Let me preface this by saying I have a dark sense of humor. I find horribly grim shit that would make most people cringe laughable. That said, I can’t find a damn reason why viral prankster Roman Atwood‘s latest stunt is remotely funny. This dude pretends to “accidentally” toss his kid over a balcony to terrify his wife half to death. Nope, not laughing. Too many kids actually die in freak accidents every year. Also, while I’m not a mother, I’m going to venture that believing your child is dead on the floor in front of you tops the list of some of the worst emotions a human can feel, and to have the person she trusts most, her husband, put her in that position is just awful. Gross.
A note: There’s a lot of trigger-y, very heavy material in this particular essay, including descriptions of graphic fictional violence (in nightmares) and mentions of sexual violence. I included it to paint as clear a picture I could of what it feels like to have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. All respect given to those who wish not to read that sort of thing: You take care of yourself however you need to.
“Wild,” the film adaptation of Cheryl Strayed’s memoir, came out this weekend and I know I’ll see it eventually, but it’ll probably be with a pretty heavy heart. I never read the book, either, although I read Tiny Beautiful Things and loved it.
I could just about write a eulogy for the 2014 that wasn’t. In February, I started making plans to quit my job and travel by plane, bike, train, and bus all across the United States. It didn’t work out. Right now, I was supposed to be in Florida visiting an old friend and her baby and trying not to get eaten by alligators.
That was all for the best, as long as “the best” is held to a moderate standard. I’m glad I got to spend my year with my lovely boyfriend and work on our relationship. I’m glad I got a therapist. I’m glad I got off of medications that were doing more harm than good. I’m glad I started writing and ultimately got a full-time job doing it. I’m glad I live in a nice new apartment and have a pretty good idea of what my boundaries are and how to keep myself healthy. That is a textbook definition of “a good life.” Keep reading »
This month, author Gregory Sherl’s debut novel, The Future For Curious People is being featured as an editor’s pick on Oprah.com’s book club list, a potentially career-making achievement for such a young writer (Sherl is only 29). Any other author would be ecstatic, but instead, Sherl seems to be ensconced a self-imposed exile, riding out a storm of abuse, coercion and sexual assault accusations from numerous women. Keep reading »
I have creep ennui. Right now it’s Jian Ghomeshi. Over the last few weeks it’s been Stephen Collins, Ray Rice (and the whole NFL), and the Alt Lit crowd — Tao Lin, Janey Smith, Stephen Tully Dierks, Ed Champion. Matt Taibbi apparently harassed a staffer at First Look Media. Dr. Luke abused Ke$ha. Would-be feminist icon Charles Clymer just keeps sticking his foot in his mouth whenever people press him about his questionable behavior and opinions. People are coming around to the Bill-Cosby-Is-A-Rapist revelation that I had years ago, after which I stopped watching anything Cosby-related. A bunch of guys I know probably know what Jennifer Lawrence’s boobs look like, now, and that’s creepy, too. Woody Allen’s a creep. Bill O’Reilly’s a creep. Sean Penn’s a creep. Mel Gibson’s a creep. Chris Brown’s a creep. Bill Clinton. Anthony Weiner. John Edwards. Creeps. Keep reading »