Preach it., teh interwebz

I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and goddammit, I can write.

I recently had a conversation with someone who, after learning that I work with WordPress, wanted to pepper me with questions about his blog’s plugins. I told him I’d be happy to chat blogging, but that I didn’t know how helpful I’d be — I’m not a developer, I explained, only a writer. I spend a lot of time moving about in a technological world that is not my home planet, where I’m still a second-language learner, and find myself frequently describing my role that way:

Only a writer.

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Physical therapy: a place where you go and pay people money to force you to move about in ways designed to cause pain to your injured joint, so you can return home and resume sitting still so as not to cause pain to your injured joint. Makes sense.

There are electrodes and gels and many unidentifiable apparati. I think the physical therapists might be evil wizards, though it will take six more weeks of twice-weekly visits to be sure.


My Life Is So HAAARD

Quick Tip: Always Travel with the Sultan

I recently spent several days getting extremely lost and eating many kebabs in Istanbul.

Istanbul can be an overwhelming city, so I thought I’d share a key travel tip for those of you planning a visit: be sure to choose a travel partner who looks like a famous actor who currently plays S├╝leyman the Magnificent on a popular Turkish soap opera.

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An Open Letter, Jesus H. Christ

I am a fat woman. Here’s what you should say when you see me at the gym.

Nothing at all. If you’re tempted to say something to me, close your eyes and pretend you’re looking at a not-fat person. Would you say anything to that person? If not, don’t say it to me.

That would be a short and boring blog post, so I will expand.

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An Open Letter, Effed-Up Shit, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Hey, gym? How long would it take you to redecorate if you hung a dick pic and a single bodybuilder complained?

This is an actual email I had to send to my gym. I don’t want to be driven back into the grasping arms of New York Sports Club or, god forbid, Crunch, but I will if it means I get to lift weights without having to stare at porn.


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