The Long Hard Road Out of Hell–Marilyn Manson

“What the fuck did I get myself into?”

This is the thought that came up the most when I read this book. 

Look, I know who Marilyn Manson is. I’ve heard some of his music, I’ve read stories about what the fuck he gets into. I know he has beef with Justin Beiber about some t-shirts. 

I don’t know why I know that but I do. 

I know he was married to Dita Von Teese (who I adore.), dated Rose McGowan, and that he’s in general a pretty fucking weird guy. 

I didn’t realize how gross he was. 

This book was traumatizing in its brilliance, but also just gross because of gross things he did. He would scare me every other page with a startling pictures. Which I’m betting was the point. This guy is smart as hell and clever as a whip. And yes, for a while he was using his powers for evil and not good. But he took a long journey back to us (I’m sure he would resent that statement. Because who is “us”? The human race?)  and he’s finally becoming a human being. 

I think.

I don’t know.

This book was super messed up. His stories of his golden ages were really fucked up. As one would expect. 

And then he would hit you with a story of how it hurts that people would harm themselves or others in his name. And you’re like ‘You poor soul, let me hold you.”. 

Really think about it before you read this book. I didn’t . And I’m both worse and better for it.

It was intelligently thought out and executed in it’s contrasting unnerving you and making you love him at the same time.  

Constant vigilance.



Keep Moving Forward

I am having major body image issues this week.

Mostly because I can’t stop eating. And crying. And eating because I’m crying. And crying because I’m eating.

Let’s put this in perspective though: People gotta eat. And ladies get PMS, and sometimes that PMS makes us batshit. *shrug*

I’m just eating the bad stuff. ALL the bad stuff. And it’s delicious, but I feel like poo. I’m trying to recognize that this all makes me feel like garbage so that I stop. But part of me is like “Quite frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” And then I’m a bitch to myself and glare at my body in the mirror while thinking mean thoughts.

I can say things like “Well, no more! I am wonderful! And I’m hot! And I’m beautiful no matter what!” But I don’t believe myself this week and that’s because my inside feels like garbage and the outside is starting to reflect that.

So what I’m proposing is that I hold myself accountable for my actions (mainly the action of continually buying Sour Cream and Bacon chips every five minutes) and have you guys hold me accountable as well.

I am going to make a more active effort.

And I’ll be marking my progress here and Instagram likely.

I’ll talk more next week about this, ideas are still circling.

But for now, keep moving forward and if you are like me, stop believing the bad stuff, start eating the good stuff, and put down the chips, man.

Constant vigilance!

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That dog is my spirit animal.

Keep Moving Forward–Tales from the E.R.

This year has so far not been my greatest start. This is what I get for making resolutions to take better care of my body.

Since I’ve been sick since December 18th (two flus, two colds, and a monster sore throat later) I’ve been holding off on the New Year. This isn’t how I wanted to start. But it appears that someone in the sky is hellbent on making any New Year Day that I choose be a bit of a chore.

Because this weekend was going to be my re-start button on that after I had finally felt like I kicked this last cold, it was evacuating my face, my throat was feeling better, and I wasn’t completely exhausted. However, I got this funny stitch in my side.

That funny stitch turned into full-blown “What in the mother of fuck is happening to my ribs!”. I have been coughing up a storm, so I thought that it was just that, then I was convinced it was because I popped a rib out and that all I would have to do was to go to my massage therapist to pop it back in.

Long story short: I ended up in emerg on Friday night. I couldn’t move, breathe, or cough without extreme pain.

My exact words when we hit hour 5 in the ER were “If this is just bronchitis I’m going to fucking lose it.” to my mother who was sitting and knitting beside me while I tried not to move in a bed or cough. Or breathe.

Epic story short: “Are you pregnant?” Chest x-rays, blood tests, 4 doctors, “Are you pregnant?”, a million angry nurses, “Your right lung is only working at half capacity..hmmm”, more blood tests because they believed I had a blood clot in my lung, 1 hour of 3 nurses trying to find a vein that won’t be a dick, 15 needle pricks later in various spots on my arms and hands, weird stuff that makes me insides glow so they can see if there is a clot; which also makes it feel like you peed your pants (I didn’t) and then CT scan. Oh, I forgot Barry. The magnificent nurse on Friday night that gave me pain medication so I could breathe, cough, and sleep. He looked like Kevin Smith. I love him. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” “Unless it’s immaculate conception, not bloody likely.” 11 hours in the E.R. over the course of 2 days.

I don’t have a blood clot, thank the sweet Lord.

I have pleurisy caused by my monster bronchitis and all the coughing I was doing. So now I look like a junkie for nothing. I was told to take Advil for the pain and the rest will eventually calm down and go away. (Last time I had bronchitis is lasted 3 months. Not okay.)

However, this is still a Keep Moving Forward because I know what’s wrong now, I can fix it and wait it out. (Even if I don’t like being on a bunch of Advil all day. “Why didn’t you take anything for the pain when you felt it?”-Snotty Bitch Nurse who wouldn’t look me in the eye at Triage. “I was waiting it out, it was just a stitch.” [Insert Mercutio “Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon!”]

So instead of crying and being a little bitch while laying in my corner of the hospital, I decided to use that time to help heal others. No. I did not don a nurses outfit and give people pain meds. I did however, start doing some sort of mental outward healing and sending good vibes to Jean in the next bed (she is in her 80s and has cancer) and to Mr. Mitchell down three beds who as far as I know has diabetes, an insane amount of medications to take, and couldn’t feel his body when he called for help to come to his house. There were a handful of other people I sent healing energy to and it made me a little more calm to do so.

Which leads me to laying in my bed at home and tired of Advil popping already talking to my friend who is a Reiki healer, she did a long distance healing session on me, which I sincerely felt via head rushes, warmth, and a “ping” on my back telling me when she was done. It was really cool and I felt like my lung wasn’t in so much pain after.

The moral of this story is: Be your own health advocate, take care of your body, eat healthy, drink pineapple juice for your sore throat/cold, rest when you need it, wash your hands, cough into your shirt,  listen listen listen to what your body is trying to tell you. And trust in outside help. (I originally planned to let it go away on its own and tough it out.) Ask without shame.

And since I can’t quite start p90x3 like I wanted to in the New Year I’m going to go a lot smaller, and just walk outside and on the treadmill in order to get fresh air and move. That’s all that’s important, is for me to literally keep moving. I’ve been resting for a month, I need to get out or I’ll go completely insane.

So. Happy New Year, hope yours has been better than both of mine.

“Infirmity doth still neglect all office, Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves/ When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind/ To suffer with the body.”-W.S. Hamlet

KMF, Constant vigilance. [Reviews resume tomorrow]


Keep Moving Forward: Body Image Edition

I read this article on the other day that said something that really spoke to me. It was about not just how we view our bodies but how we talk to it, how we treat it, how we spend most of our time hating it and wishing it were different instead of appreciating what it already is when our bodies are always there for us to take care of us and never give up trying to.

Last night the thought “I’m not me. I’m not the right weight.” Popped into my head as I looked at my body.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been teetering between 160 and 190 for the last three years. Before that it was between 140-160. I’m 5”6 which means that I “should be” teetering between 135-145.

But I’ve been there. I’ve been that weight and I distinctly remember thinking “Ew.”

Not because I was hideous or gross. But because I could feel my ribs. I could see my knobby knees. I could fit into my little sisters t-shirts. (At the time she was 13.) In my mind I was too small. I was too thin. I wanted more curves and to actually look like a woman. And now that I actually do look like a woman my mind is still going “Ew.”

My entire life has been a constant thought of “Ew.” When it comes to my body. Sure, I get clarity every once in awhile and think “Hey hot stuff.” But mostly it’s “Ew.”

Now, I can go on thinking that about the body that has cared for me my entire life, the body that has tried to right every wrong I’ve put in there or virus or sickness, what have you, or I could start appreciating that this particular body has put up with my yo-yo weight, my barrage of hatred toward my soft chunky dimpled parts, my forgetting to eat, my waking it up before it was ready, my poking prodding and overall make up/beauty regime where I curse myself for having light eyebrows and no lips. I can appreciate that when I get sick my body is the one who is fighting the good fight, that it keeps on going even when I’m dead tired, even when I’ve been trekking through foreign countries and have run it off its feet, when I give it blister after blister and all it does is knit my skin back together after the hundredth time of this.

I can keeping thinking “Ew.” Or I can start saying “Thank you.” Because if there’s one thing in this world that I should be grateful for, it’s that I have a body that can do all of those wonderful things.

So what if I have cellulite or thinning hair, or back fat? God forbid I enjoy eating. If I wasn’t suppose to sit on my ass and eat then the good Lord wouldn’t have made food so delicious and books so fucking hilarious.

And for the record, I think I’m at the perfect weight because it’s making me appreciate how my body works and what I can do to help the old girl. It’s making me think harder about what’s going on here and how to view life.

So the next time I say “Ew” when I see something on my body I dislike, I’m going to change my thought into “That’s supposed to be there.”

It may be a ridiculous lesson, but I needed it.

Keep Moving Forward.

Here’s the article:

index I had to haha.

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Keep Moving Forward

I can’t sleep lately and it’s for the dumbest reason possible. Not something I like admitting has been plaguing my thoughts for weeks (years more likely) and I’m starting to get so mad at myself that I can’t sleep.

I’m not losing weight.

There it is in all its pathetic glory. Those four stupid words that I hate repeating. Because I’m not just repeating them to myself, I tell my friends, my family, you guys, Doomsday, hell I’ve probably ended up saying it to total strangers at some point in my life. It’s ridiculous. I am more than this. I am more than the weight I carry or how I look in a picture. I know this. I know this deep down and up front, but still I sit here thinking about how disappointed I am in myself because I’ve once again let this get the better of me.

It’s not all about what I’m eating or how little I exercise, sometimes I gain weight when I’ve been eating really well or maintain even though I’ve gorged. My body is nuts because my brain is keeping it trapped somehow.

I’m self conscious about a lot of things, most of which I’m using my weight as an excuse to not try something new or go out on a limb for.

My brain is holding me hostage in my own body.

Literally encasing me so that I think that I’m not pretty enough or thin enough to do the things I want to. I want to sign up for dance classes, but I think I’m too fat to ever be a dancer. (Hello dummy brain: If I take dance classes I’ll lose weight.) I want to go back to singing and piano because they made me really happy but I’ve gained 20 pounds since my teachers saw me and I don’t want them to see me like that. (Hello dummy brain: neither of them gives a tiny rats hind quarters. They’ve seen you at your worst and best some in-between isn’t going to make a difference in how they see you as a human being.) I want to fall in love but looking in the mirror lately kind of makes it harder and harder for me to believe that someone is going to look at this same naked body and fan themselves because they are getting heart palpitations. (Hello dummy brain: Whoever does fall in love with us will fall in love with our hearts first and our asses second. Either way you’re well rounded. Wink.)

So you can see that I’m boxing myself in with not only my neuroses but with a literal fat cage.

This weeks motivation is simple (although harder to follow than to give as a direct order to myself):

Cry or Try?

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Keep Moving Forward

Soooo….remember last week when I said that I wasn’t going to break my stride? Yeah. I broke it. BUT it was for a fair reason and I dare anyone to defy my decision in stopping.

Here’s some TMI for you: PMS boob pains. There are only a handful of things that could stop me when I set my mind to something (two of which are the words ‘Hey, let’s go get a poutine’ and ‘Let’s go watch Outlander’) and the very tippy top of the list is all period related.

Now, I’ve worked out during my period, I’m sure a lot of girls have, but there are two things attached to said period (well, I guess one thing is something trying to DETACH from me, heyo…gross word play.) that will stop me from doing an aerobic exercise:

1) My boobs become two (albeit smallish) sacks of sandbag hell where it feels like someone is continuously punching me in the tit while another person is putting them into a vice. Hello sleeping in a bra because it hurts to move.

2) Cramps that feel like I’m being stabbed by a rusty machete and it hurts to stretch let alone do crunches.

This weekend I had to cancel on plans with someone because the cramps were so bad I couldn’t (and didn’t want to) get out of bed. Instead I had to force myself up to get Advil and then made socks all weekend while watching Scrubs because moving from my Buddha-like sitting position was like being skewered by a katana.

(Upon writing this I realize I know more swords than I thought.)

Anyway, now that that’s all dealt with and I’ve inexplicably lost 5 pounds (I’m going to assume it was the child I never wanted and water weight combo.) I can recharge, restart, and be a little more prepared for the next annihilation of my insides.

All in all…fuck periods. Period.