tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13335416913335508382024-03-09T18:45:49.587-08:00I Hate Cheryl StrayedCalifohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-43119279957722913222017-10-18T13:01:00.000-07:002017-11-20T15:54:58.838-08:00Welcome<br />
Hi there! Welcome to I Hate Cheryl Strayed. You're likely here because you read <u>Wild</u> and after you threw the book across the room in disgust, you hopped on Google to search for other people who hated it in order to validate your own loathing for the book and its author. If that's the case, welcome. You're in the right place, friend. You're not alone.<br />
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If this is your first time visiting, I suggest you <a href="http://cherylstrayedisaliar.blogspot.com/2014/11/a-review-of-wild-from-lost-to-found-on.html" target="_blank">start at the beginning.</a> Enjoy.<br />
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I created this blog because I had read <u>Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail</u>, and it was the only book I'd ever read that had made me furiously angry. Due to the complete lack of critical reviews, I decided to write my own 39-part review to call out all of the inconsistencies, exaggerations, "literary embellishments," flat out lies, plagiarism, and shitty writing. This book is a steaming pile of crap, and Cheryl Strayed is the Stolen Valor poster child of the hiking community. Her "memoir" is an affront to every person who has ever completed a true thru-hike, and she likely inspired <a href="https://deadspin.com/how-did-no-one-notice-this-inspirational-hiker-on-the-p-1818647235" target="_blank">this ding dong</a> to fake her own hike this year.<br />
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If you're thinking I'm just some jackass internet troll sitting on my couch, eating chips, throwing in my uninformed two cents about hiking, and tearing Cheryl Strayed apart for no particular reason other than for my own sick amusement, know this: I've been a distance hiker for years, and this year, I walked across America. I spent 192 days walking 3,200 miles from Rhode Island to Oregon. I did this alone, while hauling just over 100 pounds of gear and supplies in a pack and a cart--<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hey, there I am!</span></div>
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-- so, while I may, indeed, be a jackass, I also know a little something about thru-hiking, and I certainly know enough about it to strongly suspect that Cheryl's hike was total fiction. If-- and I'm talking to you, Cheryl fans-- you still feel the need to leave comments on this blog about how you think I'm just totes jealous of The Strayed or how I need to get a life, you go ahead an embarrass yourself. Have a blast. I'll go back to my sad, pitiful existence of sitting around and wishing that I could be as amazing as Cheryl. I mean, walking across America doesn't even compare to the awesomeness of pretending to have section-hiked part of the PCT, so... right. Boy, I sure wish that I, too, could do something incredible.<br />
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Oh, wait.<br />
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For the rest of you, enjoy some photos! Unlike Cheryl "I Only Took Four Pictures the Whole Time I Supposedly Walked 1,100 Miles" Strayed, I took over 2,000 pictures during the six months I was on the road. Here are some of the milestone photos:<br />
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<img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFhyQZ1Efl5dVMolkYnzbnanfg9ujfRD8AuLXby_K6JS_jFeDzmo45PbHS3uhnBsrCaIfgMbiZgBhm0ms2bxkQVGn7kaqmC5sR5S68veW8JIlBXXZ5a7Z-yLbUPa1Dc3-Ori6kEI_AbU/s320/IMG_3300.JPG" width="240" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Leaving Rhode Island and entering my second state.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">March 25, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Glad to be out of Connecticut.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">March 31, 2017</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBzTWwvc04i-B2HPD5PV2DIU8QEyFrH0cEVb-Byh0SmFNzR5VzLiO9L-uG7adN6m-Wonk8-EoliUmjFI4GKEkYNjQ-CGrMd9sNMdUQlEYOVK5T6SFN-db-rmZSMz1BwlmrIVA6La-sX98/s1600/IMG_3433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBzTWwvc04i-B2HPD5PV2DIU8QEyFrH0cEVb-Byh0SmFNzR5VzLiO9L-uG7adN6m-Wonk8-EoliUmjFI4GKEkYNjQ-CGrMd9sNMdUQlEYOVK5T6SFN-db-rmZSMz1BwlmrIVA6La-sX98/s320/IMG_3433.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Crossing the GWB into New Jersey, April 2, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">...and there's the sign.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWAXjdVHz-yEPknKapTzAN8ZT-soBrKqLd0sPm794NqZw8lIrSF-ig2-XbAOf_yQBIjUufTRrfqdFQZD32VFAb_YfNHHI2zRiMCGqzy0oLq1HW423tHw1eDF_Kxz-0j6VLweH-d1tdQ0/s1600/IMG_3520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWAXjdVHz-yEPknKapTzAN8ZT-soBrKqLd0sPm794NqZw8lIrSF-ig2-XbAOf_yQBIjUufTRrfqdFQZD32VFAb_YfNHHI2zRiMCGqzy0oLq1HW423tHw1eDF_Kxz-0j6VLweH-d1tdQ0/s320/IMG_3520.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Pennsylvania didn't have a welcome sign, so I had to settle for this Pennsylvania Lottery sign.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">April 8, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Ohio also neglected to welcome me, but here's the state line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">April 30, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This will have to suffice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Indiana had a strange way of welcoming me...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xJOxh5fSYL9EszAEEqwTVyEbdLKXqThq3KsbtJBxtti8rnsyF5nesY9fJSqdFgnklhp4G6Mx-Jy-vBRQb_U0VGv-3x3T2sNmLkXBMMmjHilfzxzDqkx6WnzjyyTgylQHDqM_XWtbqgY/s1600/indiana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="640" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xJOxh5fSYL9EszAEEqwTVyEbdLKXqThq3KsbtJBxtti8rnsyF5nesY9fJSqdFgnklhp4G6Mx-Jy-vBRQb_U0VGv-3x3T2sNmLkXBMMmjHilfzxzDqkx6WnzjyyTgylQHDqM_XWtbqgY/s320/indiana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">...so I fixed it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">May 14, 2017</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdU7XYt5lIV_xOAArxrbsQ88wJl8d1JZHNy3CmY2KW5YYTIcxEsFCz4Z7IpS9TT5so5ikDSZFXUO9UEv2kc4CzmDsAbKIgd-DJJx7NHPZ5h97tc5HTtrl6NO1O0Pa2NXAwFTBb0FU3AC0/s1600/IMG_4131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdU7XYt5lIV_xOAArxrbsQ88wJl8d1JZHNy3CmY2KW5YYTIcxEsFCz4Z7IpS9TT5so5ikDSZFXUO9UEv2kc4CzmDsAbKIgd-DJJx7NHPZ5h97tc5HTtrl6NO1O0Pa2NXAwFTBb0FU3AC0/s320/IMG_4131.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Entering the Land of Lincoln.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">May 22, 2017</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUgbREhkBjrAY29ohUKi-0s3ZkmrIi4SWRx2zF35pP35Bf_SA8TSWjCzBJzozRsJwDTKqIArxL8Mqhaz7_-ZvAJgUWtvMG5MIB-pplZqUULw0xaci-r2EiZpP757GYPalVDRZ8zJnbXlo/s1600/IMG_4378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUgbREhkBjrAY29ohUKi-0s3ZkmrIi4SWRx2zF35pP35Bf_SA8TSWjCzBJzozRsJwDTKqIArxL8Mqhaz7_-ZvAJgUWtvMG5MIB-pplZqUULw0xaci-r2EiZpP757GYPalVDRZ8zJnbXlo/s320/IMG_4378.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">About to cross the Mississippi...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYCJsypOUhWQSZtla-kVCFCkz1hXtY_Zme5Hj-kjk7j7wg_pVBeSliXu0Ft1YOQ9-q98vB6jwW4nWPT2i6HPrJ2RpGq-_aEAgYnXT_pB-5-CnkLcXehLO37vYm8rf9FD_DmbUeN3YL3Y/s1600/IMG_4380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYCJsypOUhWQSZtla-kVCFCkz1hXtY_Zme5Hj-kjk7j7wg_pVBeSliXu0Ft1YOQ9-q98vB6jwW4nWPT2i6HPrJ2RpGq-_aEAgYnXT_pB-5-CnkLcXehLO37vYm8rf9FD_DmbUeN3YL3Y/s320/IMG_4380.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">...June 4, 2017</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULP-83EEOu8EQV3JI8UisBk2JMT45f7o3gsbgRLsIefAaS9jr-GGZb0M6KvMCueYK5HABHXCocrDmv838xvv57Y8C4I-ubXarOB0zy9uTHqAmfT0R-TCyRBh-5Ma33yd6M5GyAnB-PgA/s1600/IMG_4392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULP-83EEOu8EQV3JI8UisBk2JMT45f7o3gsbgRLsIefAaS9jr-GGZb0M6KvMCueYK5HABHXCocrDmv838xvv57Y8C4I-ubXarOB0zy9uTHqAmfT0R-TCyRBh-5Ma33yd6M5GyAnB-PgA/s320/IMG_4392.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Entering Iowa, but only Davenport welcomed me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">June 4, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">So we'll do this instead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Crossing "The Bob" into Nebraska.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">June 27, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Taking a breather in Omaha.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Finally out of Nebraska.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">July 23, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Big milestone for every thru-hiker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">August 10, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo taken roughly one minute before the eclipse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">August 21, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Attempting to protect my lungs from the smoke when every state was on fire around me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">September 6, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The joy of reaching the last state.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">September 14, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Last time zone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">September 16, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Last mile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">October 2, 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I made it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Newport, Oregon, October 2, 2017</span></div>
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<div>
Do I plan on writing a book about my journey? You bet! If you enjoyed <u>Wild</u>, you won't enjoy my book. It will not be a long, weepy account of all my personal bullshit and hang-ups that have nothing to do with the hike, or how everyone I met thought I was the toughest, most beautiful, amazing person they had ever met. I won't be talking about myself incessantly, because the story won't be-- nor should it be-- about me. I intend to write about the places I went, the things I saw, the people I met, and of the experience of spending six months alone on the road. I know, SO BORING, I DIDN'T EVEN SLEEP WITH ANYONE OR KILL ANY HORSES.</div>
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Anyway.</div>
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Enough. Go enjoy the blog.</div>
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--Cali </div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-34314796331243292302015-05-04T16:00:00.002-07:002015-05-04T16:00:48.635-07:00Tiny Beautfiul Things, Letter # Who Gives a Shit, This Book is So Awful<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Fuck this book.</span></div>
<span id="goog_130685737"></span><span id="goog_130685738"></span><br />
<br />
I can't deal with this book. <br />
<br />
<u>Wild</u> was a different story. I was personally invested in destroying <u>Wild</u> because, as a hiker, all of her obvious lies offended me and insulted every single person who has actually hiked the length of the PCT. On behalf of real hikers everywhere, I was gonna call her out on all of her bullshit even if it killed me (and it came close to that several times). This book? Who fucking cares. I don't give a shit about any of it. I hate "the people" asking questions (aka Cheryl Strayed) and I still hate Cheryl Strayed and all of her asinine, self-absorbed responses, but I don't enjoy reviewing this book. This book makes me stabby in a different way-- not a good way.<br />
<br />
This book can suck it. I'm not going to address every single letter because some of them are too stupid to deal with. I can't tell you how many times I've literally thrown this stupid book across the room in a fit of disgust. I need to stop doing that before I break something or injure the dog.<br />
<br />
That said, let's get on with it.<br />
<br />
<u></u><br />
<u>"Hell is Other People's Boyfriends"</u><br />
<u></u><br />
This letter is entitled "Hell is Other People's Boyfriends" because Cheryl came up with that all by herself and we all know what happens when Cheryl comes up with something she deems clever: she beats the living shit out of it. You'll see. Let's get to the totally real letter from a totally real person who is definitely not Cheryl Strayed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Dear Sugar,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I'm a freshman in high school, and everyone knows how high school is-- drama, drama, drama. </em></strong>Except for you, pretend person, because you're new to high school. I already know that this was not written by a child. <strong><em>And my best friend (let's say her name is Jill) is at the center of it.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>See, Jill's dating this guy (let's call him Jack) who has a girlfriend who goes to another school. As Jill's best friend, I already don't like Jack. He doesn't want to break up with the girlfriend for Jill (he and his girlfriend have been together over a year), but, in my opinion, this situation is unacceptable. Jack seems like a nice guy, but there's that underlying scumbag quality that I can't get past. </em></strong>There's no way a high school freshman composed that sentence. I'm pretty sure "scumbag" isn't part of the teenage vernacular these days, and no high school freshman would use the term "underlying." <strong><em>It's obvious that Jack really likes Jill, but he just won't drop the girlfriend-- or Jill.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I don't know which way I want it to go. On the one hand, I want Jill to be happy, so I want Jack to break up with the girlfriend. On the other hand, I want to punch Jack in the face and I think he would do the exact same thing to Jill that he's doing to his girlfriend. I've been thinking about having a "talk" with Jack, but I'm not sure if that would help the situation. Sugar: How do I make at least one of them see the light and realize that what they're doing is wrong?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Worried Friend</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
Oh, please.<br />
<br />
When I was a freshman in high school, I was thirteen years old. Given, I was the youngest in my class, so let's go ahead and assume that "Worried Friend" is fourteen years old. Did that letter seem like it was written by a fourteen-year-old? Yeah, I didn't think so, either. Also, what fucking fourteen-year-old has heard of The Rumpus or Dear Sugar? Is that what teens are looking at on the internet these days? What a load of crap. This letter was clearly Cheryl Strayed's lame attempt at trying to write like a young teenager, and she failed miserably. So. Fucking. Stupid.<br />
<br />
Let's get right to Cheryl's super awesome response to <strike>Worried Friend</strike> herself:<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Dear Worried Friend,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Drama, drama, drama indeed! Oh, but this one's easy, sweet pea. And hard. </em></strong>Go fuck yourself. <strong><em>But best to learn it now, since, as a freshman in high school, you're only at the very beginning of these sorts of hijinks. </em></strong>Hijinks? Really? <strong><em>Jean-Paul Sartre famously said that "hell is other people," which is true enough, but truer still is <u>hell is other people's boyfriends</u> (or girlfriends, as the case may be). </em></strong>Cheryl, I know you think you're being clever, but you're really just talking out of your ass at this point. Hell is not other people's anything. Hell is a personal thing, and while I understand that you want to sound super smart for referencing Sartre, you failed. You sound like an asshole. OH MY GOD, I'M IN SUCH HELL BECAUSE OF SOMETHING THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME. OH GOD, PLEASE HELP, I'M BURNING. Cheryl, go fuck yourself.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I've been witness to those I care about cheating and being cheated on, lying and being lied to, emotionally abusing and being emotionally abused by their lovers. I've consoled and counseled. I've listened to long and tedious tales of spectacularly disastrous romantic woe that I predicted from the start because that same friend chose the same wrong person <u>yet a-fucking-gain</u>. But the sad news is that this is the way or the world, darling, and there isn't a ding dang damn thing you can do about it.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
Please know that I very much want to insert the exploding-head guy GIF right now and I am just barely controlling myself. There isn't a ding dang damn thing? Also, "yet a-fucking-gain?" This is the kind of language you choose to use when addressing in child? Really? Motherrrrrrrrrfuckerrrrrrrr........<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Have you read Shakespeare's <u>Romeo and Juliet</u> yet? They do all kinds of crazy, stupid, sweet, tender, amazing, self-destructive things. You aren't going to make anyone "see the light and realize that what they're doing is wrong." You just aren't.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>And you shouldn't even try. What's happening between Jack and Jill is between Jack and Jill. Jill knows that Jack is involved with someone else. She chooses to be in a romantic relationship with him anyway. Jack chooses to deceive a young woman he presumably cares for and string along another. These are not pretty things, but they are true things. </em></strong>Kind of like how you were fucking anything with a pulse while you were married, right, Strayed?<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Don't get me wrong: I sympathize. I know I sound calm and collected, but the truth is I rather regularly come at least internally unglued over some buffoon or scoundrel that one or the other of my intimates has deemed to "love" (see: hell is other people's boyfriends). </em></strong>Third time. Told you. <strong><em>It's dreadful to watch a friend make choices that you fear will cause her pain. But this is where boundaries come in, my dear Worried Friend.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Do you know what boundaries are?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">TOTALLY JUSTIFIED AT THIS POINT.</span></div>
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ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, STRAYED?</div>
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As referenced in the introduction, Cheryl responded to a very vague question ("WTF, WTF, WTF? I'm asking this question as it applies to everything every day") with a load of virtual word-vomit about how she supposedly had to give her grandfather handjobs, which was unnecessary and uncalled for, to which I responded, "BOUNDARIES, Cheryl. It's a thing."</div>
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YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND BOUNDARIES, CHERYL. GO FUCK YOURSELF.</div>
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It just gets worse.</div>
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<strong><em>The best, sanest people on the planet do </em></strong>[understand what boundaries are]<strong><em>, and since I have no doubt that you will become one of those sorts of people, you might as well learn about them sooner rather than later. This little pickle with Jack and Jill and the young woman at the other school has given you just that opportunity. It's clear to me that the emotions that have arisen in your concern for Jill and your subsequent dislike of Jack have blurred your ability to understand appropriate boundaries. Your impulse to swoop in and set these lovebirds straight tells me that you're overestimating your power and influence, and you're also disrespecting Jill's right to romantic self-determination-- which she absolutely has, no matter how maddening her decisions may be to you.</em></strong></div>
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OH, I'M SORRY, DID YOU JUST INCLUDE YOURSELF IN THE CATERGORY OF "BEST, SANEST PEOPLE ON THE PLANET?" ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?<br />
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<strong><em>This isn't to say you should remain silent. Another thing that the best, sanest people on the planet do is they have the guts to tell the truth.</em></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">WTF DO YOU KNOW ABOUT TELLING THE TRUTH</span></div>
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<strong><em>You should tell Jill what you told me-- that you want her to be happy, but because Jack is a two-timing tomcat you fear he will someday treat her the way he is treating his other, "real" girlfriend.</em></strong></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">SHUT UP, WHORE.</span></div>
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<strong><em>Listen to what she says with an open heart and a critical mind. Love her even if she doesn't do what you hope she does one you point out the fact that her paramour is a scumbag. Wish her the best without getting yourself emotionally tangled up in a situation that has nothing to do with you. (Remember those boundaries? Her life is not yours. Yours is not hers. Et cetera.)</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>And then, Worried Friend, just let whatever happens between Jack and Jill happen. Laugh if they end up proving you wrong. Be there for Jill if you got it right. And in the meanwhile, cultivate an understanding of a bunch of the other things that the best, sanest people on the planet know: that life is very long, that people both change and remain the same, that every last one of us will need to fuck up and be forgiven, that we're all just walking and walking and walking and trying to find our way, that all roads lead eventually to the mountaintop.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Yours,</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Sugar</em></strong></div>
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Fuck this book. Fuck Cheryl Strayed (not literally-- <em>please, not literally</em>-- think of your genitals). I just can't even, anymore. Despite what Better-Than-Jesus-Cheryl has to say, life *is not long*. Life is SHORT. Life is short enough that I can't waste one more minute of mine writing about this stupid bullshit.</div>
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Fuck you, Cheryl Strayed.</div>
Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-52709136052391457342015-04-26T16:01:00.001-07:002015-04-26T16:01:56.328-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things, Letter #9<br />
GODDAMNIT, THIS BOOK IS SO AWFUL. I took a week off from the blog in order to read decent books and attempt to reclaim some of my sanity. This probably wasn't the smartest idea because now I hate this stupid shit more than ever.<br />
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<u>Letter #9</u></div>
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This is the first time so far when I hate the person asking for advice more than I hate Cheryl Strayed (YOU'RE A CLOSE SECOND, ELISSA BASSIST), but then again, there is no chance in hell that this is a real letter. Cheryl likely wrote this garbage herself, which explains why I hate this "man" so much. Let's get this over with. Enjoy this very manly letter from a man. It's totally real.</div>
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<strong><em>Dear Sugar,</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Three of my best college buddies and I go away for an annual guy's weekend at a cabin in the woods. We're all in our mid-thirties and we've been doing these get-togethers for close to a decade. It's our way of staying in touch, since we've all got busy lives and some of us reside in different cities. Though at times I'll go months without talking to them, I consider these guys my closest friends. We've seen each other through several relationships, two weddings, one divorce, one of us coming out as gay, one of us realizing he's an alcoholic and getting sober, one of us becoming a father, dysfunctional family issues, the death of another one of our close college friends, professional successes and failures, and-- you get the picture.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>On our most recent get-together a couple of months ago, I overheard my friends discussing me. Before this incident occurred, the four of us had been on the subject of my love life. My longtime girlfriend and I broke up last year for reasons I won't go into here, but I did go into with my friends back when she and I decided to end things. Not long before my weekend with the guys, she and I got back together and I told them my ex and I were making a go of it again. They didn't say much in response, but I wouldn't have expected them to.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Later that day I stepped out for a walk, but soon realized I'd forgotten my hat, so I returned to the cabin to get it. The moment I opened the door I could hear my friends in the kitchen discussing me. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn't keep myself from listening, since they were talking about my girlfriend and me. I wouldn't say they were trashing me, but they did make critical remarks about the way I "justify" my relationship and other things about my personality that were unflattering. About five minutes into this, I opened the door and shut it hard so they would know I was there and they stopped talking.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>I tried to pretend I hadn't heard what they'd said, but soon I told them what had happened. They were extremely embarrassed. Each of them apologized, assured me they meant nothing by what they said, and claimed they were only concerned that I'd gotten back together with my girlfriend, who they don't think is good for me. I played it off like it was cool and acted like I wanted to let bygones be bygones, but it's been two months and I'm still bothered by what happened. I feel betrayed. It's none of their business who I choose to date for one thing, and for another I'm pissed they were running me down like that.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>I recognize that I'm possibly taking this too hard. I'll admit that I have talked about each of them with the others over the years. I've made statements I wouldn't want the person in question to hear, even secondhand. The rational part of me understands that these sorts of discussions among friends are to be expected. It sounds weak to admit this, but I'm hurt. Part of me wants to tell them to go fuck themselves when it comes to the weekend at the cabin next year.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>What do you think? Should I forgive and forget or find a new batch of buddies?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Odd Man Out</em></strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryT2tqmtUcohdjDO8bh6E_ozDtCMFDN4PiDYtPUS1LSL9DKpFYKqnXgzXnIro5GvzpueVLsaezHMmfkxyGoa54qjkUqEDiJ8o7IamTXPJpn-21zIGuPM03gTFm68BLbtDuW0leA3UEYk/s1600/feelings2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjryT2tqmtUcohdjDO8bh6E_ozDtCMFDN4PiDYtPUS1LSL9DKpFYKqnXgzXnIro5GvzpueVLsaezHMmfkxyGoa54qjkUqEDiJ8o7IamTXPJpn-21zIGuPM03gTFm68BLbtDuW0leA3UEYk/s1600/feelings2.gif" height="326" width="400" /></a></div>
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OMFG. Seriously? We're supposed to believe an actual man wrote this?</div>
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Gentlemen readers, please enlighten us. Is this the sort of stupid bullshit that goes on when you fellows have your Man Holidays? Do you gossip about each other as soon as someone leaves the room and eventually at least one of you ends up crying? Does this happen before or after you braid one another's hair and watch all of the Twilight movies? Women are dying to know.</div>
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Sweet baby Jesus. Fuck this nonsense right in the face. Fine, though, whatever. Here's my advice to Odd Man Out:</div>
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Ma'am,</div>
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Get the fuck over it.</div>
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Hugs and kisses,</div>
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Cali</div>
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That's really all that needs to be said. Bad Cheryl, however, has to spend six goddamned pages on this idiocy, even though she and I are pretty much in agreement about the fact that OMO needs to grow a pair.</div>
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She starts with,</div>
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"What a disaster. How dreadful it must have been to hear your friends saying negative things about you. How mortified they must have felt when they learned you'd been listening. You have every reason to be upset and hurt."</blockquote>
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No. No, you don't. You stood there in the doorway and secretly listened to your friends talking about your dumb ass and your bitch girlfriend and for that, you deserved to hear every fucking word. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop" is a load of bullshit. If you <em>weren't</em> <em>trying to eavesdrop</em>, you would have quickly retrieved your dumb fucking hat and gone on your supposed walk or, if you were a mature human being capable of dealing with reality, you would have walked into the room and said something like, "I just heard what you guys were saying and, as good friends, I feel like we should be able to talk openly about this because your opinions mean a lot to me." Instead, you stood there listening and got all butthurt about what they were saying.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8ITtg4XZKCyx6873uq-SeBoBRiV98ZIUrMsYPLNAugUKGGSLn3h0boiaYZ-rG2SC8K0jT8DSVeJfxt5EcGolZMlkPH0x3kyUo_GGWRmVsiUhny55WiuUF80dVyC-CnFqpXlr8s1tglE/s1600/sandy+vagina.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8ITtg4XZKCyx6873uq-SeBoBRiV98ZIUrMsYPLNAugUKGGSLn3h0boiaYZ-rG2SC8K0jT8DSVeJfxt5EcGolZMlkPH0x3kyUo_GGWRmVsiUhny55WiuUF80dVyC-CnFqpXlr8s1tglE/s1600/sandy+vagina.png" height="339" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Insert yourself into your own vagina and sqeeze, douchebag.</span></div>
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Bad Cheryl follows up her pretend condolences with this shit:<br />
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"And yet... and yet-- you knew there was going to be an 'and yet,' didn't you?"</blockquote>
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Ugh.<br />
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She spends an entire page talking about ways to talk about friends behind their backs, after which she then spends two pages talking about how much Odd Man Out's friends totes love him and--<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wait, what was that first part?</span></div>
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WTF. If I love you, I will not talk behind your back. As uncomfortable and painful as it may be, I will tell you to your face what's on my mind. If I think you're making bad decisions, I will tell you. THAT'S WHAT FRIENDS DO. Bad Cheryl, on the other hand, thinks it's totally fine to talk shit about her friends behind their backs.</div>
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Dear "friends" of Cheryl Strayed,</div>
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I'm so sorry. Please find a better friend.</div>
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Cali<br />
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BC then spends two pages discussing a friend's personal problems and how she totally gave her friend the totes best advice ever and because her friend didn't listen, everything went down the toilet.<br />
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"It took another several months...before she believed I was right."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">SHE'S ALWAYS RIGHT.</span></div>
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Blah, blah, blah, this shit goes on forever, and she ends the whole thing with,</div>
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"That's what you have in these men, Odd Man Out. True friends. Real blessings. Forgive them. Feel lucky you have them. Move along."</blockquote>
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GAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHY DID IT TAKE SIX PAGES TO SAY THAT.<br />
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Oh, right. Because Cheryl Strayed.<br />
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I hate this book so much.<br />
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-3720604815268659882015-04-16T20:42:00.001-07:002015-04-16T20:42:52.258-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: Letter #7<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtHa_dCxyX9sDHoLhBk2i39dg5W9TgnhWijIpoWMigqwX1dbJ7MYRp6kYaazb621-58oIqfd_l1A0mh8fi_dhoQRdRtMmjk9dMvYu3ZH_uAVf481g6MDXMbXK207LCa9SdQ_5py3BU0M/s1600/angrycat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtHa_dCxyX9sDHoLhBk2i39dg5W9TgnhWijIpoWMigqwX1dbJ7MYRp6kYaazb621-58oIqfd_l1A0mh8fi_dhoQRdRtMmjk9dMvYu3ZH_uAVf481g6MDXMbXK207LCa9SdQ_5py3BU0M/s1600/angrycat.jpg" height="320" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I AM THIS CAT.</span></div>
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Oh, god. You have no idea what's in store this time around. Bad Cheryl is going to give some writing advice and I am going to lose my fucking mind. Do whatever you need to do to mentally prepare yourselves for everything that follows. Honestly, nothing will prepare you, but tequila might help.</div>
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<u>Letter #7</u></div>
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The letter will be in bold, italicized type. The comments I will be unable to refrain from making will be in regular type. Let's do this.<br />
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<strong><em>Dear Sugar,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I write like a girl. </em></strong>I hate you already. <strong><em>I write about my lady life experiences, and that usually comes out as unfiltered emotion, unrequited love, and eventual discussion of my vagina as metaphor. </em></strong>Please stop writing right now. <strong><em>And that's when I can write, which doesn't happen to be true anymore. </em></strong>Thank god.<br />
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<strong><em>Right now, I am a pathetic and confused young woman of twenty-six, a writer who can't write. </em></strong>I totally agree with everything you just said. <strong><em>I am up late asking you a question, really questioning myself. I've sat here, at my desk, for hours, mentally immobile. </em></strong>I bet. <strong><em>I look up people I used to love and wonder why they never loved me. I lie facedown on my bed and feel scared. I get up, go to the computer, feel worse. </em></strong>That's probably because you write things like this.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>David Foster Wallace called himself a failed writer at twenty-eight. </em></strong>You are no David Foster Wallace. <strong><em>Several months ago, when depression hooked its teeth into me, I complained to my then-boyfriend about how I'll never be as good as Wallace; he screamed at me on Guerrero Street in San Francisco, "STOP IT. HE KILLED HIMSELF, ELISSA. I HOPE TO GOD YOU ARE NEVER LIKE HIM." </em></strong>Don't worry, then-boyfriend. Elissa will never be like DFW. Also, the mention of Guerrero Street in San Francisco really added something special to the story. I'm glad that was in there. It's the sort of useless fact Cheryl Strayed likes to pepper into her stor-- hmmmm.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I understand women like me are hurting and dealing with self-trivialization, contempt for other, more successful people, misplaced compassion, addiction, and depression, whether they are writers or not. Think of the canon of women writers; a unifying theme is that so many of their careers ended in suicide. </em></strong>Yeah, instead of that, I'm going to think of all the female writers who didn't commit suicide; they outnumber the ones who did by a long shot. STFU, you melodramatic assheap. <strong><em>I often explain to my mother that to be a writer/a woman/a woman writer means to suffer mercilessly and eventually collapse in a heap of "I could have been better than this." </em></strong>Being a woman has nothing to do with being a writer. Also, being a "writer/woman/woman writer" decidedly does not automatically mean one has to "suffer mercilessly and eventually collapse in a heap of 'I could have been better than this.'" You sound like a self-absorbed asshole. <strong><em>She pleads with me: Can't it be different? </em></strong>Yes, Elissa's mom, it can be different. Your daughter is a twat.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Can it? </em></strong>YES. <strong><em>I want to jump out the window for what I've boiled down to is one reason: I can't write a book. </em></strong>The window is right over there. <strong><em>But it's not that I want to die so much as have an entirely different life. I start to think that I should choose another profession-- as Lorrie Moore suggests, "movie star/astronaut, a movie star/missionary, a movie star/kindergarten teacher." </em></strong>I've never heard of Lorrie Moore, but none of that bullshit made any sense. Good job all around, everybody. <strong><em>I want to throw off everything I've accumulated and begin as someone new, someone better.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I don't have a bad life. I didn't have a painful childhood. I know I'm not the first depressed writer. </em></strong>Go fuck yourself, Elissa. <strong><em>"Depressed writer"-- because the latter is less accurate, the former is more acute. </em></strong>Learn how sentences work. <strong><em>I've been clinically diagnosed with major depressive disorder and have an off-and-on relationship with prescription medication, which I confide so it doesn't seem I throw around the word "depression." </em></strong>First of all, anyone with a pulse can get prescription medication, you fucktard. You're not special. Secondly, while I'm no doctor, I suspect the vague term "major depressive disorder" is synonymous with "nothing actually wrong, but asshole patient can't get over the fact that she's a shitty writer," so whoa, yeah, big problem you got there. Sounds serious. Lastly, you actually seem to enjoy throwing the word "depression" around. You've used "depressed" or "depression" six times now. Eat a bag of dicks.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>That said, I'm high-functioning-- a high-functioning head case, one who jokes enough that most people don't know the truth. </em></strong>I bet you're super funny. <strong><em>The truth: I am sick with panic that I cannot-- will not-- override my limitations, insecurities, jealousies, and ineptitude, to write well, with intelligence and heart and lengthiness. </em></strong>Your panic is justified. <strong><em>And I fear that even if I do manage to write, that the stories I write-- about my vagina, etc.-- will be disregarded and mocked. </em></strong>Oh, come now. I bet "Elissa's Vagina" will be a New York Times bestseller.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>How do I reach the page when I can't lift my face off the bed? How does one go on, Sugar, when you realize you might not have it in you? How does a woman get up and become the writer she wishes she'd be?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Sincerely,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Elissa Bassist</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
Holy shit, this dumbass used her real name. You know how I feel about fact-checking, so it goes without saying that I immediately Googled the shit out of Elissa Bassist. As it turns out, she has her very own website. She has a bunch of tabs on the top of her page, one of which is "Books Published." I clicked on it. Here's a screenshot of what happened when I did that:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0ysxWJJAC29Ym67StkDRKYcez_nwR2euAEu-ilqH-CXiDERrK0NKC0CIqcjM9PD1T51pXrhVRhYUAftczTfsyu-1t9COUdH2iqb_BdRnkU4NXUtTh7gzxuGg4EMXirRD3tac_wEO2oM/s1600/elissa3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0ysxWJJAC29Ym67StkDRKYcez_nwR2euAEu-ilqH-CXiDERrK0NKC0CIqcjM9PD1T51pXrhVRhYUAftczTfsyu-1t9COUdH2iqb_BdRnkU4NXUtTh7gzxuGg4EMXirRD3tac_wEO2oM/s1600/elissa3.png" height="281" width="400" /></a></div>
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This is when I howled with laughter and couldn't stop for a good five minutes. I guess Bad Cheryl's super awesome advice didn't do one or two or even three bits of good for Elissa Bassist. Let's see what she had to say to Elissa.</div>
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(Please note, it takes Bad Cheryl THREE FUCKING PAGES to write anything that even starts to resemble advice. She needs to talk about herself first because Cheryl Strayed.)</div>
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Let's get on with it.</div>
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Bad Cheryl starts with,</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"When I was twenty-eight I had a chalkboard in my living room. It was one of those two-sided wooden A-frames that stand on their own and fold flat. On one side of the chalkboard I wrote, <em>'The first product of self-knowledge is humility,' Flannery O'Connor</em>, and on the other side I wrote, <em>'She sat and thought of only one thing, of her mother holding and holding onto their hands,' Eudora Welty</em>."</blockquote>
<br />
What is <em>with</em> this woman's giant boner for Flannery O'Connor.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The quote from Eudora Welty is from her novel <em>The Optimist's Daughter</em>, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1972. It was a book I read again and again, and that line about the woman who sat thinking of only one thing was at the heart of the reason why. I sat like that too."</blockquote>
--except not, because Bad Cheryl doesn't understand what "only one thing" means--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Thinking of only one thing."</div>
</blockquote>
That's not a sentence.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"One thing was actually two things pressed together, like the back-to-back quotes on my chalkboard: how much I missed my mother and how the only way I could bear to live without her was to write a book. <em>My</em> book. The one that I'd known was in me since way before knew people like me could have books inside of them. The one I felt pulsing in my chest like a second heart, formless and unimaginable until my mother died, and there it was, the plot revealed, the story I couldn't live without telling."</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
OH MY FUCKING GOD. "Two things pressed together" ≠ one thing.<br />
<br />
She continues, telling Elissa Bassist that she was totes bummed out by the fact that she hadn't written a book by the age of twenty-eight. She notes, however, that she was still super awesome and way better than Elissa Bassist in one of her signature sentence fragments:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Without a book, but not entirely without literary acclaim."</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
She's too amazing for failure. I'm in awe. She then brags about how she "read voraciously" and "practically memorized the work of writers" she loved. <strike> In a display of modesty,</strike> she explains,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I recorded my life copiously and artfully in my journals."</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
She finishes up the paragraph with,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I wrote stories in feverish, intermittent bursts, believing they'd miraculously form a novel without my having to suffer too much over it."</blockquote>
<br />
This sentiment sounds so familiar...<br />
<br />
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"As I hiked, I pondered the ice ax that would be in my resupply box. The ice ax that allegedly belonged to me. It was black and silver and dangerous-looking, an approximately two-foot-long metal dagger with a shorter, sharper dagger that ran crosswise at the end. I bought it, brought it home, and placed it in the box labeled <em>Kennedy Meadows</em>, assuming that by the time I actually reached Kennedy Meadows I would know how to use it-- having by then been inexplicably transformed into an expert mountaineer."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">--<u>Wild</u>, Chapter 6, page 89</span> </div>
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Why does this woman think that she is under no obligation to put forth any effort in any circumstance? Why does she seem to be under the impression that things should just magically happen?</div>
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Oh, wait. I spoke too soon. She has an epiphany.</div>
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"As my thirtieth birthday approached, I realized that if I truly wanted to write the story I had to tell, I would have to gather everything within me to make it happen. I would have to sit and think of only one thing longer and harder than I thought possible. I would have to suffer. By which I mean <em>work</em>."</blockquote>
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Oh, man. You're gonna have to *work* for something?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwFhgBuvwe8UDKbmy8-xVk7vc_25KaxymGBBRBDwa2VAok6In-6mRyWvvlEWiDMSNRNhXDRPvr_I6UBEuMzEJ7MAq9t0a_5MN7MxJrMGu3AcxJGuosJm6nBWAycS-5pZUbIjL3Bq4Hkc/s1600/DD.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirwFhgBuvwe8UDKbmy8-xVk7vc_25KaxymGBBRBDwa2VAok6In-6mRyWvvlEWiDMSNRNhXDRPvr_I6UBEuMzEJ7MAq9t0a_5MN7MxJrMGu3AcxJGuosJm6nBWAycS-5pZUbIjL3Bq4Hkc/s1600/DD.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
She then spends three paragraphs writing sentence fragments until,<br />
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"In short, I had to gain the self-knowledge that Flannery O'Connor mentions in that quote I wrote on my chalkboard. And once I got there I had to make a hard stop at self-knowledge's first product: humility." </blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7BQ5251m4DdfNkaE8BHnHHGrSbGoCLoWsR-tZ2IUPKRQOonp0MTlkQh_anK8Ld8Bpoe9CsMo5WAtdbsTIfkYkRPQtpNM-27qOcgmGkG7cCX2xFHQQP1WiSFOj4NZaTpLQmULvqDsqKc/s1600/wait.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7BQ5251m4DdfNkaE8BHnHHGrSbGoCLoWsR-tZ2IUPKRQOonp0MTlkQh_anK8Ld8Bpoe9CsMo5WAtdbsTIfkYkRPQtpNM-27qOcgmGkG7cCX2xFHQQP1WiSFOj4NZaTpLQmULvqDsqKc/s1600/wait.gif" height="169" width="320" /></a></div>
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Then this happens:<br />
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"Do you know what that is, sweet pea? To be humble?"</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJeg2TMhu9Eind9qn1vJXZ5aHlu6aziOIWhsLCjLLtuMjOeHzoDI-t8wYTtbyJgnMRKAPTMQ_ORJoqcBWbPdGD73teYtPRsUZWr4nhgGI_jStRe8nGylygBko6c2ekizVyHqfYkBBbMw/s1600/head-exploding.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJeg2TMhu9Eind9qn1vJXZ5aHlu6aziOIWhsLCjLLtuMjOeHzoDI-t8wYTtbyJgnMRKAPTMQ_ORJoqcBWbPdGD73teYtPRsUZWr4nhgGI_jStRe8nGylygBko6c2ekizVyHqfYkBBbMw/s1600/head-exploding.gif" height="178" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">HOW AM I STILL ALIVE.</span></div>
<br />
We're then treated to a Latin lesson on the origin of the word humility and I'd totally tell you all about it, but I'm busy sponging my brains off of the wall.<br />
<br />
She spends a couple paragraphs explaining how she's pretty much the best at being humble and starts the next paragraph with,<br />
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"I hope you'll think hard about that, honey bun. If you had a two-sided chalkboard in your living room I'd write <em>humility</em> on one side and <em>surrender</em> on the other for you."</blockquote>
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Oh, jesus.<br />
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"The most fascinating thing to me about your letter is that buried beneath all the anxiety and sorrow and fear and self-loathing, there's arrogance at its core."</blockquote>
<br />
Cheryl Strayed is writing about humility and arrogance because Cheryl Strayed.<br />
<br />
Blah, blah, blah, then she tells Elissa that she probably won't be taken seriously as a writer because she's a girl and what the fuck. She follows with,<br />
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"It's still true that literary works by women, gays, and writers of color are often framed as specific rather than universal, small rather than big, personal or particular rather than socially significant."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">WHAT?</span></div>
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I don't even. She finally gets to something that could pass for advice, and she fucks it all up:</div>
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"Write so blazingly good that you can't be framed."</div>
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Yeah. WRITE GOOD. Excellent advice. Brilliant. I guess now we know why Elissa hasn't written a book yet.</div>
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"Writing is hard for every last one of us-- straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. The simply <em>dig</em>."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">CHERYL STRAYED: ALSO AN EXPERT COAL MINER.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span> </div>
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Illustrating what it means to write good, Bad Cheryl says, </div>
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"You need to do the same, dear sweet arrogant beautiful crazy talented tortured rising star glowbug."</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfA9V9vvW1z2fxxg6lceErdx8U8dzOTgvvjVYf3G3wSLev4fNMgu2Zj_rqh3M_4jHBnrlvgv9SdsdEIXH77Lgn7Qj8L4tNEjnnGTMluXK1tV9LQhLLnrAI9Dpgxrn4Tl1SAFNJH6SVIA/s1600/comma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfA9V9vvW1z2fxxg6lceErdx8U8dzOTgvvjVYf3G3wSLev4fNMgu2Zj_rqh3M_4jHBnrlvgv9SdsdEIXH77Lgn7Qj8L4tNEjnnGTMluXK1tV9LQhLLnrAI9Dpgxrn4Tl1SAFNJH6SVIA/s1600/comma.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">WE'VE NEVER MET BEFORE.</span></div>
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She finishes everything with,</div>
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"So write, Elissa Bassist. Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker."</blockquote>
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That's it? Write good and write like a motherfucker? Good luck with that advice, Elissa. Can't wait to read about your vagina.Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-55799432032408704802015-04-13T19:38:00.000-07:002015-04-14T13:28:31.232-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: Letter #6 Because Fuck Letter #5<br />
Letter #5 was so incredibly stupid that I couldn't deal with it. Maybe I'll circle back and cover it at some point, but probably not. Here, let me sum it all up for you:<br />
<br />
<em>Dear Sugar,</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Blah blah blah, stupid bullshit, blah blah blah, super dumb fucking question that any SEN child could answer. Omg, I heart you, Sugar. You're totes the most smartest.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Love,</em><br />
<em>Some Asshole</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
Bad Cheryl then spends eight goddamned pages talking about herself, her dead mom, her supposedly horrible father and she sorta answers Some Asshole's dumb question at some point, but not really. The End.<br />
<br />
Not worth our time, people. Trust me. Let's move on.<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Letter #6</u><br />
<br />
<br />
Paraphrasing is fun, but sometimes I feel like you should read these questions for yourselves.<br />
<br />
Here it is in its glorious entirety:<br />
<br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Dear Sugar,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I'm in my early twenties. I've been in a serious relationship with the same guy for six years-- on and off (the "off" portion taking place when I was younger). I have been very distracted and have been second-guessing the relationship for a while now, but I can't come to grips with losing this person that </em></strong><strong><em>seems to be right for me permanently-- and of course I don't want to break his heart. Then again, I don't want to settle and have regrets later in life. I feel like we want different things out of life and we have different interests, but I just can't decide. I have talked to him about my feelings, but to no avail. We went on a little "break," but breaks never work.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>My biggest fear is being alone and never finding anyone that measures up. It doesn't help that my closest friends are settling down with their boyfriends and are talking about marriage. Please help, Sugar!</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Sincerely,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Scared and Confused</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
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[sic] <--- Is this not a thing anymore? Have we finally achieved a level of (borderline) illiteracy that allows for grammatical errors to go unchecked? 'Merica.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">See how that works? I should be a teacher.</span></div>
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Okay, let's start by pointing out that Scared and Confused didn't ask a question.</div>
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"Please help!"</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">=Not a question.</span></div>
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Whatever. Let's explore Bad Cheryl's response. With no preface whatsoever, she begins her profoundly wise response with,</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I lived in London when I was twenty. I was technically homeless and desperately broke, but I didn't have the papers an American needs to get a job in London, so I spent most of my time walking the streets searching for coins that people had dropped. One day, a man in a business suit approached me and asked me if I wanted an under-the-table job three days a week at a major accounting firm that has since collapsed due to corruption.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"'Sure,' I said.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And this is how I became <em>coffee girl one two three</em>." </blockquote>
<br />
I don't know what this has to do with anything, but we can tell already that this is gonna be super insightful.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"<em>Coffee girl</em> was my actual job title. The <em>one two three</em> was tacked on to communicate the fact that I was responsible for providing fresh and hot coffee and tea to all the accountants and secretaries who worked on the first three floors of the building. It was a harder job than you might think."</blockquote>
<br />
No, it probably wasn't, but okay. She then goes on to describe her coffee girl outfit because apparently this detail is imperative in helping Scared and Confused figure out her relationship issues. Then,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"...and I was almost always out of breath. Banned from the elevator, I had to race up and down steps in the back stairwell that ran along the back of the building to get from one floor to the next."</blockquote>
<br />
Let me get this straight. Your whole job was to deliver hot beverages to everyone on the first three floors of an office building and for reasons left unexplained, you were <em>banned from the elevator</em>? Did you take a dump in there on your first day? I don't understand.<br />
<br />
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"During my breaks I walked down to the first floor and went outside and sat on a patch of concrete that edged the building that housed the major accounting firm that has since collapsed due to corruption."</blockquote>
<br />
Yes, we got it. You already mentioned the fact that this unnamed accounting firm would collapse due to corruption. In fact, you used the exact same words the first time.<br />
<br />
One day, an old lady came along and had such a nice little chat with Bad Cheryl that she apparently made a point to show up every single day just to enjoy Bad Cheryl's company because of course she did. Who wouldn't?<br />
<br />
Brace yourselves--<br />
<br />
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"She wasn't the only person who came to talk to me. I was in love with someone at the time. In fact, I was married to that someone. And I was in way over my head. At night after I made love to this man I would lie beside him and cry because I knew that I loved him and that I couldn't bear to stay with him because I wasn't ready to love only one person yet and I knew that if I left him I would die of a broken heart and I would kill him of a broken heart too and it would be over for me when it came to love because there would never be another person who I'd love as much as I loved him or who loved me as much as he loved me or who was as sweet and sexy and cool and compassionate and good through and through."</blockquote>
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What the fuck was that. The paragraph isn't over, though--</div>
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"So I stayed. We looked for coins on the streets of London together. And sometimes he would come and visit me at the major accounting firm that has since collapsed due to corruption while I was on my breaks."</blockquote>
<br />
STOP SAYING THAT. GODDMANIT. NO ONE CARES. Also, what the hell is this repeated crap about looking for coins on the streets? This is ridiculous. I've typed every variation of "where the fuck did Cheryl Strayed live in London" into Google and I can't find anything. She says she was "technically homeless," which means "not homeless." How many coins did these two assholes find on the street? I'm moving to London. The streets are apparently littered with discarded money. Here's a close-up Google Maps image of Oxford Street:<br />
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Oh, christ. Anyway, her husband shows up one day after what we can only imagine was a productive morning of picking oodles of money off the street and the old lady is sitting with Bad Cheryl. They say hello and stuff and then the old lady walks away.</div>
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"The man I loved was silent for a good while, giving the old woman time to walk away, and then he looked at me and said with some astonishment, 'She has a bundle on her head.'</blockquote>
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"'She has a bundle on her head?' I said.</blockquote>
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"'She has a bundle on her head,' he said back."</blockquote>
<br />
Huh?<br />
<br />
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"And then we laughed and laughed and laughed so hard it might to this day still be the time I laughed the hardest."</blockquote>
<br />
Of course. You laughed and laughed and laughed. Wait a minute, though. What the fuck are you talking about?<br />
<br />
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"That old woman, all that time, all through the conversations we'd had as I sat on the concrete patch, had had an enormous bundle on her head. She appeared perfectly normal in every way but this one: she wore an impossible three-foot tower of ratty old rags and ripped-up blankets and towels on top of her head, held there by a complicated system of ropes tied beneath her chin and fastened to loops on the shoulders of her raincoat."</blockquote>
<br />
WHAT. THE FUCK.<br />
<br />
Only Cheryl Strayed could be so self-absorbed to have failed to notice a fucking garbage heap sitting atop a woman's head.<br />
<br />
It only gets worse--<br />
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"<em>She has a bundle on her head!</em> we shrieked to each other through our laughter on the patch of concrete that day, but before long I wasn't laughing anymore. I was crying. I cried and cried and cried as hard as I'd laughed. I cried so hard I didn't go back to work. My job as <em>coffee girl one two three</em> ended right then and there."</blockquote>
<br />
This woman hosts writing workshops. She charges up to <a href="http://www.esalen.org/workshop/week-june-28-july-3/writers-camp" target="_blank">THREE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS.</a> She will teach you how to write and write and write.<br />
<br />
So, she's sitting there crying and crying and crying and,<br />
<br />
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"I was crying because there was a bundle on the old woman's head and I hadn't been able to say that there was because I knew that that was somehow connected to the fact that I didn't want to stay with a man I loved anymore but I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge what was so very obvious and so very true."</blockquote>
I can't-- oh, god, it's happening again--<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">YOU KNOW WHY.</span></div>
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Let's see how Cheryl ties all of this bullshit into anything to do with Sacred and Confused's "question."</div>
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"That was such a long time ago, Scared & Confused, but it all came back when I read your letter. It made me think that perhaps that moment delivered me here to say this to you: You have a bundle on your head, sweet pea. And though that bundle may be impossible for you to see right now, it's entirely visible to me. You aren't torn. You're only just afraid. You no longer wish to be in a relationship with your lover even though he's a great guy... The end of your relationship with him will likely also mark the end of an era of your life. In moving into this next era there are going to be things you lose and things you gain.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Trust yourself. It's Sugar's golden rule. Trusting yourself means living out what you already know to be true."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">ADVICE JUST HAPPENED.</span> </div>
<br />
I guess since Scared and Confused didn't really pose a question, she deserved this response.<br />
<br />
I'm tired and confused. I'm going to bed.Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-83048635296688580412015-04-09T17:19:00.000-07:002015-04-09T17:19:34.678-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: Letter #4<br />
This book is so stupid. I can't even tell you.<br />
<br />
Remember when I started the review of this book and I was all, "I'm gonna need a few days to read through the whole thing and take notes and blah blah blah whatever?" Yeah, that didn't really happen. I tried; I skimmed through the first few letters and ultimately decided that it was necessary to momentarily take a break from everything Bad Cheryl in order to partially reclaim my sanity after the whole "Wild" escapade. Letter #4 was the last letter I read before I threw up my hands and said, "Fuck this noise." After this post, everything from here on out will be written as I'm reading it. Get ready for the last thing I bothered to read ahead of time.<br />
<br />
This is the dumbest fucking letter. I don't even feel the need to paraphrase.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Dear Sugar,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I'm crushing in middle age. That's pretty much it. I'm middle-aged, married, and crushing on a friend. And it's full-blown, just like in high school, sweaty palms, distracted, giddy, the whole shebang. So far it has gone no further than flirting and I really, really know better. My question isn't what should I do (I'm pretty clear I should behave), but what should I do with all this delightful but distressing energy?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Crushed</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Why did I decide to review this book.</span></div>
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What a stupid fucking question. </div>
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If you disregard all the preceding juvenile bullshit, the question itself is, "I have a giant boner; what should I do with it?"</div>
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Okay. Let's do this. Time for me to give my own inept advice. Get ready.</div>
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Dear Crushed,</div>
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Instead of trying to figure out what you should do with your newfound sexual energy, maybe you should be more concerned about your marriage and its future. Maybe you should be asking yourself why you're getting all googly-eyed over your friend instead of the person you vowed to love forever. Maybe you need to reassess your marriage and your priorities and your life, because if you genuinely don't know what to do with your sexual energy, you're failing at marriage. You're cheating your spouse. You're not cheating <em>on</em> your spouse (yet), but you're cheating your spouse out of your affection. If you're supposedly so sure about how you should be behaving, you wouldn't be asking this question in the first place. Since, however, you feel the need to ask this question, I would strongly advise you to reevaluate your life choices. I would advise you to ask yourself if you really love your spouse and truly wish to spend the rest of your life with this person, and then force yourself to be painfully honest in your response.</div>
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Do not involve your spouse in this inner struggle. Do not play emotional games with your spouse just so you can get your rocks off, because if and when you come to the conclusion that you no longer want to be married, you will have only managed to hurt this poor, unsuspecting person more than necessary, and you will have done so for unacceptable, selfish reasons. </div>
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Get your shit together.</div>
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Cali</div>
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It seems as if Bad Cheryl and I have very opposing views on this matter. "Sugar" writes,</div>
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"Steer clear of the object of your crush and use that 'delightful but distressing energy' to reinvest in what matters most to you-- your marriage, it seems. Do something extra sweet for your spouse this week. Have sex tonight and make it hella hot and good. Go for a long walk or a lingering dinner together and lovingly discuss how you're going to keep your love as well as your romance strong."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hella. That word happened.</span> </div>
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<br />
OHMYGOD, OOOHHHHHH STROKE, STROKE, IT'S HAPPENING, I'M HAVING A STROKE.<br />
<br />
So, essentially, Bad Cheryl's response to this is, "Bang your spouse! It'll be great!" I guess I shouldn't be surprised that a cheating whore like Bad Cheryl thinks that sex is the answer to everything. HOW MANY OTHER MEN DID YOU SLEEP WITH WHEN YOU WERE STILL MARRIED? Like, 18,000, something like that? YOU'RE PRETTY MUCH THE BEST PERSON TO ANSWER THIS QUESTION, except the opposite of that.<br />
<br />
She ends it all with some kind of twisted math analogy:<br />
<br />
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"My inbox is jammed with emails from people who are... tortured by indecision and guilt and lust. They love X but want to fuck Z. It is the plight of almost every monogamous person at one time or another. We all love X but want to fuck Z.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Z is so gleaming, so crystalline, so unlikely to bitch at you for neglecting to take out the recycling. Nobody has to haggle with Z. Z doesn't wear a watch. Z is like a motorcycle with no one on it. Beautiful. Going nowhere."</blockquote>
<br />
"It is the plight of almost every monogamous person at one time or another." NO, IT IS NOT, YOU STUPID WHORE.<br />
<br />
So, there we have it. I want this person to take a life inventory and make some tough decisions. Strayed wants this person to have sex and call it a day.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying that I'm right-- not at all. I'm just saying that I think matters of life and love and reality are far too complicated to be solved by a romp in the sheets.<br />
<br />
Your turn. Go.<br />
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<strong><em></em></strong>Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-76706213264349878312015-04-07T19:25:00.000-07:002015-04-10T13:50:35.792-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: Letter #3<br />
OH MY GOD, it's like every chapter is worse than the last. I've been dreading this one for a couple days now. I can't even believe that I'm going to have to deal with this question. I really thought about going straight to Letter #4, but I know that dozens of you are now reading this pile of crap book along with me just to see what I'll say and you'd never let me get away with skipping it (I love getting your emails, but please stop telling me these things). Goddamn this stupid book. Also, goddamn you people for spending money on it just so you can follow along. What are you thinking? At least I know I'll never be sued for doing this. I'm actually making Cheryl Strayed richer with every post. <br />
<br />
PSA: Libraries. They exist. You can borrow books for free. It's a thing.<br />
<br />
Let's get started. Remember, words in bold type are actual quotes from the "person seeking advice." (You know why I put quotations around that. We all know who wrote this letter.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Letter #3</u><br />
<br />
<br />
<em><strong>Dear Sugar,</strong></em><br />
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<em><strong>I'm a twenty-one-year-old guy. I'm in college right now. Though I work full-time to pay for some of my bills, I'm still dependent on my parents for room and board. I also use their car.</strong> I also can't write very well. Look at these sentences. <strong>I have no problem living with my parents-- at least I wouldn't if I wasn't gay.</strong> I should have used the word "weren't" right there, but I didn't because college isn't doing much for me; I probably won't get my college degree because I'll fail to write a 5-page paper. </em><em><strong>My parents are fundamentalist </strong></em><em><strong>Ch</strong></em><em><strong>ristians</strong></em><em><strong>. They believe that being a homosexual is a "sin" that someone struggles with similar to alcoholism or drug addiction and that gays should repent and see Jesus </strong>and this confuses me because I'm a dude and Jesus is a dude and "seeing him" sounds sort of gay. Should I buy him a promise ring?</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><strong>My parents know I'm gay but they don't acknowledge it. They believe I've repented and found Jesus. When I was seventeen, my mom threatened to kick me out of the house because she didn't want my "diseased behavior under her roof."</strong> In order to avoid getting kicked out, <strong>I had to go to Christian counseling </strong>to de-gay myself, sort of like that camp from "But I'm a Cheerleader," but it totally didn't work because I couldn't find my Root. <strong>I don't hate my parents, but I strongly dislike them for their treatment of me. They think I'm straight, but they don't trust me.</strong> Please don't notice that the first sentence of this paragraph was, "<strong>My parents know I'm gay but they don't acknowledge it</strong>," because that completely contradicts what I just said there. <strong>My mom constantly checks on me, often barging into my room seemingly in hopes of catching me doing something</strong>, and I'm like, "MOM. Wouldn't you rather watch Dad masturbate? You're being creepy." <strong>If I go out, I have to tell my parents exactly who I'm with or I won't be able to use their car. They refuse to leave the Internet connected if I'm at home alone, and they hide the modem when they go to bed because they are afraid that I'll look at "sinful" material that will pull me back into the "gay lifestyle" </strong>because apparently I wrote this letter like twelve years ago and I'm just now getting around to sending it. From my smart phone. Which requires no modem.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><strong>Though I act straight around my parents and sister, I am out to friends and co-workers and also to my brother (who accepts me unconditionally). It's a huge strain to live a double life. I've had two gay relationships. My parents know my current boyfriend is gay and they treat him like he's going to reinfect me with his gay-ness. </strong>Wait, what the fuck did I just write? <strong>"My parents know my current boyfriend is gay." </strong>I'm so confused. Nothing I'm saying makes sense.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I could move out like a normal fucking adult, but even though I have this full-time job, I can't afford to do so. <strong>One option that has arisen recently is that a good friend asked if I wanted to move to the Pacific Northwest with her-- I live on the East Coast-- and I'm seriously considering it, </strong>especially because I know that YOU, Sugar, live in the Pacific Northwest and isn't this terribly convenient. <strong>The thing is, I don't want to run away from my problems and I really like the guy I'm in a relationship with, but right now I feel like I'm stuck in a situation that is hopeless. I feel suffocated by the expectations of those on both sides of my double life. One side would damn me to hell if they found out I was gay. The other side wants me to cut myself off from my family.</strong></em><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Is there any advice you could offer that could help?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<em><strike><strong>Cheryl Strayed</strong></strike> Some Gay Dude</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
Motherfucker. Are you kidding me with this question.<br />
<br />
Let's get this over with. This time, instead of my own advice, I'll answer with what Bad Cheryl should have written:<br />
<br />
Dear Some Gay Dude,<br />
<br />
No. I don't really have any advice that could help. I'm an asshole.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Sugar<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
I don't even. I mean, this clearly is not a real person asking for real advice. This is Bad Cheryl writing a letter in the way she thinks a troubled gay person would write a letter, and she does it so she can respond in a way that will make her seem BRAVE and then say SUPER SUPPORTIVE THINGS to make herself seem PROFOUNDLY ACCEPTING and WORTHY OF OUR WORSHIP. You know what? It's 2015. If you support gay rights, congratulations on being a normal, decent person. I'm not gonna fall to my knees and weep with gratitude over the fact that you're not an asshole. Frankly, if you still have a problem with gay people at this point in time, go fuck yourself. <br />
<br />
This letter makes no sense. NO SENSE.<br />
<br />
You know what? I'm gonna turn the tables just this once and go Full Cheryl. Yeah. I'm gonna do it.<br />
<br />
If you've been following along from the start, you already know that I'm gay. For those of you just joining, SURPRISE! I'M GAY! I came out to my family when I was 13 and came out to the rest of the world when I was 15. In the early Nineties. In Ohio. Before Ellen, before 'Will and Grace,' before 'Queer as Folk', before anything-- before it was the norm. <br />
<br />
I was a very active volunteer in the Gay Community as a teenager. I did a lot of public speaking: I went to different high schools in the area and talked about being a gay youth as a guest speaker in health classes; I was a speaker at the Cleveland Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. I was a speaker at the Cleveland Clinic for a regional conference for doctors and guidance counselors. I worked on a crisis hotline for suicidal gay youth. I was also openly gay in high school and went well outside my comfort zone -- not to <em>confront, </em>per se-- but to <em>talk</em> to people who felt the need to shout out offensive things at me. Instead of ignoring it all and walking by, I would stop, pull up a chair and say something like, "Look. You probably think you don't know anyone who is gay, and that's why you feel comfortable insulting me the way you just did. I'm assuming you don't like gay people because you don't understand what gay people are all about, and ignorance of something justifies fear and hatred. I'm sitting here, now. Ask me anything. I will answer as truthfully as I can." Geeeeeez, the pair of lady-balls I had on me. But you know what? It worked. They'd sit there for a moment, stunned, and then they would open up. I would always let them ask their questions and I would always answer as honestly as I could. Without fail, I would walk away from those conversations with a handful of new friends. By the time I graduated, not a single person in school gave me a problem about my homosexuality (with the exception of the school board).<br />
<br />
In the 20+ years I have been openly gay, I have been spit upon, verbally assaulted, physically assaulted, sexually assaulted, threatened with death, refused service at a restaurant, denied a scholarship and almost fired-- JUST FOR BEING GAY. Over and over, I have had to watch laws being put into effect to prevent me from marrying the person I love. I have had to come home from work, just to turn on the news and see that EVERYBODY IS GOING TO CHICK-FIL-A TO PUT ME IN MY GODDAMNED PLACE. I am strong. I am resilient. I fight through it and I try my best to shrug it off. But that's the thing-- it's a fight. I wish I could tell you that there haven't been times when I've gotten so angry and frustrated and just plain hurt that I spent evenings fighting back angry tears after watching the news.<br />
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I get it. I understand. Cheryl Strayed does not. Cheryl Strayed is going to use her own made-up question to make us all worship her brilliance, and after every real thing I've ever had to survive, I'm disgusted with her need to use gay rights as a means to make herself seem awesome. Not okay.<br />
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My apologies. I know that this blog is supposed to be funny. Let's put an end to my Full Cheryledness and get back to the job at hand.<br />
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This time around, I'm not going to give my own advice because I don't believe for one second that this was a real question, and I'm offended even by the premise. I'm going to skip right to Bad Cheryl's response, and I'm probably going to sum it up very quickly because I'm not cool with any of this.<br />
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Good job, Bad Cheryl. For everything you're about to say--<br />
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You know what? I can't. I can't do this. I can't go sentence by painful sentence. Not this time. Let's just cover the highlights.<br />
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"It's miserable that your parents are ill-informed bigots. I'm sorry they've made you suffer so, sweet pea."</blockquote>
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"Your lunatic parents are going to figure out you're gay whether you tell them or not. In fact, they know already. They aren't banishing you from the Internet so you won't watch Scooby Doo, doll."</blockquote>
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She then writes a load of bullshit that makes me want to throttle her and follows it up with,<br />
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"I know I'm being a bit glib about it, but only because if I look at it stone cold serious it smashes my heart into smithereens."</blockquote>
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EVEN IN MY CURRENT STATE OF ANGER AND DISGUST, I AM STILL IRRITATED WITH HER LACK OF GRAMMATICAL KNOW-HOW.<br />
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Oh my god. I haven't told you. Guess who was the editor of this book. Go ahead. Guess.<br />
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<a href="http://www.biographile.com/qa-with-robin-desser-the-editor-behind-cheryl-strayeds-bestselling-wild/7087/">http://www.biographile.com/qa-with-robin-desser-the-editor-behind-cheryl-strayeds-bestselling-wild/7087/</a></div>
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Thanks again, Robin Desser. Bang up job. I thought for sure you had killed yourself while editing "Wild," but apparently you survived long enough to improperly edit something else.</div>
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Bad Cheryl goes on to say some things that genuinely harm my soul-- even though it's possible that she meant well-- but, for personal reasons, I can't deal with any of it. Just know that she's totally the GLAAD Person of the Century because she attends Pride Parades.<br />
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She ends the whole disaster with,<br />
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"...it always strikes me as sacred, all those people going by. People who decided simply to live their truth, even when doing so wasn't simple. Each and every one of them had the courage to say, <em>This is who I am even if you'll crucify me for it</em>.</blockquote>
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Just like Jesus did." </blockquote>
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All I can do is shake my head and clench my fists.<br />
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-73083452043893896272015-04-03T20:11:00.001-07:002015-04-03T20:11:25.989-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: Letter #2<br />
After spending the past few days struggling with the moral dilemma presented by my decision to tackle the contents of this stupid book, I made a choice. I concluded that people who are dumb enough to ask goddamned Cheryl Strayed for advice deserve no mercy.<br />
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Same format as last time. I will paraphrase the question, but actual quotes will be in bold type (be advised, this question is very long).</div>
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<u>Letter #2</u></div>
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<em><strong>Dear Sugar</strong>,</em></div>
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<em>Almost two years ago, I got pregnant. <strong>In a move that surprised both my boyfriend and me, we decided we wanted to keep the baby... When I was six and a half months pregnant, I miscarried. Since then, I've struggled to get out of bed.</strong></em></div>
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<em>I'm having a very hard time with this and I think about my baby every single day, imagining all the different milestones that would now be happening, but aren't. <strong>Sometimes, all I can think is the word "daughter" over and over and over.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>Of course, it seems that everyone around me is having a baby and everywhere I go all I see are babies, so I have to force myself to be happy for them and swallow how empty I feel.</strong> Most of my friends are total assholes and they're all "Meh" about it, and one of my asshole friends even went so far as to say, <strong>"I</strong><strong>t was only a miscarriage." </strong>God, my friends are dickheads. <strong>I also feel guilty about being so stuck, grieving for a child that never was when I should just walk it off or something.</strong></em></div>
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<em>I'm super good at repressing everything and I act like I'm totally fine, so even though my boyfriend is super great, I <strong>want to</strong> <strong>punch him in the head for not feeling the way I do</strong> despite the fact that I am in no way being honest with him and letting him know how I really feel. Obviously, he's an asshole for not being able to read my mind. </em></div>
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<em><strong>Then there's the reason I lost the baby. In the hospital, my doctor said he wasn't surprised I lost the baby because my pregnancy was high risk because I was overweight. It was not an easy thing to hear that the miscarriage was my fault. Part of me thinks the doctor was a real asshole, but another part of me thinks, "Maybe he was right." </strong>Stupid fucking doctor. Who does he think he is? How dare he say anything to help prevent me from having another miscarriage. </em></div>
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<em>Even though I said in the very first paragraph that <strong>I've struggled to get out of bed </strong>ever since the miscarriage<strong>, </strong>I will now claim that <strong>I got a personal trainer and went on a diet and started losing weight, </strong>and I will go on to explain that <strong>sometimes, I don't eat for days, and then sometimes I eat everything in sight and throw it all up. </strong>Apparently, I also <strong>spend hours at the gym </strong>even though I can barely get out of bed because I can't remember what I wrote a couple minutes ago.</em></div>
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<em>Everyone close to me thinks I'm doing super great because this is what I've led them to believe and also because they're horrible people who clearly aren't paying that much attention. I completely blame myself for the miscarriage. I am slowly killing myself with my eating disorder and my binge-exercising because I no longer care about my own well-being.</em></div>
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<strong><em>I want to know how to care again. I want to know how to not feel so guilty, how to not feel like I killed my baby.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Best,</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Stuck</em></strong></div>
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Man.</div>
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Okay, here's my very brief, relatively unhelpful advice:</div>
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Dear Stuck,</div>
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I'm so sorry.</div>
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Google "miscarriage support groups." You will likely find dozens in your area. You need to talk your feelings out with people who understand. You might also want to consider finding a therapist who specializes in this sort of loss. You need to seek help from people who understand what you're going through. <br />
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Get better,</div>
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Cali</div>
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Sixty words. That's my whole response. Why? I've never suffered a miscarriage, so I know exactly dick about what this woman is going through. (Also, I don't believe for a second that Cheryl didn't write this question herself.)</div>
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How long is Bad Cheryl's response? Go ahead. Guess. TEN FUCKING PAGES OF TOTAL INSANITY. This is probably because Stuck's question took up two entire pages, and we know that Bad Cheryl cannot be outdone.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRU3yJyt601cec2Gbcs9cmYVtNQJ6unPKG1Y8q9yAuLRiBKNRaXho9isoMuNZinMnrmOytJDHFYyAQYK714BdfTgmPgu9TY6ptrlYAtgx7jY5ES3QnNsbXof5vdryMAzn61cOFiavHZ3g/s1600/penelope.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRU3yJyt601cec2Gbcs9cmYVtNQJ6unPKG1Y8q9yAuLRiBKNRaXho9isoMuNZinMnrmOytJDHFYyAQYK714BdfTgmPgu9TY6ptrlYAtgx7jY5ES3QnNsbXof5vdryMAzn61cOFiavHZ3g/s1600/penelope.png" height="201" width="320" /></a></div>
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She starts the same way I did, by telling Stuck that she's sorry, but she can't even do this without sounding like an asshole.</div>
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"Though we live in a time and place and culture that tries to tell us otherwise, suffering is what happens when truly horrible things happen to us."</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU LIVE?</span></div>
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She then tells Stuck to ignore all the people who are telling her that she should be over her daughter's death because,</div>
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"They live on Planet Earth. You live on Planet My Baby Died."</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Oh, jesus.</span></div>
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She talks about how there are many women out there who have also experienced miscarriages and holy crap, it's almost like Bad Cheryl and I are saying the same thing, except she has to go Full Cheryl about it by saying things like, "You need to find these women. They're your tribe." </div>
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Then, inexplicably, this sentence happens:</div>
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"I know because I've lived on a few planets that aren't planet Earth myself."</blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Jd40oTXDo71A3x-BY_SFzTShdJ7834s9L1PGcDASbPvil-oLLAvOy7SVQwBR9KypT8-pUq8UL6wfTkHhU3hb59v_OBhRM_hGmrxLnNU-w4STB-OWpH7AiewRBGiy3hPNMIXX4yM77E8/s1600/Planet_Cheryl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Jd40oTXDo71A3x-BY_SFzTShdJ7834s9L1PGcDASbPvil-oLLAvOy7SVQwBR9KypT8-pUq8UL6wfTkHhU3hb59v_OBhRM_hGmrxLnNU-w4STB-OWpH7AiewRBGiy3hPNMIXX4yM77E8/s1600/Planet_Cheryl.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">WE KNOW.</span></div>
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That sentence, by the way, was also its own paragraph. I have no fucking idea what it was supposed to bring to the table.</div>
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I once again wonder if the end is nigh because Bad Cheryl then suggests that Stuck should find local support groups and online communities and what the hell is going on.</div>
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She takes it one step further and also tells her to be honest with her boyfriend, which I think is fair because I suggested as much in my paraphrasing of the question.</div>
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She concludes with a bunch of flowery bullshit about grief and healing, the end.</div>
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Oh, but wait-- it's not the end. SHE KEEPS WRITING FOR EIGHT MORE GODDAMNED PAGES ABOUT SHIT THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING.</div>
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The next paragraph starts with,</div>
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"To be Sugar is at times a daunting thing."</blockquote>
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Everything HAS to be about her. All the time. That same paragraph ends with,<br />
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"And so while it's true that you should find your tribe and talk to your boyfriend and make an appointment with a therapist, there is something truer that I have to tell you and it is this."</blockquote>
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WHAT. THE FUCK. DID THAT WOMAN JUST SAY.<br />
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I know you have problems and everything, but let's talk about me now.</blockquote>
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Know that nothing-- NOTHING-- in the remaining eight pages of her response has ONE FUCKING THING TO DO WITH MISCARRIAGES. It's just eight pages of CherylCherylCherylCherlCheryl.<br />
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Bad Cheryl decides to tell us about how she used to be a "youth advocate" for "poor white [girls] in seventh or eighth grade" and how all these girls were abused and on drugs and whores and I get the feeling she wrote this after she watched "Precious." She explains how it was her "mission" to help these girls succeed in life, and then defines success:<br />
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"Succeeding in this context meant getting neither pregnant nor locked up before graduating high school. It meant eventually holding down a job at Taco Bell or Walmart."</blockquote>
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Motherfu-- I-- can't. I just can't. Just-- oh, forget it.<br />
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And then, when I thought it couldn't get worse, this paragraph:<br />
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"I was not technically qualified to be a youth advocate. I'd never worked with youth or counseled anyone. I had a degree in neither education nor psychology. I'd been a waitress who wrote stories every chance I got for most of the preceding years. But for some reason, I wanted this job and so I talked my way into it."</blockquote>
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I literally just threw this book across the room. Then I got up and threw it across the room again. Then I seriously considered taking it outside and setting it on fire. I wish I could tell you that I'm kidding.<br />
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So, what we're to believe is that a heroin-addicted waitress/whore was allowed to work with troubled youth because I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO FINISH THIS SENTENCE. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.<br />
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I'm having a very hard time believing any of this. Wait, what's the address for this blog?<br />
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<a href="http://cherylstrayedisaliar.blogspot.com/">http://cherylstrayedisaliar.blogspot.com</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Oh, that's right.</span></div>
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Fine. Whatthefuckever. Let's go with this.</div>
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So, Bad Cheryl explains how she tried to "silently, secretly, covertly empower them" by taking them to rock-climbing gyms and the ballet and how the fuck could she afford to do this with a group of girls while she was making waitress wages. I call bullshit. She makes a clumsy metaphor about rock-climbing and brings up Walmart again like it's everyone's dream in life to work at Walmart. Get ready for another one of those punctuation-be-damned sentences:</div>
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</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And while we did those empowering things, I was meant to talk to them about sex and drugs and boys and mothers and relationships and healthy homework habits and the importance of self-esteem and answer every question they had with honesty and affirm every story they told with unconditional positive regard."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">GODDAMNIT.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She says that she was "scared of them at first. Intimidated. They were thirteen and I was twenty-eight." Then this happens:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"They hated everything and everything was boring and stupid and either totally cool or totally gay, and I had to forbid them to use the word 'gay' in that context and explain to them why they shouldn't say the word 'gay' to mean stupid, and they thought I was a total fag for thinking that by 'gay' they actually meant <em>gay </em>and then I had to tell them not to say 'fag' and we laughed and after a while I passed around journals I'd purchased for them."</blockquote>
<br />
STOP. JUST STOP, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER. There is no possible way I can address this without throwing my laptop out the fucking window, so we'll just move on.<br />
<br />
So, she gives them these notebooks and they act like they've never seen notebooks before. She then tells them to write down "three true things about themselves and one lie" in their special notebooks and then,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"...we read them out loud, going around in the circle, guessing which one was the lie, and by the time we were about halfway around the room they all loved me intensely."</blockquote>
<br />
Fuck this woman right in the face. Once again, we are forced to believe that she is the new Jesus.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I had never been the recipient of so much desire. If I had a flower clip in my hair, they wanted to remove the flower clip and put it in their own hair. If I had a pen, they asked if I would give it to them. If I had a sandwich, they wondered if they could have a bite."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU SO MUCH.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Goddamnit. What the fuck does any of this have to do with Stuck's question. Oh, that's right, nothing.<br />
<br />
She then describes one of the girls in a way I find completely inappropriate:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"One of the girls was truly beautiful. She resembled a young Elizabeth Taylor without the curvy hips. Flawlessly luminescent skin. Water-blue eyes. Long shimmering black hair. A D-cup rack and the rest of her model-thin. She'd just turned thirteen when I met her."</blockquote>
<br />
You just referred to a thirteen-year-old's breasts as her "rack." I will see you in Hell, Strayed. Not okay.<br />
<br />
So she takes Young Elizabeth Taylor to Planned Parenthood to get a Depo-Provera shot but the girl refuses to get the shot. You'll never believe how Bad Cheryl describes what happened:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"She cried and cried and cried."</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
She describes another girl who wasn't nearly as fuckable as Young Elizabeth Taylor and compares her to "a feral cat." Then she claims to have "tamed" this girl-- no, seriously, she says this--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"...when I tamed her, when she parted her hair and I saw her pale and fragile and acne-covered face..."</blockquote>
<br />
Fuck you.<br />
<br />
This sort of bullshit goes on for three and a half more pages and it has nothing to do with anything, so I'm not going to address it. She concludes with an awesome story about how, six years after she quit her fake job as a "youth advocate," she went to Taco Bell and holy fuck, one of her girls was working there-- the one she had "tamed." The girl pretty much falls down and worships Bad Cheryl because omg SHE WORKED AT TACO BELL AND WE ALL KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS-- SUCCESS!!! <br />
<br />
And that's Letter #2. Let's not forget the original question.<br />
<br />
Your turn. Go.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-37412734892603964272015-03-31T20:11:00.000-07:002016-08-16T09:10:07.748-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: Letter #1<br />
I still haven't quite figured out how I want to go about all of this. I may have to test out a few different approaches until I find the appropriate one. This time around, I'm going to start by paraphrasing the reader's question, follow with my own (admittedly) inept advice and then compare my advice with what Bad Cheryl had to say. While paraphrasing is going to be super fun for me, I'm going to put actual quotes from the letters in bold type so you can see what kind of stupid bullshit I'm dealing with. Please know that my paraphrasing-- while understandably snarky-- will be pretty accurate.<br />
<br />
Let me know how this approach works. I'll modify as necessary as time goes on.<br />
<br />
Okay. Let's get started.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Dear Sugar,</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I was married for twenty years before my wife decided she wasn't willing to spend the rest of her life with a big fucktard like me. I will take no responsibility for the divorce and say things like, <strong>"Whose fault? Mine? My wife's? Society's? I don't know."</strong> </em><br />
<br />
<em>I've been in three relationships since the divorce. The first one was just for my dick's entertainment. The second was super cool, too, because I got laid all the time, but then she was all I-love-you and I was all I'm-fucking-out-of-here, but then I stuck around anyway because I like to stick my dick in things. After an entire year of getting to stick my dick in her, I finally said "I love you" to this lady, and then I pretty much bailed because love is icky and makes me uncomfortable and stuff. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Now I'm in another relationship and we've been boning for like four months now and even though she's in the middle of a divorce, we're totes serious and stuff. Because I'm so awesome, she's totally falling in love with me, but she won't say "love" and that's perfect because I'm afraid of that word.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><strong>My question to you is, when is it right to take that big step and say I love you? And what is this "love" thing all about?</strong></em><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<em>Sincerely,</em><br />
<em>Giant Toolbag</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
Seriously? People ask shit like this? Okay, so, here's how I would respond:<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear Giant Toolbag,<br />
<br />
You sound like an asshole. I'm glad we're not dating.<br />
<br />
Love is pretty much the greatest thing ever. What's it about? It's when you're lucky enough to find someone who gives you hope and laughter and joy and you find yourself smiling despite whatever else is going on in your life because you're grateful for the existence of another person. It's super fucking easy to love someone, and it's also super easy to say "I love you." Say it as soon as you realize it's true, because you never know when you or that person may unexpectedly die. Say it because it's beautiful. I can't even tell you how many people I love. In fact, I'm *in love* with a whole mess of people; they're *my friends*. They all know that I love them because I've told them so. Why are you making such a big fucking deal about it?<br />
<br />
Grow up.<br />
<br />
Hugs and kisses,<br />
Cali<br />
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is why I don't write an advice column.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now, let's get to what Cheryl had to say about all of this.<br />
<br />
HOLY SHIT, YOU'RE NOT EVEN GOING TO BELIEVE IT-- the first thing she wrote was,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"The last word my mother ever said to me was 'love.'"</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
I know. I was shocked, too. Did you even know that her mom had died???!? She then spends the next FIVE GODDAMNED PARAGRAPHS ignoring the question and talking about herself and her dead mom because the whole point of her "advice column" was to talk about herself. In the sixth paragraph, she tries to justify all of her self-centeredness by saying,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I suppose you think this has nothing to do with your question, Johnny, but it has everything to do with my answer. It has everything to do with <em>every</em> answer I have ever given to anyone. It's Sugar's genesis story."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Fine. So his name was Johnny. Not Giant Toolbag. You got me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I wish I knew how to spell out the sounds I'm making. It's something like, "Kkkkk, kkkkaaahhh, kkkkkkitch," and then the sound of vomiting.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Cheryl then spends an entire paragraph saying stuff that makes me want to destroy things, like, "The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherfucking shit out of love."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Goddamnit. Obviously, I have no problem with profanity. I fucking love the shit out of it (see, Johnny? I *love it*). But you do not "tackle the motherfucking shit out of love." YOU'RE SO HARDCORE, CHERYL.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Then these two sentences happen:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I love the way you wrote to me with your searching, sacred, knuckleheaded, nonchalant, withholding dudelio heart on full display. I love that you compelled me to write 'dudelio,' even though-- on top of the fact that 'dudelio' isn't a word-- I am morally opposed to the entire dude and dude-related lexicon."</blockquote>
<br />
What the goddamn-- you know what, I'm just gonna let you guys destroy this one because you're fucking hysterical and I love you. AGAIN, SEE HOW EASY THAT WAS TO SAY?<br />
<br />
Then Cheryl dazzles us with one of her signature punctuation-be-damned run-on sentences, and this one really wins the prize for what-the-fuckery. This is all one sentence:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I love that one recent evening when I was lying in bed with Mr. Sugar and he was reading <em>The New Yorker</em> and I was reading <em>Brain, Child</em>, I had to stop and put my magazine on my chest because I was thinking about you and what you asked me and so then Mr. Sugar put his magazine on his chest and asked what I was thinking about and I told him and we had a conversation about your troubles and then we turned off the lights and he fell asleep and I lay there wide awake with my eyes closed writing my answer to you in my head for so long that I realized I wasn't going to fall asleep, so I got up and walked through the house and got a glass of water and sat at the kitchen table in the dark and looked out the window at the wet street and my cat came and jumped up on the table and sat there beside me and after a while I turned to her and said, 'What will I tell Johnny?' and she purred."</blockquote>
<br />
I can't even tell you how many times I broke down laughing while transcribing that "sentence." I genuinely mean it. I had to stop three times because I was laughing too hard. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? Did she even *have* an editor for this book?<br />
<br />
So this morning I got up and took a shower and got dressed and drove to work and gave direction to my employees and then I read my email and checked for corporate directives, and then I got a soda from the vending machine and I drank it and then I starting doing stuff, after which I did more stuff and then I kept doing more stuff and then I made a few phone calls and I did some more stuff after that, and then I took a short break and then I did more things and some shit happened and I dealt with it because that's my job and then I worked on some other stuff and then I made a few more phone calls and I--<br />
<br />
I would fucking punch myself in the face if I actually wrote like this.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Let's get on with the rest of Cheryl's response, even though it's TWO AND A HALF PAGES OF BULLSHIT. You know, my advice wasn't really all that bad, now that I'm reading it, and I neatly summed it up in one paragraph. Cheryl can't control her word-vomit. It keeps spewing out like the aftermath of a tequila blackout.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"You aren't afraid of love. You're afraid of all the junk you've yoked to love."</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
And this is when I just sit here, shake my head repeatedly and wish for a handgun.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I HATE YOU.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Goddamnit.<br />
<br />
I just-- I can't.<br />
<br />
Cheryl then goes Full Cheryl by making it all about herself again, except, wait, I'm so confused--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There's a saying about drug addicts that they stop maturing emotionally at the age they started using, and I've known enough addicts to believe this to be true enough."</blockquote>
<br />
WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT. From what we've been led to believe from her totally true memoir, "Wild," she was totes a hardcore heroin addict and she was super proud of this "fact." What's all this nonsense? Shouldn't she know *firsthand* about drug abuse? I'M SO CONFUSED AND PROFOUNDLY SHATTERED BY THE NOTION THAT SHE MAY HAVE BEEN LYING TO US.<br />
<br />
Motherfucker. <br />
<br />
I'm tired. I really am. I had a long day. But as much as I genuinely want to just sum up the rest of her dumb fucking response with, "blah blah blah, stupid bullshit, the end," and go to bed, I can't. I can't because--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"'I love you' can mean <em>I think you're groovy and beautiful and I'm going to do everything in my power to be your partner for life</em>. It can mean<em> I think you're groovy and beautiful but I'm in transition right now, so let's go easy on the promises and take it as it comes</em>. It can mean <em>I think you're groovy and beautiful but I'm not that interested with you, now or probably ever, no matter how groovy or beautiful you continue to be</em>."</blockquote>
<br />
WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING THE WORD "GROOVY" LIKE IT'S STILL A THING? Also, "I think you're groovy and beautiful but I'm not that interested with you, now or probably ever, no matter how groovy or beautiful you continue to be," IN NO WAY TRANSLATES INTO "I LOVE YOU." <br />
<br />
CAN YOU SERIOUSLY NOT RECALL THE BEGINNING OF THE PARAGRAPH, YOU STUPID TWAT.<br />
<br />
*face palm*<br />
<br />
I'm not qualified to give advice, and I openly, happily own this fact. But I can tell you now that Cheryl's version of "I love you" is total crap. I am convinced that Cheryl has no fucking idea what love really is.<br />
<br />
Because I'm just very tired, I will skip a couple paragraphs of bullshit so I can go to bed and say that she ends the whole disaster with, "We're all going to die, Johnny. Hit the iron bell like it's dinnertime."<br />
<br />
I hate her so much. <br />
<br />
It's your turn now. Go.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-48792537774695873122015-03-29T20:04:00.001-07:002017-12-22T18:55:10.256-08:00Tiny Beautiful Things: The Accolades, the Table of Contents and the Steve Almond Introduction<br /><span style="color: #990000;"></span>
<br />
Let's start in on TBT’s accolades.<br />
<br />
<br />
Somebody at Salon says some stuff that I can't even deal with.<br />
<br />
Somebody at The New Yorker pretty much goes down on Cheryl's pudendum.<br />
<br />
Somebody who wrote a book with a really dumb title tries to convince us that we all need to carry this book around with us 24/7, like it's a Siri for our souls, and goddamnit, now I need to go get a rag to clean the vomit off of my laptop.<br />
<br />
Somebody else says something that, depending on how you interpret it, could be taken positively or negatively and we're just suppose to assume GOOD.<br />
<br />
Someone who apparently works in the CIA Torture and Propaganda Department says,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Sugar's columns are easily the most beautiful thing I've read all year. They should be taught in schools and put on little slips of paper and dropped from airplanes, for all to read."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I'm sorry for you already, North Korea.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Some desperate idiot who apparently just escaped from a cult says,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Dear Sugar will save your soul. I belong to the Church of Sugar."</blockquote>
<br />
And finally, someone with no people-reading abilities whatsoever says,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"...Sugar shines out amid the sea of fakeness." </blockquote>
<br />
Oh, fuck me. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE.<br />
<br />
<br />
Son of a bitch. Let's get on with it.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Table on Contents is broken down into five parts that are in no way titled in such a manner that would cause me to contemplate drilling a hole into my skull, except the opposite of that.<br />
<br />
Part I: IT WAS ALWAYS ONLY US<br />
Part II: WHATEVER MYSTERIOUS STARLIGHT THAT GUIDED YOU THIS FAR<br />
Part III: CARRY THE WATER YOURSELF<br />
Part IV: YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE BROKEN FOR ME<br />
Part V: PUT IT IN A BOX AND WAIT<br />
<br />
I'm not having a caps attack; I'm just writing it the way it's printed.<br />
<br />
There are-- OH MY FUCKING GOD, THERE ARE FIFTY-SIX FUCKING LETTERS IN THIS BOOK AND YES, THIS IS NOW A CAPS ATTACK.<br />
<br />
I am genuinely whimpering right now. 56. What have I done.<br />
<br />
<br />
While I endure the 10-day waiting period for a firearm purchase in order to compassionately kill myself, I guess I should just keep writing because, meh, still alive. Let's see how far I can get in ten days.<br />
<br />
Let's explore Steve Almond's introduction and then call it quits for today, shall we?<br />
<br />
Almond tells us a lovely tale about a man named Stephen Elliott who came up with an idea for a website "to build an online community around literature," and Almond says that it sounded "pretty awful." GOOD START. Stephen called upon all of his impoverished writer buddies to write for the website for free and BLAM, behold the creation of "The Rumpus."<br />
<br />
Almond decided to contribute to the website by authoring an advice column which he had originally suggested be called "Dear Sugar Butt," due to "the endearment Stephan and I had taken to using in our email correspondence," and then he admits that this was totes gay and not a good idea. Thus, the advice column's name was shortened to "Dear Sugar." <br />
<br />
He writes,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Handing yourself a job as an advice columnist is a pretty arrogant thing to do, which is par for my particular course."</blockquote>
<br />
Why do I suddenly hate everyone in the writing community?<br />
<br />
Anyway, Almond tells us that in order to write this advice column, he created a persona named Sugar, whom he describes as, "a woman with a troubled past and a slightly reckless tongue," and already I am disgusted by the whole thing. I have a distaste for dishonesty and manipulation, so the fact that a man who wanted to go by the name of "Sugar Butt" created an advice column under the guise of being a troubled woman... just, fuck everyone. How did this become a thing.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Almond wrote his bullshit advice column for a short while--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"...more often I faked it, making do with wit where my heart failed me. After a year of dashing off columns, I quit."</blockquote>
<br />
--and that should have been the end of that bullshit, but NO. Almond decided to ask Cheryl Fucking Strayed to take over as Dear Sugar because--<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Cheryl had written the one and only fan letter I'd received as Sugar."</blockquote>
<br />
WELL, FUCK ME RIGHT IN THE FACE, LET'S PASS THE NARCISSISTIC BATON FROM ONE ASSHOLE TO ANOTHER. <br />
<br />
Motherfucker. I'm so disgusted. I'm actually proud to say that I'm not a writer at this moment just because I will be able to distance myself from these assholes.<br />
<br />
Okay, it only gets worse. Brace yourselves.<br />
<br />
Someone-- "a presumably young man"-- wrote, "<em>WTF, WTF, WTF? I'm asking this question as it applies to everything every day</em>."<br />
<br />
First of all, why should we assume that this was a young man? That was the entirety of the question. It didn't end with, "...<em>because my penis doesn't work</em>." I'm already irritated. And Cheryl's response makes me wish that California didn't have a 10-day waiting period for firearm purchases. Get ready for what I tried to warn you about. Please go back and read the reader's question again, and then get a fucking load of Cheryl's response:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Dear WTF,</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My father's father made me jack him off when I was three or four or five. I wasn't any good at it. My hands were too small and I couldn't get the rhythm right and I didn't understand what I was doing..."</blockquote>
<br />
WHAT THE FUCKING HELL KIND OF RESPONSE WAS THAT TO--<br />
<br />
I'm so angry right now. YOU DO NOT--<br />
<br />
I can't even. NOBODY ASKED, NOBODY WANTS TO KNOW-- <em>BOUNDARIES, </em>Cheryl. IT'S A THING. You save that shit for people you trust. You save that for people who love you. You save that shit, at the very least, for the therapist. You don't just word-vomit that kind of information for no particular reason whatsoever, unprompted, like you're proud of it. For so many reasons, I hate you so fucking much right now, and for those same reasons, I don't believe one fucking word coming out of your dumb fucking mouth.<br />
<br />
Fuck this woman right in the face. No one says that. No one who has experienced sexual trauma volunteers that information. NO ONE. FUCKING LIAR.<br />
<br />
Almond doesn't know any better, though, so he falls to his knees and worships Cheryl for her awesomeness and concludes by saying,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"She was a real human being laying herself bare, fearlessly, that we might come to understand the nature of our own predicaments."</blockquote>
<br />
I can't even finish the introduction. It's a bunch of ass-kissing bullshit that makes me want to destroy things, and not in the playful "I want to slam my face into a doorknob" kind of way. This pisses me off. Just know that Almond goes Full Cheryl in explaining how amazing Bad Cheryl is and ends the whole mess with,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Run toward the darkness, sweet peas, and shine."</blockquote>
<br />
I suddenly wish I lived in Alaska. They don't require permits to purchase firearms. I guess this is good news for all of you.Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-70482272014673431292015-03-26T19:24:00.001-07:002015-03-26T19:24:44.240-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: The IntroductionI am laughing so hard right now.<br />
<br />
It's not a pretty laugh, or even a joyful laugh; it's the kind of laughter you'd hear coming from someone who is about to jump off the top of a building. <br />
<br />
It's fucking crazy time. <br />
<br />
<br />
I still can't believe I'm doing this. God help me, let's get started.<br />
<br />
<br />
Years ago, it came to pass that our dear Cheryl decided that she was in some way qualified to write an advice column. This makes sense because everyone knows that narcissistic, lying shitbags are the best people to turn to when you're having a crisis; they always have such insightful things to say. About themselves. And not you. Or your problems. <br />
<br />
So, really, she's pretty much the last person you should turn to for advice if you have a functional brain, however emotionally damaged your brain may temporarily be.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Cheryl landed herself an advice column called "Dear Sugar" because she is an ingenious sociopath, and all these years later, she decided to use her newfound fame from the inexplicable success of "Wild" to force her publisher to release a book chock-full of all of her amazing advice. Lucky everybody. <br />
<br />
This is going to be a shitstorm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The cover:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6Wa04sp8hZcXZ7gQ-VPetovj9bIY_2imosdcjXVqgXayq7lnkXBSsFJErVsHOu8iekG42SE_Uh5qq9qj71pED6RlCudzwi9zfKBA1aWH3yyqv-mvzTISjUsXbuamUj_2JVEnTw9MdmI/s1600/tbt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6Wa04sp8hZcXZ7gQ-VPetovj9bIY_2imosdcjXVqgXayq7lnkXBSsFJErVsHOu8iekG42SE_Uh5qq9qj71pED6RlCudzwi9zfKBA1aWH3yyqv-mvzTISjUsXbuamUj_2JVEnTw9MdmI/s1600/tbt.jpg" height="320" width="283" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Oh, for fuck's sake.</span></div>
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If you enlarge the photo (go ahead, click on the photo, nothing bad will happen) and direct your attention to the right side of the cover, you will find the quote, " Let yourself be gutted. Let it open you. Start here." </div>
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Since 1) I decided to post the cover in the teaser and 2) you guys are pretty much the best people on earth, let me share some feedback from a couple delightful readers:</div>
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Horace said, </div>
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"Uhm... WTF is with the inner cover flap? <br />'Let yourself be gutted. Let it open you. Start here...'<br />That's not how books work, Cheryl. That is, unless you are advocating the use of successive paper cuts to help put someone out of their misery. :-(<br />I thought this was a self help book? Since when is gutting one's self considered helpful? <br />'Let yourself be gutted.' Good lord - could we be a bit more melodramatic?"</blockquote>
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Alison joined in:</div>
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"Gutted: adj. disappointed and upset. Yes, Bad Cheryl. I do believe I will have no choice but to allow myself to be gutted by your book."</blockquote>
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Well played, you two. I just may be able to retire and let you write this for me. Since, however, I doubt you have the death wish with which I'm cursed, I will keep going. For now.</div>
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Now, let me open the book ever so slightly:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8nkc0v6fieFoBI2apnGZpY-i0oyK2WsO4gj90ljQ3GMrDNHUTeXSJ6aPt6ZRBu3_ZgAPSHlXU4xJHtH2WuVwCRW02mNa4EsGnjNWG2G7jvU_Q7xX9QezOqbB34O2x_G8x7ismpvwg_2c/s1600/TBT3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8nkc0v6fieFoBI2apnGZpY-i0oyK2WsO4gj90ljQ3GMrDNHUTeXSJ6aPt6ZRBu3_ZgAPSHlXU4xJHtH2WuVwCRW02mNa4EsGnjNWG2G7jvU_Q7xX9QezOqbB34O2x_G8x7ismpvwg_2c/s1600/TBT3.jpg" height="320" width="265" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wait, what?</span></div>
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Holy fuck, would you look at that.</div>
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The actual cover was cut a couple centimeters short of the rest of the book in order for CHERYL STRAYED TO QUOTE HERSELF IN FULL VIEW. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtN4BeLtaVAOShQ2YF64bCSaOLvPxYy4inquyE1g0_8Rh8jMg1wxpJqrj5sFmNbIwBYEtOFpX58b8higXFxcn9n-D4cR2srbmB2j5XkF7fFJWwhI6smA2_5_lErnuq0hbYFbV8vMXlkY/s1600/bothhands2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtN4BeLtaVAOShQ2YF64bCSaOLvPxYy4inquyE1g0_8Rh8jMg1wxpJqrj5sFmNbIwBYEtOFpX58b8higXFxcn9n-D4cR2srbmB2j5XkF7fFJWwhI6smA2_5_lErnuq0hbYFbV8vMXlkY/s1600/bothhands2.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
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It only gets worse when you open it all the way:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcoMlw3pz9amQi9-Fc0vcZIOymS7bGzrrQRoOven4kXq3na5-ZzImahQ4GQgLfEGKDUssVE9oZdwfZEEXUzDwAKDjwkbV-V2acslgxmac-AT6yI36Hx-dd-FCm9_zNaBbkTLTs1L_tYk/s1600/tbt4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYcoMlw3pz9amQi9-Fc0vcZIOymS7bGzrrQRoOven4kXq3na5-ZzImahQ4GQgLfEGKDUssVE9oZdwfZEEXUzDwAKDjwkbV-V2acslgxmac-AT6yI36Hx-dd-FCm9_zNaBbkTLTs1L_tYk/s1600/tbt4.jpg" height="263" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I SAY THE MOST PROFOUND THINGS.</span></div>
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WHO DOES THIS. </div>
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After contemplating this horseshit for a moment or two, I went to my bookcase, closed my eyes and retrieved three books at random. I then opened each book to discover what lay just beyond the cover.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBvup3tfVUwQztTpH5N_33n_AOfOLqWVrDngs1c5woiJzyDy8HaYAMG1REj-CHc85HshIu8xRVTPixdJ04Q9Q0jPmC05dN_bWc1rklIF9z-NK_ky7c-srplxXMc4PqlVBEuut6icV2rI/s1600/cover1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBvup3tfVUwQztTpH5N_33n_AOfOLqWVrDngs1c5woiJzyDy8HaYAMG1REj-CHc85HshIu8xRVTPixdJ04Q9Q0jPmC05dN_bWc1rklIF9z-NK_ky7c-srplxXMc4PqlVBEuut6icV2rI/s1600/cover1.jpg" height="255" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Hey, look at that.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMl4667vXfLPjj2ERrZnanPYjJKbmukZ-bI-awua7b0v1KGxCJsQTZtGjq0Aob6SauLQ8fAbUZ2nlG_CLZO5wAtUfFt2Bt9L2Dp8p2igE1kYECszfAgz7jNNGEpoPB9abF5b_xXdBd-s/s1600/cover2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMl4667vXfLPjj2ERrZnanPYjJKbmukZ-bI-awua7b0v1KGxCJsQTZtGjq0Aob6SauLQ8fAbUZ2nlG_CLZO5wAtUfFt2Bt9L2Dp8p2igE1kYECszfAgz7jNNGEpoPB9abF5b_xXdBd-s/s1600/cover2.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">No way.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQdB_ySfPop1aOnkUDZ1wilU7i1ZU0XRBgsEXQbKiqllMoJKCtKJ2Viv2Trr-XXJzm_mPL_9D40i6psCLodK6PxU73gEWSVWFcj5D2e1t3nQYdvD2oNyBYBZYLVyXm6ET7uWFdLjiaKQ/s1600/cover3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQdB_ySfPop1aOnkUDZ1wilU7i1ZU0XRBgsEXQbKiqllMoJKCtKJ2Viv2Trr-XXJzm_mPL_9D40i6psCLodK6PxU73gEWSVWFcj5D2e1t3nQYdvD2oNyBYBZYLVyXm6ET7uWFdLjiaKQ/s1600/cover3.jpg" height="229" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Fucking Steinbeck. What a diva.</span></div>
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So, yeah. Real writers (T.S Elliot, Erich Fromm and John Steinbeck, from the examples) have no desire to go Full Asshole. Not our Cheryl. She's so amazing that she needs to slather her own brilliance right on the inside cover so we won't miss a word.</div>
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And so ends the introduction.</div>
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I would like to take a moment for full disclosure:</div>
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I spent countless months dissecting "Wild" before I decided to write about it. I *just* bought "Tiny Beautiful Things" and I need some time to read through it all, take notes, destroy the margins of the book with my outrage and then share my incredulousness with all of you. Please allow me at least a few days to read and research this book accordingly (though, admittedly a few days won't be enough time, but I shall do my best). If you've been with me from the start, you know that I am very thorough, honest and accurate. While I hate making you wait for the next installment, I want to give you the best that I can give. I need a little time to review this correctly.</div>
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Hugs and kisses,</div>
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Cali</div>
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<br />Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-85607453291726980762015-03-22T20:21:00.000-07:002015-03-24T15:03:05.077-07:00Tiny Beautiful Things: The TeaserThere it is. Right there in my lap.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJ5Yb_zApYwwxVaPZy3_HR8aaTFGrw1lPR9DBZvV2XcIPkt_KNp_H-_mfiVnNEIM6Ok1ndmnXofjbJwYlAcncg-sDAHqHUAnJd-jkts9DDaWCD4UjL-4I5yW28SUhufqksZXkH_fheaM/s1600/tbt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJ5Yb_zApYwwxVaPZy3_HR8aaTFGrw1lPR9DBZvV2XcIPkt_KNp_H-_mfiVnNEIM6Ok1ndmnXofjbJwYlAcncg-sDAHqHUAnJd-jkts9DDaWCD4UjL-4I5yW28SUhufqksZXkH_fheaM/s1600/tbt.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Shit just got real.</span></div>
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That's right. I went out and bought it. I'm already going to hell for so many reasons; let's just pile this on top of everything else. GOOD LUCK SORTING IT ALL OUT, JESUS. HAVE FUN WITH THAT.</div>
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I was dreading the thought of having to purchase this book. I had even considered buying it online in order to to save myself the embarrassment of having to go to a bookstore, but I was thinking of all of you: I didn't want you to have to wait longer than necessary. You're welcome.</div>
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I hardly slept the night before I bought it. This is likely because I was incredibly sick, but I enjoy believing it was because my brain was trying to revolt.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXK3vJSu1C8mu-UAdIYDBjVls5b60PficCbQRIZFPCVY7HcUsrEWE3kxRVRSfvxhsunJCTB5oJ1mbSNX-46wj0jhtcEHmFiU-tv0Sr-NM317s0OI8gCKzCg1GdzwpUb4AaEs7NJ8xbEoE/s1600/angrybrain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXK3vJSu1C8mu-UAdIYDBjVls5b60PficCbQRIZFPCVY7HcUsrEWE3kxRVRSfvxhsunJCTB5oJ1mbSNX-46wj0jhtcEHmFiU-tv0Sr-NM317s0OI8gCKzCg1GdzwpUb4AaEs7NJ8xbEoE/s1600/angrybrain.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"If I don't let you sleep, tomorrow will never come."</span></div>
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Fuck you, brain! That's not how tomorrow works!</div>
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The morning still came and as I was waiting for the local Barnes and Noble to open, I checked their website to make sure they had this piece of shit in stock. They did. While I took a shower, I repeatedly practiced shouting "THIS ISN'T FOR ME" in case someone confronted me in the store (this is a perfect example of the sort of irrational fuckery that goes on inside my head pretty much on a daily basis). I tried to convince myself that this loud proclamation wouldn't be a lie. This book *wasn't* for me. It was a gift for all of you.</div>
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Before I even left my apartment, I was already mentally playing out the ghastly, imaginary scenario in which the B&N cashier would notice that I was purchasing a Cheryl Strayed book and, incorrectly assuming that I was a fan, would try to start an enthusiastic conversation with me about the super-awesomeness of "Wild."</div>
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'OMG, WILD WAS SO AMAZING, IT WAS SO INSPIRATIONAL, I <3 IT SO MUCH!"</div>
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Filled with an unspeakable dread at the thought of this exchange, I realized that I needed a defense against such an attack. That's when I came up with the idea for this business card:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKo3iQ2i4ygDf_hGjVDcjC1sWfpK4pdP5-vl99VjnKXolw-7iFntMW5vQMkRYN-UAgCahp1AUzBVyRF2KpdwQQ290KBIyN4Fntc_8AfgvtYvALtdv7I1Otz4N_C0FmNnv9KYqnanuxru8/s1600/businesscard.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKo3iQ2i4ygDf_hGjVDcjC1sWfpK4pdP5-vl99VjnKXolw-7iFntMW5vQMkRYN-UAgCahp1AUzBVyRF2KpdwQQ290KBIyN4Fntc_8AfgvtYvALtdv7I1Otz4N_C0FmNnv9KYqnanuxru8/s1600/businesscard.png" height="222" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Image courtesy of Vistaprint)</span></div>
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(500 of these are on their way to me as I write this. Future unsuspecting Cheryl fans: BEWARE.)</div>
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At the time, though, I had no defense. Still, I decided that no matter what might possibly go down, I was still going to buy this fucking book. I took a deep breath, figuratively adjusted my lady-balls and drove to B&N.</div>
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The minute I walked into the store, a new nightmare presented itself: where the fuck was I going to find this book. What possible category could this book fall under. Tiny Beautiful Things? What the fuck.</div>
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On instinct, I immediately headed toward the Fiction section and laughed audibly at my clever self on the stroll over. </div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">"Hahahaha, *fiction*!!! You're so funny! I love you, me!"</span></div>
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And yet, when I searched for it... nothing. I checked three more times because there was no fucking way any Cheryl Strayed book could be considered anything but fiction, but still, nothing. It wasn't there.</div>
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I spent a good ten minutes walking around the store and amusing myself with other (im)possible locations for this heap of crap. Bible Study? African American history? WWII?</div>
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My amusement eventually turned into a mild panic when I genuinely couldn't find the goddamned thing anywhere. I walked up and down every single aisle in the store and it was nowhere to be found. This is when I wished I had just ordered it online. It struck me: I was going to have to <em>ask someone for help</em>. </div>
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I stood there, horrified, motionless, weighing out my options. Was I really capable of approaching another living being and saying the words, "Can you tell me where I can find 'Tiny Beautiful Things?'" </div>
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I could leave. I could just order it online. No one had a gun to my head.</div>
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I hesitantly approached the reference desk... and then walked away. I did another loop of the store, but this time, it wasn't a funny playtime loop. It was a brutally determined I-will-find-the-Lindbergh-baby-kidnapper loop. I looked in every likely (and unlikely) section and still couldn't find it. I approached the reference desk again, hesitated... and walked away for a second time.</div>
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I wish I had the security video of me in the store. I wish I could post it on here so you could witness my inner battle being played out in a Barnes and Noble.</div>
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On my third approach to the reference desk-- defeated--I cleared my throat, faced the giant bear of a man who stood behind it and said, "Excuse me, could you tell me wh--" and that's when some old lady walked up next to me and was all I'm-old-so-fuck-you-and-your-question-I'm-just-going-to-loudly-shout-out-my-own-question-over-yours-and-you-can-just-fucking-deal-with-it, and I had to stand there with my embarrassing, partially asked question hanging in midair while Rude Old Lady was given step-by-step treasure map directions to the Cat Calendars, during which time I almost ran away, thinking that this was a sure sign from the universe that if I didn't leave right then and there, I would single handedly cause the apocalypse.</div>
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Since I was too horrified with myself to manage doing anything at this point, I found myself still standing in front of The Bear after Rude Old Lady creaked away and was forced to finish asking my question. </div>
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Much like the book "Wild" and the movie "Wild," this story ends very anticlimactically. The Bear walked me over to the Relationship section (where, I swear, I had looked at least four times) and effortlessly picked Strayed's piece of shit off the shelf. He was too busy mumbling things about Science Fiction to care about my particular book choice and seemed completely nonjudgmental about the whole ordeal. I thanked him and quickly walked away.</div>
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The cashier, too, gave exactly zero fucks about my book selection (though I did, admittedly, put it on the counter facedown). Upon receiving my receipt, I took the book, sans bag, and somehow refrained from sprinting out of the store.</div>
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And that's that. I bought the goddamned thing.</div>
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I did this for all of you.</div>
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You're welcome. </div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-30785198545671132752015-03-19T17:24:00.000-07:002015-08-29T02:50:46.480-07:00FUCK YEAH, BITCHES! LAST FUCKING REVIEW OF WILD!I just watched "Wild" for the last time and I'm so excited about the fact that I will never have to watch this movie again that I'm genuinely tempted to post this whole fucking review in caps.<br />
<br />
I will control myself.<br />
<br />
For now.<br />
<br />
Okay. Let's do this shit.<br />
<br />
<br />
We left off with the TYB worshipping Cheese and giving her the trail name she always wanted and blargh, fuck that noise.<br />
<br />
In my original notes-- when I had actually watched this piece of shit all the way through-- my writing was nearly illegible even to me because I'd been writing so fast and I ultimately had to go back and take more notes with every viewing, partially because my original notes made little sense to me. Today, before I started the last segment of the movie, I looked at my original notes and laughed aloud when I saw,<br />
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"Day 80. OMG, THE LLAMA."</div>
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I had forgotten what a treat I was in for.<br />
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Holy fuck. Here we go.<br />
<br />
So, Cheese is walking through the wilderness when BLAM, llama. What. The fuck. Nope.<br />
<br />
Anyway, because sure, pffffft, whatever, yeah! Llama! Happens all the time! Ask any hiker!<br />
<br />
As Cheese is making friends with the random llama, an old lady and a little boy show up out of nowhere and the old lady is all, "You got him, thanks," and I gotta admit, I was Full WTF even though I knew this was coming. This whole scene is just so random and crazy and weird and there's no chance in hell it ever really happened.<br />
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Old Lady and Little Boy introduce themselves as Vera and Kyle, respectively, and the llama's name is Shooting Star because that's totally what I would name a llama. Anyway, get ready for the creepiest fucking movie scene that isn't in a horror movie.<br />
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It's drizzling and miserable and Cheese asks Kyle, "Are you enjoying your hike today?" Creepiest fucking response ever, Kyle is all, <strike>yes I'm loving it what does your soul taste like</strike> "I'm having a wonderful time, thank you so much for asking," and I shift uncomfortably in my seat while wondering who the fuck was responsible for the casting in this movie (WAY TO FUCKING GO, DAVID RUBIN, THIS ISN'T FUCKING "CHILDREN OF THE CORN"). Little Damien says, "(mumble, gurgle) my grandmother is looking after me because I have some problems I'm not supposed to talk about with strangers," and holy fuck, how many dead bodies has this kid left in his wake.<br />
<br />
Vera and Cheese share a meaningful look after Kyle says this because <strike>it's creepy as fucking hell</strike> apparently Kyle has experienced some sort of traumatic experience <strike>when he murdered his family with his mind</strike> and Cheese tries to make everything better by saying, "Everybody has problems." The conversation goes downhill from there until the demon child offers to sing Cheese a song and this is what was happening on my end while this shit was going down:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Nothing about this is okay.</span></div>
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So, yeah, Kyle sings "Red River Valley" for Cheese and none of this is okay with me because I'm pretty sure that kid is the devil. Cheese finally walks away, only to fall to her knees and cry for no apparent reason. She looks up at the trees and says, "I miss you. God, I miss you," and I can't even. Not after what just went down. Satan? Do you miss Satan? I'm not touching this.</div>
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Suddenly, nighttime. Burning book pages.</div>
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HOLY SHIT, THIS IS IT, the big climax of the movie. I will warn you now: it's one of those climaxes that you either fake or force when you're with someone with whom you're really not that into and the climax ends up being even more disappointing than if you had opted to spend your evening alone at home watching cat videos on Youtube.</div>
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Get ready.</div>
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And let me tell you now that I had to watch this last scene MULTIPLE TIMES in order to ensure I could quote it correctly, so, you know, recognize, bitches.</div>
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Cheese reaches the Bridge of the Gods and cue voiceover:</div>
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"It took me years to be the woman my mother raised. It took me four years, seven months and three days to do it. *Without her.* After I lost myself in the wilderness and my grief, I found my own way out of the wilderness. And I didn't even know where I was going until I got there on the last day of my hike. 'Thank you,' I thought, over and over again, for everything the trail had taught me, and everything I couldn't yet know."</div>
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Notes: "OMFG KILL ME, OH GOD, BLARGH"</div>
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She says some crap about how she would eventually meet her husband and have two kids and I seriously can't even begin to pretend to care anymore--</div>
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Notes: "TOO MUCH OVERWROUGHT BULLSHIT, CAN'T TAKE IT, BRAIN SHUTTING DOWN"</div>
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--and then the voiceover continues.</div>
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"I knew only that I didn't need to reach with my hands anymore, that seeing the fish beneath the surface of the water was enough--" (notes read: she is looking at the sky at this point)-- "that it was everything." CGI FOX ON BRIDGE. "My life, like all lives, mysterious, irrevocable and sacred, so very close, so very present, so very belonging to me. How wild it was... to let it be."</div>
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SIMON AND GARFUNKEL, THE END.</div>
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FUCK THIS MOVIE RIGHT IN THE FACE.</div>
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Holy shit. It's over.</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-42180575874977075472015-03-18T10:03:00.003-07:002015-03-19T10:38:02.176-07:00Important NewsBeloved readers,<br />
<br />
If you've been following this blog from the start, you know that I only have one review left to write on the dumb fucking movie and then that will be the end of all my snark. This knowledge makes you sad. In fact, for some of you, this is downright devastating. I realized today that this makes me sad, too.<br />
<br />
After much thought, I've made what will probably end up being a very stupid decision.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm going to read and review "Tiny Beautiful Things," also by Cheryl Strayed.<br />
<br />
<br />
Before I tell you what that big bag of bullshit is about, I will allow all of you a long moment to squeal with delight, fist-pump, dance around the room, throw some confetti and high-five the nearest person.<br />
<br />
Go ahead. I know you're doing it. I'll wait.<br />
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God, it's like I have a death wish.</div>
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Cheryl Strayed had been *an advice columnist* for years before she... that's all I really need to say, isn't it. This stupid book is a collection of all the advice she's given over the years and it's just as horrifically terrible as you imagine. No matter what question the "reader" is asking (and I put "reader" in quotes because it has been widely speculated that Cheryl made up the questions herself), Cheryl responds by oversharing and making the whole thing about herself. It's awful. A reader could write in and ask, "My favorite ice-cream is chocolate! What's yours?" And Cheryl would respond with something like, "I WAS GANG-RAPED BY THREE DOZEN PANDAS WHEN I WAS 4 YEARS OLD..." and then maybe, several agonizing pages later, she might conclude with, "...and that's why I like strawberry."</div>
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It's going to be awesome. For you.</div>
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I might eventually commit suicide.</div>
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In conclusion, you may now look forward to something. The fun isn't ending. We're gonna keep this alive.</div>
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Hugs and kisses (and fuck Cheryl Strayed),</div>
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Califohioan</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-46138662240039328732015-03-17T13:55:00.000-07:002015-03-18T11:58:41.531-07:00The Dumb Fucking Movie Reveiw, Part SixUgh. <br />
<br />
I've been sick for the past four days and reviewing this stupid fucking movie is pretty much the last thing I feel like doing, but I'm going stir crazy and I need something to take my mind off of how shitty I feel. Be advised, I've been living off of nothing but tea, juice, Nyquil and popsicles for the past few days and I think my brain is starting to shut down. Watching this movie for the 87th time might just finish the job. <br />
<br />
This might kill me. Hope you're all enjoying yourselves.<br />
<br />
Okay. I'm gonna go watch this piece of shit YET AGAIN. If I survive, you'll have Part Six to enjoy.<br />
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WELL, AREN'T YOU ALL JUST THE LUCKIEST, LOOK WHO'S STILL ALIVE. I'm starting to suspect that I might be invincible (and yet, oddly, still susceptible to colds) because a mere mortal would have died a thousand deaths by now from attempting this. I AM YOUR GOD NOW.</div>
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I really shouldn't be trying to do this in my current state.</div>
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Let's get started.</div>
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Where were we. Ah, yes, Cheese was running away from the rapey hunters, and upon watching the tail end of that scene again, I notice there's a goddamned bear in the background as she's running away because why not. Fine. Whatever. Suddenly it's morning time...? Was she running all night? I don't care. It's early morning and it's super foggy and it's now Day 62 of Cheese's hike. Cheese reaches the Oregon border, attributes a Robert Frost quote to herself-- "But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep" (dated August 8, 1995)-- and encounters a field of grazing cattle. She walks through the field, approaches a cow and says in a sing-song voice, "Hello, Oregon cow!" and I fight the urge to throw my laptop out the window. </div>
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She's suddenly walking down the middle of a road-- and when I say "down the middle," I mean right smack down the goddamned middle of a road, like, directly on the double yellow lines-- and this had prompted me to scrawl, "THAT'S NOT HOW ROADS WORK," in my notes. She's in Ashland now and Jerry Garcia is dead. I have a couple problems with this. First of all, Jerry Garcia died on August NINTH, 1995, not the eighth, and <strike>let's give everyone the benefit of the doubt here</strike> what the fuck, IS IT REALLY SO FUCKING HARD TO DO A LITTLE FACT CHECKING? GOOGLE. IT'S A THING. This was either a lack of fact checking or a matter of terrible editing. Did they skip a scene or something? Either way, this movie blows. Anyway, it's whatever fucking day it is on her fake hike and Jerry Garcia is dead. Even if they just messed up on the date, I should point out that Jerry Garcia died at 4:23am on August 9th, and yet somehow every dirty, stinking hippie within 3,000 miles has managed to converge on Ashland by like 9am to have a bunch of love-ins on the street and pfffffffffft, I'm pretty sure in reality, not one of these yahoos would have even crawled out of bed that early even for some wake-and-bake, but okay, whatever. We all know what early-risers Deadheads are.</div>
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Cheese walks through town, stops at a produce stand, smells some fruit and manages not to steal anything. Then she goes into a store called "Moon Rising Gifts and Cosmetics" to abuse their make-up sample selection and even I'm confused because really, Cheese? The make-up saleslady comes over just as Cheese is smearing some lipstick on herself and says, "That shade looks nice on you!" Then she vomits in her mouth a little, steps back and says, "The nicest lipstick in the world can't help a girl if she doesn't take care of her personal hygiene," and Cheese is all Imma-get-right-on-that, and saleslady says, "I think it really needs to be a priority, sweetie." Oh, bullshit. Your job is to sell lipstick, asshole, not tell your customers that they stink. I don't believe this scene for a minute.</div>
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Cheese leaves the store with a Snapple and I wonder what kind of make-up store sells Snapple. She stands on the sidewalk drinking her stupid lemonade and a dude handing out fliers sees her. He's handing out fliers for a Jerry Garcia tribute concert and I once again marvel at the fact that Jerry Garcia has only been dead for like five hours at this point, yet BLAM. Fliers. Whatever. Don't care. Flier Guy comes over and we're given the cinematic gift of some classic, timeless dialogue:</div>
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Cheese: "Hey."</blockquote>
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Flier Guy gives Cheese a flier for the concert, and even though he's been randomly handing these out to goddamned everyone, he asks for Cheese's name so he can "put her on the list," and eat a bag of dicks. This is so stupid. Cheese is all shy, and here comes some more of that beautiful dialogue:<br />
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Flier Guy: "I don't bite."</blockquote>
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Cheese: "I don't mind biting."</blockquote>
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I'm just confused because Flier Guy isn't wearing a Wilco t-shirt. How are we supposed to know why Cheese likes him?<br />
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Suddenly Cheese is standing in front of a mirror in a hotel in Ashland. She's wearing only a black bra and panties and she's shaving her legs... in the sink? What the fuck, seriously. This is like how she washed her hair in the bathtub back in the motel in Mojave without, you know, getting into the shower. DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND HOW SHOWERS WORK? DO YOU NOT REALIZE THAT YOU CAN DO ALL SORTS OF THINGS *WHILE* YOU'RE IN THE SHOWER? LIKE WASH YOUR HAIR AND SHAVE YOUR LEGS? I write in my notes, "Does she understand how a toilet works? Does she take a crap next to the toilet and then cover it with a towel?"<br />
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Oh, christ. Anyway. She goes back to the makeup shop to put on more lipstick (my notes read, "Straight off the sample tube. Hello, herpes") and then there's a shot of her unhinging her jaw to stuff a giant hamburger into her mouth (notes: "glad you put that lipstick on"). She heads over to the club and it's totes awesome and stuff. Flier Guy shows up in the crowd out of nowhere (still not wearing a Wilco t-shirt) with a glass of wine and Cheese gets all swoony over him because of course she does.<br />
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Without warning, they're driving in Flier Guy's car and they're both laughing and oh my, how wonderful. They show up at his... tent... and then it's time to get undressed. Cheese is all covered in bruises and Flier Guy goes Full Lancelot and starts kissing her bruises and then SEXY TIME.<br />
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Paul flashback, and then Cheese is writing Paul's name in the sand outside of Flier Guy's tent, then she's wiping it away and we have to suffer through a voiceover of the letter Cheese has written to Paul.<br />
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"I woke up this morning and wrote your name in the sand. I've done that on every beach I've been on ever since I met you, but I'm not gonna do it again."</blockquote>
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Who gives a shit.<br />
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Then there's a shot of her setting the letter to Paul on fire and I wonder how painful it would be if I set myself on fire.<br />
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Back on the trail! RAIN! Oh my goodness, so much of it! It's like that driving, drizzling rain she talked about it the book! She reaches a Ranger Station and the Ranger is locking up and getting into his truck. Cheese is all, boo-hoo, look at poor little ol' me, wontcha please open back up so I can get my package, and Ranger Creepy says, "Okay, if you'll have a drink with me later," and I'm pretty sure that's not how Rangers work.<br />
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Upon entering the station, Ranger Creepy gets her package and says, "Here you go, good-lookin'," because of course he does. Then he attempts to sweep her off her feet by explaining his mixology expertise and this explanation includes the words "punch" and "bucket" so, whoa, watch out, Tom Cruise, looks like someone else is gonna take your role in the sequel to "Cocktail." Just as this is happening, THE THREE YOUNG BUCKS SHOW UP, OMG, and if you hadn't read the book, none of this would make any sense! <br />
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They stumble into the station from the driving, drizzling rain and immediately start worshipping Cheese--<br />
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"You're our hero!"</div>
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-- and this is when I write "FUCK OFF" about ten times all over my notes. The TYB have packages, too, and Ranger Creepy throws a little tantrum about how the station is closed and NO, I'M NOT GONNA GET YOUR PACKAGES, so Cheese is all, awww-c'mon-wontcha? So they get their packages and walk outside and there's a random horse standing in the middle of the rain and fuck this movie.<br />
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Cheese and the TYB all camp together for the night and two bottles of Jack Daniels appear. I suppress some vomit just at the thought and then they all start drinking the hell out of it. There's a super dumb conversation and I'm not gonna waste my time recounting it. Luckily, it starts raining again that that puts a stop to the conversation. And now it's time for another episode of "Let's See How Many Epileptics We Can Fuck With," brought to you by the producers of this piece of shit movie.<br />
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Brace yourselves for a crap-ton of flashbacks.<br />
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Cheese is in her tent.<br />
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Horse noises!<br />
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Reading poetry in the tent.<br />
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Mom! Mom's Horse!<br />
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Tent!<br />
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Horse!<br />
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Tent!<br />
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Mom in the hospital!<br />
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Horse!<br />
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Mom!<br />
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Leif pointing a gun at Mom's horse!<br />
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Blood dripping on the roof of the tent!<br />
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Gunshot!<br />
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Cheese barfs outside the tent!<br />
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Horse!<br />
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Barf!<br />
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WHAT THE HELL WAS ALL OF THAT.<br />
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Uuuuuuuggggggggggghhhhhhh, it's the next morning and Cheese calls Leif and pffffft, no she doesn't, but okay. She goes back to the campsite. As she's sitting with the TYB, Ranger Creepy shows up.<br />
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"Hey, good-lookin', brought you some coffee and a donut,"</div>
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and really? He shows up with coffee and a donut just for Cheese, but brings nothing for anyone else? Okay, sure, that sounds realistic. Before he leaves, he tells her to "come by for a refill" before she leaves and I HATE THIS MOVIE SO MUCH.<br />
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It's at this point when one of the TYB asks, "You got a trail name?" Cheese is all what's-that, and then GODFUCKINGDAMNIT she is given her official trail name: "The Queen on the PCT."<br />
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My notes read, "STUPID STUPID STUPID STUPID, GODDAMNIT, STOP PLAYING SIMON AND GARFUNKEL SONGS."<br />
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And that's all I can deal with today.Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-17939233909022767142015-03-12T16:49:00.000-07:002015-03-12T16:49:17.182-07:00The Stupid Fucking Movie, Part FiveI was having such a good day. I mean it, <em>such</em> a good day. I was up at 3:30, took a long shower, drove to the coast and spent a couple hours walking along the beach in the moonlight (if you've never watched the waves of the Pacific come crashing ashore in the moonlight, your life is missing something). Then I got to experience a marvelous sunrise-- the sky turned pink and the waves became ice blue-- and it was peaceful and magnificent and I felt nothing but gratitude for the simple fact that I was alive. I walked a few more hours as the world woke up and finished my walk before noon.<br />
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Such a good day.<br />
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Then I got home and remembered what I had to do today, and nothing can take a dump on a perfect day more than having to write about goddamned Cheryl Strayed and her stupid fucking movie.<br />
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I HATE THIS SO MUCH.</div>
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Goddamnit, where were we. Cheese was throwing a big fit about that poster I like. Right. Then, M. Night Shyamalan apparently had a 5-second directorial guest spot because when Cheese walks out into the hallway, her mom is standing smack in the middle of it, all dead and stuff, and what the fuck is this about.</div>
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Don't think the flashbacks suddenly stopped in the previous twenty minutes of the film. THEY CONTINUE.</div>
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(I think I forgot to mention that Cheryl Strayed's very own daughter plays Young Cheese in the movie. She does. My bad.)</div>
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OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH, CHRIST, random flashback to Cheese's childhood and without warning, her dad is threatening to give Young Cheese a knuckle sandwich and I'm so confused. Back to the trail and Cheese whispers, "knuckle sandwich," and then flashback, Cheese's mom packs up the kids and leaves, trail again, flashback again, trail, flashback in which Cheese's mom returns to the house and Big Bad Dad is there making eggs and bacon for everyone and this movie is so awful.</div>
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THIS MOVIE IS SO AWFUL.</div>
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Back to the trail, and this time Cheese is attributing a Flannery O'Connor quote to herself, something about new shoes and I don't even care at this point.</div>
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FLASHBACK AGAIN, I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE IT, and Cheese is scattering her mother's ashes, and then stuffs some large chunks of her mom's bones into her mouth and I loudly exhale, "OOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH," as Cheese munches on her mom's bones. THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE THAN THE BOOK.</div>
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Oh, god, heroin flashback time.</div>
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FUCK THIS MOVIE RIGHT IN THE FACE. You know what? I *love* bad movies. Like, movies that are so bad that they're fucking wonderful. If I had to review the movie "The Day After Tomorrow," I would be so excited to do so that I would call in sick to work just so I could do it because that movie is so magnificently horrible that it's unbelievably entertaining and I would love every minute of tearing it apart. THIS MOVIE IS A STEAMING PILE OF CRAP CAIRN. I hate this movie so much. GODDAMNIT, SO MUCH.</div>
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Oh, fuck me, heroin time.</div>
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Cheese is with Joe and they're doing heroin and blah blah blah and then he finally injects heroin into Cheese's ankle as Cheese's voiceover says, "we were never gonna shoot it," and then suddenly Cheese is sitting on the street while some dude (Joe?) is dancing badly in front of her to the song "More more more (how do you like it)" and Cheese is all cracked out and out of it and fucking please. I was rolling my eyes too violently to catch how suddenly some dude was putting a knife to her throat and stealing all of her bits of money, but I caught up just in time for Cheese to give him the finger as he walked away (Yeah! That'll learn 'im!) and BLAM back on the trail and she gives the finger to... I don't even know.</div>
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Flashback time again because of course, and Paul shows up to rescue Cheese from her big heroin disaster. Since everything was so fucking stupid, let's just refer to my notes for what happened next:</div>
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"CAR FIGHT!"</div>
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"Paul is mad!" </div>
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And that's that. TRAIL TIME AGAIN!<br />
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Cheese is drinking water and she doesn't have much left (let's remember how the dude at the store warned her about water in the next stretch), but she drinks even more and then I STAB MYSELF IN THE FACE REPEATEDLY because she takes the remaining water in her bottle AND POURS IT ALL OVER HER HEAD AND OMFG OMFG OMFG OMFG ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, HOW STUPID CAN SOMEONE BE, OH MY GOD, DON'T MAKE ME DO IT, OH GOD, IT'S GONNA HAPPEN--<br />
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Too late. That happened.</div>
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HOW FUCKING STUPID CAN YOU BE, I CAN'T EVEN BEGI--</div>
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Oh, fuck it.</div>
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Cheese reaches the next potential water source and of course it's empty. Cheese flips through her guidebook and then she is suddenly lying in her tent and I don't know how any of this made any sense to anyone who saw the movie but neglected to read the book. Fuck me, I READ THE BOOK AND GOD HELP ME, I HAVE IT MEMORIZED AT THIS POINT, and the movie still confuses me to no end. I can't even imagine how confused non-readers must have felt.</div>
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Oh, jesus, I guess it's morning-time and Cheese is frantically licking the condensation off of her tent and pffffffffffft, nice touch, Hornsby. </div>
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I guess it's Day 58 now and Cheese rubs some random shrubbery into her hands and inhales like an insane person and whatever, who cares, this adds nothing to anything.</div>
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OMG, SO THIRSTY, and suddenly a mucky puddle appears, so Cheese gets out her water purifier and pumps a bunch of sludge. She pops in her iodine pills and the voiceover lets us know that it will take 30 minutes for the water to be safe and goddamnit, here come the rapey hunters.</div>
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I just literally smacked myself super hard in the face with both hands. I regret doing this. My face hurts as much as my brain does now.</div>
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Hunters are thirsty and Cheese tells them that she can give them water as long as it's filtered first and I can't even bother with how stupid this scene is, but she offers to pump them some water as long as they have something she can pump it into. In the book, Rapey Hunters had Pepsi cans, but I guess Hornsby didn't feel as threatened by Pepsi-drinkers as Cheese did, so they have *beer* cans in the movie because that makes it rapey-er. Also, Redhead Tall (who is not a redhead, nor is he noticeably tall in the movie) ALSO *SMOKES CIGARETTES* AND HOLY SHIT, YOU KNOW HE'S EVIL NOW. Non-Redhead-Tall says, "How can we kill the time?" and Sandy says, "I can think of some ways," and I wonder what a doctor would say about me rolling my eyes so violently like this. I don't feel like it's healthy. Sandy says, "She's got a real nice figure, doesn't she?" and all I can think is CANKLES CANKLES CANKLES, YOU FUCKING WISH IT WERE REESE OUT THERE and I will see all of you in hell, if it exists. I'll be the one trapped in a cage with Cheryl Strayed and a bunch of spiders.</div>
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Goddamnit, Rapey McRapersons finally pack up and leave when Cheese starts packing up and whew, that was close. Cheese goes back and starts settling in for the night and then BLAM Sandy returns to say things like, "You tricked us," and "I like your pants," and "they look good on you," and "they show off your hips and legs," and "tight little ass," and are you fucking kidding me, no one talks like this, especially about Cheryl "Cankles" Strayed and fuck this stupid bullshit.</div>
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Non-Redhead-Tall shouts out from the woods and Little-Guy Sandy finally leaves, but Cheese goes Full Cheese and *runs* through the wilderness with her 80-pound pack and, pfffffffft, I'm done for today.</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-25426058308903758192015-03-11T12:57:00.000-07:002015-03-11T12:57:48.819-07:00T-Shirt Contest: The Winners!Okay, I left voting open for a week and that's long enough for me. Thanks to all of you who voted-- I love how most of you decided to send me your votes all secret-like. 'Merica!<br />
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I know that I said there would only be one winner, but there are two because I make the rules and get to change them whenever I want.<br />
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Winner By Popular Vote:<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">TORI!</span></div>
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"I don't always hike the PCT, but when I do, I don't."</div>
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Winner by my vote (and also a close second in the Popular Vote):</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Mercer!</span></div>
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"My daughter is sort of a hair cutting expert."</div>
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Congratulations to our two winners. You may now gloat and gloat and gloat. As soon as I receive the sizes of our winners, I will immediately order and send out two totally fucking awesome Sacred Bob Marley T-Shirts and two bottles of Snapple Lemonade autographed by yours truly. I'm hoping that Tori and Mercer will be so kind as to send me photos of them wearing their totally fucking awesome t-shirts so I can post them on here as an update.</div>
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Thanks to everyone who played; you guys are a riot.</div>
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(I haven't forgotten that I still have the rest of the stupid movie to review. I was hoping that maybe the contest would distract you for a little while.)</div>
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Until next time, friends.</div>
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Califohioan</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-23042726069752171942015-03-04T17:45:00.002-08:002015-03-04T17:45:52.883-08:00T-Shirt Contest: All of the Entries!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Holy shit, you guys. Well done.</div>
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I'll admit it, I definitely have a few favorites out of all of these, but because I want to be as diplomatic about this as possible, I want your help to pick the winner. I will now post every single entry and you can cast your vote. You can definitely vote more than once-- and I encourage this-- by picking your favorite caption for *each* photo. Just don't pick one caption and then vote for it a million times because I will ignore your votes and then make fun of you for picking one caption a million times. This isn't a government-regulated contest; I get to make my own rules and my rules state that I can be a douchebag. Truth be told, I already have a winner in my mind (because let's remember, the contest was to see who could make *me* laugh the hardest), but I'm admittedly torn between an handful of these and that's where you all come in.</div>
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I've tried to label things in the easiest way possible. 1a, 1b, 1c, etc. 2a, 2b, 2c, etc. When placing your vote, please, for the love of Cheese, <em>vote using these labels</em>. I'm not a wizard.</div>
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As always, you may vote either in the comment section or by email. Go to town, you magnificent people.</div>
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1.</div>
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1a) Woman overcomes fetal alcohol syndrome, uses Oscar stage pass to impress then sleep with best boy grip named Scooter.<br />
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1b) "My necklace represents the 72 rattlesnakes I almost stepped on when I was on the PCT!" <br />
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1c) "My daughter is sort of a hair cutting expert."<br />
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1d) Hope no notices this little twerp behind me hiked more than I did.<br />
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1e) "In thy foul throat thou liest" -- WS<br />
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1f) hope no one notices that the movie poster and book cover behind me shows rabbit brush blooming in the fall near Ridgecrest, but I was there in the spring.<br />
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2.</div>
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2a) "Turtle goes out, turtle goes in. Turtle goes out, turtle goes in."</div>
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2b) Reese: "Aww, look at da cute kitty!"</div>
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Cheryl: "cow cow cow"</div>
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2c) Reese: Fuck it, Cheryl, a rattlesnake!</div>
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Cheryl: Okay, if you hold the head.</div>
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2d) Shit, I forgot I didn't want to wear this dress tonight... I'm totally planning on wearing it to the Golden Globes. Maybe nobody will notice me. Oh, my god, do you think they won't notice me? They *have* to notice me. Don't they? Maybe if this fucking bitch would stop hogging all the questions. C'mon... notice me. Notice me, guys. NOTICE ME!</div>
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2e) "I look amazing, as usual, and Poon shows up drunk in her pajamas. That bitch is ruining my life!" <br />(*Poon = Cheese's personal nickname for Reese WithersPOON that she claims outwardly is cute and quirky but knows full well that it's an offensive, petulant, jealous dig.)</div>
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2f) Got the mustard. Got the ketchup. Let's make a CHEESEburger!</div>
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3a) Reese: "wow" Cheryl: "wow" Reese: "wow" Cheryl: "wow"</div>
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3b) Coming this summer: Pokeholes and Bareback, two unusual detectives who are also whores.</div>
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3c) Reese: Cheryl, are you touching my pudendum? Cheryl: That's "PUDENDA".</div>
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3d) "Travel Oregon" -- one way or the other.</div>
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3e) CHEESE!</div>
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3f) Look... see.... if I stretch my smile out a little to the side like this, I have this totally adorable dimple like Jennifer Lawrence. She's so pretty and great and popular. Her dimple is totally fake, though. Mine's completely real. I hate Jennifer Lawrence.</div>
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4a) Cheryl: I love you SO much I could eat your bones right now.</div>
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Reese: I had BETTER get a fucking Oscar for this shit.</div>
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4b) I'm glad you're not dead like my dead mom. Or her dead horse. Or your dead career.</div>
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4c) Seldom-Seen and Thought Of As Fictional, The One-Eyed, One-Horned Flying Purple People-Eater Engulfs A Small Blonde Woman And Prepares To Devour Her Prey. </div>
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4d) Cheryl: Ouch! What was that? Reese: My soft, knowing dagger in your back...</div>
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4e) Midwestern farm girls shouldn't wear magenta.</div>
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4f) Thought bubble from Reese's cute little head: It's moments like this that I wish I had listened to my agent and auditioned for the part of Llama Boy.</div>
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4g) Cheryl makes a cameo in the profoundly dramatic "Bigfoot Rape" scene.</div>
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4h) This Valentine's Day, tell her just how much you're barely tolerating her by making it completely obvious how grossed out you are to touch her.</div>
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4i) Reese: "If this bitch ruins my hair on show night, I will CUT her!"</div>
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4j) "Careful of my left breast. It's hangin' a little low tonight."</div>
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4k) Reese: For fuck's sake, lay off the Snapple and Doritos, it's not like you're an actual hiker. </div>
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5.</div>
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5a) I disarmed these little land mines that I found in the middle of a coiled rattlesnake on the PCT. </div>
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5b) out of modesty, I don't show my perfect teeth in one out of ten photographs (two, if you want to be an asshole about it).</div>
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5c) He just came in my mouth a little.</div>
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5d) I just heard that Califohioan was going to review the audiobook version of "Wild"</div>
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5e) (in an oozing, condescending tone) "'Califohioan?' Oh please. You clearly stole that from me. That one guy in the book that I describe completely vaguely so no one can ever figure out how who I claim to be hiking with gave me that nickname on mile 7,528 of the PCT because I am the only woman ever to conquer California and Ohio on the same day. You're such a poser."</div>
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6a) Is that a Snapple in your pocket??? Cuz I would totes bone you and drink that Snapple.</div>
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6b) "Help me out, here. Which of these eyeliners make me look less ripped?"</div>
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6c) Oh, don't mind me... I just had my first whole beer I've ever drunk in my life just now backstage!</div>
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7.</div>
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7a) One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn't belong.</div>
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7b) Cheryl: " I could totally eat the two of you up! No, seriously, I could polish off the both of you in like 15 minutes. I've done it before" </div>
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8.</div>
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8a) Cheryl: We're getting lucky tonight, Reesey-buddy! These guys totally want us. Reese: Whataya mean "we," Starved?</div>
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8b) Cheryl (to Reese): My neck gets sore like that, too, when I put too many bones in my mouth in one day. We'll just find a Swiss hippie girl to rub some oil on it and it will feel much better.</div>
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8c) Come on Reese, I finished the worthless book, you can finish the worthless movie.</div>
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8d) "Are we having fun yet?!"</div>
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8e) "Did you see that sound man I just banged on the break? His penis was so small but I just ate and ate and ate it!"</div>
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9.</div>
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9a) Cheryl: I'm an EXPERT hiker and navigationalist! The exit is thattaway!!! Reese: (in stage whisper) Stop embarrassing me you fat sow, it's over there!</div>
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9b) We were pointing and pointing and pointing...</div>
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9c) Cheryl: I fucked him & him & him. Oh, I gave him a BJ. Reese: Him, too?</div>
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9d) Cheryl: I just shook George Clooney's hand with organic vaginal sponge juice all over my finger!<br />Reese: Kewl! So did I!</div>
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9e) Okay, on the count of three, which way is the PCT?</div>
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9f) We snowed you and you and you and you.....</div>
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9g) #9>, <#9 <span style="color: #990000;">(I am baffled by this entry, but in fairness, I'm including it)</span></div>
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10.</div>
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10a) Dazzleteeth ©®™ Cheryl's way of making sure people focus on her and not on how much taller, thinner and more attractive Laura Dern is than her.</div>
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10b) Dazzleteeth ©®™ If you smile enough, people will be blinded to your lies</div>
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10c) Cheryl: OMG this bitch is crazier than I am! Laura: OMG this bitch is crazier than I am! Dude in the background: Who fucking stole the condom out of my wallet?</div>
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10d) Cheryl: I loved your father in Nebraska.<br />Laura: Wasn't he great in that movie? He was nominated for an Academy Award.<br />Cheryl: What movie? I was just bragging that I fucked him last time I was in Omaha.</div>
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10e) "The trees were tall, but Laura Dern was taller."</div>
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10f) Cheryl: Oh my skin looks so bad under these harsh lights! They'll see every bump and clogged pore!<br />Laura: Don't worry, the photographer will "Cheryl Strayed" the picture in Photoshop.</div>
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Victoria (Tori, the guest blogger), ignored the rules and left all of these comments in no particular order because FUCK, YEAH, TORI! FUCK RULES! I will now label them accordingly because hell yes, I will:</div>
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V1) Pic of Cheryl: "Yellow blazing since 1996"<br /><br />V2) "Got abortion flakes?"<br /><br />V3) "Got condoms?"<br /><br />V4) Pic of Smokey the Bear: "only you can prevent hiking the $trayed way."<br /><br />V5) A Photoshop of Cheryl waking up, ala Godfather, in a bed with a horse head.<br /><br />V6) "Are you there, Bob? It's me, Cheryl."<br /><br />V7) "Condoms? Check.<br />Abortion flakes? Check.<br />Profound stupidity? Check.<br />Hiking the $trayed way!"<br /><br />V8) "cow. Cow. COW"<br /><br />V9) "If a boot falls off a cliff on the PCT and no one was there hear it, does it make a best seller?"<br /><br />V10) "You had me at Snapple"<br /><br />V11) "Vote for Paco!"<br /><br />V12) "I don't always do peyote, but when I do, it's in the back of a sketchy milk truck"<br /><br />V13)</div>
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"Stupid<br />Trail<br />Rookie<br />Ate<br />Your<br />Engorged<br />Dick" - use the first letter of each word<br /><br />V14) "Hasty abortion? $200<br />Poorly fitted hiking boots? $129<br />PCT Guidebook? $19.99<br />Putting your fucktardary in print and on film? Priceless."<br /><br />V15) "Cheryl $trayed: keeping it real since 199?...oh! Why start now?"<br /><br />V16) "I don't always hike the PCT, but when I do, I don't."<br /><br />V17) Pic of a small Fox. "Mom?" </div>
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Also, I will include an unofficial entry from a friend of mine who didn't want to join:</div>
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Unofficial) "I wanna join in, but I'm so bad at it! All I can come up with is, 'I'm Cheryl and I'm real dumb. Arrrgggg!' I don't think I'll win."</div>
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Okay, everybody. Those are your choices. Help me out.</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-71198467183191969692015-03-02T19:47:00.000-08:002015-08-29T02:32:16.656-07:00(For Real) Part Four of the Movie Review: This is What I Do For You PeopleAfter several very long, painful attempts, I finally got the movie to play all the way through to the part I need to review next. My computer shut down 6 times, plus the one time it stopped working JUST as I got to the second hour and I had to start all over again. Somebody needs to make and send me a fake Pulitzer Prize for this. I will treasure it. Also, I may need a new laptop. Just sayin'.<br />
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Before we waste more of our lives on this dumb fucking movie, let me tell you all something. I love movies. When I find a movie I truly enjoy (which is rare), I will watch it repeatedly to the point where it borders on insanity. I'm one of <em>those</em> people. Even if I find a movie that is only mildly entertaining, I'll still watch it a handful of times (handful= infinite number of times; I'm insane). In fact, since I'm being honest, even if I <em>hate</em> a movie, I'll still watch it at least twice just to make sure it's as bad as I thought it was because sometimes I find that I was just in a bad mood and end up enjoying it the second time (99 times out of 100, it just ends up being a terrible movie). That said, if forced, I could recite many, many movies from start to finish (but I don't and I won't because that's dumb and annoying and I like to keep my crazy to myself). I love it when someone can cleverly insert a movie quote into conversation and I, too, do it on occasion. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those assholes who feels the need to quote movies left and right until it's obnoxious and you sorta want to punch said asshole in the face and scream, "SAY SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR A CHANGE, YOU FUCKTARD," because we all know somebody like that. But to quote the perfect line from something at just the right moment? That's priceless-- unless you're with someone who has never seen the movie you're quoting and has no fucking idea what you're talking about. Those people blow. It's like how my boss has no idea why I shout, "I'm right on top of that, Rose!" whenever she tells me to do something impossible.<br />
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Forgive me, I'm starting to ramble. The point of all this is that I HATE THIS FUCKING MOVIE, BUT BECAUSE I'VE BEEN FORCED TO WATCH THE FIRST HOUR OF IT ABOUT 18,000 TIMES NOW, *I CAN QUOTE THIS MOVIE* AND I WANT TO DECAPITATE MYSELF DUE TO THIS. I wish I knew just the right angle to slam my head into a wall in order to murder the brain cells responsible for remembering lines from this piece of shit. There aren't even any good fucking lines from it. I can't imagine any future conversation I could have with anyone about anything when "I love cold mush" or "I'll bypass anything" would come into play. Here's the thing-- I promised I would review this movie and I like to keep my promises. That said, I kinda hate all of you for fucking with my brain cells.<br />
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Fuck this movie right in the face.<br />
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And now, the fourth twenty minutes of this stupid fucking piece of garbage waste of film. You're welcome for nothing. NOTHING, because this movie is a complete waste of time.<br />
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The second hour of the movie starts with Cheese sitting outside of her tent while eating hot mush and the very first thing I had scrawled in my notebook was, "Who fucking chews a spoon," because anytime Cheese is eating anything, it sounds like she's fucking scraping the flatware all over her goddamned teeth and it's like nails on a chalkboard. Anyway, Cheese is failing at eating and then OMG WTF IS THAT! No, really, <em>what the fuck IS that</em>? (Notes: "CGI fox. Dumb. Couldn't they get a real one?") So, yeah, this pathetically fake-looking CGI fox is outside Cheese's tent and I AM SO DISTRACTED BECAUSE IT LOOKS SO FAKE AND DUMB, but STFU, me! *This is totally real.* Cheese stops scraping her teeth against a spoon long enough to see the dumb CGI fox and yells, "Come back," at it three times and then tries to chase it through the snow but gives up after about five footsteps because, meh. Snow.<br />
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Be advised, the next twenty minutes of this movie are comprised of trail-flashback-trail-flashback-trail-flashback and if you know anyone with epilepsy, I would suggest that you strongly discourage them from seeing this movie because it would be like the equivalent of throwing them into a room with a strobe light; seizures will be inevitable. I do not have epilepsy and I started twitching after a few minutes. THERE ARE HEALTH REASONS FOR NOT WATCHING THIS.<br />
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Oh, god. Let's get started.<br />
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Where were we? CGI Fox? Right. Okay, well, now we're in the hospital and Cheese's mom is totally dying. Cheese tells her that she'll be back in the morning and Laura Dern is doing such an amazing job at acting like a dying person that even I would have stayed in the room for the night, but Cheese is all catch-ya-later, gonna-go! She leaves the room and when a nurse tries to be sympathetic and caring, Cheese goes Full Asshole on the nurse-- "the doctor said it would be a year; it's been one fucking month"-- as if this is somehow the nurse's fault. You'd think that they would have tried to make Cheese's character more likeable/relatable in the movie, but...no. Still a giant asshole.<br />
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Cheese is walking through some St. Patty's Day festivities after leaving the hospital and how dare anyone on earth have the balls to have a good time when Cheese is suffering!<br />
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BLAM, back on the trail and Cheese says, "Go to hell, all you saints," and I'm so confused, that would have made more sense in the flashback...? Anyway, Trail Time for a minute, and Cheese sees a trail marker for the PCT. She says, "Thank you, god, for showing me the way," then smacks the shit out of the trail marker and finishes her thought with, "As if he gives a shit...god is a ruthless bitch," and I have no fucking idea who this is supposed to appeal to at this point. Pretty much everyone in the audience is either exasperated or offended.<br />
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Flashback time again! Cheese is mad at Leif-- "Where the fuck have you been!" Leif acts like a big pussy-- "She can't die!" and Cheese is <em>so strong</em>! Now it's brother+sister time in bed and I crumple my face up into a "that's gross, I'm uncomfortable" expression, and then Cheese decides to pray. Leif laughs. I look around the room for things to impale myself upon. Cheese says (prays?), "I want a miracle. A FUCKING MIRACLE." Now, I'm an atheist, but I was brought up in a very strict Catholic home, so I'm painfully familiar with praying and I'm positive that demanding, "I want a miracle, a fucking miracle," is not how praying works. If it worked that way, all of my wishes would have come true by now. Anyway, Cheese doesn't understand how praying works and I can't even believe it.<br />
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Trail Time! Cheese sings to herself.<br />
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Flashback Time! Cheese and Leif are in a car.<br />
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Trail Time!<br />
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Flashback Time! Hospital!<br />
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Flashback Time Even More! Childhood!<br />
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Flashback Time! Hospital!<br />
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Trail Time!<br />
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Flashback Time! Hospital! OMG MOM IS DEAD AND THERE ARE ICE BAGS ON HER EYES!<br />
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Trail Time! Boot flies off cliff, Cheese screams and screams and screams.<br />
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*CAN'T KEEP UP WITH ALL THE FLASHBACKS, SEIZURES HAPPENING*</div>
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Ice on her mom's eyes!</div>
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Heroin happening!</div>
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Trail! </div>
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Hospital!</div>
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Trail!</div>
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Oh, god, I think we're safe, she's back on the trail. Cue duct tape sandals. CGI fox shows up again and Cheese spits out, "What the fuck do you want," before putting more duct tape on her sandals and oh my god, I'm just so relieved that all the flashbacks are ov---</div>
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FLASHBACK!</div>
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Hotel bar, hotel room with a stranger!</div>
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Trail!</div>
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Flashback, getting plowed from behind in the hotel!</div>
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Trail!</div>
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Flashback! She's a waitress, has two men at her table, suddenly, she's fucking both of them in an alley! AND her mom walks by while she's doing it because why the hell not!</div>
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Trail!</div>
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Flashback! Heroin! Because sure!</div>
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Trail! Holy shit, her mom is stalking her in the woods! Psychopath! Seek help!</div>
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OH MY FUCKING GOD, THIS MOVIE IS THE WORST PIECE OF SHIT I HAVE EVER SEEN.</div>
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Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh, just when we think the flashbacks are over-- Cheese is crossing a super big creek and *she nails it*-- GODDAMNIT, FLASHBACK!</div>
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Her mom is singing and being happy and trying to be positive and optimistic and Young Cheese acts like a giant douchebag. Young Cheese points out the fact that *they're poor* and omg, apparently that's the end of the world in Cheese's mind, but her mom stays positive and says that they're "rich in love" and Young Cheese goes Full Asshole, points out a bunch of shit that has gone wrong and spits out, "What part of it do you not get?" because Cheese is clearly such a loving, understanding, inspirational person. WHAT THE FUCK. EVEN THE SCREENWRITER COULDN'T MAKE HER LIKEABLE. SHE IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE. Mom relents and tells Cheese to find "her best self" and Cheese says to her mom-- direct quote-- "<em>This</em> is your best self?' HOW DID EVERYONE, EVERYWHERE NOT WALK OUT OF THE THEATER AT THIS POINT. Mom ignores the fact that her daughter is a giant douchebag and stays all smiley and thank fucking god, flashback over.</div>
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My notes at this point read, "Trail, barely." I feel like I should point out that the breathtaking beauty of the PCT is nothing more than a background extra in this movie (a movie that is supposedly about the PCT). We, the audience, only get seconds of the trail because anytime the beauty of the trail is shown, WE'RE IMMEDIATELY FORCED INTO CHEESE-LAND and I am so angry right now. Cheryl-- not Cheese-- but CHERYL is so obsessed with herself that the PCT is nothing more than non-important scenery. IT'S ALL ABOUT CHERYL. Fuck this movie and fuck Cheryl Strayed.</div>
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Uuuuuuuugh, she reaches a town, picks up a package and inexplicably decides not to buy some Snapple-- like, that's in the movie, she brings Snapple up to the counter and then doesn't buy it and it's very confusing-- and then, I shit you not, some kids with Down's Syndrome laugh at her duct-taped sandals and................. I just got nothing. I've gone mentally numb at this point, but I think I may have almost smiled about this. </div>
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She gets her dumb resupply package and a letter from Paul-- he's so proud that she's hiked "600 miles" and NO SHE FUCKING DIDN'T, REMEMBER THE 450-MILE BUS RIDE? How is Paul's letter already there? I don't care. I don't care about any of this. Anyway, Paul says in the letter, "I miss you," and I start Googling ways to commit suicide.</div>
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Dude at the store (?) warns Cheese about the lack of water on the next stretch of the trail and Cheese is all pfffffft-whatever and then OMG GIRL HIKER WALKS INTO THE STORE! Cheese says-- I shit you not-- "You're a woman!" Goddamnit. This movie is such a piece of shit. Anyway, yeah, it's Stacey of The Tiny Backpack and suddenly they're BFFs and sitting on a cliff while enjoying the sunset.</div>
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Stacey tells Cheese that Greg quit the trail because he "couldn't deal with the snow" and I can't even deal with this at this point. Cheese responds with, "Greg quit and I'm still here? Cheers to that," and then they clink bottles of who-gives-a-shit. Stacey tries to make it weird: "Do you get lonely?" and goddamnit. Look. I'm gay, I always have been, and with the exception of my time in the Army, I've been openly gay for 20 years now and at this point in the movie, even I was like, "Um, this is pretty gay." *NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT* But still, it was pretty gay and just...weird. Yeah, anyway, no, Cheese doesn't get lonely because she's Cheese, but she makes it weird, too, by saying that her mom was the love of her life and I can't find the appropriate GIF to match the expression on my face right now. Just... no. Nothing is right about that. I'm shaking my head back and forth with a very pained "no, just no" expression. Not okay.</div>
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To make matters worse, Cheese says something about how her mom told her to "put yourself in the way of beauty," and Stacey says, "My kind of woman," and I cringe uncomfortably in my seat.</div>
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Really. Again. Me= totally gay and totally fine with being gay, still= uncomfortable with this scene.</div>
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Ugh.</div>
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Suddenly,</div>
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THERAPY FLASHBACK!</div>
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Cheese is meeting with a therapist and she's wearing a leather jacket and chewing gum because I guess she saw "Grease" when she was younger and equates leather jackets and gum with TOTALLY HARDCORE DRUG ADDICTS and jesus christ, this is so awful.</div>
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There's a poster on the wall and Cheese throws a fit about it. Here's the poster she finds so offensive:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrnVobSSK6IA1hG7ngiRdfwA24jfrE2Sr8ZtDUDXhT25n9KCZ8apP6NOMkAFBjTvg0nf05UY5ihuozabnGM8VduOiDf0VSAaUJT2pyapKPP4Squm9Dpea4yD28FR5J_jaWvlz_H9fL_4/s1600/youarehere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrnVobSSK6IA1hG7ngiRdfwA24jfrE2Sr8ZtDUDXhT25n9KCZ8apP6NOMkAFBjTvg0nf05UY5ihuozabnGM8VduOiDf0VSAaUJT2pyapKPP4Squm9Dpea4yD28FR5J_jaWvlz_H9fL_4/s1600/youarehere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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She says that she "fucking hates" that poster and demands from the therapist, "Why would you ever want to teach a child they don't matter," and this is possibly the most defining example of <strike>Cheese's </strike>Cheryl's narcissism.</div>
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I FUCKING LOVE THAT POSTER. I find comfort in it. It reminds me that my problems are inconsequential as far as life and time in the universe are concerned. It nudges me in the ribs whenever I'm getting a tad too big for my britches. It humbles me, it makes me smile and it allows me a breath of relief. NOT CHERYL. SHE'S OFFENDED BY IT BECAUSE SHE IS THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE.</div>
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I can't stand this woman.</div>
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Anyway, to really punctuate what I just stated, Cheese finishes the scene by saying, "<em>I know I mattered</em>," and then storms out of the room.</div>
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I have to stop for today. I can't deal with this asshole for one more minute.</div>
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<span style="color: #990000;">***Update***</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;">Since some of you have asked, here are a couple pictures of my parents (taken well before they were married).</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtLNkxEKfF3G_Tc8_EKTEtCNH5Db1HTQmvVnRJGTlgMsUbt1jsnWLA8mQQXH4CWV0LZK0OD22_g3SE8jKiLvaQPzI7e-_Zhhx-3zNPyiJMKcq5FcbKKNiDvb4Dtyunny48igSvGf-L0Q/s1600/momnun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtLNkxEKfF3G_Tc8_EKTEtCNH5Db1HTQmvVnRJGTlgMsUbt1jsnWLA8mQQXH4CWV0LZK0OD22_g3SE8jKiLvaQPzI7e-_Zhhx-3zNPyiJMKcq5FcbKKNiDvb4Dtyunny48igSvGf-L0Q/s1600/momnun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGahGDQApKIYEfZGOgHXMA11UzgL9vcpER3vfX8e2jbbL-oU5AN7r75vtj_XJh21-PmxUHVa42Lo6VmwmxhsK51gzYzoU-QzGCZlUt2d9bJGuKyLqCL73QC0q0cis0lArilaPTVCeZ4o0/s1600/papa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGahGDQApKIYEfZGOgHXMA11UzgL9vcpER3vfX8e2jbbL-oU5AN7r75vtj_XJh21-PmxUHVa42Lo6VmwmxhsK51gzYzoU-QzGCZlUt2d9bJGuKyLqCL73QC0q0cis0lArilaPTVCeZ4o0/s1600/papa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;">Yes, those are my parents. Whenever I show these pictures to people, they ask, "Is that you on your mom's lap?" and I have to take a deep breath and explain, "No...first of all, that's a boy... also, that picture was taken in the sixties and I'm not that old. One last thing: Catholic nuns can't have children and stuff due to that whole celibacy thing, so... no." That was one of her students (both of my parents were teachers).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;">Also, shout-out to my big sister for clearing things up for me-- our father died when I was eight years old (I somehow managed to avoid becoming a heroin-addicted 8-year-old whore despite this) and my memory of him/knowledge of him is very limited-- but it turns out that he was not, in fact, a "priest." He was something called a "Marianist Brother" and I have no idea what the hell that means, other than that it sounds like he was a puppet (I don't understand how Catholicism works). Whatever. Always looked like a priest to me. I was TOTES WRONG. High-five to my sister for clarifying! My bad for not knowing what the hell my dad was!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;">Anyway, there you go, everybody. Sister Wilma and Brother Tony. I am their daughter: God's punishment. </span></div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-23257984130474724232015-02-28T18:40:00.000-08:002015-02-28T18:40:39.234-08:00MOVIE REVIEW PART FOUR EXCEPT NOTTHIS ENTIRE POST WILL BE IN CAPS.<br />
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FUCK THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT FUCKING MOVIE LINK I'VE BEEN USING.<br />
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I REFUSE TO PLAY THIS STUPID FUCKNG MOVIE ONE MORE GODDAMNED TIME. I SPENT THE PAST HOUR DOING SOMETHING ELSE SO I WOULDN'T HAVE TO WATCH THIS SHIT AGAIN AND JUST AS I GOT TO THE PART OF THE MOVIE I NEED TO REVIEW NEXT, MY PHONE RANG AND I HAD THE AUDACITY TO HIT 'PAUSE' ON THE MOVIE. GUESS FUCKING WHAT, MY COMPUTER DECIDED TO THREATEN SUICIDE AND I HAD TO SHUT IT DOWN, ALL BECAUSE I HIT 'PAUSE,' AND THIS HAS HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCE.<br />
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I WILL NOT REVIEW THE REST OF THIS DUMB FUCKING MOVIE UNLESS SOMEONE SENDS ME A COPY OF IT THAT I CAN PLAY IN MY DVD PLAYER. I'M NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE. I HAVE WASTED ENOUGH OF MY LIFE ON ALL OF CHERYL'S STUPID BULLSHIT AND I REFUSE TO START THIS PIECE OF SHIT MOVIE FROM THE START ONE MORE GODDAMNED TIME.<br />
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I'VE ACTUALLY CALMED DOWN AT THIS POINT, BUT WRITING IN ALL CAPS MAKES ME LAUGH BECAUSE YOU'RE BEING FORCED TO READ EVERY WORD OF THIS AS IF I'M SCREAMING AT YOU. I WANT SO BADLY TO WRITE LIKE A NORMAL PERSON RIGHT NOW, BUT I ALREADY SAID THAT THIS ENTIRE POST WOULD BE WRITTEN IN CAPS. <br />
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I PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT THROUGH. <br />
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I'M GONNA STOP WRITING NOW.<br />
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<br />Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-48009664459952423202015-02-25T15:33:00.000-08:002015-02-25T16:58:15.446-08:00Bonus Segment, Part Five: Win a T-Shirt!We all know that there's something seriously wrong with Cheryl-- I mean, really, there are<em> several</em> things seriously wrong with Cheryl-- and to illustrate this, I'm going to post ten photos of Cheryl attempting to smile. <br />
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Since all of you are fantastic and leave the most entertaining comments, I thought I'd come up with a 'Caption This' contest for my own amusement. I've been amusing all of you for months; now it's your turn to return the favor. The person who comes up with the caption that makes me laugh the hardest will win an autographed bottle of Snapple lemonade and a very special, custom-made T-shirt-- and when I say "very special," I fucking mean it:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjijwtUCbE_fYoNkzugZBVDXiXFa7wchwDCSpwQTA-ufZvZSUkAfgg0LEkPRRhCTIH4xW7X8SBGUjDMUfulMjlSSPOmVvbAKaCXvTEs63pLPN2cAAwgBFmC8Ri1_XB-yxlubh7km7Oe4w/s1600/t-shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjijwtUCbE_fYoNkzugZBVDXiXFa7wchwDCSpwQTA-ufZvZSUkAfgg0LEkPRRhCTIH4xW7X8SBGUjDMUfulMjlSSPOmVvbAKaCXvTEs63pLPN2cAAwgBFmC8Ri1_XB-yxlubh7km7Oe4w/s1600/t-shirt.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I will have this made for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Also, my blog address will be on the back because I am an asshole.</span></div>
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HOLY SHIT, PRIZES, YOU GUYS! BETTER BRING YOUR FUCKING A-GAME.</div>
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Here, let me start first:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6U6TfJSHtvFdNisj222uNgSKUk6IgM9-XKJ1DSYcFLncarl3xYgO4d_gbwFt-qXXT_a_m5RupMTQ5J_NojnBYrkRh64r8agw3Ii17h56nQ1PoN7GfKqxb4M2zF5Pc86Zv4SASMg3-1J8/s1600/CSgg3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6U6TfJSHtvFdNisj222uNgSKUk6IgM9-XKJ1DSYcFLncarl3xYgO4d_gbwFt-qXXT_a_m5RupMTQ5J_NojnBYrkRh64r8agw3Ii17h56nQ1PoN7GfKqxb4M2zF5Pc86Zv4SASMg3-1J8/s1600/CSgg3.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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See? Easy.</div>
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Except it won't be so easy because it's pretty hard to make me laugh. Sure, I do the uncomfortable pity laugh all the time, and I might silently snicker about something mildly amusing, but I rarely have the pleasure of laughing until I cry. YOU'VE SEEN WHAT I'VE GONE THROUGH FOR ALL OF YOU. Please, make me laugh.</div>
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I will number all of the photos. When submitting your caption-- and you may do so either in the comment section or you may email me directly-- please include the photo number and your caption. What's today? February 25th? Let's give it a week. The contest will be closed at 11:59pm on March 4th and I will post the winner shortly after (I will also post every single caption that was submitted).</div>
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Okay, start thinking:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HIfIfS8v7Fkl9okcbA0MvLjJwa3OwNFYIt3fd1KZn93vpWURI5l_OVfPq6ayOBQHJIrjdzZqptU73GEmJv8n8fdu4tlb0Qp0eA7vw2p3E-JzAAhqUeOSPitBkrad2AYR1nvj09G3z8I/s1600/CSsmile1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HIfIfS8v7Fkl9okcbA0MvLjJwa3OwNFYIt3fd1KZn93vpWURI5l_OVfPq6ayOBQHJIrjdzZqptU73GEmJv8n8fdu4tlb0Qp0eA7vw2p3E-JzAAhqUeOSPitBkrad2AYR1nvj09G3z8I/s1600/CSsmile1.jpg" height="248" width="400" /></a></div>
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#1</div>
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#2</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5h166xUxn4atFpg9UpXUaMBlf0Sf-UjsycXe1ADj1WwvTSUc9-Ka0Ad2rCGwFB9cFWFPgF1A67Ko7Imyk2b9OQ5Ocli2hHAGxdB1Z4ffzY29fvpjDauOM5HKmLQeF1SxE-hr66IpKQ8/s1600/CSsmile5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5h166xUxn4atFpg9UpXUaMBlf0Sf-UjsycXe1ADj1WwvTSUc9-Ka0Ad2rCGwFB9cFWFPgF1A67Ko7Imyk2b9OQ5Ocli2hHAGxdB1Z4ffzY29fvpjDauOM5HKmLQeF1SxE-hr66IpKQ8/s1600/CSsmile5.jpg" height="287" width="400" /></a></div>
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#3</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIHbnE628MxnFFqZnHC84un_xQKSCBqzSY5sL_jdoOXgAp-FSQF_jnIX42jQMUcH_bpGP6Ma2w9LynLp27Q6Sy5RXzSFqxF1FLnNgm9HOa3amAI3APLQqsQz8Id8yZTJ-76Ndk2yEAZwc/s1600/CSyikes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIHbnE628MxnFFqZnHC84un_xQKSCBqzSY5sL_jdoOXgAp-FSQF_jnIX42jQMUcH_bpGP6Ma2w9LynLp27Q6Sy5RXzSFqxF1FLnNgm9HOa3amAI3APLQqsQz8Id8yZTJ-76Ndk2yEAZwc/s1600/CSyikes.jpg" height="400" width="263" /></a></div>
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#4</div>
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(I know she's not smiling here, but I couldn't resist)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCu_aKQYCDjQ7f1hhOuAW6SSPLZuwdGLzspBHL6NXyeX-brngCPVU2EzZQIfp8CNyYtoQMBDVgtfZQdCgfC5CBa_6FS9Zuv8BGMVU_7IzgtW0J5w1a5Myl06cQcHWKZ2NUVPKbFAhwXQ/s1600/CSsmile7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbCu_aKQYCDjQ7f1hhOuAW6SSPLZuwdGLzspBHL6NXyeX-brngCPVU2EzZQIfp8CNyYtoQMBDVgtfZQdCgfC5CBa_6FS9Zuv8BGMVU_7IzgtW0J5w1a5Myl06cQcHWKZ2NUVPKbFAhwXQ/s1600/CSsmile7.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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#5</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pvhLvn7ImloGP3WlezDaz1L0d09WC0-O_XaJ_avmFS-xoMCKFXV_chw7uw4kpQZIgIdnDxjTzLn8FYYyj-BEsJgddggJ7qgdnm-E-oHcRoDhQ7u6_K-KxoEExVi3MNm_Q_9Lmq2EKxQ/s1600/CSsmile8.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pvhLvn7ImloGP3WlezDaz1L0d09WC0-O_XaJ_avmFS-xoMCKFXV_chw7uw4kpQZIgIdnDxjTzLn8FYYyj-BEsJgddggJ7qgdnm-E-oHcRoDhQ7u6_K-KxoEExVi3MNm_Q_9Lmq2EKxQ/s1600/CSsmile8.png" height="222" width="400" /></a></div>
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#6</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPW8eFySYg_VjxdT78EEz4s3Pr2Q2vKE6QlkX-EJVBvfCZBTupfSuGCitfvuxqay3ijw5VkelfTnoPClzqX6TKBEkpVw1xOz-An0ctihdbYlmm-Qh0c98bGCuRlQGeLISndKN2cwOKk-A/s1600/CSsmile9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPW8eFySYg_VjxdT78EEz4s3Pr2Q2vKE6QlkX-EJVBvfCZBTupfSuGCitfvuxqay3ijw5VkelfTnoPClzqX6TKBEkpVw1xOz-An0ctihdbYlmm-Qh0c98bGCuRlQGeLISndKN2cwOKk-A/s1600/CSsmile9.jpg" height="400" width="308" /></a></div>
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#7</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9HMYBYkBYMxZglEKfdEv9Rg1BSBFmIaFjhl6fEikVpuhvB6tVf7UmcuHU5vW03Nrfan8jF9T-_md28sARrE3iTfjsw1L6JL0OK62-Al3z8vGMxibTF4LIJLbdV0Sb-R_qQYC3d9-dgs/s1600/CSsmile14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9HMYBYkBYMxZglEKfdEv9Rg1BSBFmIaFjhl6fEikVpuhvB6tVf7UmcuHU5vW03Nrfan8jF9T-_md28sARrE3iTfjsw1L6JL0OK62-Al3z8vGMxibTF4LIJLbdV0Sb-R_qQYC3d9-dgs/s1600/CSsmile14.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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#8</div>
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#9</div>
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#10</div>
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Okay! Get started! You can submit as many entries as you want-- the goal here is to entertain me. Go for it. Submit 1,000 entries if you want. There's no limit.</div>
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I will probably have my friend, Jaime, help me with the judging and you, too, can help by telling me whose caption is the funniest. I will take all suggestions into consideration. </div>
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There can only be one winner! These t-shirts cost $25 to make! This blog has been viewed almost 100,000 times! I am not a bazillionaire!</div>
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MAKE ME LAUGH.</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com97tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-34977226241936566312015-02-23T18:44:00.000-08:002015-02-24T05:09:52.747-08:00The Stupid Fucking Movie Review, Because Apparently You Guys Want Me to Kill Myself: Part ThreeI fucking hate this. This move is SO STUPID<em> </em>and that's why I haven't posted in a few days. I just can't deal with starting this movie from the beginning every goddamned time I go to review the next part and having to watch it over and over (which I have to do for reasons I won't openly explain in this blog for legal purposes because fuck Cheryl Strayed) and it's slowly killing me. I'll be honest with you-- wine isn't even cutting it anymore; I've switched to tequila to numb the pain and I haven't touched tequila in over a decade, ever since I was in Germany and I... you know what? <em>THAT</em> story is infinitely more entertaining than this entire dumb fucking movie and book combined. My friends have entitled that tale "The Bird Story" and it might be one of the funniest stories you will ever hear (or so I've been told by every person who has ever heard it). It is also, unfortunately, a true story. Maybe I'll post it as a Bonus Segment despite the fact that it has nothing to do with Cheryl and her big bag of bullshit. WE'VE BEEN THROUGH A LOT TOGETHER, READERS. We're close now. I can share. I'll just end the post with "...and fuck Cheryl!" and we can all pretend it was relevant.<br />
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But not today. Maybe tomorrow, because I'm gonna need a break after this.<br />
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GODDAMNIT, HERE WE GO. Tequila, don't fail me now.<br />
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Okay. So, Cheese is attempting to navigate through some kind of 127-Hours-type rock formation and god bless Hollywood and their camera tricks. It genuinely appears as if Cheese is gonna have to jump down like 20 feet off of a rock and then I guess the camera trick guy took a smoke break or something because when Cheese throws Monster down to the ground, OOPS, it's like a foot down. Nice try, everybody, but you failed. I hate this movie so much.<br />
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Cheese manages not to break her spine in the 1-foot jump down off the rock and whew, I'm just as relieved as you are. That was close.<br />
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To further illustrate how fucking hardcore this trek was, Cheese crosses a tiny creek and OMG, SHE NAILS IT. It's more like a really long puddle with a breeze blowing through it, but Cheese makes it seem super intense despite the fact that any normal person probably could've taken a good leap and DONE, but this is Cheese, so let's be dramatic. She crushes it. I'm so impressed.<br />
<br />
She reaches Kennedy meadows and this is when Nick Hornsby takes some more dramatic license because none of this happened in the book (or in reality, for that matter). Greg and a random group of men are waiting for her at Kennedy Meadows and when she walks up, they all applaud because of course they do. Greg introduces her to all the random people and also introduces Monster-- because in the movie, Greg comes up with the name Monster. He immediately insists on buying Cheese a goddamned Snapple lemonade and a bag of chips and I have another one of those eye-roll-induced strokes. I recover just in time for everyone to be super impressed with Cheese and then I have another stroke and it's amazing I'm still alive at this point.<br />
<br />
She gets her resupply package and I'm pleased to see that the $20 bill is accurate for the time period (which cannot be said of "Dallas Buyers Club," but then again, maybe it was "American Hustle;" I don't remember and I don't care at this point). Anyway, Cheese also receives a letter from Paul and no she didn't (according to the totally true book) but sure, whatever, and Paul tells her how proud he is of her for doing what she's doing except oh, wait, not quite because she's done "almost nothing at all" at this point and he'll be proud of her when she finishes and I vomit all over myself. Now that I've wiped myself off, I should also point out that Michener's <u>The Novel</u> is also included in her resupply box and NOPE, WE ALL KNOW CHERYL WOULDN'T HAVE SENT THAT TO HERSELF, but fuck everything! Way to go, Hornsby! Hate this...so much...<br />
<br />
Cheese sponges off by a creek and then Trail Angel Ed shows up and tells her to come eat. He's totally impressed with her because of course he is-- "I'm not a hiker like you"-- and then another thing happens that doesn't match with the book. We all remember that Mr. Eagle Scout Albert was the one who emptied Cheryl's pack in the book. Well, fuck that noise! Ed's gonna do it in the movie! He empties exactly four things from Cheese's pack: binoculars, saw, half of her guidebook and the condoms (but only 11 because Cheese keeps one). Well, fuck me, I bet THAT certainly lightened the load! She'll be flying from here on out, for sure! Ed tries to get rid of some of her bookmobile and Cheese says, "These will never be burned," because fuck this movie, and when Ed holds up a disposable razor, Cheese says, "Never." I can't even.<br />
<br />
Ed then tells Cheese about her boots and REI and none of this is accurate as far as the book is concerned and I start twitching because I (unfortunately) have the whole goddamn book pretty much memorized at this point and I don't appreciate the Hollywood dramatic license because it confuses me and makes me uncomfortable. Anyway, fuck you, me! This is the movie! Cheese calls REI and tells the operator that REI is her "favorite company forever and ever," and that is a direct quote. I'M SORRY YOU'RE CONNECTED TO THIS MOVIE, REI. <br />
<br />
We suddenly have suffer through another one of her goddamned flashbacks about the stupid Michener book-- the one where she tells her mom how she's so much more sophisticated than her mom was at her age. Her mom pretends to be not offended and Young Cheese says, "Why do you put up with my crap?" Her mom responds to this question by saying, "You look so pretty in that dress," and this is when I slam my face into a doorknob.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"I'm an asshole!" --Cheese</div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
"You're so pretty!" -- Cheese's mom</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
I HATE THIS MOVIE SO MUCH.<br />
<br />
Back to the trail and Greg is there and he suggests that they bypass everything because OMG SO MUCH SNOW, and Cheese actually says the words, "I didn't come out here to ride buses," and SWEET DEATH, WHERE ARE YOU? I'M WAITING.<br />
<br />
Mom flashback: hospital, can't ride her horse, Leif runs away, Cheese cries in the bathroom and who fucking cares.<br />
<br />
Back to the<strike> trail</strike> bus and where is Greg? Real life Greg only confirmed the bus ride and where is he? And where is Casino Bathroom Lady? What happened to all the super awesome things from the book???<br />
<br />
WHO CARES!<br />
<br />
Holy fuck, it's Day 25, Cheese is trying to hitchhike and here comes Black Jimmy Carter. Wait, what? Jimmy Carter wasn't black in the book (nor was he black in the supposedly totally true article in Vanity Fair), but fuck, there aren't any black people in the movie (other than the mention of O.J. Simpson on the radio/television at Front Desk Lady's motel) and WE NEED A BLACK PERSON TO FULFILL OUR "WE'RE NOT RACIST" QUOTA so BLAM, Jimmy Carter is suddenly black. Jimmy pulls over and Cheese is ready to jump right in when Jimmy tells her that he doesn't have room in his car to give her a ride and Cheese gets all bent and spits out, "What do you mean?" because she's Cheese and what the hell right does this black person have to deny her a ride. Seriously. That's how the scene reads. They have their ridiculous conversation where Cheese explains how women are too oppressed to be hobos and says, "This is my life; this is not a hobo life," and I start to wonder how many strokes I can suffer before I cause irreparable damage. Jimmy snaps a photo of Cheese, tells her that her story will be in the fall issue of the Hobo Times and then tells her about how his articles have been published by Harper's. He starts to explain what Harper's is and Cheese goes Full Asshole: "I know what Harper's is. I want to write for Harper's someday; I don't really feel like being their centerfold bum of the month," and this makes me think that Cheese has not, in fact, heard of Harper's because I have never seen them publish a monthly Bum Centerfold, even though that sounds super sexy/intellectual. Rawr/3.14159265359. Yeah, say it in your sexy voice. *<em>Now tell me the Pythagorean theorem, yeah, tell me, do it, louder, louder, just like that, yes...*</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Aaaaaaand, look at what's happening, I think I've had enough tequila.<br />
<br />
Cheese gets picked up by Lou and Spider and everybody says "motherfucker" and I can't deal with this anymore.<br />
<br />
Cheese is hiking again and absolutely murders a Simon and Garfunkel song with her own stupid lyrics. I can't. I just can't. It's just as dumb as you imagine, except 100 times dumber.<br />
<br />
Sudden flashback to her mom and Lady, and her mom says, "Please try to do the kindest thing," and that's the end of that because nothing in this movie makes sense.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh my fucking god, that's the third twenty minutes. We're an hour into the movie now and I don't know if I can go on.Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-36861511154202484802015-02-18T14:02:00.000-08:002015-02-18T14:30:21.173-08:00Bonus Segment, Part Four: Vanity Fair is no Nancy DrewIt's been brought to my attention (and seriously, goddamn you people for letting me know about this shit) that OMG, <strike>they found the reporter from the Hobo Times who interviewed Cheryl</strike> NOTHING. Vanity Fair published an article entitled, "Solving a Lingering Mystery From Cheryl Strayed's Wild," and isn't that adorable. The problem with this misleading title is that THEY SOLVED NOTHING.<br />
<br />
What a load of horseshit. This proves absolutely nothing and SHAME ON VANITY FAIR FOR PUBLISHING THIS LOAD OF NONSENSE. I have copied and pasted <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2015/02/cheryl-strayed-wild-hobo-times?mbid=social_twitter" target="_blank">the entire Vanity Fair article</a> (go ahead an click that link if you think I'm being less than honest or leaving things out) and have highlighted and numbered the things with which I take issue. Here it is. Go ahead, read it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
**********</div>
<br />
<br />
It started out simple, as these things often do. A short scene in <em>Wild</em>, in which Cheryl Strayed (Reese Witherspoon) encounters a reporter who says he is from something called the <em>Hobo Times</em>, had grabbed my interest. Did the article ever appear in the publication? What is the <em>Hobo Times</em> even? Is there a playful, alternate version of Strayed’s tale potentially hidden in the weathered pages of an old magazine?<br />
<br />
I first came to Strayed’s story in her memoir <em>Wild</em>, published in 2012. Having lost my father to cancer when I was 23, the story of Strayed’s hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, in the wake of her own mother’s death, moved me. Many of the toughest parts of Strayed’s book are part of <em>Wild</em> on-screen, but I was tickled to see that the unexpected, sweet exchange with the <em>Hobo Times</em> reporter made the cut in the film as well. I had to know if this colorful character was even aware that he'd made it to the page and screen, and I wanted to re-unite him with the woman he met on that California highway 20 years ago. <br />
<br />
In both the film and the book,<strong><span style="color: red;"> the reporter wrote down Strayed’s first and last name, snapped a photo of her (1)</span></strong>, gave her a hobo care package containing beer, an individually packaged cigarette, canned beans, and various other items, and told her to “<strong><span style="color: red;">look for his piece . . . in the fall issue of the <em>Hobo Times (2)</em></span></strong>.” In the book, Strayed called the man Jimmy Carter; in reality, she told me, he said his name was Jerry Brown—she maintained the spirit of the original California politician by swapping it with that of a nationally known one. She looked for him, along with the issue of the <em>Hobo Times</em> in which she might have appeared, while writing <em>Wild</em>, but had no luck at the time. “I sort of assumed that he never wrote the piece,” said Strayed. “Because I kept having to say, ‘I’m not really a hobo,’ <span style="color: red;"><strong>I think he believed me that I was hiking the P.C.T</strong></span><span style="color: red;"><strong>.</strong> <strong>(3)</strong></span><span style="color: black;">"</span><br />
<br />
A copy of the <em>Hobo Times</em> is not exactly easy to find. The magazine—known as “America’s Journal of Wanderlust”—was published about six times a year from 1987 through early 2000, as a supplement with a membership to the National Hobo Association. It has almost no online presence, save a few personal blogs from affiliated N.H.A. members. With the help of several libraries, eBay, and the Hobo Museum,<strong><span style="color: red;"> I found nearly every edition from 1995 and 1996—none of them mentioning Strayed or Jerry Brown (4)</span></strong>.<br />
<br />
Many of the <em>Hobo Times</em> writers penned articles under pseudonyms (some examples: ‘No Bail’ John, Guitar Whitey, Fatcar Frank, Connecticut Shorty)—better known as “road names,” “road flags,” or “road monikers”—which meant Jerry Brown could’ve been the reporter’s real name, road name, or a spur-of-the-moment improvisation. Lucky for me, the founder of the N.H.A. and director of the Hobo Times used his real name, and Bobb Hopkins turned out to be the easiest person to locate in the process—he’s a film actor, writer, director, and producer credited on IMDB and has a production company called Super Chief Films.<br />
<br />
When I spoke with Hopkins (road name “Santa Fe Bo”), I only knew the name that Strayed gave the writer in <em>Wild</em>, and <strong><span style="color: red;">Hopkins didn’t recall any <em>Hobo Times</em> writers called Jimmy Carter, or a story about a woman who fit Strayed’s description. (In the end, he found no record of a Jerry Brown, either.) (5)</span></strong> “I would remember a story like that—especially from a female out on a journey like that,” Hopkins said. “As founder of N.H.A., I was hands-on with every issue and don't recall that type of article.” <strong><span style="color: red;">When Hopkins located a copy of the elusive Fall 1995 edition, in which Strayed most likely would have appeared, he confirmed it: “No mention of ‘Jimmy Carter’ or a solo female hiker,” he e-mailed me. (6)</span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: red;">What Hopkins did remember was a car like the one described in <em>Wild</em>—a silver Chrysler LeBaron packed to the windows with newspapers, books, and clothes—that belonged to his brother-in-law, Bob “Itchy Foot” Stetson. “He owned a LeBaron—it wasn’t silver, it was like a cream color,” Hopkins explained. “And I remember when my niece first read the book she called and said, ‘Oh my God, Uncle Bobb, there’s a piece in here about the Hobo Times and that may be my dad.’ . . . He was a real character. He lived in California . . . he did travel around and he did pick up a lot of hitchhikers." (7)</span></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: red;">Stetson passed away in 2010 at the age of 65 (8)</span></strong>, but Hopkins’s aforementioned niece, Jennifer Fellows, was happy to fill in the blanks. An infant-well-being consultant and mother of three who will soon be relocating to her native California (she grew up in Woodland Hills), <strong><span style="color: red;">Fellows is certain that Strayed’s “Jimmy Carter” was her father. “I know it was my dad. It’s not even a question to me,” she said. (9)</span></strong> Back in 2012—when Strayed’s memoir was first released—her sister’s friend reached out, saying, “You’re never gonna believe this, there’s this book called <em>Wild</em> and your dad is in it!” Fellows and her siblings thought the description was spot on—she even posted an excerpt to Facebook at the time, which garnered a strong reaction from friends and family.<br />
<br />
“He never used his real name, so when I read [in <em>Wild</em>] that it said ‘Jimmy Carter,’ I was totally laughing —he had so many nicknames!” Fellows said. “I know that there’s only so many writers for <em>Hobo Times</em>, and of all of them he’s the only one that drove a light-colored Chrysler LeBaron.” <br />
<br />
Plenty of other things matched up—the description of his unkempt hair, the newspapers in the backseat, even the items in his “hobo care package.” <strong><span style="color: red;">While reading aloud Strayed’s list of its contents, Fellows interrupted me at, “six butterscotch candies in translucent gold wrappers,” exclaiming, “That’s my dad! That’s him! I choked on one when I was little—he always had those!” (10)</span></strong><br />
<br />
Stetson also worked in real estate and often traveled throughout California, so his meeting with Strayed more than 500 miles north of his home would check out. <strong><span style="color: red;">Fellows suspects her father likely saw much of his daughter in the young hiker—and would’ve reacted in similarly protective fashion to Strayed’s description of Jimmy Carter (11)</span></strong>. “When I first heard about it, I was excited for her that she got to meet him,” said Fellows. “Obviously vice versa, because she’s pretty amazing—but when I was first thinking, Oh, that was totally him! I was like, ‘Oh my gosh, I’m so glad it was him and not some other creepy guy that could’ve been out there.’”<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: red;">I sent Strayed a picture of Stetson given to me by Fellows, who described her father as looking like Jack Nicholson. “The Jack Nicholson comparison really strikes a chord with me,” Strayed responded. “The floppy brown hair. And this picture you sent looks very familiar. I think it’s him! The smile is what I remember the most in looking at this shot.” (12)</span></strong><br />
<br />
Even more important, though, Strayed says, is how the people who knew Stetson reacted to the book. <strong><span style="color: red;">“I also think it’s very compelling that various people who knew Bob Stetson thought it was him when they read the book,” she explained. (13) </span></strong>“I’ve had that experience with other people in the book, too—Doug Wisor (who died seven years after we hiked), for example. Many of his old friends from high school and college have written to me to say that they felt I portrayed him so much the way they remembered him and many of them recognized him even before they realized I was actually writing about “their Doug." <strong><span style="color: red;">Maybe the people who knew Bob are right and it was him since they think it was (i.e., it seemed like him to them).” (14)</span></strong><br />
<br />
When I told Fellows of my possible discovery, she was effusive. “I cried on my way to work this morning," she wrote.<strong><span style="color: red;"> "My parents were so amazing. I miss them every day. My dad deserves to be talked about . . . he was so unique.” (15) </span></strong> Strayed's trek, taken in the wake of her mother’s death, had re-united a daughter with her father, years after his passing.<br />
<br />
And how would Stetson have felt about his portrayal in <em>Wild</em>? <strong><span style="color: red;">“My dad would’ve loved the book,” (16) </span></strong>said Fellows. “He was such an adventurer and outdoorsman, and even far before he got cancer, he just really lived life to the fullest and he didn’t wait until he got sick to start living like that—he always lived like that.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
**********</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
1. ...except there is no record of this and no photo.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
2. ...except oh, hey, there was never a piece about her in the fall issue.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
3. "I think he believed me that I was hiking the PCT." = something liars say.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
4. Well, hey, would you look at that. No mention of Cheryl Strayed written in an article by Jerry Brown or Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan or Charles Manson or Elvis. That's so weird! No mention of Cheryl!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
5. No record of Cheryl and no record of anyone named Jerry Brown. NO RECORD. Cheryl says that the man's name was Jerry Brown. No record of him, though. Huh.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
6. Hey, look at that! Again! No record of Cheryl or her mysterious interviewer!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
7. Holy shit, this lady's dad had the same car and lived in California, that's all the proof we need!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
8. Damn the bad luck, the guy who supposedly interviewed Cheryl died and can't confirm dick.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
9. Oh, well, that's enough for me! She *just knows it,* huh? BLAM. FACTS JUST HAPPENED.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
10. That seals it up, must have been him. I don't even know what butterscotch candies are! Who's heard of those?! Not me, that's for sure! He must have been the only person in California to have butterscotch candies! I mean, his daughter almost choked to death on one! What more proof do you need??? (My friend, April, said something delightful about this: "<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">So, her dad made it a point to always have on hand the candy his daughter once choked on? Nice.")</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">11. Let's just make shit up now because he's dead and can't confirm anything!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">12. Holy shit, CHERYL JUST CONFIRMED EVERYTHING. OBVIOUSLY TRUE.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">13. Who are these "various people," exactly?</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">14. Well, fuck, people *think* it was him, must have been him. FACTS HAPPEN AGAIN.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">15. "My dad is dead and I liked him and junk, so here's the perfect opportunity to make him famous for something he didn't do because he was good enough and smart enough and doggone it, people liked him."</span></span></span></div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">16. SHUT THE FUCK UP.</span></span></span></div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body"><span class="UFICommentBody" data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0"><span data-reactid=".1g.1:3:1:$comment10153110470361310_10153110888461310:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1:$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0">(Let's not forget that the article's author, Katie Calautti, went through her very own dead-parent drama and clearly just loves Cheryl and her stupid book.)</span></span></span></div>
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Okay, everybody. Your turn. Do your worst.</div>
Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-26639838338293786402015-02-17T12:38:00.000-08:002016-08-16T06:53:22.806-07:00The Stupid Fucking Movie Review, Because Apparently You Guys Want Me to Kill Myself: Part Two<br />
This movie is so fucking stupid.<br />
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Cheese survives through the night without getting eaten by all the scary animals that aren't around and it's the morning of Day Two.<br />
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She reads the instructions for her stove again and finally realizes that she has the wrong kind of fuel. In the book, she actually uses the fuel, breaks the stove and <em>then</em> reads the instructions, but I guess Nick Hornby, the doofus responsible for the screenplay, thought that was too stupid and wanted Cheese to seem slightly more intelligent. Slightly. Anyway, Cheese throws a tantrum upon realizing that her stove isn't going to work and kicks the fuel can into the desert because she is nine years old and also enjoys littering.<br />
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We're then subjected to a montage of Cheese miserably eating cold mush again and again while also having to suffer through the voiceover:<br />
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"Cold mush is great. Cold mush with nuts. Cold mush with tuna jerky. Cold mush dreams. Cold mush shit. I love cold mush."</blockquote>
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Ugh. There's actually a shot of the crap cairn when she says "cold mush shit" because I guess people who <3 Cheryl think that's funny. I should again mention my suspicion that Robin Desser was somehow involved in the movie because Cheese's right hand repeatedly goes from being all scraped up to not scraped up to scraped up and then not again in every other goddamned shot. DID SHE SCRAPE HER HAND OR NOT, IDIOTS? Nice editing, everybody. Good job.<br />
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Suddenly it's "Day Five, Mile 30" and pfffffffft, no it isn't because according to her own mileage tracking in the stupid book, she won't reach Mile 30 until Day Six. Since none of this is true in the first place, I guess it doesn't matter.<br />
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Cheese is walking through the desert and having a pity party for herself. Walking is hard! I miss toilets! I like food and people! Hiking is dumb!<br />
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That's all we get from Day Five because BLAM it's suddenly Day Eight and she's still in the desert. This confuses me because in the book, she was already supposedly on top of a mountain by Day Two-- "I knew it was the top because there was snow"-- and what the hell. Anyway, she's sitting in the desert and she runs out of food. She leaves the trail and goes singing through the desert while hearing her mom talk to her because she's a psychopath until she finally sees a tractor like a quarter mile away, and since she doesn't understand how tractors work, she starts shouting, "HEY, HEY" at it even though it's super loud and jesus, this is all so stupid.<br />
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The man on the tractor finally sees her and he's all grumpy and stuff. Cheese wants a ride to a restaurant and Grumpy is all fuck-you-nothing-is-open-at-this-time-of-night and Cheese makes her best pouty face. She asks if he'll just drop her off at a restaurant so she can camp in front of it until morning and I guess this melts Grumpy's heart because he's suddenly all, "You must be starving," and tells her to go wait in his truck while he finishes up doing god knows what on his tractor in the middle of the desert at night.<br />
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Cheese pokes around his truck and finds a gun and OMG SCARY! Grumpy, whose name is Frank, finally gets into the truck and tells her that she can come back to his place for a hot dinner and a shower. He whips a flask out of nowhere, offers it to Cheese and says, "Ladies first," and goddamnit, WHO ACCEPTS A DRINK FROM A STRANGE MAN WHO KEEPS A GUN IN HIS TRUCK but whatever, go ahead, I'm sure you'll be fine. Cheese takes a dainty little sip and Frank gulps down about a pint of the hard alcohol that he describes as "cheap, but good." Things start getting rapey when Frank asks, "What kind of woman are you," then compares her to Tarzan's Jane and finally proclaims, "I'm gonna call you Jane!" There's nothing weird about that because whenever I meet new people, I just disregard their real names and assign them new names that are more to my liking. <br />
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Cheese is getting super uncomfortable and lies her face off, telling Frank that she's hiking with her husband and that he's totally around somewhere and blah blah blah, lies and lies and more lies. Apparently Frank has a different conversation playing in his head because instead of responding to what she's saying, he leans back and says, "I got a little something else I like to do after a hard day's work," and SPOILER it's not raping and murdering stupid hikers. He whips out some licorice because that's what big, strong men like to reward themselves with and then he makes Cheese promise not to tell his wife about the licorice because "she doesn't like it when I eat candy" (but drinking and driving is apparently totally cool with her). JUST DON'T MENTION THE CANDY. This scene was so poorly written. You suck, Nick Hornsby.</div>
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They get to Frank's place and his old, overweight wife is putting dinner on the table. Before Cheese sits down, Frank's wife (who doesn't get to have a name in the movie) puts some newspapers down on Cheese's chair because apparently she can smell Cheese's stank from the doorway. Anyway, Cheese sits down and OMG, FOOD. She starts shoveling things onto her plate and eats like a goddamned caveman NOM NOM BLARGH NOM NOM NOM and jesus, try not to accidentally eat one of your own fingers, dumbass. Frank goes Full Sexist and makes comments like, "It's one thing for a man to take a hike like that, but..." blah blah blah and says something about how a man shouldn't "allow his wife" to do such a thing and pfffffffffft. Then there's an OMG SO FUNNY conversation about how Frank's old, fat wife is gonna go hiking with Cheese and hahahaha, that's so ridiculous, look at how old and fat she is! Hahaha! Women can't do anything!</div>
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Cheese takes a shower and flashback time! Cheese and Paul are getting matching horse tattoos. The tattooist, played by Everclear's own Art Alexakis, asks what the horse is all about and Paul says, "We both just really dig horses," and then gives Cheese a look (instead of explaining how Cheese tortured a horse to death). They tell Art that the tattoo is to celebrate their divorce because that's what couples do when they get divorced and Cheese decides to loudly word-vomit, "I cheated on him!" and <em>boundaries</em>, Cheese, <em>boundaries</em>. Thanks for making it weird. Since that in and of itself apparently wasn't enough to make everyone uncomfortable, she goes even further: "I cheated on him a lot of times." Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.</div>
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Smash cut to the next flashback: DIVORCE TIME! The two of them are sitting in front of what looks like the Planned Parenthood version of a lawyer and Cheese is explaining how to pronounce her new last name to Divorce Lady: "Like a stray dog. It just sounded right." Divorce Lady doesn't say anything but clearly thinks it's a stupid name and I'm right there with you, Divorce Lady.</div>
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Smash cut again to Paul putting the divorce papers in the mail because Cheese can't bring herself to do it. They kiss and hug goodbye and who fucking cares.</div>
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GODDAMNIT, THIS MOVIE IS SO BORING.</div>
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The stupid flashback ends and now it's Day Nine, June 21, 1995, as if that's a super important detail or something. Frank takes Cheese to get the appropriate fuel for her stove and then they have a dumb conversation in the truck about how Frank thinks Cheese should quit her hike because he's a big expert on quitting things. Who even cares.</div>
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Cheese is finally back on the trail and she signs another trail register, this time attributing song lyrics from Joni Mitchell's "California" to herself: "'Will you take me as I am? Will you?'-- Joni Mitchell <em>and Cheryl Strayed</em>." GFY.</div>
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She camps for the night and OMG THE STOVE WORKS, YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY LAUGH HYSTERICALLY LIKE AN ASSHOLE AND THEN HOWL WITH ALL THE ANIMALS. Fuck this movie.</div>
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Day Ten and Cheese tells us that she's hiking "five to seven miles a day" and I'm so confused because in her totally true book, she claims that she was hiking nine miles a day at this point. I remember this because I wrote, "You fail at life" in the margin next to this claim (page 70). Anyway, like it matters and HOLY FUCK, RATTLESNAKE! It must have been some kind of ninja rattlesnake because it was completely silent until Cheese <em>"almost steps on it" </em>and I'm so glad this made it into the movie because now everyone knows how rattlesnakes work.</div>
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Cheese's hand continues to be scraped up and then not scraped up and then scraped up again.</div>
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She camps for the night and almost starts having a flashback except OMFG THERE'S A RATTLESNAKE IN HER SLEEPING BAG except no, it's a tiny, fuzzy caterpillar and as soon as Cheese shakes the terrifying fuzzy caterpillar out of her bag, she inexplicably Takes Back The Night with her rape whistle because I guess the caterpillar flashed its penis at her in a threatening manner or something and blowing the shit out of a whistle is going to make everything better. I don't fucking know. Nothing in this movie makes sense.</div>
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Once the caterpillar crawls away, Cheese is free to go back to having another stupid flashback. Heroin time! Cheese is totes hardcore into heroin and okay, whatever. She and her friend Aimee are at a restaurant and she says a bunch of stupid shit like, "I'm not a junkie, I'm in control," and, "I'm the girl who says yes instead of no." Blargh.</div>
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Back to the trail! I love all these clumsy transitions between the trail and her stupid past! It's so enjoyable and not disconcerting in any way! Anyway, she's walking and NAKED MAN. Oh, christ.</div>
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Naked Man is all, "Hi, Cheese!" and she just stares at his junk because of course she does. He finally gets dressed, introduces himself-- Greg-- and then they compare mileage. Greg is hiking an average of twenty-two miles a day and Cheese lies, saying that she's hiking "eleven or twelve." Greg explains how snow works and claims that the Sierra just had the "biggest snowfall in a decade," and no, in 1995, it had not, but fuck facts! Greg asks if she's going to bypass the Sierra and Cheese says something that made me snort audibly in the theater: "Sure, I'll bypass anything." That's probably the only true line in this whole movie.</div>
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They make plans to meet at Kennedy Meadows and Greg hikes on, leaving Cheese alone so she can have another goddamned flashback. She's back at the restaurant with Aimee and tells Aimee that she's pregnant. She's pretty sure she knows who the father is and Aimee is disgusted. They leave and I guess like five feet of snow had fallen in the time they had been in the restaurant because they go to REI to get a "pregnancy test AND a shovel" (<----- no shit, Aimee actually says this) and who fucking knew that REI carried pregnancy tests? I sure didn't know this, and REI is unaware of it, too.</div>
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She takes the pregnancy test right there in the REI bathroom and oh, darn. Time to make tuna flakes! Cheese shovels snow like a lunatic while Aimee watches. "There's no plan to make. I'm not gonna have this baby," Cheese says and yeah, we know. She talks about how awesome she used to be because I'm sure that's accurate and then says that she's going to "walk myself back to the woman my mother thought I was" and that doesn't make any sense.</div>
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That's the second twenty minutes. Yeah. I don't know if I have the stomach for this.</div>
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1333541691333550838.post-12645242223809680792015-02-13T16:21:00.000-08:002015-02-15T07:33:53.159-08:00The Stupid Fucking Movie Review, Because Apparently You Guys Want Me to Kill Myself: Part One, Day One[Blogger's note: This isn't really a "review," per se. People who write movie reviews usually give a plot summary and explore character development and talk about cinematography or something, whereas I say things like, "Eat a bag of dicks," and then threaten to set myself on fire. If you're looking for an intelligent, thoughtful review of this movie, LOOK AWAY. This is more of a scene-by-agonizing-scene breakdown of the movie accompanied by whatever garbage that happens to pop into my head. Be warned.]<br />
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<u>Wild</u><br />
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This movie is a crap cairn. I saw it in the theater about a month or so ago and was filled with dread upon leaving the theater because I knew I was gonna have to watch it again (and again and again) in order to write a review. The movie is HORRIBLE. I'm not just saying this because I hated the book. It's an awful movie. As much as I enjoy hating on Cheryl Strayed, the movie is just worthless. It's dumb and boring and I don't even know how I'm going to make this entertaining. Also, because I believe in being accurate and detailed, this is going to take forever. Sometimes I hate you guys for enjoying this.<br />
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Let's get started. Since the movie is about Cheryl and Cheryl is played by Reese, I will refer to the character in the movie as Cheese from here on out. Don't try to pronounce it all crazy; just call her Cheese.<br />
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The movie opens with a nice, peaceful shot of the wilderness that is immediately ruined with what sounds like a woman panting and moaning like she's either getting laid or fiddling with her pudendum and it's so hot and sexy that this lady shows up:<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wait, no, wrong movie, my mistake.</span></div>
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We finally discover that no, Cheese isn't having sex right there in the first five seconds; she's <em>hiking </em>and that's <em>the sound of her</em> <em>hiking</em> because that's totally what hikers sound like.</div>
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Cheese sits down on the top of a big hill/cliff/mountain/who knows, takes off her boots and her bloody socks (she almost orgasms at this point) and OMG, her feet are totes a big, bloody mess, you guys. Her big toenail is totally black and I'm on the edge of my seat. She flicks it or something and I guess Robin Desser was one of the special effects people because it almost flies right off before Cheese has a chance to make a big, dramatic to-do about ripping it off. Cheese looks at her toenail and says, "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail," and I wonder what it would be like to live my entire life just quoting other people. I imagine it would be difficult and stupid. Anyway, she rips off her toenail because of course she does and then she screams, falls back and collapses on Monster. Monster tips over and knocks her boot off the big hill/cliff/mountain/who knows. You decide what it is:</div>
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Cheese can't even believe that just happened and cue Full Cheese. She screams, "FUCK YOU, BITCH," at... I don't even... the wilderness? Then, because she's a super smart lady, she chucks her other boot over the edge because that makes total sense.</div>
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It should be noted that this is decidedly not how it went down in the book, and that's super important because <strike>we all know the book is totally true</strike> it's not important.</div>
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Time for the opening credits, but first we're forced to watch a series of Tyler Durden-esque film edits of split-second nonsense, which include a fox, burning book pages and Cheese taking it up the ass from some random dude. Gross. No one wants to see this.</div>
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Thank god that's over with and the next scene opens with Cheese getting out of a pickup truck at the Yellow Blazer Motel or whatever they call it. In the book, a guy dropped her off, but in the movie, none other than Cheryl Fucking Strayed drops her off. No shit, she has a cameo, and she totally nails her line: "Good luck."<br />
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Cheese walks into the motel and Front Desk Lady is waiting for her (we can hear news coverage about the O.J. Simpson trial in the background because apparently this is super important except it isn't). We suffer through their whole exchange about how much the room will be if it's just her, but that it will be more if someone joins her and blah blah blah the scene goes on for way too long, so I'll just write my own condensed scene.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Cheese: Gimme a room.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Front Desk Lady: It'll be $18, unless you're a whore, and you look like a whore.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Cheese: I'm not a whore.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
FDL: Yes, you are.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Cheese: Nuh-uh.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
FDL: Yes-huh. Whore.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Cheese: Stop it.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
FDL: Whatever. $18. For now. Whore. </blockquote>
<br />
End scene.<br />
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Cheese gets to her room and calls Paul. This doesn't happen in the book-- she only <em>thinks</em> about calling Paul, but doesn't-- but fuck that noise, this is the movie! She calls Paul, her ex-husband. Paul answers the phone and OMG, HE'S WITH A GIRL! <em>Awkward!</em> Once Cheese realizes that he's with a girl, she tries to play it cool, like, "I'm only calling because I'm looking for Leif," (for those of you who aren't in the know, Leif is her brother) and what the fuck is this all about. Leif doesn't live with Paul, Cheese doesn't give two shits about Leif and Leif <em>already knows</em> where she is. Cute, putting that in there to make it seem like she's concerned about someone other than herself when we know the opposite is true. The conversation is stupid and it finally ends with Paul saying, "Happy trails, [Cheese]."<br />
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There's a shot of water leaking from the ceiling into a bucket in the motel room and I don't remember that from the book, but sure, whatever. Cheese washes her hair in the bathtub without actually getting undressed or taking a shower because I have no fucking idea. She looks out the window of her motel room, sees a sexy cowboy (rawr), takes The World's Loudest Whistle out of its packaging and sticks it in her mouth. Doing so apparently triggers a flashback of her sucking on some dude's finger while getting banged and then we're forced to witness a brief flashback of her getting plowed from behind and I want to set my eyes on fire.<br />
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The next scene opens and it's the following morning-- the morning of her first day of the hike-- and she packs up Monster. There's a brown paper bag behind her with "REI" printed on it and I wonder if REI used brown grocery bags back in 1995. It takes her forever to unpack all of her gear out the original packaging-- including the water purifier, which, in the book, she supposedly had already de-packaged and learned how to use in her kitchen sink back in Minnesota, in the same sentence as having an abortion and making dehydrated tuna flakes-- and then she packs everything into Monster. She thinks she's finished and then OH, DARN, WATER! She fills her giant dromedary bag in the bathtub and water noises, water noises, "Shit, shit, shit," omg, it's so heavy and unwieldy! Cheese finally gets the dromedary bag attached to Monster and ALL DONE!<br />
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Here comes the part that I guess is supposed to be funny to people who don't know dick about how things work in the real world: CHEESE CAN'T LIFT THE PACK, OMG LOL. Look at her struggle with it! LOLOL! This is so funny, omg I <3 this!<br />
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I want to throw a grenade at the screen.<br />
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This scene keeps going because LOL and she straps herself into the pack while sitting on the ground, tries to stand up, fails, tries again and then LOLOLOLOLOL YOU GUYS, THE PACK FALLS ON TOP OF HER, OMG THIS IS SO FUNNY, SHE'S SO BRAVE and fuck me right in the face. She rolls back and forth until the momentum gets her onto her knees and then, without breaking the air conditioner (like she did in the book), she finally manages to stand up with her pack on.<br />
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Cheese shows up at the gas station and allow me to point out that Reese fucking sucks at pretending she's wearing an 80-pound pack. She may as well have skipped to the gas station. Pfffffft, whatever, and now Cheese is scoping out the gas station patrons for a ride. There's a shot of two creepy men in a van-type vehicle-- the ones she actually took a ride from in the book-- and then a shot of a wholesome father and son and whaddya know, she takes a ride with them.<br />
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The next scene opens with Cheese in the back seat of a minivan, a doofus-looking dad-type in the driver's seat and a too-cool-for-school teenaged emo-boy riding up front. Doofus asks some questions and Cheese misleads him, saying that she's hiking the PCT and that the PCT runs from Mexico to Canada-- but she'll be stopping in Ashland-- and I wonder how many people watched this piece of shit and left under the impression that she hiked the whole goddamned thing. Anyway, Doofus asks her if she's an experienced hiker and she says, I shit you not, "I'm not obsessive, but this is a stretch, even for me," and I BET IT'S A FUCKING STRETCH, SEEING AS YOU'VE NEVER HIKED BEFORE, YOU STUPID TWAT. Oh, god, I hate this so much.<br />
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Anyway, Doofus turns on the radio in the minivan and how convenient, the song "You Can Never Go Home Again" by the Shangri-las is playing and I'm not even going to bother linking you to the lyrics because it's unnecessary at this point and fuck Cheryl. So stupid. I know you're going to look it up now anyway, and knock yourselves out. Don't say I didn't try to spare you. So, whatever, this song is playing and of course it sends Cheese into a Mom-flashback where Mom is dancing around and seems drunk. I don't...<br />
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Totally moody teenage son in the minivan suddenly turns the radio off because he's trying to read and old people are lame, and Doofus Dad passive-aggressively says, "I love you, too, son," because he is a huge pussy who isn't in control of anything and this is why Cheese accepted a ride from him. Barf. Somebody oughta smack that kid.<br />
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Cheese gets dropped off at god knows where and starts hiking. Reese still sucks at pretending that the pack is heavy and I roll my eyes. Traffic is still visible in the background-- as in, Cheese has walked about 20 feet-- when she first thinks about giving up. Really?<br />
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She gets maybe 100 feet into her journey and BLAM, Trail Register. Cheese opens it up to sign in and here is the first of many instances regarding this matter when I want to throttle her with my bare hands. She writes in the register,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"'If your nerve deny you, go above your nerve.' -- Emily Dickinson, <em>and Cheryl Strayed</em>"</blockquote>
<br />
GODDAMNMOTHERFUCKINGASSHATPIECEOFSHIT, THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS. If I recited the entire Emancipation Proclamation right now, I still couldn't attribute the quote to myself just because the words came out of my mouth. Cheese doesn't seem to understand this and attributes various quotes to herself throughout the whole goddamned movie and it makes me want to murder something. THAT'S NOT HOW QUOTES WORK.<br />
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She's still within eyesight of traffic and already her inner monologue is at Full Cheese: "What the fuck have I done...You can quit at any time... You can quit at any time... You can qu--" HOLY SHIT, WHO IS THAT SECOND VOICE-- MOM, IS THAT YOU?!<br />
<br />
Groan.<br />
<br />
Cheese rubs some wild something into her hands and inhales and who cares.<br />
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She *walks and walks and walks* and omg, SO TIRED. The movie lets us know that she is 5 miles into her hike and already I call bullshit because we all know she only walked 4 miles on her first day and pfffffffffft. She stops to make camp and here comes another scene for all the Cheryl-Lovers: She doesn't know how to put her tent together, LOLOL, Oh, Cheryl!!! She acts like an idiot, tries reading the tent directions and omg, this is so hard, you guys! I'm so unprepared! LOL!<br />
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She finally gets her stupid tent put together and it's time for dinner. She takes a glance at the directions for her little stove, decides that <em>directions are hard</em> and opts to eat cold food, instead. She starts writing in her journal (WHHHAAAAAA----?) and then reads some poetry because of course she does. Suddenly, flashback.<br />
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<strike>Tracy Flick</strike> Cheese is walking through the halls of her college (looks like a high school to me), talking to her friend about OMG A BOY and she passes her mom. She ignores her because that's totally the cool thing to do and once her friend is out of sight, she turns around and calls to her mom, "Bobbi!" (Let's remember that calling her mom by her first name was on the list of things her mom did wrong, but whatevs, this is the movie.) Blah blah blah, barf.<br />
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Still in the flashback, Cheese and Bobbi are back at home and Cheese is acting like she's so proud of Bobbi for going to school and goddamnit, what the fuck is this. Bobbi mentions Erica Jong and asks what "zipless fucks" are, stating that she HAS TO WRITE A PAPER ABOUT ZIPLESS FUCKS and what goddamned college are they attending. Cheese is all, "Gross! I'm not talking about this with you," and then Leif shows up with a friend. Because Bobbi is a decent human being, she starts making dinner for Leif and Company and Cheese gets all bent about it because she wants her mom to be a selfish dick like her.<br />
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Flashback over, it's nighttime and Cheese is in her tent. OMG, A NOISE, QUICK, FREAK OUT!<br />
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And that's the first 20 minutes of the movie. I want to kill myself already.<br />
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Califohioanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11663315815873691593noreply@blogger.com17