The More

If there’s one thing I can attest to, it’s my general inconsistency of what it is I “Want”. Yeah, healthy, happy, blah blah blah. We all want those things. Sometimes they’re unobtainable and most times they’re out of our control. And please don’t give me that positive outlook speech–that “We choose our own happiness” cockamamie, because it doesn’t always work that way. At least, not for me.

If I’m happy, I’m happy. If I’m not, I’m not for days. Sometimes longer, but if it lasts too long I start to remove questionable offenders and decide if that’s the root of my cause. It’s a good method with decent effectiveness. But apart from those things…there’s the little girl inside of me that has never grown up. She sits there and watches Old Molly continue to mature and make grown up decisions and there she is, on the sidelines, wondering when the hell it’s her turn. And sometimes I let her talk. Sometimes I let her make decisions. And it’s entertaining as hell, in a very non-schizophrenic way.

I had the opportunity of shopping alone today. It was weird, and productive, and of course I bought absolutely nothing for myself, but I didn’t need to. I had the thing you can’t by–mental freedom. There was no, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”, as darling as that is. And it led me down a hilariously cathartic road of, “What are you going to DO with your life, Molly?” Because that’s the thing that everyone pushes. DO something. You know, because I am a worthless individual at the moment who merely depletes resources and puts more trash into the landfills. DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE! People practically scream it at you. As if you’re just supposed to know what the hell that means. I am doing something. I’m making moves! I’m doing stuff!! STOP PRESSURING ME! YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!!! God, it makes me feel like I have to spaz out in a caffeine-addict way. I’M SO EXCITED! I’M SO EXCITED!!!!

But it’s a thing–not knowing. And what’s worse is when you “make a decision”, and then it doesn’t immediately work out. Or you second-guess yourself. Or you learn it’s an exuberant amount of money out of pocket. Or they want you to take all of your clothes off and dance on a pole. But Baby Molly is in the background with a ring pop on her finger shouting things at me. She likes that I’m a writer, but doesn’t want me to go get a traditional degree. She wants me to write books but to also be an astronaut. Or an actress. Today, she told me to become a Pilot. A PILOT. Like, jet engines and actual FLYING. I mean, hell yeah, man, that sounds fantastic. I would want a completely male line up of shirtless flight attendants.

Baby Molly told me that’s sexist and missing the point.

But I get it. And I have to listen to her. I have to realize who I am and what I enjoy. Stuffy desk jobs will never be my thing. My butt will just refuse to lose it’s shape from sitting in an office chair all day, and the real-REAL thing is, I need excitement. I need to be jumping from planes or something. I want that job where they mail you all over the world to test out those amazing little wearable cameras. I want to be everything. Yes, I’m so lazy at times that there will be dishes literally in my sink for days. I’ve consistently used cups as cereal bowls. I once ate rice out of a measuring cup. You think I’m joking. But it’s because dishes are boring. They’re not hurting anyone. This cool thing over here needs my attention much more urgently.

I don’t know, I’m sure a lot of people think I should know by now. And I do, really, when it comes down to it. I’m a born writer because apart from being an actor, it’s the only job that allows me to be literally anything. But what about the “more”? I need the more. My split personality demands it. And I just can’t sling liquor my whole life. I fear for my liver, guys.


Eyes Wide

I used to squeeze my eyes shut if I was scared. Close them and the problem disappears, right? It worked when I was three.

But the problem with not looking when something is frightening or difficult is that you’re living blind. You miss important signals. You run into things. There end up being unexplainable bruises that raise uncomfortable questions.

And when you finally open your eyes, the world as you knew it is gone. The girl in the mirror is unrecognizable. The sunshine of your life has long since burned out. Suddenly, you realize why it’s seemed so very cold.

Maybe seeing is harder than not seeing. But in the end, I’ll want to know. I know myself. I won’t want to look away from something. I will want to remember why.

I don’t want my entire life to be summed up into a single sentence:  I don’t know…I wasn’t really there.

That’s been my mission this year, with myself, with this blog. To remember everything. To open my eyes. To stop shutting myself off and start living. Start seeing. Because the survival instincts I learned at three have carried me all the way to twenty-five. And I’ve made it. I’ve survived. So I can stop acting like I won’t, I think. I think I’ve earned that much.

But when I open my eyes now…when I wake up and force myself to see…I’m smacked with the world as it really is. I’m assaulted with horror and violence and incidents that shake you to the core.

We live blindly because it’s easier.

We turn off the radio, my fellow Walking Dead fans.

Because when you leave it on–open up that window into the outside world and turn your back on the comfort of ignorant bliss–you see that people are terrible. Not all…but many.

And then when it’s someone you knew, there’s this onslaught of questions that barrel into you like gunfire.

What if I’d befriended them?

What if I’d been paying attention?

Would I have seen something if I hadn’t been so focused on getting through it all? If I had merely opened my eyes?

And the big one. The one everyone asks. The one that strikes you hard and jolts ten thousand volts throughout your body.

What if we’re all terrible people?

Why, Winter? Why do you hate us?

The cursor is flashing at me on the blank blog interface and I’m asking my three-year-old what I should write about. It seems like a good idea.

This is what he’s come up with:

There is a banana. And it’s angry. It’s angry about things. We should not eat this banana. We should wrap it in a blanket and sing it a lullaby.

Poignant. But now he’s run away and here we are again.

So, apart from raising a sensitive and hilarious individual (imprinting, am I right?), I’ve been slipping ever slowly into the doldrums of all that is winter in Wisconsin.

It’s cold. There is no sun. When there is sun, it’s generally hiding behind a set of thick clouds or reflecting blindingly off a patch of ice. Going outside hurts. The air hurts. Breathing hurts. And it’s only February which generally means we’ve got roughly four more months of this bull shit no matter what other people tell you. There’s apparently a season that is supposed to fall somewhere in the middle of Cold and Less Cold, but I’ve never been able to locate it. There’s mud and rain and mud and slop and mud and…What? What comes NEXT, Molly? The suspense is killing us!

Spoiler alert…it’s mud.

I’m an outside person, but I don’t do cold. I just don’t do it. Yes, the clothes are great. Scarves and boots and hats and mittens. And that would be fanfuckingtastic if I was at all a materialistic person. But I didn’t even own a pair of shoes until I was fifteen. My mailing address was an oak tree. My best friend was a hedgehog, and I lived off the land. I’ve actually been in conversation with Disney about making a musical version of my life. They’re going to make my boobs twice their size and cut my waist down to a 7. Inches. There’s this scene where I bend over to pick something up and I actually snap completely in half.

Everything I say in this blog is one hundred percent true.


I just want to get up and go for a run and watch the sunrise. You know, like I did that one time once on that one occasion. I want to wake up with sunbeams streaming through the curtains and tiny little bluebirds dressing me. I would give them written consent. GOD why you gotta make everything dirty?


I want to climb a mountain. Or, tag myself at one on Facebook and make false claims that I have. I just want that freedom, man. Can’t you just give me that?

Oh, look, it’s snowing again.

But, I Need It For My Fries

Everything I’ve learned in twenty-five-years can be summed up into one single sentence:

No, I don’t want to listen to you whine.

Ha, not really, I just wanted to say that. And that’s so selfish because I am probably super whiny, so just disregard this rant if you feel that way.

The great and powerful Oz Daniel Tosh once said something like “Every single person should be forced to work in the service industry so they can learn just how unimportant their side of ranch dressing is…”

This can be applied to life in so many ways.

Let me count them.

1. You don’t NEED ranch dressing on anything. If you do, you’re fat, lazy, and spoiled.

2. If you’re demanding some kind of special service that is not essential to your being able to breathe in and out and exist in a non-life-threatening way, then you’re being an asshole and need to rethink your life.

3. If you’re demanding some kind of special service because YOU have worked THAT JOB before and feel somehow privileged, then you’ve forgotten what it’s like and need to be taken down a few notches.

4. There is humor in everything. You just have to figure out where it is. Most of the time it resides in a booger wiggling with each exhale out of someone’s right nostril.

5. If you don’t immediately drop everything when you hear Baby Got Back and begin singing and dancing then I don’t want to know you.

6. This list has become vastly irrelevant. And yet, you’re still reading.

7. Is a number. And it’s PRIME.

8. Gin. Just, Gin. Bombay Saffire to be specific. And olives because, well, dinner.

Delete All The Things

I am not a patient person.

I try. I do, really, I swear I try. It’s just, like when I’m really really hungry, I’m going to eat it. And if it’s scorching hot, I will suck in a breath and eat through the pain. Sometimes, if I’m feeling extremely patient, I’ll stick it in the freezer for 60 seconds, but those seconds feel like an eternity. Most of the time, though, I burn my mouth and can’t taste anything for a week.

So, I try to keep calm. They say yoga, or meditation, but I’m an over-thinker. I close my eyes and find my word to focus on–Om–and then it turns into Umm which turns into Ummmmmm are we out of chicken nuggets? I should really get to the store. Wait, isn’t it supposed to snow? Maybe I should go now before it starts. Wait, I live in Wisconsin. I can drive in anything, but what about the other drivers? Is it really safe to be out there when so many people can’t drive in this? What if it’s just me? What if I’m the one who can’t drive? Like, when you keep running into awful people and you can’t figure out if it’s just your own bad luck or if it’s actually you. Oh, shit. Ommmm.

And so you see.

That being said, when I finish something I’ve been working on, I want to tell the world. I want to rush into it full force instead of slowing down, taking my time, perfecting the piece that will be put into the universe for all of eternity. There’s a sense of franticness in me that screams “Tell people! Tell everyone!” when I should be more focused on figuring out what the hell to do with this thing I made.

And so, I give you, Molly’s stages of Novelism: a term I’ve just created (or unintentionally and ignorantly stolen) to describe the mental process of writing a novel.

Look at me, I’m writing. I’ve written five pages. Wow, I’m amazing. I’ve totally got this.


Starting over. Phew, okay, now that I know how I want to start this, I’ll be golden. Let me make an outline.

Fail to follow outline.

Oh, my God! One hundred and fifty pages! That’s awesome! Let me read it and see how it sounds.


Undo. That was really stupid, Molly. You spent three months on that and then just threw it away. You’re lucky I have a backup drive in preparation for your psychotic outbursts. Sincerely, Sane Molly.


Ohhh GAWD I messed up the time frame! Crap, this sounds like shit now.


I suck. I am the worst writer ever. I’m not worthy of the page. I’m not even worthy of reading other literary works. Faaaackkkk.

Let’s make a new outline. Yes. Hey, what about all these random scenes you wrote forever ago?

I’m never going to be done with this. I suck. I suck. I am talentless and lame.


And then, it starts all over again with the editing and the querying and the deleting and the wondering if it’s even any good at all.

Enjoy the process, They say.

I mean, it is pretty exciting.