The more I dig the less I understand who I am. AND IT SCARES ME.

I signed onto my old Miami University account where I blindly changed my major to Theatre. Why the fuck would an insightful, introspective, emotionally unstable, moody, socially awkward, introverted, highly sensitive to criticism, head case choose that major? You know what, never mind let’s leave that rhetorical. Anyway, I accessed my net disk. and dug into some of my old creative writing and theatre assignments. Some of that stuff was DARK. I mean, I am not even sure I published it for them fearing I would be a threat to myself and others. I have moved on from that darkness but I guess I needed to release it at some point. And I am going to finally defeat that darkness through a type of therapy called EMDR which surprisingly my insurance covers. I mean I have ADHD , Cognitive Behavioral Therapists and I don’t exactly have the greatest rap sheet.

“EMDR therapy is recognized as an effective form of trauma treatment in numerous practice guidelines worldwide. In the US, this includes organizations such as the American Psychiatric Association and Department of Defense. More than twenty randomized studies support the effectiveness of the therapy in the treatment of PTSD. Further, more than twenty randomized studies have demonstrated positive effects of the eye movements. Click here to see an annotated list of guidelines and studies.
Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR)1 is a comprehensive, integrative psychotherapy approach. It contains elements of many effective psychotherapies in structured protocols that are designed to maximize treatment effects. These include psychodynamic, cognitive behavioral, interpersonal, experiential, and body-centered therapies2.
EMDR psychotherapy is an information processing therapy and uses an eight phase approach to address the experiential contributors of a wide range of pathologies. It attends to the past experiences that have set the groundwork for pathology, the current situations that trigger dysfunctional emotions, beliefs and sensations, and the positive experience needed to enhance future adaptive behaviors and mental health.” Is it just me or is it feeling a bit “Eternal Sunshine” in here?
Yeah, you look into this machine that traces the patterns of your eyes while talk about well, the trauma you experienced that made you the mess you are today and store it in another part of your brain. Not to sound melodramatic but my life has been one big fuck up and I want to clean up that mess and move on.

Anyway, I wanted to share some of my creative writing work and some fucked up plays I never finished:

Sara Ribar



Neurotic Nausea 

I feel like I have to throw up 

Myself, oh god, here it comes, great, 

now I’m lying on the ground, a grotesque 

blob decomposing on the dehydrated crab grass. 

Shit! What’s this- I’ve stepped in myself! 

This is sick, it’s more like a 

gooey, bloody, horror movie scene.

I can’t seem to wipe me off my feet. 

What a mess! Should I Call the 

fire department to clean me up? 

No, I can handle it- 

I was already peeling layers of myself 

off anyway, so this is just a 

minor regurgitation, A hiccup

and I’ve already placed my personality 

in a jar for further inspection. 

Everyone is staring at my vulnerable blob 

smeared into the ground. Stepping in me, pointing

at the court jester, this self deprecating circus 

of eyeballs and teeth. Even I looked at myself 

once or twice. I couldn’t resist!

We all love a good rubber necking,

people with yellow necks wrapping 

themselves around telephone poles and 

parked Cars. I’ve spotted them before, 

even floating in the ocean, when two

boats collided.

“Keep your eyes peeled!” I heard someone

 say, So I peeled them off and Stuck them

 to a sewer lid.

A brave onlooker Walked over to me

and said “slap me some skin!” 

So I scooped up a pile of myself 

and walloped her in the face 

The fire department has finally arrived.    


I was a bigger mess before. I think I’ll just have 

them keep me here, and I’ll let the vultures enjoy 

a nice heaping of human tissue and emotional turmoil.

Move along now… 

Nothing to see here 

Nothing to see!

Sara Ribar Ribar- 1



Prof. Luongo

Awkward Occurrences in a Detached Mind

Around 1991… I sat restlessly in a clothing store named “Florence’s.”

The glowing red sign outside was above a black and white pin striped

overhang. They sold ridiculously over priced designer clothing. My mother

would try on six hundred dollar outfits; I would hide out amongst the

glittering Liz Claiborne dresses and fancy Evan Picone suits. I never

understood why she’d always drag me along with her. I hated it that

store. It seemed like we were there a lot.

Around 1988… I set off for my first day of kindergarten. On the way home

from school I forgot to get off the bus. I suppose I wasn’t paying attention.

I was so tiny the bus driver didn’t see me; I was already back at the school

before he found out I was still a passenger. I rode home in a Black Cadillac

late that afternoon. The principal of Bloomfield Elementary School drove me

home. To this day, my mother still has no idea why she wasn’t waiting

for me in front of our driveway.

Around 1996… I started wearing rock band t-shirts. My favorite

one was a “Rage Against The Machine” long-sleeve shirt.

It was black and white and depicted an upside down American flag.

My dad got pissed off and said I shouldn’t wear such “filth” out in public.

He’s a Vietnam veteran. The veins in his forehead and neck pop out

when he yells. I flipped him off when he wasn’t looking.

Around 1994… I was almost kidnapped. My parents were both at work and the location of my older brother was unknown. An overweight bald man driving a small and rusting blue car was creeping down my street. He spotted me on my bike, and would not stop following me up and down various neighborhood streets. Every time I turned around at the end of another street, the man would be right behind me. I was absolutely terrified and beyond panic stricken. I was nearly paralyzed. I hadn’t a rational idea in my head. I was too frightened to even think about going to a friend or neighbor’s house for safety. Finally, adrenaline took hold of my body and brain and I pedaled my little bike as fast as I could. My pulse had never been so elevated. I made it to my house without him seeing where I lived. I opened up the garage door a smidge; I slid my bike under, and then I slid under, then ran up to my front door and locked it. I stealthily watched him slowly pass my house and eventually he left the general area. Later that day, my lying neighbor fabricated a story about how the man tried to break into my house.

Around 2002… was my grandpa’s visitation. It was my nineteenth birthday.

My grandma told the same story over and over again about how she believed

my grandpa was still sleeping until she felt his cold body while trying to wake

him early in the morning. Various relatives kept telling me how beautiful I looked.

They hadn’t seen me since my tremendous one hundred pound weight drop.

I kept trying to divert the attention away from myself, by making small talk about other events,

but my attempts were unsuccessful. I felt it was wrong to be the center of attention at someone’s death. A nice older woman sang Amazing Grace with much force; I just gazed blankly at my grandpa’s peaceful corpse. My creepy great uncle Jack never failed to make me feel

uncomfortable. He asked me if I had “latched onto any potheads” and then

handed me a five dollar bill as a birthday gift. I snuck outside for a quick smoke,

and two strangers forced me to take a large tin of vegetarian lasagna; I must

have looked  needy or something. I didn’t cry that day.

Ribar  -2

Around 1987… my brother and I SWORE (and we still do swear) that

we saw Abraham Lincoln’s funeral procession “ghost” train, screech

past the railroad tracks by our old house. We were obsessed with

a book that talked about haunted things in Ohio, and we traced the

train’s path in the book right through our town. We waited and waited,

peering out of our living room window with wild and eager eyes. Finally…

we saw something. We still get chills thinking about it, even if it was

a figment of our imaginations.

Around 1993… I set a small fire in the garage. The rest of my

family was sitting in the family room watching a movie and

eating Little Caesars pizza. Not one of them even turned their

heads an inch to see what I was up to. They didn’t notice the

smoke coming from the garage, or me running in and out of

the laundry room with large cups of water. I had just gotten

a perm earlier that afternoon. My hair smelled of smoke and

permanent hair solution for days.

Around 2004… my father screamed at my mother and blamed her for sending me to college. It was purely a fiscal matter. A few days later he told my mother and myself  “I feel like I’ve wasted my life,” gesturing and referring to us. For a solitary frozen second I had believed my heart stopped. I think I actually cried for the first time in months. Shortly thereafter, my father and I had a total communication breakdown.

Around 1992…  my grandmother told me that people smoke when they are nervous. She said smoking calmed her down. It was the eve of my ninth birthday. I thought I was getting old. I was nervous. I took some of my dad’s cigarettes from the coffee table while he was sleeping, snuck out to the garage, lit three or four of them, and then threw them down next to the steps. I kept saying to myself “man, I am so nervous; I need a cigarette,” every time I’d light one up. I didn’t actually start smoking until I was seventeen. But, that is a different matter.

Around 1988… my best friend at the time, Erin , would come over to watch shows like “The Smurfs” and movies like “Roger Rabbit.” Her mom, Marcella, or who I should have called witch mother from hell. would not let her watch these shows at home because she thought they had satanic and occult underlying themes and secret subliminal messages. This was our covert operation that her mom never found out about. Marcella hated me; she’d lose her temper with me because I called their house too much. Years later, I would find out that this devoutly Christian woman cheated on her husband and left him for another man. I never trusted her and thought she was hiding something.

Ribar -3

Around 2005… I quit smoking to prove to myself that it was just a habit and not an addiction. I had come to the conclusion that I could not get addicted to things. I didn’t quit because people told me it was bad for my health; I quit because I knew it wouldn’t be a problem for me. I’ve always been stubborn like that. Although, I was petrified and heartbroken to find out about my grandma’s stomach cancer and didn’t want to end up seventy years old having to take eleven different medications a day.

Around 1999… I had just gotten my driver’s license. I was totally excited, but not paying attention to anything I was doing. While pumping gas, I tripped over the gasoline hose and sprained my ankle. I had on red and blue platform sandals. It took me four years to wear those sandals again. Later on I would find out I have a “bolting problem” which caused many accidents that could have been prevented.

This is where it starts to get dark. I was working on allegory play where empathy, apathy, atrophy,  and antipathy are fighting one another in someone’s mind.

ˇMonologue: Final Presentation¡

in this scene apathy fights back the audience experiences what it feels like to hear a second voice in someones head. The audience will experience a mental breakdown from a confused person¿¿s point of view. At looks as Antipathy is actually talking to someone, but we realize it¿¿s just a battle with self in the head. As we are actually listening to this person¿¿s sacred thoughts. ƒƒ
Antipathy: as if addressing someone) I can’t believe you’d say that to your own mother. Why are you even still here? Why do you even exist. I never wanted you around; you’re a fucking failure. Do you hear me? A FAILURE. √√(antipathy proceeds to talk with hands) ƒƒYour mother didn’t even want to give birth to you. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that? They stuck that huge needle in the back of her spine, and the iv was
shoved inside her wrists , feeding her sodium pentathol, and they cut a six inch incision vertically across her stomach. What? What’s wrong? Are you crying? You know
what dad said about crying? We don’t cry in this fucking family.(large gestures and pacing) You should have killed yourself years ago. You’ve always cried, always. What’s wrong with you? Dad was in Vietnam for christ’s sake, he got shrapnel in his EYE. √Antipathy gets out a cigarette and lights it BE A MAN. If you were a dog they would have drowned you at birth. What Are you? You’re not emotion. You’re not REAL human emotion. angry look constantly) ƒƒYoure a fucking sappy tree branch rotting in a cartoon forest. √√(more pacing and gesturing)ƒƒ I hope you fucking die. A violent death. I hope I can stand over you, and watch you start coughing up blood. And then, I’ll laugh so hard. I’ll start coughing up blood. I want to see your insides exposed. I want to watch Every single particle fall out of you. I want to see you decompose. Then if theres anything left of you; l ship your body off to Iraq and let those fucking people deal with it. (drops cigarette when noise appears).ƒƒ

–(other voice): √√(Antipathy grabs her head when the sound cues. Antipathy looks around nervously as if this has happened to her before. She has a look of confusion and discontent on her face.)ƒƒ

I try to do everything for everyone. I get nothing in return. I’ve always said honesty is t

the best policy. I’ve always said, karmic retribution will pay me back.

God, what a fucking lie. What a fucking lie it’s always been. It’s never gotten better.

(antipathy kneels down and cringes.) Not only am I lonelier than I’ve ever been in my

life. I’ve got you telling me how terrible of a person I am, as well. These people who say

they are my friends; they’re not my friends. I can’t even count on you. I CANT EVEN

COUNT ON YOU. My whole life you’ve been there telling me how fucking sorry my

life is. How pathetic I am. ƒ ƒ(Antipathy grabs her head and starts to hit herself and

mumble) √ √How I can’t do anything right. Did you ever think that maybe you were

wrong. I want YOU to die. I want YOU to drown. I hate you as well. (antipathy grabs her head as the sound is going on and overlaps onto the next part of speech—√ √Antipathy: ƒ ƒSHUT UP. SHUT UP. FUCKING SHUT UP. JUST SHUT UP! MOM TELL


ALL HER MONEY AND WASTE ALL OF HER TIME. Why dont you fight me like a

real person? Why do you always have to act like some stupid pussy. C¿mon I fight with

my fists you see. I fight like a MAN. You were NEVER a man. C¿on fucking fight me

right NOW. FIGHT ME. HIT ME AS HARD AS YOU CAN. √√(acts angry while walking

around) Always so sensitive. (laughs ,slight pause.)

¡¡Always loving everybody. What the fuck is the point in loving everyone?

People are cruel; they don¿t care if you care or not. I get to the point. I hate everyone.

Hating people is the only way you’ll get through this life unscathed. Now, you understand

why I never loved you. I’ve always hated you so much. It’s the only way I could get by

without hurting. It’ss the only way I could get by without pain (confused look appears on

face) Why do you love so much? Why do you fucking care? Fine I fucking admit it; my

life is shit. Okay? it’s shit. I’ve always wanted to be like you. I’ve been so fucking

jealous. Why can’t I be like you? I’d trade in these fists and this damaged, morally corrupt

attitude, for just one piece of the empathy you carry inside of you. FUCK I HATE YOU

SO MUCH. (Antipathy falls to the ground) WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?


(other voice) Antipathy grabs her head again because she hears the noise inside of it.
She is completely lost in regards to her sanity.
Do you think I live my life any better? Do you think I actually WANT to help

everyone? Love everyone? Antipathy is pacing nervously fighting off these demons in

her head. Do you think I like being completely hyperaware of every

human’s Actions, reactions, and emotions? You know what the fucked up part is? I

don’t tell them how I feel. I don’t tell them what I see. I just live this life of silence. I

live here unknown.(it seems as if though antipathy really believes this person is real,

and even tries to reach out for it.) I live here inside. I’d love to hate. I’d love to spit on

some piece of shit I detest. Maybe I should be the one who dies. Maybe you’re right.

Mom doesn’t love me. Dad doesn’t love anyone. My friends don’t give a shit. I don’t

even fucking care anymore. You’ve ultimately given up on me. The asshole always

wins.( a sad look of realization hits antipathy as if she has feelings too).ƒƒ
Antipathy: I can’t live like this. I cant live like this. √√(whispering)ƒƒ I can¿¿t live like

this. I can live like this. (other voice cues up, and starts saying the same thing;

Antipathys voice eventually becomes louder and louder until the two voices overlap). 

CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS. antipathy soon collapses to the ground. the lights go black. The sound of a phone off the hook appears “I’m sorry but the number you’ve been trying to reach has been disconnected. End of scene.

Now this is where it gets really scary. I didn’t even write more than pages of this. I DID NOT want to go there. I think I actually was losing my sanity my senior year. 

Disconnected by: Sara Ribar



Soulless Grub worm

Vacuous Hologram as a woman

GOD as a voice in the walls

Societal Grid Voice  # 1

Societal Grid Voice  # 2


Scene 1: They’re coming to take me away, ha ha.

The scene opens in a dingy studio basement apartment. There are clothes strewn about everywhere. The place is barren. One couch, an end table containing large dense textbooks never touched. A futon sits in the corner with no cover and an old blanket thrown on top of it. No coffee table, dim lamp, trash piled up by the door, cigarette butts spilled all over dirty carpet. The sink is filled with dirty dishes. The main character, Isolatia is sitting in the center of the couch, staring at a blank wall in front of her. Her apartment is devoid of all communication. No Internet, no telephone line, no roommate, no cable television. She is wearing a t-shirt that says “Fuck It” and it appears she hasn’t showered in days. The scene opens on a Monday morning, a soulless grub worm is knocking at the door. This often occurs and it frightens Isolatia. She is paranoid and convinced she’s being watched and that her stuff (which is not much) is being rifled through often. She’s afraid to leave her apartment, yet she loathes the very presence of it. Isolatia has been addicted to numerous pharmaceuticals for the past seven years. Reality as she knows it, is unbearable. 

We hear loud knocking. Isolatia approaches the door with much reluctance, glares through the peephole, and slowly opens the door. The apartment has a slight odor of stale cigarette smoke and decomposing chicken that had somehow managed to burrow its way into the carpet.

Isolatia:   You again?  The fuck do you want? I think you’re the sole reason panic attacks even exist.

Soulless Grub Worm: (chewing on her own face). You’re a month behind on your rent. If you do not give me some sort of payment within the next week, I will be forced to evict you. I have been more than patient with you.

Isolatia: I fucking told you. I will have the rent when I can get my finances under control. It’s one fucking month behind. You’d rip your own fetus out of the womb for 450 lousy dollars.

Soulless Grub Worm: YOUR name is on the lease. Therefore, YOU are responsible for a monthly payment. A contract is a responsibility to society and if you can’t handle that responsibility then you shouldn’t be living on your own.

Isolatia: Fuck man, it’s people like you who cause people to like go fucking whacko and start like going on killing sprees or taking liquid Demerol and stealing from Sak’s Fifth Avenue for no reason. No wonder every person in this country has some sort of identity crisis. You’re either too rich to fucking care about anything or too poor to think even have the energy to think about anything but survival.

Soulless Grub Worm: I’m not the bad guy here (she starts to ooze some sort of slimy residue from her sides). I have a boss. My boss has a boss and if they don’t see results; I get into trouble too. I am not out to get you. I am just doing MY JOB.

Isolatia: Will you just get out of my face? Please? Just give me some peace for like, 48 fucking hours. I swear to God. I think I’ll just kill myself so I won’t be such a fucking financial burden on anyone, anymore.

Soulless Grub Worm: You’ve had more than enough time to get me this money. You’ve been behind one month’s rent for 5 months now. I did not want it to come to this.

Isolatia: I think I just had an epiphany. It’s people like you who thrive on other’s misery.  You’re like an emotional vampire, you just SUCK what positive emotions people hold in their souls and you like place it in a jar in that little fucking office of yours, and inhale bits of it now and again. Fantastic.

Soulless Grub Worm: I want a check by Monday, or I will be forced to file for eviction.

The Soulless Grub Worm slowly slithers away. Isolatia slams the door with full force.

Isolatia: What a miserable cunt, nothing but a cesspool of maggots gnawing away at her grotesque pile of pendulous tissue. My God, these people never leave me alone. They never leave me alone. They never leave. I just want to be left alone. I just want to be extinguished. Why can’t I go one day without someone DEMANDING something from me? And it’s not like they are asking how I am. They are literally scraping away at the flesh, exposing what bit of human existence is still left inside my atrophying soul. I was a good person once. Good. Good. Where did it go wrong? I wish my mother had left me to die inside her womb like God planned. I wish I had the self-motivation to blow my brains out because I would splatter my cerebral cortex all over this putrefying fictitious society, this wasteland of barbaric intentions, selfish motives and cardboard people who have commoditized their own fucking identities.

Isolatia sits back down in the middle of the couch. She has slight Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. She has to sit on the certain side of a room, couch, table, etc. She lights up a cigarette she’d been meaning to smoke for hours. 

Isolatia: No friends. No life. No hope. No Friends. No life. No Hope. It’s like, when I am out there, outside in the world. Where there are people and air and living creatures and moving vehicles and sunlight, just SUNLIGHT. I feel like I am embodied in the grid of society, like I am flowing with the particles of the universe and not even God can fucking put me down. Then, I come back in here. Hell, this is hell. I head down those stairs and I am a death bound plague. I am the Ebola virus and I am causing the organs of society to bleed to death. I wish I could stay awake forever. I want to stay awake forever. I won’t sleep ever again. Once I am in here I know that I’ve fallen off the grid. I am under the grid; Christ, I am looking UP at the grid where everyone is functioning and happily married or divorced or at least feeling a longing for something or someone. Responsible adults or even childish adults they all seem to have a passion, a drive a motive, a will to survive. Why didn’t they invite me to their tea party? Why didn’t they ask me to join them in their quest for knowledge? Why was I the one who was left to sit here and find my own path? That’s not fair? Why did they leave me here to die? I am no longer on that grid when I am in here alone; I am stagnant and I can hear some of the things that the other grids are saying: idle gossip.  Everyone else is moving and living and breathing and I am just dead. They are always living and moving and breathing even when they sleep. I cannot sleep. I will not sleep. Why does the grid keep fucking moving without me? I can no longer function like this. I do not exist.

Scene II – Severed Heads

Isolatia starts to run her fingers through her hair, not in a sensual way, but in a quixotic way, examining each random strand and small clump that comes out every time her hand exits the scalp. She likes to pull at the stray hairs in her hands; the smell of her hair often comforts her.

There is another knock at the door. 

Isolatia: What do they want from me this time?? Burdens. Life. Death. STOP!

Isolatia examines the peephole again. It is a vacuous hologram of a woman. She is fixated on collecting material goods and is on a constant quest for wealth. She feels the need to “help” Isolatia so that she is a well-adjusted human being. She is present but never really listens to anything being said.

Vacuous Hologram as a Woman:  Just thought I’d drop by and say HELLO NEIGHBOR!  Beautiful Weather! No time to waste! I was actually on my way out. On my way to purchase some rare diamond earrings!

Isolatia: Thrilling.

Vacuous hologram as a woman: Well, aren’t you grumpy today?

Isolatia would have rather avoided this entire conversation altogether, however, the vacuous hologram of a woman, being mostly robotic would not stop knocking until Isolatia answered. So Isolatia always feels obligated to answer, in fear that her door just may get smashed in.

Isolatia: I’m not feeling quite like myself. You know how, some people have day friends? You know, “day friends”, like, “hey, you’re near me and I have nobody else to talk to, want to grab some lunch? Then we can discuss some self important, self involved, self-diluted, exaggerated issues that you didn’t even want to listen to in the first place? Let’s go bask in this consumer driven society that we use as a barrier to hide how fucking empty and pathetic our lives really are? You know, day friends, right? Then, those same people who have day friends, they also have “night friends”. These are the kinds you keep, they want to see you when the sun goes down, they ask you to come over, invite you out for drinks on the town, and even ask you to spend the night sometimes. I don’t have any fucking night friends. I only have day friends. I slipped off the grid. Nobody knows I exist anymore, because I DON’T.

Vacuous hologram as a woman: I am afraid I don’t follow.

Isolatia: Of course you don’t. You’re a fucking robot! Don’t you understand? My wires have been severed. I no longer exist to the people around me unless it’s for purposes of destruction, greed, anger, needs of services, or PAYMENT for materials. I am no longer a functioning living breathing human being. I am dead to the people around me. Nobody wants me anymore. I have become a useless particle floating in the universe. Why am I not connected anymore? What did I do wrong? Is the grid still functioning? Does it still exist? EMPTY. You know what, just get out. I need to be alone.

Vacuous hologram as a woman: Suit yourself. I’m off to shop! Cheer up, pal.

Yeah, that’s where I stopped. I guess I never really felt like I belonged anywhere. But I am not going to sit here and psychoanalyze myself.

I had a sense of humor too. I did an parody article in my queer theory class on how not to be labeled a “lesbian”

Sara Ribar



Dr. Detloff

Hello, my name is Sassy Sara and I have a guide for all you women out there who are scared that people will identify you as a big scary lesbian! If you follow my advice you’ll never be mistaken for a lesbian again!

Sassy Sara’s 10 ways to becoming a better straight woman:

  1. Never attend a club that is specifically for gay men and women. If you go there even with your “best gay man friend” you still have the chance as being mistaken for a dyke and you wouldn’t want that!
  1. ALWAYS wear make up. I cannot stress this enough! Do not leave the house without at least a little eyeliner and lipstick. If you’re caught without makeup someone might scream some sort of insult to you questioning your sexuality! Seriously gals, how many lesbians have you seen wear make up?
  1. Don’t wear pants! I am serious! Don’t wear black pants, don’t wear dress pants, and don’t wear khaki pants. Just don’t wear pants, even if they are dressy! Skirts are for women and you need to utilize that!  If you are working out, make sure that nobody sees you in sweat pants. Do you want a person to mistake you for someone who doesn’t care about their looks? You can wear ONLY designer jeans and they must not be loose and baggy, you don’t want anyone mistaking you for a man do you?
  1. Don’t wear men’s clothing. For the love of God! What will your mothers think if you’ve got on a wife beater and dirty tennis shoes? You’re just ASKING to get hit on by some big scary lesbian!
  1. Don’t listen to any music by women who identify as gay or bisexual. If you’re caught listening to Ani Difranco, K.D. Lang, Melissa Etheridge, or the Indigo Girls, you’re just asking for it! Do you want people to think that you associate with those people who don’t shower or don’t eat meat?! That’s unheard of!
  1. Go on a man hunt for husband in your early twenties. I cannot stress this enough. Do you want to be old with no husband? I don’t think so. I know I wouldn’t want to live alone with 35 cats….
  1. When you do bag a husband, you must do WHATEVER he says. If you don’t you’re going to wind up all alone again getting hit on by lesbians at a dirty casino. You’ll become an alcoholic, and your parents will disown you. Who wants a future like that?
  1. Forget about working! Working women wear pants, and you can’t wear pants! Remember? You need to start thinking about having kids and taking care of the family!
  1. Don’t cut your hair short! Even if you are a mother with 5 children, women with short hair are often questioned by other neighborhood wives. You don’t want to be the talk of the town!
  1. Last but not least. Make sure you have excellent health care coverage, because being cooped up in the house all day; you’re going to need a buffet of pills to get you through. Remember to ask for Valium, Ambien, Xanax, and Percocet!

I enjoy satire.

I don’t know why I unloaded that deeply personal stuff on here. It’s just I used to have creativity and passion and ambition like I was going to do something leaving a meaningful imprint on my life. But I feel as useless as ever especially when I am doing fucking water therapy with 80 year olds because of my degenerative genetic disease.

I’m lost. I truly am. And the older you get the less willing human resilience wants to bounce back.

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