My Life Starts Over

me in a random selection of words

Month: November, 2013

I Hate Money

Unfortunately, money makes the world go ’round and that sucks, especially when you bust your ass everyday and have nothing to show for it, if you look at my bank account. I’m the Editor-in-Chief (EIC) of an online magazine, Giga: Geek Magazine. I’ve had this title for only about a month and a half and have never held a position like this before.

Any time I take on something new, I work hard to make sure I understand every aspect of it; whether it’s buying a juicer or working out, I need to know everything first. Thus, when the owner of the magazine asked me to become EIC, I stepped up. I googled, yes googled, the job description of an EIC, did some research in relation to the type of topic the magazine focuses on, and then dived in. I was excited to have the power to make the website great.

If I don’t know how to do something, I will teach myself (that’s what the internet is for, right?), no matter how difficult it may be. I knew nothing about code, plugins, CSN, optimizing, or slow-loading websites, but when I saw how much needed to be fixed with the site, I had to learn all of it, by myself. The site is my baby now and I must do whatever it takes to make it better. I also use Twitter and Facebook to get Giga out there, which can be a little frustrating.

Every day I’ve put all my time into the website and my copyediting class, but I don’t receive a paycheck for either, so I feel like I’m wasting my time and efforts. It’s a horrible feeling. I know I’m creating something and pushing my career (I can put all of this stuff on my résumé), but today, all that matters is money.

I didn’t want to do it, but I’m starting to see a sacrifice has to be made: get a “real” job and make money or do what I love and be broke for the rest of my life.


Am I a Bad Representative for Female Gamers?

This article was originally for Giga: Geek Magazine, a website in which I am Editor-in-Chief, but I wanted to at least post a piece of it here:

When I was a hardcore Battlefield 3 addict (now a hardcore Battlefield 4 addict) and needed a good laugh, I would peruse the Battlefield forum. One day, I came across a female player complaining about the lack of female soldiers in multiplayer. I felt bad, not because I too wanted to play as a kick-ass female soldier, but because it never crossed my mind. I tried to justify my lack of feminism by thinking, “Well, [at that time] female soldiers are not allowed to serve in combat, so it would only make sense to not have a female soldier in multiplayer.” Yes, it is just a game, but DICE does pride itself on how realistic Battlefield is compared to other FPS’s. Besides, you can’t even see your character while playing.

Then it happened again. I stumbled upon an article about how Rockstar missed out on the opportunity to cast a female lead in GTA V. After reading the article, I again thought to myself, “Hmm, I didn’t even think about that.” Even though the author (a guy) is right—it would have been interesting to have a female main character in GTA for once—it never crossed my mind and it didn’t bother me. Why? I’m starting to think I’m just a horrible representative for female gamers. No I’m not taking scantily clad “geek” pictures or recording my boobs on twitch and flirting for a donation, but I still feel ashamed, guilty. I should be standing on a mountain top shouting, “We need more women in games!” but I’m not. I’m quietly enjoying these games as is, as long as they don’t reinforce any negative (“You should be in the kitchen blah, blah, blah”) stereotypes, I’m good.

Read the rest of my article on Giga: Geek Magazine.

Forgot to Read

I’m ashamed. What kind of sorry excuse of a writer am I? I’ve let my busy life interfere with my reading. I read, of course, but not for pleasure. I used to read all the time. When I was in elementary school, I would read biographies on the presidents and other notable people—Helen Keller was my favorite. For some reason I liked learning about other people. In middle school and high school, I would read thrillers (mostly the Alex Cross series).

Then I got to college and just, stopped. I read the books I was assigned, but I stopped reading for me. I didn’t pick up a book of my choosing until way after graduating. I had nothing else to do while waiting for my train home each night, so I would spend an hour in Borders and read for free. It was a nice and cozy feeling, being able to spend time in someone else’s life. Holding a book and turning the pages just felt right.

On my Goodreads account (leave me book suggestions in the comments!), I have a list of books I want to read, but I haven’t used it in a year. So, I’ve decided to finally use my account and get a book from my list. I will dedicate an hour a day to reading. Everyone—whether you’re a writer, a mechanic, an architect, or a prostitute—should read. Maybe reading is what I have been missing in all of these years. This may be the reason for my lack of inspiration, words, and imagination.

My Attempt at NaNoWriMo: Part 1

I tried doing NaNoWriMo a couple of years ago, but failed miserably. I figured I would try again since I have a free hour. I will try typing without stopping, regardless of any errors I may make. If I can’t type anymore, I’ll start a new paragraph. WARNING: This may not make sense and may turn out horrible.

She woke up from a dream she couldn’t remember. She didn’t move, trying to remember what she dreamt, she never could. The darkness didn’t feel right. It was cold and the air was humid. She knew she hadn’t left the window open, so she sat in the darkness, eyes wide, trying to remember the day before. As she sat up, she realized the bed didn’t make a sound. It was, instead, hard and cold. She froze. She knew something was wrong. Putting her feet down on the ground the carpet was gone. She stood up and felt around the humid air looking for a wall, a light switch, something. Her heart started to beat…

* * *

I wanted to die yesterday and the day before. I laid in my bed staring at the wall with the picture of a tree. I bought it a few years ago. The tree is black, but the scene around it was bright and colorful. Kids laughing and dancing, their parents watching, sipping from tea cups. It’s a small picture, too small for the large blank wall it hangs on. But I needed it there to make me feel sane again. The large black tree is supposed to remind for me to cheer up and stop hating myself.

* * *

All I could hear was the guard’s heavy breathing behind me. The steps were cold and damp, mushy. I could barely see the other guard in front of me. The lamps they carried kept blinking on and off. The guards had been up and down these stairs so many times, I’m sure they didn’t need the lamps. I wanted to touch the wall to keep myself from tumbling down the steeps steps, but my hands were tied. I wondered if it was really necessary, my frail body could barely harm a fly at this point. When we reached the bottom, the guard’s heavy breathing was muted by moaning, screaming, and crying. The air was humid, but I could feel a chill run through my body. I stopped, I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt a sharp pinch in my back, then the guard behind me grunted. I needed to keep moving, but I frozen. The fear of not knowing what was ahead paralyzed me.

* * *

“I don’t think anyone is ever happy, like, ever,” Katie put out her cigarette on the glass table. She wipes the ashes onto the floor, then digs through her purse looking for her lipstick.

“What do you mean?” Parker asks, hoping no one saw Katie’s rude gesture.

“Everyone complains about everything, constantly. They run to Twitter or Facebook, so they can complain to the entire world about what a horrible life they have. Give me a fucking break. I hate them.”

“Not everyone does it. I don’t.”

“You don’t count. You’re not an annoying fuck, which is why we’re friends,” she finally gives up her search for another cigarette.

“Thank you?” Parker chuckles.

“No, but I’m serious. People are pathetic. Everyone thinks they have it bad when in all actuality they just like the attention. Are you ready?” Katie gets up. Her thin button up shirt bellows in the light breeze.

Well I tried. Maybe I’ll be able to write more tomorrow.

Confidence block

I have a severe lack of confidence when it comes to writing. I start with a blast of energy and excitement, which quickly turns into a dark hatred for my lack of skill. I used to write all the time: poems and short stories were written on random notebook pages. When I graduated high school, I quickly realized my only motivation to write was making sure I passed the class.

“You never lose it. It just waits for you to be ready to unleash the things you don’t say.” My friend told me this last night. I thought I was ready, but I guess a piece of me—a rather large piece of me—is worried that once I start trying, I’ll realize I was never really good at writing to begin with. Kind of like American Idol: after being told by friends and family that you’re the best, you get on the stage and sing your heart out in front of millions of people only to be told you completely suck huge donkey nuts. I want to write. I think about it everyday, but I’m holding myself back. I don’t know how to push forward. It’s like the words leave my head as soon as I start typing.

I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep pushing. I need to make something happen or else I’ll regret it.

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