One small indictment for man, one giant disgrace for mankind.

One small indictment for man, one giant disgrace for mankind..

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One small indictment for man, one giant disgrace for mankind.

The people of Ferguson are fighting a fight I didn’t even know needed fighting, and I’m feeling more and more naïve with every picture of smoke and flames that covers my social media threads this evening.  I keep seeing these images of law enforcement that look closer to military, and I can’t help but wonder what the other options for Ferguson could be. I’m not saying this fight is right, but I am asking – how else do you take a stand?  How do you fight against a nation that seems to be against your community – against your race?  I can’t condone the looting.  The images of fires and the groups of activists fighting for their place in this world bring fear… and I’m miles away from the riots. But I do support their fight.  What you may find shocking, and I don’t care if you do, is that I’m not concerned with the material aspects that will be lost throughout all of this.  I don’t care about your corner store, or the local Walgreens.  What makes me fearful is that this country, this place I thought I valued, has let me down. These riots and this legal system make me realize I’m living in an age I thought I was far past, and I’m finding myself emerged in a violent, unjust country that I’d mistakenly thought was free.

Continue reading “One small indictment for man, one giant disgrace for mankind.”

Confessions From My Inner Fat Kid

I’ve debated writing this confession for a few minutes now (because that’s about how much thought I put into things these days), and while the side of me that wants people to think I’m pretty level headed didn’t approve of the binge sharing, I figured everyone I care about already knows my crazy, irrational side.

So here it is… The newest addition of Cap’s biggest, most embarrassing food confessions in prose form:

I think it all started when I was about 7 years old.  I was always frail looking as a child.  My mom said it was due to my large amounts of meds, but I think it had more to do with my love for ice cream and popcorn, and the lack of interest I felt toward any other food groups.  In any case, my sister and mother were working out to Richard Simmons’ “Sweating to the Oldies”, and I wanted to join in.

I remember thinking Richard could help me build some quick muscle and forgo my skanky Courtney Love vibe, but there was one MAJOR issue.

You see, I had a huge tin of popcorn in my grip and I was never one to abandon a perfectly good batch of popcorn.  The popcorn tin was adorned with Christmas bears, and housed three separate sections of cheddar, caramel, and butter flavors.  Despite the epic trifecta of popcorn variety, I was a fan of the basic butter.  However, I occasionally slipped into the caramel triangle when I felt a little spicy.

Here I was, seven, eager to have abs, and in a trance with this wild man’s tight shorts and fro.  Yet, I felt this deep, uneasy feeling with the thought of leaving my beloved popcorn tin behind. I also had a magic handful of butter popcorn with three random caramel specs already prepared and ready to be indulged.

I liked eating them with my eyes closed and being surprised at which flavor snuck in.  

So, I did what any rational person would do in the face of such a life altering dilemma.

I worked out while one hand remained wrapped around the large teddy bear tin, and snuck handfuls of butter in my mouth when Richard declared water breaks.

That one moment in time pretty much sums up my view on life… or at least my mantra for a healthy lifestyle.

Eat what you want.  Work out to balance it all out.

Also, I can never see Richard Simmons, teddy bears, or popcorn tins without immediately being emerged in that day on Hodges Lane with my sister and mother dancing in spandex in our living room.

I still see the Saint’s fleur di lis wallpaper, the only valid stance my father ever made, as if I’m looking at a still depiction or photo from that very day.

These days though, I do things a little differently.  The most frustrating part about this whole inner fat kid bit is that I actually really pride myself in being healthy. For instance, I really do love KALE and find its recent hype totally valid.  I don’t eat much red meat, I never drink carbonated drinks, I love running, and yoga, and ugly, green smoothies, I don’t eat processed foods, and I think hormones are the scariest things to ever be injected into poultry.

BEYONCÉ, BITCH!
I mean, for the most part – I keep myself in check.

But when you throw me a pan of seven layer bars, or a homemade chicken pot pie…

THINGS START TO GET CRAY CRAY.

And once I’ve broken the seal of unhealthy eating for the day, ALL HOPE IS LOST.

Perfect example, a few days ago I decided I wanted to pair my normal bourbon with a coke.  But not just any coke.  I wanted the Christmas one, because Santa and his fluffy white beard were practically begging for me to indulge, and urging me to remember cold nights at my Uncle Eugene’s playing video games and telling ghost stories in the creepy upstairs apartment.  So, I bought a pack of cokes, but not just any normal size pack of cokes.  I bought the massive 24-pack.  The one that only people who are edging the line of diabetes buy.  The one people purchase for house parties.

THE ONES THAT MAKES 32 OZ FOUNTAIN DRINKS LOOK LIKE A RAIN DROP.

I’ve got no boundaries man!

Now, I’m stuck staring at these little beasts everyday.  I keep grabbing one from the bottom drawer in my fridge, popping the top with a powerful “CLICK”, taking a sip, and hating myself the whole while the acidic liquid burns down my esophagus and into the top of my belly.  Then, as soon as the glorious realization of the sweet burn registers to my brain cells… I immediately pour the whole can down the sink in a desperate effort to control my raging desire to chug.

Yes, I realize my actions are oddly similar to that of a drug addict.

But I’ll keep confessing…

Yesterday, a wonderful woman and friend made homemade chicken pot pie.

For me, chicken pot pie is bae heaven.

When someone cooks pot pie and invites me to join in… I feel like they are indirectly professing their love for me.

It is as if they are encouraging me to reminisce on my childhood in Louisiana, and those days after school when I used to cut a little slit in the top crust of frozen pot pies, and patiently wait until the described “golden brown” on the package was reached.  They want me to go into my old TV room, turn on Saved by the Bell, and eat the crust from around the gooey center.

AND I TOTALLY DIG THAT.

I think that’s where my weird love for food stems from.  It’s not about specific tastes or smells or cravings.  It is about the past that comes barreling through my kitchen when I fix a bowl of pistachio ice cream or make a fresh cup of Community Coffee.  I relate everything to my family, and the people I love.  Which is obviously crazy unhealthy and ridiculous.

Because I cannot very well eat in hopes of bringing those moments back.

Still, I will continue to try like hell.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cup of PG tips and thoughts of my Uncle Jim’s Scottish dialect waiting for me.

 

– Cap

 

Five Things Every Basic Bitch Should Know

Dear Basic Bitches:

Here are a few things you may find helpful in the future.  And when I use the pronoun you, I mean more specifically me.

1. No matter what anyone says, you do not look like Reese Witherspoon, and her bangs will never work for your face.

reese

2. Sure snaps are over in 10 seconds, but no one forgets the shit you snapped when you were drunk.  Especially that rap solo where you thought you sounded a little bit like Kanye.  TRUST ME.

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3. Just because you have a massive ass doesn’t give you the right to shake it every time Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass” comes on, and the fact that you find that song empowering is depressing. #rockonmeghan #bigbootiehoes

meghan trainor

Let’s Talk About Your Generation

I JUST TURNED IN MY APPLICATION FOR GRADUATION.

I expected bells, streamers and naked dancers to expel from the rafters while I stood in awe of the future, took long yogi breaths, and waited for the realization of this accomplishment to sink in.

I would have also accepted a spontaneous, synchronized dance sequence from the faculty in Student Life.

Instead, I had to pay a $230 fine.

HELLO, LIFE!

Where the hell was Ann Perkins?  I needed a victory dance!

This whole college bit has been a longer road than expected.  I left a full paid scholarship at LSU for life as a hipster hairdresser, and now $32,000 later (mostly in UC parking tickets)…

I’m almost dancing, bitches!  With or without those rafter whores.

The funny thing about this whole approach of graduation is that I’ve suddenly become scared.  And I don’t mean scared like R. Kelly is hiding in my closest.  I mean scared in the sense that…

THIS IS SO PERFECT.  I DON’T WANT TO EFF IT ALL UP.

So in a weird, twisted attempt not to send my life to the bottomless pit that is student debt and jobless twenty-somethings with passion, vision and no grit…. I do nothing.  And I do mean NOTHING.  I’ve let deadlines for applications pass without warning, I’ve stopped looking into grad school programs, and I’ve nearly convinced myself that I might be able to accept a B this semester.  Justly knowing I will hate myself for this all come Fall 2015.

I’ve also stopped color coordinating my closet and left my coffee habit for matcha powder. 

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WHO AM I?  I want Cap back.  The trouble is I’m not sure how I’ve lost her, and it’s really quite hard to find something when you aren’t sure when or how you went about losing it.  Over Summer break, my mother said I wasn’t the same girl she remembered.  She meant it as a complement, but it rang true in so many other aspects.

Which brings me to my random, social media prompt of the day…

Who invented Time Hop?  I hate them.

Here’s why:

The more I read about the person I used to be – the more I cannot connect to her.  Is it possible to change that much?  To have all of your beliefs shifted.  To have your very being questioned? Two years in Time Hop time may be nothing, but it feels like light years.

And why does this all hunt me when I’m meant to be full speed ahead?

I’m not sure I want the old Cap back entirely, but if I can’t have her – I’d like to at least know where this new bitch fits in.

So, here’s to me getting it together.

Here’s to graduation, and May, and songs sung in unison, and whichever
aspects of Cap that lay ahead!

Cheers!

Keep Your Hands Where I Can See Them.

Sometimes we run to escape.
Sometimes we run to lose weight.

If you’re like me, you run to play your new favorite song on repeat with no judgment from the rest of the world.

(Or all the above really)

Currently, I’m obsessing over OK GO’s new album, Hungry Ghost. More specifically, this single… Another Set of Issues.

Today’s run felt as if I was not running to escape or running to lose weight. I was simply running to make it back to a laptop and quickly tell the world that this song has to be heard. Preferably as you run upstream near a large body of water in the midst of a glorious, Fall afternoon with your hands outstretched from your sides like an emotional bird that was just freed from captivity.

Or, I guess you could just play it now.

Sometimes I hate the emotions songs draw out of me, as I tend to have no control over them. I once balled my eyes out when the Eagles’, “Desperado” came on the radio.

I was on a date. Did I forget to mention that part?

Some songs are depressing, and like “Deperado”, I only listen to them when forced. Some songs are inspiring, and empowering, and so damn addicting.

I play those songs on repeat, whilst running.

I love songs that seem to tell you someone understands. Even if that someone doesn’t know you, and never will. Apparently, given the lyrics, they’ve obviously felt the way you have.

That’s a connection. Real love, bitches.

Now, go enjoy some Hungry Ghost, and tell me I’m not the only one who feels like Damian Kulash is your new BFF.

-Cap

Oh Hey Mom

Funny that as I get older I am somehow completely aware of the people in my life and utterly unaware of the thoughts they possess of me. Normally, I would see that as a good thing, but lately I’m learning that this world is all too small. And more importantly… I’m realizing my mother is an active member in social media. And people on social media have a lot of opinions.

My mother is great. Sincerely. She is the reason I love Elton John, Beatrix Potter, reading, writing, and that horrible show, SNAPPED. She’s taught me to draw. She’s showed me the crazy, healing powers of snuggling. She lets me completely space out of the world for months at a time, and yet.. She’s still there patiently waiting when I return to society. She let’s me be me.

Isn’t that a fucking beautiful thing?!

But see… There lies the problem. Mom taught me better than all of this. And yet, she’s still forced to watch me behave poorly. How awkward to grow into adulthood with the whole world watching! How terrifying to grow up with your mother seeing your lack of standardized, life achievements broadcasted on social media streams. Life as a 2014 young adult is brutal.

Take me to DOWNTON!

But seriously, this post was meant to be deeper than this. I wanted to explain the beauty in being true to yourself, but of course.. I’ve turned it around to an overtly, disgusting, public plea for a mother’s acceptance of her daughter’s awkward years. I wish I would have experienced this with the rest of the world… You know, at age 16 or what have you. But I was too caught up in wacky church groups.

So, to all of you seeking your next accomplishment to boast about over likes and shares… Cool your jets, man!

My mom can see you overachieving!

I often feel like my desires in life are so far from the norm I see on media sites. I don’t find the quest to fulfill every standard life goal appealing. Those posts of pregnancy, house hunting and children make my palms sweat and my heart crumble. I want to unfollow you. I want to throw you a curve ball! I want to understand these people I’m surrounded by, but I feel like I know you all… Because I know one. Sometimes I wish I wanted those things as well. People say that comes with time, but I feel like I’m centuries from that. We aren’t meant to follow a predestined path, right?! We are meant to fail, we are meant to succeed…when we deserve it, and we are meant to be completely lost at times. At least I hope so.

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You see, life isn’t a formula. It either comes barreling through all at once, or it’s nothing at all. We can’t judge our standards based on a norm, because these norms are so sensationalized. I feel like I’m in a constant battle with the hyper real, and that’s really something to fear. How can we discover ourselves if we are surrounded by all of these crazy notions of normalcy? I’m learning the art of blissful unawareness. The art of letting go.

So yes, the social media depiction of your life looks epic… but the personal experiences, growth, learning, memories, mistakes, laughter and tears…. That’s what we’re all after right? We’re still kind of all in this together. No matter our paths. I can support you, but I can’t be you. I can’t pretend that we want the same things. Life isn’t something we come about in a particular manner. It’s about learning how to make it through as yourself.

Southern Wild: A starting exposition

As it usually goes, I have a million and one things I should be accomplishing at this dawn struck hour.  Yet, here I am contemplating which post should start off this Southern Wild adventure… which takes precedence, obviously.

You see, in the world of procrastination – I rule.  I will not be modest on the account.  I could build an empire in two days, as long as you’ve given me at least five other, more important tasks to complete. I guess that’s where this blog comes in.  I need a little escape from the rather daunting projects currently going on, and what’s more fun than procrastinating daunting projects?  Exactly.  NOTHING.

So far tonight, I’ve successfully stalked every acquaintance I admire on Facebook, Twitter and Insta, I’ve planned a full menu for an imaginary restaurant in downtown Charleston, and I’ve not only created a logo, title and blog post for this blog we speak of now… but I’ve also cultivated the very thought of it!  All this while a 30 page short story on Cajun heritage is hanging over my head.  (In which I’ve completed a mere total of 4 HORRENDOUS pages)

Hopefully, Southern Wild will host my account on life’s events in a manner that makes it seem more interesting than it actually is.  Because, let’s be fair… it’s pretty sub par.

Words of Advice that will help you if you so choose to follow the posts:

I don’t like rambling.  However, It seems to be a never ending side effect of writing and drinking bourbon.  Two things I happen to enjoy greatly.  For this, I apologize in advance.

Secondly, I have an obsession with ellipses… and short. one. word. sentences. like. this.

Thirdly, I have a weird thing where I think attempting to forego my basic bitch image is funny.  It’s not funny.  I get that.  Still, I think making fun of current hype words is my true passion in life.  I often write (and speak) in a satirical format that seeks to ridicule every individual who genuinely uses words and phrases like:  bae, bye Felicia, #WCW, #selfiesunday, and so on.  So, the gansta talk will be here because it’s totally bae, and that’s what I’ve grown accustomed to, bitch.  #YOLO

Also, you should know I write and compose rap songs for my pup.  It’s a real problem.

So, if these all seem like doable exceptions to make – please tag along while random thoughts get transferred into the blogging world.  It may be wild at times, as the lack of sleep and increased blood alcohol levels do permit my mind to express every aspect of my little life… but that should be the fun in it all.

To new adventures.
Cheers,

Cap