Initially, I was going to write about plus size fashion and tips on plus size shopping, but that will have to be postponed for the time being. I have a very serious subject that I think needs addressed even in the smallest of venues.
Last night, January 26th, an 11-year-old girl from the London area took her own life. ELEVEN YEARS OLD. What would possess a child so young to kill herself? She was being bullied at school.
This little girl had so much potential: to grow up and become god only knows what. She could have been the best lawyer, the doctor that made a medical breakthrough, or, simply, the greatest parent. She never got to go to prom, have her first kiss, drive a car...the list of nevers are endless, sad, and above all, unjust. This little girl's life was cut short by cruel mockery and hatred. When is it enough? What is the answer to fixing this broken system?
It takes a village to raise a child and it's going to take a village to put a stop to this hatred. As a society, we raise our children with images that are not even close to realistic: perfection based on how much your hip bones stick out, how thick your hair is, how straight your teeth are, and what name brand shoes are you wearing. Children are sponges that suck in so much information and ideals; this includes bias past on from other peers and parents. Hatred is not self taught, but inherited, passed down, and encouraged through words, actions, and simply ignorance.
Every child's bullying experience is different and can no way be compared to others. I, personally, was bullied a lot in school and it still haunts me to this day. I was called fat, ugly, and stupid. I was tripped on the playground, pushed into desks, hit in the face with a jump rope, and had my hair pulled repeatedly on the bus. Graffiti gossip about me was scrawled into the girls' bathroom wall in the fourth grade; graffiti that I had to clean-up after it was discovered by my best friend. When the teacher was informed of the graffiti, I was given permission to skip my recess to clean up the hateful words directed toward me. ME. Not once did the teacher in question address the class on what happened.
I was afraid to go to school for the longest time; too depressed to care about my studies or even talk to the handful of friends that I did have around. My mom was my cheerleader and my advocate. When I would come home sad, broken, and angry, she was the first to demand answers and often times she called the school and demanded action.
Even though the physical attacks hurt, nothing compared to the pain of the words. I can't describe how much the words crippled me as a kid and, like this poor little girl, how I thought almost every night how things would be much more simpler if I were dead. I admit, from the ages of eight to eighteen, I thought about ending my own life. Even coming close a few times by saving up pills or tucking away razors; waiting for that breaking point. At that time, I thought I would be doing everyone a big favor...I never stopped to think of how it'd make my parents feel or the teachers that did care. At that time, I felt lost, hopeless, and a complete waste of space. Then one day in high school, I had enough when I was called a cow by an upperclassman. I used my wit and sharp tongue to put my bully in their place.
If I won't get respect because I'm not a stick, I'll get it because I am a stone. My new philosophy was born.
It's a beautiful concept, but more needs to be done. It's time we take a stand: as parents, teachers, aunts, uncles, sisters, and brothers. It's time we make zero tolerance a reality and not a dream. It's time we stop ignoring the problem and start addressing it. We need to get our eyes off the t.v. screen, our ears and lips away from the smart phone, and start correcting the children that are spewing hate. Our complete disregard for our children's behavior needs to be addressed. Our ignorance is the breeding ground of hate.
The steps can be small: start by talking to your kids. Ask them what exactly they know about bullying and educate them on the rights and wrongs. Be a constant in their lives. Then demand change in the schools: ask how you can help enforce zero tolerance. Ask what bully awareness programs does the school have in place.
We cannot turn a blind eye to this anymore. These children are our future and our greatest asset; they cannot be left broken and in despair. I lucked out and found strength in my pain, but what about these children that are fighting more odds then I did: emotional, verbal, physical, and technological. Things have gotten more complicated and it is not as simple as "children will be children" and "getting picked on is a growing pain". Bottom line: bullying is a form of HARASSMENT and it has damning effects. It CANNOT be tolerated any more.
Take a stand today. Not one more child.
Some facts:
1. 56% of students have personally felt some sort of bullying at school. Between 4th and 8th grade in particular, 90% of students are victims of bullying.
2. The most common reason cited for being harassed is a student's appearance or body size. 2 out of 5 teens feel that they are bullied because of the way that they look.
3. 9 out of 1...0 LGBT youth reported being verbally harassed at school in the past year because of their sexual orientation.
4. 1 in 4 teachers see nothing wrong with bullying and will only intervene 4% percent of the time.
5. A victim of bullying is twice as likely to take his or her own life compared to someone who is not a victim.
6. One out of 10 students drop out of school because they are bullied.
7. Physical bullying peak in middle school and declines in high school. Verbal abuse rates remain constant from elementary to high school.
8. Researchers feel that bullying should not be treated as part of growing up (with the attitude “kids will be kids").
9. 41% of principals say they have programs designed to create a safe environment for LGBT students, but only 1/3 of principals say that LGBT students would feel safe at their school.
10. 57% of students who experience harassment in school never report the incident to the school. 10% of those who do not report stay quiet because they do not believe that teachers or staff can do anything. As a result, more than a quarter of students feel that school is an unsafe place to be.
11. Schools with easily understood rules of conduct, smaller class sizes and fair discipline practices report less violence than those without such features.
For more information on bullying, check out http://www.stopbullying.gov
No thickinspiration tonight. Just please keep Hailey and her parents in your hearts tonight.
Love,
-Dee Dee
Sunday 27 January 2013
Monday 21 January 2013
Platoon: Lost in a Jungle
I promised myself I wouldn't go here; that I wouldn't let myself get raw and over my head. Things happen though and even the most confident phat girl can trip and fall.
And damn, I fell down the rabbit hole with this one.
Why do things have to be so complicated and utterly confusing? Why can't life work like mathematics all the time? One solution, one answer, one way. No alternate routes to get to the last sticking equation; just a simple answer without the bullshit in between. What happens when you find yourself lost in foreign territory engulfed in a fog of unfamiliar scenarios. Things that you know are not the norm or socially acceptable in any sense, but you are still compelled to go deeper through the brush and get swallowed up into a fog.
I wish I could just spill every raw emotion onto this canvas without sounding like a dreadful person; without the worry of what the people I love think. It's hard though and sometimes I feel like I have to keep myself shut away in fear of disapproval.
I like a guy with a closet full of disjointed skeletons. I like a guy that makes me forget to put my guard walls up. I like a guy that approves of my unhealthy love for Aqua Teen Hunger Force, gets my dark humor, and can make me laugh when I'm feeling my worst. He's the kind of guy I've always wanted, but those skeletons continue to rattle against the empty coat hangers and tap against the door. A constant, distant reminder that things are taboo right now.
My mother always says that God never gives you anything you can't handle. She also says everything happens for a reason. In this case, what the hell is the reason? I keep waiting, with baited breath, for the fog to lift so I can find my way home, but it just seems to get thicker and colder.
I guess my trouble is finding out what you should do when you are lost. What you should think when those skeletons of the past polish up those old bones and come knocking at your chamber door at night when your body feels so weak with exhaustion, but your mind remains alert and on edge. Do you plug your ears, count to ten, twenty, one hundred and one and hope it will all quiet down? Do you remain on your bruised knees and quake as you pray to an unseen god for a sign, an answer, a renewed hope? When does the complexity of a situation that you just so happened to trip into by lonely drunken stupor morph into that simple math equation. 1 + 1= 2 or 2 - 1 = 1?
Everything comes with a risk, but why can't life be a little less chaotic? When do you decide to fall into the waters below to get washed away or to fight hard against the tide? When does the everyday gambler fold their cards and say enough is enough?
Someday, the confusion will conclude with an answer, I'm sure, but I get impatient. I want solutions right away, I guess that is the banker in me. Regardless, I hope I get that answer sooner rather than later and, most importantly, I hope it is the right answer.
Thanks loves for listening to my midnight rambling. I apologize for being all emotastic, cynical, and having no regard for my grammar (yup, I'm not great at editing my own shit, so bear with me).
Giving Love (or, in my case, infactuation) A Bad Name,
Dee Dee
Thickspiration: A stronger, happier me. Your thickspiration? You...you should always be your #1.
And damn, I fell down the rabbit hole with this one.
Why do things have to be so complicated and utterly confusing? Why can't life work like mathematics all the time? One solution, one answer, one way. No alternate routes to get to the last sticking equation; just a simple answer without the bullshit in between. What happens when you find yourself lost in foreign territory engulfed in a fog of unfamiliar scenarios. Things that you know are not the norm or socially acceptable in any sense, but you are still compelled to go deeper through the brush and get swallowed up into a fog.
I wish I could just spill every raw emotion onto this canvas without sounding like a dreadful person; without the worry of what the people I love think. It's hard though and sometimes I feel like I have to keep myself shut away in fear of disapproval.
I like a guy with a closet full of disjointed skeletons. I like a guy that makes me forget to put my guard walls up. I like a guy that approves of my unhealthy love for Aqua Teen Hunger Force, gets my dark humor, and can make me laugh when I'm feeling my worst. He's the kind of guy I've always wanted, but those skeletons continue to rattle against the empty coat hangers and tap against the door. A constant, distant reminder that things are taboo right now.
My mother always says that God never gives you anything you can't handle. She also says everything happens for a reason. In this case, what the hell is the reason? I keep waiting, with baited breath, for the fog to lift so I can find my way home, but it just seems to get thicker and colder.
I guess my trouble is finding out what you should do when you are lost. What you should think when those skeletons of the past polish up those old bones and come knocking at your chamber door at night when your body feels so weak with exhaustion, but your mind remains alert and on edge. Do you plug your ears, count to ten, twenty, one hundred and one and hope it will all quiet down? Do you remain on your bruised knees and quake as you pray to an unseen god for a sign, an answer, a renewed hope? When does the complexity of a situation that you just so happened to trip into by lonely drunken stupor morph into that simple math equation. 1 + 1= 2 or 2 - 1 = 1?
Everything comes with a risk, but why can't life be a little less chaotic? When do you decide to fall into the waters below to get washed away or to fight hard against the tide? When does the everyday gambler fold their cards and say enough is enough?
Someday, the confusion will conclude with an answer, I'm sure, but I get impatient. I want solutions right away, I guess that is the banker in me. Regardless, I hope I get that answer sooner rather than later and, most importantly, I hope it is the right answer.
Thanks loves for listening to my midnight rambling. I apologize for being all emotastic, cynical, and having no regard for my grammar (yup, I'm not great at editing my own shit, so bear with me).
Giving Love (or, in my case, infactuation) A Bad Name,
Dee Dee
Thickspiration: A stronger, happier me. Your thickspiration? You...you should always be your #1.
Saturday 19 January 2013
OKStupid: No, I DO NOT like Golden Showers
Let's face it, phat ladies: dating is no walk in the park despite how fierce you may look or how much sexy-infused confidence you may shine out over the world. You've tried it all: trying to strike up a conversation with that cute techie guy at the Best Buy Mobile Store over iPhones and HTCs (been there), bump that tattooed hottie rocking out in a mosh pit beside you (done that...and suffered a bruised ribcage in the process...oh, and no date. Wounded with no benefits reaped.), or perhaps you fell long and hard for the tortured artist that lived across from you in your college dorm; hands and the hair line of his forehead spotted with black kohl from constantly pushing back his messy soft black hair...oh, those hands...ahem, anyway, maybe you fell into his sick, tortured artist spell only to be torn apart by shy awkward glances, titters, and the doomed Antioch co-op (oh no...totally did not happen to me at all).
Well, bottom line: dating can be good and then it can be, hmmm....fucking terrible. It's a risk; a final sale kind of deal with no chance of return (yup, not even the shit that is chipped or ripped beyond of repair). There are no guarantees that the first date will even be fun. You just take leaps and pray like hell that you crash into the cool water and not the shards of rock below.
I tried all the typical dating routines, but nothing could be as interesting as my encounters on OKCupid.
OKCupid has its ups and downs for me: I met one of my best friends, Mike, on OKCupid (a fellow punk and tattoo enthusiast) and he has been my rock through the shittiest parts of my life. A brother of another mother, if you will. I even had a relationship come out of it: two years and engaged, but that all ended in a bitter sweetness. There's my first big risk. After a month of recovery, I was back on the saddle...and back to OKCupid.
OKCupid changed A LOT when I was away. Once small and close knit; it had morphed into a godzilla with a few good men...but a HELL of a lot of freaks too.
Now, I am far from conventional: I'm a big girl that likes to be loud, spontaneous, and weird. My relationship aspirations are to meet that guy that can share my love of Muse, dark humor, and Justin Bieber covers (covers only...I fucking don't have "Bieber Fever", okay?). I want a guy that will quote Lone Star's quotes as I quote Princess Vespa (Spaceballs reference). I want a guy that knows I got anxiety issues and be totally cool with it. Besides one particular promising message from one member, I got hit with a boatload of creepers.
My profile evidently is a beacon of fuckery; crying out over the shining waters of HTML, "Come! Give me your potential serial rapists, gladly unemployed, and aspiring Mr. Greys (no, not even the hot kind). It's enough to make a girl question whether or not she is living a life of a Carrie Bradshaw.
First encounter: It's raining...but I don't think that is water...what the...?
First message I got was from a 32-year-old gentleman: he seemed like a great guy. He had that country boy face, a killer smile (not a Charles Manson kind of smile), and a single parent with an adorable little girl needing a strong female figure in her life. I was not scared of the kid at all. In fact, I love kids and would never not date anyone because of that factor. I was gung ho on going out on a coffee date with guy until he started talking about his likes and dislikes: he likes football, hockey, the t.v. show Law and Order, whips, spankings, and golden showers...wha-?!
Holy shit, I have encountered Mr. Grey, forty shades short of courting etiquette. I will be the first to admit, I like some aggression in a relationship, but this was a bit over my moon and right into the dark side. Neil Armstrong couldn't even grasp this shit. Golden showers...yup, that is short for peeing on someone. Now, I have said "Piss on this" or "Piss on you" a lot on my day, but I could never say I'd actually follow through with it.
Needless to say, I stopped talking to Forty Shades Short rather abruptly.
Second encounter: The man under his mom's (basement) stairs.
Second message I got was from a man that seemed fairly nice...in that boss interviewing a job applicant. He started off small: what are your hobbies? What do you do for a living? What do you think about Plath's "Daddy"? Okay, maybe not that in-depth...but a girl can wish, right? Then the questions began getting more sketchy: "How much do you make weekly/bi-weekly?", "Any chance you may get promoted?", "How do you feel about being a main breadwinner?", "Oh, I sorta don't work...are you down with that?"
Um...where the hell have all the cowboys gone? Is it too much to ask for a man that wants a little more for himself? Nope, I am not a sugar mommy in any sense whatsoever...application withdrawn.
Third Encounter: Indiana Jones and the Last Mind Fuck
Third message came from a hottie from INDIA. His message started off pretty sweet: "You seem like a very intelligent, interesting young woman with a lot of inner and outer beauty.I'd love to talk to you at some point and yada yada yada..." I read and read and read; more compelled to talk to this exotic hottie and then I got to the very end of the poignant message from afar and waited with baited breath as I read the next line. It read: "I hope I do not offend you, but I think you'd be an incredible mind fuc."
Oh my god....you're damn right I was offended! This...this...dolt left off the "K" in fuck!
....Nah, actually, I laughed. A lot. I then sent a simple thank you; not quite sure how to answer that one.
These are just a few of the OKStupid encounters I've had; granted, not all of them have been horrible. I'm hoping to someday get up the nerve to write about the good ones and the painful ones. Today is not quite that day. Bottom line: you have to look at the funny shit when you are at your loneliest. It's not easy finding Mr. Right when you are Ms. Big. OKStupid is not the greatest starting point, but it is a start. Got to kiss (or in my case, message) a lot of frogs until you find that prince.
And, who knows, maybe I found him already and just am waiting for that final sign.
With Chapped Lips,
-Dee Dee
Thickspiration: Monique
Well, bottom line: dating can be good and then it can be, hmmm....fucking terrible. It's a risk; a final sale kind of deal with no chance of return (yup, not even the shit that is chipped or ripped beyond of repair). There are no guarantees that the first date will even be fun. You just take leaps and pray like hell that you crash into the cool water and not the shards of rock below.
I tried all the typical dating routines, but nothing could be as interesting as my encounters on OKCupid.
OKCupid has its ups and downs for me: I met one of my best friends, Mike, on OKCupid (a fellow punk and tattoo enthusiast) and he has been my rock through the shittiest parts of my life. A brother of another mother, if you will. I even had a relationship come out of it: two years and engaged, but that all ended in a bitter sweetness. There's my first big risk. After a month of recovery, I was back on the saddle...and back to OKCupid.
OKCupid changed A LOT when I was away. Once small and close knit; it had morphed into a godzilla with a few good men...but a HELL of a lot of freaks too.
Now, I am far from conventional: I'm a big girl that likes to be loud, spontaneous, and weird. My relationship aspirations are to meet that guy that can share my love of Muse, dark humor, and Justin Bieber covers (covers only...I fucking don't have "Bieber Fever", okay?). I want a guy that will quote Lone Star's quotes as I quote Princess Vespa (Spaceballs reference). I want a guy that knows I got anxiety issues and be totally cool with it. Besides one particular promising message from one member, I got hit with a boatload of creepers.
My profile evidently is a beacon of fuckery; crying out over the shining waters of HTML, "Come! Give me your potential serial rapists, gladly unemployed, and aspiring Mr. Greys (no, not even the hot kind). It's enough to make a girl question whether or not she is living a life of a Carrie Bradshaw.
First encounter: It's raining...but I don't think that is water...what the...?
First message I got was from a 32-year-old gentleman: he seemed like a great guy. He had that country boy face, a killer smile (not a Charles Manson kind of smile), and a single parent with an adorable little girl needing a strong female figure in her life. I was not scared of the kid at all. In fact, I love kids and would never not date anyone because of that factor. I was gung ho on going out on a coffee date with guy until he started talking about his likes and dislikes: he likes football, hockey, the t.v. show Law and Order, whips, spankings, and golden showers...wha-?!
Holy shit, I have encountered Mr. Grey, forty shades short of courting etiquette. I will be the first to admit, I like some aggression in a relationship, but this was a bit over my moon and right into the dark side. Neil Armstrong couldn't even grasp this shit. Golden showers...yup, that is short for peeing on someone. Now, I have said "Piss on this" or "Piss on you" a lot on my day, but I could never say I'd actually follow through with it.
Needless to say, I stopped talking to Forty Shades Short rather abruptly.
Second encounter: The man under his mom's (basement) stairs.
Second message I got was from a man that seemed fairly nice...in that boss interviewing a job applicant. He started off small: what are your hobbies? What do you do for a living? What do you think about Plath's "Daddy"? Okay, maybe not that in-depth...but a girl can wish, right? Then the questions began getting more sketchy: "How much do you make weekly/bi-weekly?", "Any chance you may get promoted?", "How do you feel about being a main breadwinner?", "Oh, I sorta don't work...are you down with that?"
Um...where the hell have all the cowboys gone? Is it too much to ask for a man that wants a little more for himself? Nope, I am not a sugar mommy in any sense whatsoever...application withdrawn.
Third Encounter: Indiana Jones and the Last Mind Fuck
Third message came from a hottie from INDIA. His message started off pretty sweet: "You seem like a very intelligent, interesting young woman with a lot of inner and outer beauty.I'd love to talk to you at some point and yada yada yada..." I read and read and read; more compelled to talk to this exotic hottie and then I got to the very end of the poignant message from afar and waited with baited breath as I read the next line. It read: "I hope I do not offend you, but I think you'd be an incredible mind fuc."
Oh my god....you're damn right I was offended! This...this...dolt left off the "K" in fuck!
....Nah, actually, I laughed. A lot. I then sent a simple thank you; not quite sure how to answer that one.
These are just a few of the OKStupid encounters I've had; granted, not all of them have been horrible. I'm hoping to someday get up the nerve to write about the good ones and the painful ones. Today is not quite that day. Bottom line: you have to look at the funny shit when you are at your loneliest. It's not easy finding Mr. Right when you are Ms. Big. OKStupid is not the greatest starting point, but it is a start. Got to kiss (or in my case, message) a lot of frogs until you find that prince.
And, who knows, maybe I found him already and just am waiting for that final sign.
With Chapped Lips,
-Dee Dee
Thickspiration: Monique
Thursday 17 January 2013
Comfortably Numb: The Deconstruction of a Wall
Where does a writer start after struggling through two winters of discontent? When a writer, who used to write every day, suddenly stopped for no other reason except a fear of rejection?
Most importantly, what spurs a writer to pick up a pen? Anger? Confusion? Hints of envy aimed toward friends, lovers, and fellow colleagues that make it all look so incredibly simple and glamorous? Maybe it's the fear of dying; not physically, but spiritually. When the one thing you lived, breathed, and yearned for every waking moment slowly diminishes, you often wonder if the next day or the day after that will be your last chance at self-proclaimed glory. Days, weeks, months pass as you wait for that great idea to come along. Each tick of the clock or tap of the pencil is sharp and empty. That's when you think that lost it all. The one thing that got you got you through the fuckery of life. The very thing that you loved and fawned over for years was dying at the hand of over logic.
Maybe this is my attempt to revive it.
They always say to write about what you know. Well, writing is all well and good, but I can't say I truly know anything about it. I know about the triumph and heartache it can cause. Moving on....
To be blunt, trite, and exceedingly vulgar...what the fuck do I know about?
I know about banking: crunching numbers, LTVs, DTIs, DDAs and millions of other three letter acronyms that are thrown about daily like limp fish onto a chopping block. I know how to define people by numbers and credit faux pas. Fact, logistics, and reason-ability; the world of banking has little to no room for imagination and even though it fascinates me, I know it doesn't interest others. So, scratch that. No bank talk.
I do know I'm a fat (or, as I like to say, phat) girl discovering more shit about herself every day between files, phone calls, and various meltdowns.
I know that I don't like to hide behind big flowerly tops or baggy polyester pants designed more so for a moon landing than my ass. I don't do orthopedic shoes either; rather stick to the cramped heels and combat boots. I like my torn jeans, corsets, and otherwise fashion forward clothing that may raise eyebrows.
I also know that I'm far from the "in crowd". When I get pissed off, I opt for a mosh pit rather than a shouting match. I relish in the weird and unconventional; wanting to live life like a sparrow uncaged.
I wasn't always like this though. I wasn't always in love with my writing or my body (hell, I still hate my writing, but I'm trying to work through that)l. I used to hate this excess flesh: the chubby arms, the thunder thighs, and the full moon face. Each day was a knee crawl of self-loathing. Then at the brink of thirty with one broken engagement under my studded belt, I had enough. It began with a single quote from the movie Phat Girls:
Most importantly, what spurs a writer to pick up a pen? Anger? Confusion? Hints of envy aimed toward friends, lovers, and fellow colleagues that make it all look so incredibly simple and glamorous? Maybe it's the fear of dying; not physically, but spiritually. When the one thing you lived, breathed, and yearned for every waking moment slowly diminishes, you often wonder if the next day or the day after that will be your last chance at self-proclaimed glory. Days, weeks, months pass as you wait for that great idea to come along. Each tick of the clock or tap of the pencil is sharp and empty. That's when you think that lost it all. The one thing that got you got you through the fuckery of life. The very thing that you loved and fawned over for years was dying at the hand of over logic.
Maybe this is my attempt to revive it.
They always say to write about what you know. Well, writing is all well and good, but I can't say I truly know anything about it. I know about the triumph and heartache it can cause. Moving on....
To be blunt, trite, and exceedingly vulgar...what the fuck do I know about?
I know about banking: crunching numbers, LTVs, DTIs, DDAs and millions of other three letter acronyms that are thrown about daily like limp fish onto a chopping block. I know how to define people by numbers and credit faux pas. Fact, logistics, and reason-ability; the world of banking has little to no room for imagination and even though it fascinates me, I know it doesn't interest others. So, scratch that. No bank talk.
I do know I'm a fat (or, as I like to say, phat) girl discovering more shit about herself every day between files, phone calls, and various meltdowns.
I know that I don't like to hide behind big flowerly tops or baggy polyester pants designed more so for a moon landing than my ass. I don't do orthopedic shoes either; rather stick to the cramped heels and combat boots. I like my torn jeans, corsets, and otherwise fashion forward clothing that may raise eyebrows.
I also know that I'm far from the "in crowd". When I get pissed off, I opt for a mosh pit rather than a shouting match. I relish in the weird and unconventional; wanting to live life like a sparrow uncaged.
I wasn't always like this though. I wasn't always in love with my writing or my body (hell, I still hate my writing, but I'm trying to work through that)l. I used to hate this excess flesh: the chubby arms, the thunder thighs, and the full moon face. Each day was a knee crawl of self-loathing. Then at the brink of thirty with one broken engagement under my studded belt, I had enough. It began with a single quote from the movie Phat Girls:
"If I won't get respect because I'm not a twig, then I'll get respect because I am a stone."
So, at the end of it all, this is what I do know: I am a fat girl on the brink of thirty trying to gain a grasp on loving myself, struggling through relationships, and the whole reason behind this manifesto: to break down this damn wall that keeps me from writing.
All in good fun, of course.
Make a jagerbomb or a martini (the dirtier, the better), sit back, tune in, and get ready to get an education from a fat girl. Stories of hope, tragedy, anger, sex, love, and just fucking crazy to ensue, disgust, or amuse to come.
Let's do this shit, shall we?
Rockin' you like a hurricane,
-Dee Dee
Thickspiration: Ribcage Rosie (Check her out on Facebook!)
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