[Shouts out to Brian, or “Here Comes a Special Boy”, for the post title. Not that he’ll ever, ever see this, but shouts out to him nonetheless. Good? Bad? I’m the Girl with the Gun. (Aaaaaand I just flashed back to when he gave me his CD in Video Production class, my junior year of high school. So many tears. My life is a mess.) (I have considered early, early menopause as a cause for my frequent tearful outbursts of emoshunz.) (But I don’t even go here, I just have a lot of feelings.)]
I apologize if this post comes off as snarky and horrible (per usual?). But I have excuses!
1. Some HORRIBLE EVIL PERSON PERPETRATED A VIOLENT TERRORIST HATE CRIME AGAINST MY SWEET BABY ALLISON. My baby girl got KEYED, OKAY. AND I KNOW IT WASN’T FOR STEALING SOMEONE’S SPOT OR CUTTING THEM OFF BECAUSE I DON’T GO ANYWHERE EXCEPT FOR MY AUNT’S HOUSE AND THE GOD DANG GYM, WHICH HAS ITS OWN GOD DANG PARKING LOT. Sorry for shouting, but I’m upset ’bout it. My dad said that it was a hate crime against me because people “hate that [I] dress like a farmer.” *foghorn* Cool. Thanks, dad. When did you become the most funny comedian (read: biggest hater) of all time?
2. Went on a final interview. Made the mistake of talking about it to a few people. Made the mistake of thinking that I did okay. Made the mistake of wondering what my life would be like if I got the job. I don’t have many superstitions (false), but not talking about something I really want is one of them. Aaaaaaand the final interview wall con-fucking-tinues. Another rejection. I’m starting to believe that it’s me. This one kind of hurts more than the others because I had to pay for the final interview out of pocket. (Not to mention that it’s kind of exactly in the direction that I want to go in life and it’s something I really want to fight for but I don’t want to think about that anymore or else I’ll burst into tears again.) F it all. Just f, you know?
3. There is a feral cat that lives underneath my front steps. We have three trees lining the fence in our backyard, and every night, this cat climbs up into the trees and kills birds and squirrels and other tree creatures for to eatz. Also, did I mention? This feral ass cat looks hell of crazy. (I’m warning you, don’t click this link unless you want to get your shit wrecked. I’m just saying.) It looks kinda like this, but with gray fur. (And yes, I googled “feral cat”. Wut.) Anyway, I know this cat hunts, cause my dad sees it every night when he goes to work, and every time I come home late from a shoot or from the gym or from wherever, I see my feral friend running from the tree back into the bowels of my house. But there’s never any evidence of its killings the next morning, nor do we ever hear any of these struggles. Color me intrigued, right? So I decide I want to watch this cat (double entendre, boom) in action. So long story short, for the past few nights I have been sitting in the basement with the back door open, watching the trees in our backyard. And I always fall asleep before the damn thing appears. So now I’m cranky all the time. This was a pointless story, but I get excited about feral cats living underneath my house, so pers. pref.
4. Apparently, people (including my father) think I dress like a farmer. This is massively upsetting. Everyone knows I was going for “cutest twelve year old of indeterminate sex ever! (when viewed from far away)”. *whisper*Ugliest effing twelve year old of indeterminate sex (when viewed from far away) I’ve ever seen.*whisper* Time to retool my wardrobe.
Anyway. On to my real rant.
Ooooh, you guys are smart. You knew that I’d show up to Nationals (if my “finances” allow it, eep!), creep around in my basketball jersey/cutoff, and take photos and post them without being paid anyway, so none of y’all hollered. Oooh. Good call. GOOD LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR STARVING ARTIST FRIEND. Just for that, I am going to post all my photos for everyone to see. I will post them every-god-dang-where. But I’ll post them all with a watermark of my big ugly farmer face in the center and ball park wieners, ice cream cones, and broccoli florets all around the edges. What. ALSO. If you are making a loltimate face, rest assured that I will MS Paint something unsavory into the frame. No no, I will not afford you the luxury/dignity of Photoshop or even Gimp. MS PAINT, homeboys and girls. And it will go HELL OF hard, BET.
In case you are wondering, I usually get paid in hot dogs, pizzas, unkind words, and condescending language to shoot youth tournaments of all sorts. They also sometimes pay for my gas, but not usually. I also sometimes get hollered at by gross slimy dudes who watch boys high school basketball. So I probably would have shot your team if you didn’t shout mean things at me about how I don’t take enough pictures of your kid or talk to me like I just moved to the country yesterday (read: if you gave me hot dogs and pizzas) (Also it would have been okay if you acknowledged that I didn’t learn English until the age of six, though I was indeed born in this country, what up). The hollering could have been negotiated. I also would have accepted a romantic indie/hip hop mix CD in lieu of actual hollering.
(But we don’t even know if I’m going to be able to afford to go, so I guess it’s a moot point. Eh.)
I will take your reticence to hire me as your personal photographer as an unwritten promise that you will all purchase my book, “‘Shit on My Dick’ and Other Short Stories”, when it comes out. (Oh, and in case you are all worried for my swear jar, I’ve decided that I will swear in print, but sparingly IRLskis. Because I tried for a long time guys. A long time. And I sort of gave up swearing. But sometimes a substitute word just doesn’t cut it. I also can’t help that much of my inner dialogue involves swear words.)
And y’know, that name isn’t set in stone yet. Neither is the subject matter. “‘SOMD’ aOSS” would be vignettes of a dick-shitting life, i.e. stories about the time I almost got set on fire by a hobo in downtown Chicago, the time my friends and I drove from Champaign to Austin, TX and a few of them ended up in a porno, the time Fozz fisted me and then I couldn’t walk normally for like two weeks subsequent to said fisting, the time my friend Karen and I got drunk and looked at about a million pictures of (lol)cats and had the time of our lives, etc. etc.
I plan on trying out different names and ideas. “Joann L. Wong: A Life of Rage.” “Douche — My Kind of Bag.” “Joann Wong: Person in Progress.” “Through Lols and Criez: A Life Spent on the Brink.” “Of Love, Thirst, and Lady Boners: A Modern Love Story.” “This is What a Revolution Looks Like”, with this photo on the cover:
(with the caption, “I’m comin’ for ya… *Mike Tyson voice*” under it.)
Maybe if I start writing and realize that I have hell of material, I’ll re-work my plan and write a series of seven: Joann Wong and the Super Thirst’s Bone (about my many and varied interestz); Joann Wong and the Hairful of Secrets, which by the way: l? ll? Mouthful is only one ‘l’, so I’ll stick with it (about my life’s scandalz); Joann Wong and the Prisoner of Fozzkaban (about my frandz and fam), Joann Wong and the Good Herb That’s Fire (I might rename this “Sarah Rosenwinkel and the … Fire” just because it’s more appropriate for her than me, if yaknowhumsayin’… Anyway, this would be about our drug/meth adventures), Joann Wong and the Hoarder of the Dirty Tricks (about my beef with, well, tricks, basic bitches, and generally people who try to come at me reckless), Joann Wong and the Racially Ambiguous Prince/Princess (self-explanatory), and Joann Wong and the Death of All Bros (all my super hilar bro/fratty stories at Illinois).
I mean, I don’t know, I’m working on it.
ANYWAY. Thanks in advance for buying the book and totally loving it and telling all your friends and family about it! I appreciate your support!!1!
(But you know, the shoot for hire offer still stands lawls. No but srsly.)
On a related note (but unrelated to ultimate), I’ve decided that I need to change the way I write. Well, that’s misleading. I’m not changing the way I write, I’m just changing the way I approach it. Writing is what I love to do, you feel me? I’m not very good at much else, and writing is my everything. When I’m sad or going through tough times, I write. It makes me happy, it’s my release. It’s my way of shouting back to the world, and it’s how I’ll leave my mark on this place after I’m gone. So I need to take it back to writing for me, y’know? Write the way I write when I’m alone. I started to write pretty tongue-in-cheek the last year or two, but that’s not me. Maybe it’s polite and maybe it pisses less people off, but it just feels very forced, very contrived. I mean, I used to be afraid of what people thought of me. “Oh, she’s a total bitch/loser/nerd” or “she’s so annoying/immature/not funny/stupid/irrelevant/etc. etc.”. I used to fear that my work didn’t hold up to your (the reader’s) standards, and that you’d leave because you didn’t think I talked about ultimate enough/didn’t discuss it intelligently enough or that I wasn’t funny/smart/etc. enough. With every garbage post I did, I’d mentally tick off site visits, because let’s be real, am I right?
But I realize that if I actually spent time and energy worrying about that stuff, I’d have no time or energy for anything else, and things like sculpting my bi’s and tri’s, shouting at basketball games on television, following the Top Chefs on Twitter, and raising/caring for two stuffed otters take a lot of time and energy. So whatevskis, yeah? Also: The only person I need to please with my writing is me, you know? I already have really high standards for myself (like, James Frey-high!) without taking into account the standards of all ten of the people who read this, and I just wanna take the pressure out of writing so I do it more/enjoy it more. I mean, I started it all for the lawls! And I mean, you guys seemed to like that. And you guys (I’m addressing the ten of you who come here regularly) apparently enjoy watching me talk foolery, cause you come back, so it’s cool. Anyway, Allie (possibly my favorite blogger of all time; also, I want to meet her and be BFFFs) knows my writing strugglez.
Maybe I’ll never write great posts again, and maybe I never did in the first place. I might have to drunk-live post one day, I don’t know. So, I guess, I’m just giving you fair warning that you may not see all of that muted stuff anymore. All of my future posts will probably be like this one. Long, rambling, with little to no point. Scoresville! But this felt quite natural to write. Like I was just sharin’ my thoughts with you, not trying to educate or sway or argue. So I guess, leave if you wanna. Never come back if I’m teh w0rst luls, and I won’t cry boo about it (well, I’ll cry, probably, but not publicly). All I can hope is that my little nook in the infinite vastness of the Internets can bring some sort of joy to your days, whether you’re laughing at me or with me. With every keystroke, I’m sitting here behind my MacBook, likely in a cutoff/basketball jersey and basketball shorts, with the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen in your life because I’m doing what I love to do.
Anyway, what I mean to say is that I’ve been making moves. This post is to inform you of that. If you see fewer posts here (I hope not), it’s because I’m putting all of my energy into the aforementioned moves. It has to do with writing and I’m following my heart and chasing my dreams and doing other silly things like that and it’s the best!
In case you are wondering, I attribute this new-found zest for chasing life dreams to my recent bad habit of channeling Flavor Flav. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee boyyyyyyyy! (AlsoRebeccaBlackbutthatisonlybecauseIbelieveIcoulddestroyher.) (AlsobecausenomatterwhatdayitisIwakeupthinkingtomyselfit’s___day___daygottagetdownon___day.) (But mostly this.)
