is a badass—she’d never let herself wallow like a sloth until reaching new levels of low self-esteem, or if she did, she would have an epiphany like this and put a stop to her pathetic parade immediately so that she could get on with being as awesome as possible.

Of course, in real life, I proceeded with my day as planned because it was too inconvenient to try to change things up when I had nestled nicely into a little couch fort, but it wasn’t a day of utter nothingness as I continued to ponder this thought. Later, Tori called and was talking to me about the drama in her life—a particularly enjoyable form of entertainment to me which always wins out over anything else—and as she got to the part in the story where our dad would typically regurgitate one of his favorite phrases, I had something incredible to say.

“Well, think about it like this: what would you want your character to do if you were watching this scene in the movie of your life?” I said.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and for a brief second I began to doubt my wonderful epiphany.

“Wow. That’s a really good way to think of it—yeah! I like that!” she said.

From there we devised a solution based on her character in the movie of her life, which is far more fun than listing, and then stressing out about, the negative ways you’re afraid you might react while handling the various hypothetical situations you’ve created in your head.

Now I know what my dad really meant when he said “be the bigger person” and “take the high road.” When I talked to him the other day and I told him about my new phrase, WWYCD (What Would Your Character Do?), he was flushed with pride (or maybe it was disappointment, I’m not quite sure)—this was evidence that something he tried my whole life to teach me had finally stuck. Of course, I would have internalized the meaning much sooner had he explained it to me using a movie analogy…(I’m just saying, dad).

Haven’t you ever watched a movie or read a book and wished you could change the character’s path or their reaction? Haven’t you ever looked back at a situation and wished you behaved differently or that you could take back the bad things you said? I hate that feeling; it’s a dangerous combination of regret and dissolution that often leads to miserable passivity. But I have more faith in my opinions and decisions as a subjective audience member watching the movie of my life play out than I do as the main character—from my view as an audience member, I can see how to be the bigger person and I know how to get to the high road.

Now when I am faced with a situation I don’t know how to handle, or when I’m nervous, or worried, or anxious about whatever issue I’ve built up to be a monster taking over my mind, I think about watching my movie and what I would want my character to do (WWYCD?), and then I do it. Of course, real life presents limits that don’t exist in movies, so when I want my character to roundhouse ninja kick someone in the face, I have to think twice before acting it out...or so I’ve learned.

Sisterly Love

Some of you might remember my sister, Tori (Torruption), from one of my earlier posts. Tori has a lot of opinions, and occasionally, when I have that unsure, yet still mostly excited, feeling about something I’ve written, I will ask her to read it before I post it. Of course, the fact that I continually do this in hopes of getting a positive response, despite how it usually makes me feel, might indicate an unhealthy obsession with harsh criticism and, maybe, insanity. Nevertheless, today I decided to share a post with her in which I wrote about the concept of saving. Below is the conversation that ensued on g-chat after she read it.

Tori: Do me a favor, write about something you absolutely love that doesn't have anything to do with you specifically.
Sent at 9:46 AM on Wednesday

Me: Do me a favor, and don't shoot it down when I do.
Tori: You know it’s naive so leave it alone.
Sent at 9:47 AM on Wednesday

Me: Yes, naive, but not everyone reading it has tunnel vision.
Tori: Of all the things that you would be ok with your writing being described as would you ever let it be naive?
Sent at 9:52 AM on Wednesday

Me: Yeah. I'm not so naive as to think my writing would be anything else at this point.
Sent at 9:53 AM on Wednesday

Tori: Please. Stop. Why does everything have to suck?
Me: Um. Did I say it sucked? I don't think being naive is entirely sucky. I think it's truthful, endearing, and will likely be comical at some point in the future.
Sent at 9:55 AM on Wednesday

Tori: No dude, that's just how you are these days. Stop doing that- it's like you’re on auto-suck where your automatic reaction and reasoning to everything is that you and everything you do just sucks. STOP! IT’S SO OBNOXIOUS! Don't willingly post something that you know makes you seem amateur and ignorant- it's really just that simple. Naive is only endearing when you're 12, not when your 25 talking about finances. Please, please, please for the love of god just write about something you like for once, no more self deprecation for a week alright, Sylvia Plath? Give it a rest. I want to read something that will make me laugh, and not at your expense for once.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Wednesday

Me: Ah, there it is. That wonderfully encouraging and always constructive feedback I've come to know and love.
I hope you never have children because they will die trying to live up to your impossible standards.
Tori: Well I'm glad that you aren't blowing this out of proportion and making it out to be something that it's not.
Me: Right, because that would be unreasonable.
Tori: Bringing up the ruined lives of my hypothetical children is not only relevant but totally constructive- bravo.
I'm trying to be honest with you - open your eyes.
Me: I’m just trying to spread the love.
Tori: Your blog is sinking because of this. Remember the dandelion post? Remember the Bear post? Bring me something original and light hearted- I have at least three more melancholic female literary references I can throw at you if not...
Just kidding- I can't read.

Me: Alright, Tori - back to you being the only audience that matters.
Tori: That was the most hurtful thing you've said to me on g-chat.
Me: Tell me you're kidding.
Tori: The serious joking is what makes it funny, dumbass - try to keep up!
Sent at 10:07 AM on Wednesday

Me: Right, lessons on how to be funny from the biggest bitch I know...where can I sign up?
Tori: You already have – ZING!
Okay, but really, making this about me isn't going to make that post any better so come off it…
Sent at 10:08 AM on Wednesday

Me: I just so happen to disagree with you.
Sent at 10:10 AM on Wednesday

Tori: I think you like fighting with me when you know something you write isn't very good because you know that whatever criticism you have to say about me is true and you just like being right about something.
Sent at 10:12 AM on Wednesday

Me: No, I thought that piece was good. I still think it's good. It might need a different context, and maybe a freshening of the jokes, but it's still good writing and concepting…that is, in my ever-humble opinion. But I appreciate your opinion, and I do plan to write more posts that have less to do with me…just to make you laugh.
Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday

Tori: Alright, let me read it again in a little bit.
Me: Yeah, I mean, I think you missed the point of the piece. It wasn't about finances.
Tori: So don’t talk about them.
Me: Um. You're not as smart as you say you are.
Tori: Neither are you- clearly
Me: Yes, clearly.
Sent at 10:21 AM on Wednesday

Tori: I gotta go run an errand. Sometimes I pretend like I'm a really cool investigative news reporter when I throw the bag you gave me over my shoulder.
Me: Okay. Have fun, News Reporter Barbie.

So now that my blog is apparently sinking under the weight of my self-deprecating words, I am going to try some new stuff over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, I’m not going go all perky-positive style on you and talk about smiles, sunshine and sparkles, but maybe I’ll try something like magic tricks—everyone loves a rabbit when it’s pulled out of a hat, right? In any case, I’ve started a list to help guide me.

Thing That Don’t Have To Do With Me [Sucking]:
1. Scrabble
2. Coasters
3. The Today Show
4. Throw Pillows
5. Pleather

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the list, but I’m confident (dare I say positive) that there is more to add.

On Being Gracefully Challenged

I’ve never been anything but clumsy. My childhood was spent with skinned knees, broken limbs and an occasionally obscure wound—like the time I scratched my cornea and had to wear an eye patch for the whole summer. I can recount 25 years of clumsiness by mapping out my scars: the one that looks like the state of Florida is from falling on a gravel playground when I was eight, the one next to it is from college when I tripped down the stairs at the The Wheel, the line across my index finger is from the time I sliced it while chopping vegetables, and the one on my hip that looks like a thumb is from an unfortunate incident involving a Slip ‘n Slide.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with any injuries as a result of my clumsiness. This might be because my level of activity has significantly decreased in recent months, so there are fewer opportunities for me to inadvertently hurt myself. But last Friday, in a rare moment of motivation, I decided to go for a long bike ride—the first of a new daily biking routine I planned to implement. Feeling confident despite looking like a complete dork in my helmet, bike shorts and fanny pack, I headed out, determined to get worthwhile exercise.

I followed the bike path near my house for a couple miles but I wanted to challenge myself with some hills, so I veered off the path when I spotted a narrow sidewalk that would lead me up a big hill. Huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top, I paused to make sure I didn't pop a lung, and to gaze at the down hill coast that would be my reward after climbing what felt like Mount Kilimanjaro. As I tried to catch my breath, I thought of the time my dad taught me to ride a bike without training wheels.

I was about six years old and as I watched my dad take the training wheels off of my purple polka-dot banana seat bike, I wondered if there was a way to take one off at a time because going from four wheels to two wheels seemed unreasonable in my opinion. Shaking and unbalanced, dad pushed me up our long, winding driveway. When we reached the top, I remember looking down the hill and thinking it would be easy—all I had to do was coast. “Ready?” dad asked me. He gave me a push and ran next to me, occasionally reaching out to grab the back of my bike and steady me. I heard him yelling, “Go, Quinnie, go! You got it—!” When I realized he was no longer behind me and I was riding my bike, with no training wheels, like a big girl, I got excited and lost control, which caused me to leap from my bike like it was on fire. It took awhile, several skinned knees and a few tears, but I eventually learned how to ride my bike without training wheels.

Once I was done reminiscing, I took a swig of water and started downhill, relishing the wind against my face. I spotted a large puddle ahead—a mix of water, grass, moss and algae—and I figured I could just coast right through it, as long as I didn’t hit my breaks it would be okay, I thought. But I was wrong. As soon as I hit the puddle my bike slipped out from under me and, lacking any real balance to begin with, I ended up skidding down the remainder of the hill on my knees. The moment between acknowledging the danger of falling and then actually falling always seems to happen in slow motion for me and I usually surrender to the fall instead of fighting it, resigning myself to injury. I stood up, covered in mossy, grassy, puddle poison and looked around to see if anyone saw me wipe out—there were a few people, but it didn't appear as though they saw me fall (or they did and were just pretending not to). So I brushed myself off and acted like nothing happened as I got back on my bike and rode the ten blocks home covered in puddle poison and blood.

When I got home I called Steve, my boyfriend, looking for sympathy.

“I fell off my bike and hurt myself!”
“What? Are you okay? Where are you?” Steve seemed flushed with concern, at first.
“I’m at home now but I am not okay. I think I’m going to have to amputate my knees…”
“Baby, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is! I can hardly move! And I fell in a puddle of crap that’s probably infecting my cuts now!”
“Hahahaha…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that…well, the thought of you falling off your bike is funny.”
“I know. Shut up.”

I probably would have laughed at him if he fell off of his bike—falling is funny, I don’t care who you are, how you do it, or how hurt you get. And since I’m known for my clumsiness, I am used to being laughed at. You can always count on me to be the one to run into the sliding glass door because I didn’t realize it was closed, fall down the stairs while wearing a dress, or drop a tray full of drinks because my feet got in the way of my walking, again. On any given day, I have a fresh bump, bruise or cut to serve as evidence of my clumsiness and remind me of my painful lack of grace.

After the fall, I sent my sister this picture of myself to which her response was: “AHAHAHAHAHA! YOU ARE SO CLUMSY! YOU FELL OFF YOUR BIKE?! THAT’S HILARIOUS! HAHAHAHA!”

It’s been three days since my biking accident and I’m still hobbling around. I really can’t remember the last time I was in so much uncomfortable pain. Every time I bend my knees it feels like I’m falling all over again and I’m beginning to see the bruises under the cuts, which makes me look like the pariah of the produce aisle—the bad apple no one will buy because it’s bruised, discolored and covered in flesh wounds. As I said, I used to skin my knees all the time as a kid—sure, it hurt, but I would be picking at the scabs a few days later. Clearly my bounce-back ability is not what it used to be, which makes me feel old.

Perhaps there's a class, a pill or some sort of remedy for my inherent clumsiness that I just don't know about...? In any case, I need to look into it because I think I'm getting too old to be this damn clumsy. And at the rate I'm going, the inscription on my gravestone will read: "She could trip over flat surfaces."

“Youth is wasted on the young.”

Little Big Girls: Tori (left) and Quinn

My sister, Tori (aka Torruption), has repeated this George Bernard Shaw quote to me multiple times in the past few months. She mostly uses it to put me in my place when I am complaining and using the term “quarter life crisis” a lot. The first time she whipped out this nugget of wisdom, I made fun of her for being preachy and pretentious, to which she said: “Your middle-aged self is going to hate you for being so stupid and not enjoying your youth and she is going to laugh her ass off at what your current understanding of a crisis is.” The fact that she spoke of my “middle-aged self” as a person entirely separate from who I am now made me feel weird, like maybe I should write this person a letter and introduce myself. And then I made my brain hurt by thinking about how my current notion of crisis would strike me as funny 25 years from now—I hope it’s not funny by crisis-comparison.

Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype perfectly, but then she turned fifteen and decided to revolt against me and all my big sisterness by becoming smarter, bossier, prettier and taller. She is only 20 months younger than me, but it always felt like so much more when we were kids. When I say that Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype, I mean that she wanted to do whatever I wanted to do and she would let me boss her around, too. I think I really took those years for granted because now she is the one bossing me around, telling me what to do with my life and usually trying to help me avoid a generally pathetic existence.

Between the ages of four and nine years old, Tori and I were really into two things: Barbies and playing “Big Girls.” While Barbies was more of a collector’s game, Big Girls was like reality TV before there was reality TV.

I took Big Girls seriously. It was a detail-oriented game that required a powerful imagination to create a realistic world. First, we would dig through our trunk full of dress up clothes, which included old Christmas dresses, Princess costumes from past Halloweens, and no longer stylish pieces from our mother and grandmother’s closets. Dressing up was usually the longest and most intense part of Big Girls, and it was occasionally drawn out by the opportunity to do our hair and makeup as well.

Once the preparation for Big Girls was complete, and we looked scarily like adults, we would then devise our stories.

“Well, my name is Sandra and I am a waitress and a singer,” I would say. Dressed in pink leggings, a blouse dominated by giant shoulder pads and a be-dazzled headband, I was in character—this was an adult version of myself that was entirely invented but also somewhat realistic.

“Okay, well my name is going to be Theresa and I am going to be waitress, too,” our friend Sarah would say. Sarah was our shared best friend and Big Girls was never complete without her (mainly because she had a much older sister that left a lot of really cool “Big Girl Stuff” behind when she went to college).

“I want to be a waitress, too!” Tori would chime in.

“Well what’s your name going to be?”

“Um, Star?”

“That’s stupid, Tori. Your name can be Stephanie.”

I directed the details of Big Girls like it was a Broadway production. This was professional make believe and I was the self-proclaimed expert.

The next step of Big Girls was to stage an everyday, work-related scene. So we would round up all of our kid-size tables and chairs and set them up like a restaurant. We would then go around to tables and have conversations with our “customers.” It didn’t take long before I would be bored with the monotony of the actual waitress duties. So we would start fighting with our fake customers and then we would act out the scene of quitting our waitress jobs, which was always dramatic and usually ended with someone crying and vowing to never return (ever again!).

You see, playing Big Girls wasn’t so much about pretending to be something you actually wanted to be; it was about pretending to be something in order to feel older. Now I am officially older, legally an adult and legitimately stressed out, and I wonder why I ever pretended to feel this way when the reality of it was so near. While I am pretty sure Big Girls appealed to me because of the theatrical aspect (because I am a ham), I know that there was always a part of me that couldn’t wait to grow up, and there still is.

In a way I feel like I never really stopped playing Big Girls because everyday is an intense game of make believe where I pretend to be a writer, a professional, a capable adult—I set up the scenes, get bored, add some drama to spice it up and then sometimes I end up running away crying and vowing never to return. Because of this, I decided to write my “middle-aged self” that letter:

Dear Middle-Aged Quinn,

Remember when you were little and spent the days playing Big Girls? Maybe not, that was a REALLY long time ago for you, and your memory might suck now. Well, anyway, back then I thought that the goal was to feel older, now I know it’s inevitable. So if you feel old now, which you probably do because apparently you’ve had 25 years of crisis-worthy experience to wear you out, try to find solace in the fact that even though you’re not as cute as you used to be, at least you’re not as dumb. I hope you don’t have to pretend anymore, but if you do, I understand—I mean, we are really good at it.

Also, you didn’t waste your youth like Tori (or George Bernard Shaw) said—you just pretended your way through a different, slightly more dramatic, version of it.

Peace out!

Love,
Quarter Life Quinn

p.s. – if you’re really gross and wrinkly now, I’m sorry about all those times I never used sunscreen and all those years I smoked and pretended like it wasn’t bad for me. Don’t be mad at me, I am young and stupid now so that you can be wise and smart later…when it really matters, remember?

p.p.s. – if you got plastic surgery, I am going to pretend to be really pissed at you.

I'll Never Leave Your Pizzas Burning

I love music, but I am not a lyrics person. This might seem unusual given that my life revolves around words, but I could care less about what the song is actually saying because I’m more concerned with whether or not it’s fun to sing. However, I am pathetically ignorant when it comes to tone, rhythm and pitch. Growing up, I always ignored my sister who would tell me to be quiet because my singing was ruining the song for her. After years of her telling me this I eventually began to wonder if she was right, so I decided to record myself singing. I set up my tape recorder, locked my door, grabbed a microphone, I mean a hairbrush, and then belted out my best version of “Can’t Hurry Love.” I remember thinking that I sounded pretty damn good, but then I played the recording and I was devastated; what I heard sounded more like a cat in heat than an actual person singing. Since this realization, I turn down every invitation to play Rock Band because I’m afraid that my lack of musical ability will result in a loss of friendships.

Back to not being a lyrics person…I am known for misinterpreting song lyrics and I often sing along to my own version until someone kindly corrects me. For instance, I recently realized that I have been singing the wrong lyrics to the well-known song “Beast of Burden.” It didn’t occur to me until I was with a friend and the song came on the radio. After the first verse, my friend suddenly turned the volume down, “hold on, what do you think the words are?” she asked. I thought for a moment and then told her: “I’ll never leave your pizzas burning?” The song is called “Beast of Burden,” she said, as if this should have been enough for me to realize my mistake. When I failed to make the connection she said, “it’s I’ll never be your beast of burden, not—I’ll never leave your pizzas burning!”

Then there’s Widespread Panic’s song “Climb To Safety;” but what I always heard was “come and save me”—another instance in which I butcher the lyric that has the song’s title in it.

Manfred Mann’s “Blinded by the Light” is one that I will always mess up. I don’t know how anyone can listen to this song and not think it’s “wrapped up like a douche, another rumor in the night.” (The real, less cool, lyrics are: “revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”)

Less offensive is my interpretation of Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know,” the chorus of which I always heard as: “It’s not fair to deny me of the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me.” And Toto’s “Africa” I heard as “I left the grains down in Africa…I left the grains!” Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” has a tricky first verse, which I now mumble after learning that it is not “as I, turned up the column door, my faded winter coat, the springs blow in my mind” (the real lyrics are “as I, turn up the collar on my favorite winter coat, this wind is blowin' my mind”).

It never occurs to me that what I am singing doesn’t make sense because there’s no room for reason when you’re busy screaming out the wrong lyrics at the top of your lungs while driving down the highway. I’ve learned that I offend people with my singing, and now I am learning that I also offend people with my lack of concern for correct lyrics. It’s happened several times where someone corrects me, I acknowledge that I am wrong, but then I continue to sing my version. The people who care about lyrics really find this annoying. But whatever, I think my lyrics—“I’ll never leave your pizzas burning”—sound better, even if I sound like a cat in heat as I sing along.

The Torruption

Here is a g-chat transcript from a conversation I had with my sister, Tori, this morning about this blog:


Me: So, from whose perspective should I write from today and about what?
Sent at 11:01 AM on Thursday

Tori: Keep it from your own perspective - it's a baby blog.

Me: But I don't want to. I want to write characters!
Sent at 11:05 AM on Thursday

Tori: But no one will want to read about your characters if they don't first understand you.
I think you should work on building a strong identity for Quinn as the blog is called Quinnterruption.
Sent at 11:07 AM on Thursday

Me: But I want to write characters - which are all part of me.

Tori: Wtf? Who are you? Bob Dylan? Get over it - tell one of your favorite stories about yourself.

Me: Stupid! Overdone!
Sent at 11:09 AM on Thursday

Tori: Well don't make it stupid obviously - you call yourself a writer so tell it like one - Sedaris style.

Me: "you call yourself a writer" - bitchy? Yes, I think so.
You think coming up with characters and then creating a viewpoint on a subject is easy?
Sent at 11:11 AM on Thursday

Tori: No and I don't think writing a blog worth reading is easy either so start by creating a firm Quinn main character - it's most challenging, but the whole thing falls apart without it. You could do "Thoughts on Red Rockets:" and launch into story about your new dog and hilarious puppy school fiasco and then post photo of Bear.
Sent at 11:13 AM on Thursday

Tori: I know it feels generic and overdone to tell stories about yourself/ dog/ life but it's not like you are on a safari through Africa or have anything particularly crazy to post about - this is your life: you're unemployed, you live in KC and you have a dog. What is interesting about you is how you think about these things and what is entertaining is the way you write about it. The characters will develop as you work on this but forcing them will ultimately make them suck.
Sent at 11:17 AM on Thursday


So despite all plans to avoid myself, I am now trying to conjure up ways to develop this Quinn character more. Since this blog currently has one reader (Tori) I should probably follow her advice and reevaluate my delusions of grandeur and originality, which undoubtedly stem from the sadly unoriginal realities of my life—or as Torruption so aptly put: "this is your life: you're unemployed, you live in KC and you have a dog."