Monday, September 26, 2011


So those of you who have read my blogs for awhile know that I used to be over 300 pounds. I was also pretty vastly unattractive for 90% of my pubescent years. I was the chubby girl with terrible hair (thanks, many poodle-y perms!) from, oh, fifth grade to probably freshman year in high school. And I was still chunky then, I just happened to make a friend who convinced me to ditch the perms and wear semi-cute clothes. High school mostly remained a sea of feeling shitty about myself, though. I'm not complaining about this, readers. I don't think anyone has a fantastic high school experience. Hell, one of the people I thought had the time of her life in high school has since mentioned that she hated herself then and felt pretty uncomfortable.

Anyways, I gained a lot of weight in high school, and then even more after that. Part of it was legitimate medical reasons - I was on a lot of steroids for asthma for a long time and I pretty much ate everything in sight - but the majority of it was eating a bunch of awful food - made easier by the fact that I pretty much always ate fast food, since I was broke and that's where I worked.

I made noises for years about wanting to lose weight and such, but I never really did anything about it. I'd eat healthy for four seconds or work out sporadically and then be annoyed when, magically, weight didn't roll right off of me. Because that's totally reasonable to think, yeah?

I'd pretty much resigned myself to being the fat girl forever. It's very strange to not be any more.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't go back to 300+ pounds for anything, and I enjoy being a healthy size. But it's still really surreal. When I look at pictures of myself, I get confused sometimes because I appear thinner in them than I see myself as. If I gain back anything over 5 pounds, I freak out a little bit. When I go clothes shopping, I have a hard time shopping the right size. Sometimes, I feel like an imposter in those sections. Like the other people looking there are wondering why I'm in that section, as I am clearly too large for it.

It's kind of a mind fuck.

People calling me hot is strange, too. I mean, quite frankly, I decided forever ago that I was attractive and then just acted the part. If other people didn't think so, well, fuck them. I was sexy as hell and they could get over it. My self esteem is not an issue. I'm just not used to so many people agreeing with it. Sometimes I find myself slightly irked by it, like, "Hey, I'm pretty sure you knew me before, and I was JUST AS COOL THEN. Really, the excess poundage made that impossible for you to see? What the hell?"

When I'm more practical, I realize that people can't really help what they are or are not attracted to, and I should really stop seeing that as a personal offense, since it's obviously not.

I don't really know how to end this blog. It's really just kind of a stream of consciousness at this point. STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESSES DON'T HAVE PAT ENDINGS, Y'ALL.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

"Hear you me my friends"

This morning, I had never heard of Troy Davis.

My first indication that he existed was a Tweet about him. I only went on Twitter, mind you, to escape the annoyingness of Facebook's changes.

Please note: I have been a feverent believer in the death penalty for a long time. You do something awful, there's no shadow of a doubt, you should die.

So I started looking up the facts of Troy Davis's case skeptically. I read, all day, various different sources and accounts and such about him and his case. And what I read disturbed me.

Davis was convicted of killing an off duty cop in 1991. There was eyewitness testimony. This was the basis of his conviction.

Except that many witnesses signed affidavits stating that they were coerced into police into providing the testimonies. Seven recanted - many were illiterate, in prison, or teenagers when their testimony sent Davis to Death Row. Nine people stated that it was the other suspect who had actually killed the police officer. There was no physical evidence.

You see, justice isn't supposed to fail. We're not supposed to kill people when things like this happen. The justice system is supposed to correct these kinds of errors in appeals. Or they aren't supposed to happen at all.

And yet at 11:08pm EST, after being denied a stay, Troy Davis was executed. His death is a tragedy and a travesty. There was too much doubt to make his execution right, just or good. I don't know what kind of a man he was at his core. I will not call him a hero or perfect or beyond reproach. But I do not believe we had enough evidence to brand him a murderer, or to take his own life.

And so tonight I sit, weeping for someone I have never met, someone who may have died at the hands of the people as a total innocent. And I find myself reevaluating my stance on the death penalty. Because how many other Troy Davises are out there? How many other people are poor or minorities and can't get a fair shake at things?

Even one innocent life lost at the hands of the system is too cruel of a price.

Tonight, I am asking all of my friends to look at The Innocence Project. It's getting some heavy traffic tonight and may be slow to load. But they help wrongly convicted people be exonerated. It's a worthy and good cause.

RIP Troy Davis. "The incident that night was not my fault. I did not have a gun. I did not personally kill your son, father or brother. I am innocent. Look deeper into this case, so you can really find the truth. For those who are about to take my life, may god have mercy upon your souls and may god bless your souls."

May angels lead you in.

Monday, September 19, 2011


Hi, I'm Star, and I have not slept more than 4 uninterrupted hours in about two years now.

My kid, you see, thwarted that at the end of my pregnancy, and continues to thwart it by night nursing like constantly.

Sleep and I are also at an odds. I mean, I've read all the studies. I know I'm, like, prematurely aging myself and probably inviting coronary disease and all sorts of nonsense by not sleeping enough (I average like six hours a night.) And my body wants sleep. Desperately.

But sleeping feels like something that's a luxury. Once I wake up, I can't nap or anything. Feels irresponsible. I've got shit to do, y'all. Also, I like doing things. I want to get my tasks for the day completed and then I want to have some time FOR ME. Frivolous time, where I do what I want. And that doesn't include sleeping. Especially not with a baby starfish who manages to take up 90% of my bed WHEN SHE'S NOT EVEN TWO.

Why is she still in my bed, you ask? Please refer back to waking up half the night to nurse. I could night wean her, but from my limited attempts, I can already tell that this is going to be a particularly awful brand of utter and complete hell. If I can roll over and nurse her and dose off, SO much better than getting out of bed to actually nurse her and put her somewhere else. I'm lazy!
But my freaking god, I would cut someone for 8 uninterrupted, non-bed-hogged hours.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

I'm better than Hallmark at greeting cards. Sort of.

When I moved to Missouri, one of the things I loved were the old plantation house looking places. You see, I'm this huge nerd for Gone With the Wind (the book - I've never seen the whole movie because my devotion to the book is that slavish) and they made me think of how I pictured her plantation and those around it.

There's one architectural feature that I especially love about those homes, and it is the columns on the porches. I love those. I know not a damn thing about architecture, but those columns always seemed full of such beauty and strength and grace. It felt like, they, singlehandedly, held up that entire damn house. The elements don't bother those columns at all. They thumb their nose at the wind and rain and baking down sun. "I got this," they say. "You can't make me fall. I'm holding up a motherfucking house here." And they continue on in their quiet strength, making the world a more structurally sound place.

A few years ago, I worked for a publishing company. There I met this chick. And I was, in typical fashion, a smart ass. She tossed back an equally sarcastic remark to me like it was nothing. And I've adored her ever since.

You, my dear friend, are a column on a plantation house. You are gorgeous and amazing and you bear burdens that would cripple most people and you do it like it's nothing. You are brilliant and hilarious and you are always putting other people first. You humble everyone around you with your awesomeness. Never underestimate your impact on the world. You make it a better place for everyone who knows you.

And on this day, your birthday, you deserve hearts and flowers and sunshine and roses. Or maybe horses and motorcycles. Whatever is your fancy.

I hope it is grand. Happy birthday, Atina.

Saturday, September 17, 2011


I am not a person who does things by halves, generally. If I get in a mood to, say, extensively clean my house, I will be on my hands and knees scrubbing tiles with a toothbrush. If I love you, I would pretty much do anything short of homicide for you. And if I genuinely hate you (not an emotion I truly feel often,) you should probably pray we never meet in a dark alley.

Running is hard for me. My normal, me-like inclination is to go balls out on it. Run like demons are chasing me. Run hard enough that I can't think of anything but my feet on the pavement. Fast and hard.

Running is not a balls out exercise. It's something where you have to know when to push yourself and when to throttle back. I am amazing at pushing myself; I am awful at throttling back. Especially since part of why I like running is the fact that it does push the thoughts out of my head. The faster I run, the more that happens.

But I am just starting, really, and I have to learn to be patient, too. Another virtue I lack.

I really look forward to the day that I can maintain the pace that I want. Until then, I work on knowing my limits.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Nonsense, mostly

Blogger just told me this blog has 100 posts. So that's fun. Some of you (ok, probably none of you) have read my nonsense 100 times. Go me. Or you. Something.

But the problem that I run into here, kind of, is that you all know me. So I can't ever talk about the shit I want to talk about. So I keep being tempted to create a huge fake persona, and write a fake blog that's actually all of the real, honest shit about my life. But I'm an actual real person, and only like 5 people give a shit what I write on here. My fake person would just be one of a sea of billions of stupid blogs and no one would care. And it's not simply the catharsis of writing that appeals to me, but the connection. I like blogs that I read because I get it, because there's this thing, the "I can relate to that!" feeling. It's the thing that would be missing if I was fake. Because what would I do to cultivate a readership if I made a fake account? Make a fake Facebook? Fake meet fake people and then urge them to read my shit? Post my own shit on my real Facebook and just disavow writing it?

You see why this is problematic?

This is the place, on the interwebs, where I'm probably the most honest, and I'm not even that honest here anymore. Because honesty can be used against you. Honesty leads to vulnerability which leads to other people fucking with you. And I have seriously no time for that shit. I get myself into enough shit on a daily basis, I don't need you to throw me into any, too.

Not you like you guys. Just in general.

This is another pretty nonsensical blog, I'm sure. Lately, that's the only time I'm compelled to write. Because by typing things out, clean black words on a blank white screen, everything is supposed to make sense again. Or at least feel less. "Less what, Star. You left out a word." No, I didn't. Just less.

I had this conversation today with someone about various things. A lot of it was random bullshit. And some of it was really incredibly nice stuff about me, which I utterly and honestly deserve none of. Truth. But this person is a goddamn champion, and subsequently, I want to direct said person to this blog. Because that is how people see you. I know it seems all romantic and you might extract the romantic connotations, but other than that, yeah. You wake up rooms. You have absolutely no idea you do it, either, and it cracks me up. Anyways, this is my momentary shout out to you, my friend. *raises wine glass*

Monday, September 5, 2011


Loss is a strange motherfucker.

We talk about losing things a lot. Sometimes they're tangible; money, a pen, a pet, a person. Sometimes they're intangible; faith, hope, love, dignity. Which is worse? Hell, I don't know. I don't even know if "intangible" is a real word or if I just made that shit completely up. It's something I would do.

I feel a lot of loss lately, and the weird part is that I'm not even certain what I'm actually mourning here. Or if I'm even mourning it at all. Is there sadness in that bitterness and regret, or is it something else? Is this exhaustion of the soul simply proceeding my rise from the ashes, a phoenix in stilettos?

Fuck if I know.

I know, this blog is rambling and strange and emo and possibly a little off-putting. If I have no earthly idea what I'm trying to say, however will the seventeen of you that actually read this drivel?

And don't worry. This is random and strange, but not some odd internet manifesto before I off myself or something like that. That will never happen. I'm not broken. I still have worth. This I know.

But I miss things, both tangible and intangible, right now. So much so that sometimes the loss overwhelms me and I just want to cry. Fun fact: it's difficult for me to cry more than one or two tears in general lately. At least for things concerning me. For things like kidnapped or abused kids states away, or other people's losses, I can produce floods of them. For myself, they refuse to come. I find it hard to be vulnerable. This blog is probably as close as it gets, and I don't even know if I'll hit publish. I have about 7 other posts that I've started that remain in my edits because I just can't share whatever they are about. Too personal, too much, too painful.

So now I'll finish this, as confused as I started it. "My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go."