Trust Your Gut?

Does anybody else remember that absolute fever dream of an era when kids would just say YOLO and then do the dumbest shit they could think of? I honestly think that the “YOLO” era might just be one of the biggest contributors to my lack of a gut instinct. Admittedly, there are a lot of reasons why I feel that I lack a particularly strong gut instinct. Here’s a few of the big ones, the “heavy hitters” if you will…

1. I’m allergic to dairy and didn’t know it for many years. I used to eat yogurt and cheese every day of my life, and I had no idea why I was in such emotional and physical turmoil. The biggest symptoms of my allergy aligned with fatigue and exhaustion, and with that a whole lot of stress and anxiety. So essentially, any time I was in distress and tried to follow my gut instinct, I was trying to decipher a code that was ultimately just saying “please stop eating cheese, I can’t handle it.”

2. I have severe anxiety. Anxiety is quite common, and it comes in many forms, shapes, and sizes. I’ve spent many years with many therapists trying to decode the ways that anxiety has fed me lies, and how I became so susceptible to believing them. I spent a lot of time going over the same script: my gut instinct is telling me that I am stupid, so naturally what I need to do is train myself to not be stupid, and then my problem will be solved. And much to my disbelief, that was not the most helpful narrative to be relentlessly forcing down my gullet. It took me a long time to realize that sometimes my anxiety actually causes my gut instinct to lie to me. And instead of training myself to not be stupid or lazy or any of those negative things, I’ve been training myself to recognize that sometimes my gut instinct is trying to make me believe things about myself that just aren’t true.

3. I was a trained ballet dancer for many years. This one may seem far fetched, although the ties do begin to form when I remember that a large portion of my training was learning how to convince myself that I wasn’t in pain. Dancing is painful, ballet technique is hard on the body. And unfortunately, one of the ways that dancers are able to overcome these hurdles is the acquired mental discipline of “working through the pain”. I can’t speak for all or even most dancers, but I know for myself that this strongly disciplined mindset regrettably translated into the instinct to ignore or cover up any feelings of discomfort, pain, or nervousness.

And number 4… fucking YOLO. You only live once, they say! I thought that my singular existence was already implied, but thank you for the reminder. And now that it’s suddenly an acronym, it’s become to ultimate justification for anything and everything. It was so hard to find a middle ground, a balance, a gut instinct, when my high school years were fueled with the growing infestation of the phrase “you only live once”. It was incredibly difficult for young people to try and cultivate their own moral compasses with one person telling us “You only live once, don’t do drugs!” and the very next person saying “You only live once, do drugs!” To be clear, I didn’t do the drugs, but there was a moment of inner conflict nonetheless. And the juxtapositions just kept coming “You only live once, stay up late” and then “You only live once, sleep well and take care of yourself” And my personal favorite “You only live once, protect your relationships and keep people in your life” versus “You only live once, cut em out and don’t look back”. 

Eventually YOLO faded from my social vernacular, and I like to think that I replaced its philosophy with a healthy mindset and intuitive thinking. Then again, I will admit that to this day I say to myself “hey, you only live once” every time I consider eating an entire key lime pie in one sitting. 

Social Media and Me, and Me, and Me.

I am not the biggest fan of the depersonalization that I go through as a byproduct of my anxiety. I often feel like I’m watching my life play out in front of me as if I’m not an active participant in it. I can become so distinctly separate from my own life that the idea of being “present” feels completely intangible. Even the act of sitting and doing nothing can become so stressful, because even in the stillness of my body, I can’t find stillness of my mind. I’m constantly watching myself and wondering why I’m not relaxed enough for somebody who is just sitting there. I psyche up the idea of relaxation so much that when it comes down to it, I am so preoccupied with my expectations of what this experience was going to be, that I can’t seem to enjoy anything! I rarely know the feeling of being in the moment. Even with life’s simple pleasures, I find myself constantly torn between trying to enjoy the things in my life and getting mad at myself for needing to try and enjoy things instead of just actually enjoying them. Yikes. The point is, it’s hard for me to relax enough in order to enjoy the life that is right in front of me. I truly wish that I could just step into the life that that is playing out before me, to be a character in my own video game instead of the one with the controller on the other side of the screen. 

And it drives me crazy that this sense of derealization has become so normalized by social media. Not much is very real anymore. I look on instagram and see falsified versions of life, displayed and then directly compared to other people’s versions of their own life. Communities of people pretending that their life looks a certain way, constructing their life over and over through their phones, watching it from afar. Using their feeds to watch their own life play out the way they want it to look, treating it like a game. They’re the ultimate controller, but they’re not really an active player. And each construction of somebody’s life has the potential to make other people feel so defeated about their own real and important and worthy lives that they then enhance the image of their own life for the sake of social media. All of this, only to compete with a person who isn’t even the person that you think they are.

There is an overwhelming addiction to our audience. I know this. I am obsessed with thinking about my audience, thinking about who is looking at me, perceiving, watching, or judging me at any given moment. I feel that I am constantly part of my own audience, watching my life unfold through this judgmental lens. And if I am forced to watch all of this happen with such analytical judgement, then it makes sense that everyone else would view myself the same way. What does my life look like? What do I want it to look like? And what benefit would I even get from having a life that looked a certain way on social media, even if it leaves me feeling completely empty inside. I think about this emptiness, and I think about my future. When I’m old and wrinkled, and my tattoo looks like gross scribbles, and my tits are sagging below my stomach, am I going to look through my instagram feed to determine whether or not my life was worth it or not? I hope not. I hope that I won’t have to utilize these altered images in order to prove the merit of my own life. I hope that when I’m old, I’ll just know that it was a good life. I hope everyone knows truly, once they put their phones down, what their life means to them. 

Self Defense, Slow Dancing, and Junior High

A Civilized Discussion of Irony

Isn’t it ironic how Junior High physical education courses taught us such inconsistent lessons about autonomy over the physical self? Their lessons taught us how to defend our bodies against unwanted contact. Self defense class. They taught us how to protect ourselves, and how to use physical power to emit strength and courage. And yet, in the same course, they also taught us that one must slow dance with every member of the opposite gender in their class. One must dance, and one must not say ‘no’ to any individual, even if they provoke feelings of discomfort or fear. Regardless of your feelings as a small pre-pubescent child who knows very little about their own body, this body will now be grabbed, shifted, and tousled around by every young boy or girl that you’ve encountered in school. They taught us not to say ‘no’ to another individual, for the sake of equality. And I wonder if these two lessons, the one in autonomy and protection and the one in equality and fairness, can actually coexist in the same course? 

An Uncivilized Discussion of Irony. 

I literally can’t fucking believe that in junior high P.E my teachers would spend an entire month teaching me self defense; how to prevent unwanted contact, how to fight off people who I don’t want near me, and how to protect my body from being abused or grabbed. And then the very next fucking day they’d say to me “Okay new lesson! Now you have to slow dance with every single boy in your class, and no matter how badly you might want to, you can’t say no! Now dance little puppets, Dance!” Okay, that last bit about the puppets might be exaggerated slightly, but the sentiment still stands. What the fuck guys?! I was eleven years old, and you had the audacity to teach me how to jab somebody’s throat and then force me to slow dance with the boy who throws gum in my hair all in the same week?

And the best part is that they’d tell us girls that we can’t say ‘no’ to the boys, because that would be mean. Oh I’m sorry, suddenly “Timmy sneezed in my eye and tried to put his hand on my butt at yesterday’s assembly, so I’d prefer to sit this one out” isn’t a valid excuse? We don’t want to be mean little girls, do we? Oh yes we fucking do. I would go back and be the biggest meanie in my class if it meant that I could avoid being conditioned to believe that saying “yes” to boys was the nice thing to do. And this stupid dance rule doesn’t just suck for the girls, it was probably hell for the boys too! Because damn, I can only imagine all of the unexpected boners that must’ve popped up during Junior High partner dancing class. What a traumatizing place to have a (maybe even first ever) public boner. Little Billy probably didn’t even want to dance with Kelly, because she’s been bullying him since the fourth grade, but he was forced to walk his crusty little Proactiv face up to her and ask her to dance, endure her very visible eye-roll, and on top of everything pop a boner that he has absolutely no control over. Fuck that. 

The Crown Jewel of MySpace

Things That I am Convinced of: Part 2

The fastest thing on Earth is my dog immediately after I ask what is in his mouth. 

Cold brew coffee should probably be renamed “cool beans”. 

It is a miracle that I actually turned out okay after enduring the era in which the dominant social media platform made us publicly rank our “top 8” friends. 

The KFC Double Down is a chaotic masterpiece. 

Unsubscribing from email lists is its own form of self care. 

Talent is profoundly more abundant than opportunity. 

I have reached the age where not being hungover feels so much better than being drunk. 

Red flags are like your least favorite coworker, they always show up way later than you needed them to. 

A Brief Poem To Encapsulate The Chaos of Quarantine

Feet are cold 

Brain is numb 

Convinced I’m worse 

Than everyone 

I think I need to go for a walk.


By everything 

Mental health 

Held by a string 

Mom said if I want we can talk.

I need fresh air 

This room is stale 

The chips are stale 

This rhyme is stale 

Dog has a tail 

I’m going mad 

Turn on the news 

The world is bad 

I’ve simply had 


Enough of all this nonsense talk 

I think I’ll just go for a walk. 

Air is hot 

Wear my mask 

Wash with soap 

Complete the task 

Hands always dry 

They feel like chalk 

This poem is done 

Bird goes squawk.  

It’s Okay To Be Shy

I don’t think that shyness is as simple as just not saying a lot of things, but rather, I think that it’s a correlation of the fluctuation of one’s ability to say the things that they actually want to say. I know it’s confusing, but give it some time. Maybe shyness is more accurately associated with the process of somebody’s thoughts becoming disturbed by aspects of their environment. We all have thoughts, let’s just put that on the table right now that everybody, to some degree, has ideas running around in their head most of the time. I don’t think that anyone’s degree of shyness is distinctly related to the amount of thoughts that are cultivated in our heads, and because of this, I don’t think that anyone’s degree of shyness is stagnant and definitive either. I think that it is constantly fluctuating based on all of the outward forces that can affect whether or not the thoughts in my head can actually make it, undisturbed and unaltered, all the way from my mind and out of my mouth. Sure, there are people out there, usually categorized under the umbrella of “extroverts” (even though I don’t think humanity is simple enough to be categorized as such). But there are some people who, regardless of their surroundings, environment, company, mental state, temperature, stress levels, hunger, or discomfort, the bridge between thought and speech remains completely intact. This bridge is sturdy, reliable, and never fails to support all the little thoughts as they make their journey across the mind and out the mouth. Those little thoughts can easily put on their adventure caps, and use this bridge to trek over the waters of the mind, and make it safely to the other side, producing real human words. 

Now, my mind works a little bit differently. Sure, there is still a river of sorts that runs between the place where my thoughts reside, and where they exit my face through my mouth hole. But I don’t particularly think that there is a bridge to get from one side to the other, but rather, something closer to an old rope swing from one of those coming-of-age romance movies set in the rural 1940’s countryside. Oddly specific, I know. But I have a feeling most people can picture this sort of rickety abandoned rope swing that everyone in town knows about despite nobody knowing how it got there. So I think that given the nature of this rope swing, my baseline ability to speak my thoughts is at a disadvantage. Rope swings aren’t always reliable, they require some skill and practice, and unfortunately there are a lot of factors that can prevent somebody from using one to get across a body of water successfully. In this scenario, however, when I say “somebody” I mean “my thoughts”. 

Sometimes if I’m in a crowd, and I have a little thought forming that I really want to say, It’ll gear it’s little self up. My thought will get ready to soar to the other side, grab the rope and push off. My thought can see where it wants to go, and it’s going. And it’s going, and going, and then somebody I don’t know looks at me, and it’s like a huge gust of wind comes along and knocks my thought right off the rope swing into the river. Damn. Not dam though, because it’s a river. Maybe sometime later I have another thought forming, and I’m ready to try again. Off on the rope swing my thought goes, but this time, out of nowhere I get a tummy ache and the thought falls into the river again. Or my ex walked in, another thought thrown off the rope swing and flows down river. Or I have a missed call from my mom, another thought. Or a missed call from my dad! Or I suddenly feel like I’m about to pass out. Or I need a glass of water. Or somebody changed the subject and I don’t want to try and drag a group of people back to the previous subject so that I can say my thing that was probably stupid and irrelevant to begin with. All of these things can affect my ability to get my thoughts over that river and out into words. It’s kind of exhausting, It’s kind of embarrassing, and I swear if somebody asks me “Gabby, why are you being so shy?” the rope swing will fucking break. Believe me, I would love to answer that question with this intricate and expansive rope swing analogy, but if I’m asked that question, then it’s already too late, because the swing just broke. Now I can’t even get my answer across, let alone get out enough words after that for me to actually convince people that I’m not as shy as they think. At that point, I’m done, I give up, and I want to put sweat pants on and go home. All of the thoughts are lost, flowing downstream, and they’ll fall out of my butt in three to five business days. And that’s just the way it is. Sometimes it sucks, I can feel small and voiceless, but other times it can be amazing, because when I feel comfortable and supported, I can feel my mind flourishing in fantastic ways. 

It has taken many years for me to accept this about myself,  and even more to embrace it. I understand that this isn’t the case for everybody, but it is for me. And regardless of how many of the thoughts that I really want to speak actually make it out of my mouth, I still feel like a whole and complete person with thoughts and ideas and feelings. Sure, we all occasionally say things that we don’t mean, and don’t say things that we do mean. Everybody has their own different relationship between thought and voice, and however they are able to manifest their voice in different crowds and environments, that is okay. It is okay to be shy. Because regardless of your ability to produce certain words in certain social environments, you are still a whole and complete person. 

I knew one person at that party that night. I had one beer, met three people who’s names I forgot instantly, posed for one photo, and left. And that is okay.

Let’s Talk About Sex With Math

I am a heterosexual cisgendered female, which probably explains why I am constantly disappointed, but regardless, I am a woman who is attracted to men. That being said, I think that most of us can all agree that one of the most beautiful things on this earth is curve of a woman’s back when she arches backward. It’s sexy, it’s perfection, it is a stunning example of the human body being excellent.

And the only thing better than the incredible beauty of the arch of a woman’s back, is how creepy that back can look when it is arched forward in the opposite direction. Picture a full Martha Graham Modern dance contraction, a forward bend where the stomach, no matter how skinny it is, inevitably starts to roll over itself, and the spine starts to stick out like some prehistoric creature. This beautiful shape suddenly becomes this creepy, distorted thing not far off from the creature you’d picture crawling out of your television in the middle of the night.

This position, which is truly the thing of nightmares, is exactly what a woman looks like in order to insert a tampon. And we still wonder why men ask if we accidentally orgasm while putting a tampon in? Spoiler alert: we don’t. I’ll tell you why, and there are a few reasons – usually the lighting is a bit off, an elderly cat is scratching at the bathroom door which throws off your groove, too distracted by the fact that we have to pay taxes on feminine products, and OH YEAH also I typically look like a decrepit bridge troll while doing it. It’s not particularly beautiful, definitely not sexual. Sometimes it is a bit humorous, like when you pull your hand up and there’s blood on it, and suddenly the CSI theme song starts playing in your head like it’s time to investigate a crime scene. But other than that, there’s not much pleasure in this act. I personally don’t know why men assume that using a tampon is some sort of inexplicably sensual moment, as if we just arch backwards and Aphrodite herself reaches down from the heavens in a beam of light and hands us an overpriced piece of cotton shaped like a hot dog, but perhaps I can explain it with math.

Obviously I can’t speak for all women, but let’s say for the sake of this argument that this concept applies to most women. Picture a venn diagram, if you may, one side representing things that involve genitals, and the other representing things that turn women on. The part of the diagram in which these two circles overlap contains only one thing: sex. See, it is starting to make sense. The circle of things involving genitalia are all things that, surprisingly, do not also turn women on, like the aforementioned tampons, gynecology appointments, going to the beach and getting sand in your bathing suit, shopping for underwear etc. All of these things involve genitalia; none of which, turn women on. The other side, you might inquire, (the side of things that turn women on which don’t involve genitals) contains things like credit reports, grown men having a bed frame, matching socks, using the correct form of the word “your”, knowing that “Black & Blue” is the superior Backstreet Boys album, properly fitting clothes etc. I know it’s sad how low these standards are, but we live in a pretty sad world sometimes.

Now I don’t know a lot about men, but based on my experience with the male gender, I am under the impression that their venn diagram is probably closer to just one big fucking circle. 

Also, friends, this is all just poking some fun at gender stereotypes, so please take it lightly. Women are great. Men are great. Sex is weird.

“I know it’s sad how low these standards are, but we live in a pretty sad world sometimes.”

“Cup Runneth Over”

From the series titled Angsty Breakup Poems, part 1

I want you with me all the time 

But darling, please don’t whine


I adore your sweet little face 

But keep it in its place


I need you close to me 

While I run fast and free


Of course it is your job to keep up 

And try not to spill from your overflowing up


Both your fears and mine 

In that cup that you grip

Keep hold of its tightly 

It will break if you trip


That cup that’s filled with the weight of my presence 

I know it’s a lot


But once I forced it unto you 

I felt so weightless, untaught


Now just look how fast 

How freely I run


Don’t slow me down

We’ll stop when I’m done


As always, my love, it’s your job to keep up 

And please, try not to spill from that cup 

Things That I am Convinced of

People who eat pizza crusts only do it so that there is no evidence of how much pizza they have actually consumed. 

Students talk about homework the same way I talk about dieting, they will literally do anything except put in the minimum amount of time and effort. 

This world doesn’t need a small amount of people doing everything, it needs a lot of people doing something. 

You can tell a lot about a person by the way that they scribble a pen on a sheet of paper when it’s almost out of ink. 

Cinema peaked with the release of Shrek 2.  

Nothing in my life has been okay since Ian chucked his baked Alaska in the bin on The Great British Baking Show.  

Male authors write about women as if they are exotic cats being sold on the black market. 

Most terms which apply to a relatively gender neutral group of people are derived from male nominals I.E “dudes” “buddies” “guys”, even the occasional “hey man…”. (I can confirm that I’ve walked up to an individual who identifies as female and said “hey man what’s crackin’?” and everything was fine, except of course for the fact that nobody says “crackin’” anymore). And maybe these phrases have been normalized in our vernacular because women are comfortable with being referred to by traditionally masculine terms, while the fragility of the male gender has grown fearful of the emasculation of feminine terms like “lady” “girlie” “gals” or my personal favorite “hunny”. 


I like to watch a lot of animal documentaries. I starting watching them because I wanted people to think that I am the type of person who likes watching animal documentaries. Along the way, though, I realized something. No, I didn’t realize that I actually like animal documentaries. With my questionable attention span, sometimes I don’t think that I’m psychically capable of genuinely enjoying something. I either become absolutely and unreservedly obsessed with something, or I truly never give it a second thought. In between those extremes is the lovely gray space of just simply “enjoying” something, a space which I am not particularly inclined to exist within.

Nevertheless, I still watch animal documentaries, and I realized something about peacocks. I discovered that male peacocks are diabolically more attractive than female peacocks, and that I am unnecessarily aggravated by this. Let the record show that I am not mad solely because the male peacocks get to be beautiful creatures while the females look like little turd birds. I am mad because I am not a peacock. I am nearly convinced that the human race got it reversed, because, damn, life looks much better as a female peacock than a female skin sack of a human. Consider this, even the movement for our literal rights was labeled “suffrage”, which was just a cruel irony. Now, all of those photos of peacocks with the colorful tail feathers, waving them around in an aggressive spectacle… those are the men of the clan. The ladies, on the other hand, don’t have to do shit. They stand there, doin’ nothin’, and bein’ medium ugly. And that lifestyle, the just-standing-there one, looks absolutely fantastic. Female peacocks, sorry ladies I’m sure you’re beautiful on the inside, kind of look like pigeons. They’re brown and small and just stand there and hang out. Let us rejoice, for this female species has been freed of unrealistic beauty standards! And what do they get in return for just doing nothing? They get absolutely everything and anything. 

In one particular animal documentary, right before I fall asleep of course, I witnessed a male peacock try harder to genuinely impress a female more than I had seen a man do in my entire human life. The male peacocks will legitimately go to fucking flavor town and back trying to get the attention of the first girl they see. They whip out the tail feathers in all of their glory, laying their cards out on the table as if Aphrodite peacock over there had just broken up with her high school boyfriend and she’s single and finally on the market. 

These females, the ones just standing there minding their own business, are probably the bird-equivalent of me hanging out at a Denny’s at four O’clock in the afternoon. I’m most likely wearing my thirteen-year old “unisex” P.E shorts because its “laundry day”, shoveling pancakes into my mouth. Now imagine that (I know, it’s gross), but imagine if that was me, just living my gross life in peace, and out of nowhere the door flies open and a stampede of handsome, sturdy, reliable men come rushing in, with the sole purpose of vying for my attention. Imagine! I’m in my booth, knee-deep in a build-your-own grand slam, and the men just show up! They come in waving their wallets and vaccination cards in my face, shoving photos of their ailing grandmother and their childhood dog in my face. They throw their full credit reports and letters of recommendation down on the syrup-stained table in lustful desperation. They can’t help themselves. They are instinctively wired to seduce me. That might be the dream right there. 

A human man once called me disrespectful because I didn’t buy him onion rings after he bitched about coming all of the way over to my apartment after work, even though I had just told him to stay home instead because he was clearly tired…so yeah, I’d like to be a peacock instead. 

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