LAURA J IS DRAMATIC
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Sweet Baby Willis: An #ad

10/3/2020

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One.

​Before the world stopped, I worked in events in Los Angeles. I worked for catering companies and event coordinators as a bartender/server/captain/van driver/assistant/buyer/scheduler/therapist/financial advisor/nanny… you get it, I did shit.  The events ranged from weddings to funerals, from corporate seminars to award shows. Yes, I worked that event. Yes, I served that celebrity. Yes, Ellen is the asshole everyone says she is.

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Trigger Warning.

10/6/2018

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 I don’t understand “feminism”, only that I am inherently one.  I grew up believing we were all created equal. No one had to tell me this. I just believed it. As I got older, I realized… maybe we aren’t.

The women in my family are strong. Strong is a relative term, and in today’s age a ‘strong woman’ is an even more relative term. What is the criteria, per say, for a ‘strong’ woman? Is it that she can bench press just like a dude? Does she solve crimes by day, cook and clean for her family by night? Is it that she wears tight leather spandex, catches the bad guys with high kicks to their faces, and falls in love with her nerd-boy side-kick? Does she have to like boys?

On my dad’s side, my great-grandmother, Memaw we called her, ran a hospital cafeteria until she fell ill. Type 2 diabetes sucks. An occupational hazard.  People still talk about how good her food was.  She lived with it until the age of 92, needle pointing all the way.

Her daughter, my grandmother, Ma we call her, “equally” shared a whole-sale business with grandfather for nearly 40 years. He was the salesman. She ran everything else. Her favorite smell? Cigars.

On my mom’s side, my great-grandmother, Little Thelma we called her, used to garden in her bikini so she’d get a tan. She took a shot of bourbon before bed every night. She called it her ‘medicine’. She wore pinky rings because pinky rings signified you were single and wanted to stay that way. She still got married, but… that was the times.

My grandmother, my mom’s mom… is crazy… but tough. Her first child died of “SIDS”. As in, doctors could never diagnose what the fuck happened to her baby for it to die. It just died. Under her watch. You’d be crazy, too.

My aunt, my mom’s sister was a single mom. Worked her ass off to pay the bills, earn the proper education, and works in administration at the VA hospital.

My mom is an RN, and her favorite sect of nursing? Hospice.  Because in her words, “It’s where I can do real nursing”. Her favorite place in the world? Lowes Hardware.

Our housekeeper, and my best friend growing up was Martha Sue. She had worked in our family since my dad was 11. Before that, she was in jail. Why? Because she caught her husband cheating. So she grabbed her shotgun, and shot them both. She repented for her sins, and asked the Lord to save her. 


These are the women who raised me. Strong. Workers. Tough as nails. Don’t take no shit from nobody. Fighters of disease. Bosses. Smokers of cigars, drinkers or bourbon—neat. Crazy. Raisers of your babies. Rulers of Roosts. Hold your hand while your dying women. Shoot your husband because he disobeyed you women. Go to prison, find Jesus, women.

I don’t understand ‘feminism’. I don’t understand  “equality”. Because if we are all equal, why are women so much better than men? Why are we the ones carrying your babies, birthing your babies, raising your babies? Why do we let you make more money than us? Why do we laugh at your jokes? Smile when you tell us to smile? Sit when you tell us to sit? Spread our legs, open our mouths wide, and moan for your pleasure. Why do we let you speak, let alone breathe? 

I am female, born of Eve, the original sinner. 

We know what we did wrong. Do you? 

I say, we’ve paid our debt. It’s your turn.
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I am 5’2”, 100 lbs, and I hope to god one day I am as strong as I feel angry. I am so angry.
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I wrote this in January of 2015. I am still 5’2”, 100 lbs. And I am still angry. Angry as fuck. But I am as strong as I feel angry. I have to be.

I was raped at 22. I never came forward. It haunts me, the idea that he still could have, or still continues to not listen when a girl says No. Or Stop. Or Please. But I choose to believe he has. Because it is harder to make people change, to make people listen, than to just move on within yourself. I want to believe it was just a miscommunication. That alcohol collided and neither of us were really caring for each other or what the other needed, which is what should be taught in sex education. We should be teaching communication, rather than abstinence and guilt.

But now I’m speaking to you… You know who you are. You read this blog. I see you. Know that. The second you over step, I’ll come forward. And the sad thing for me? Your life won’t be ruined. This is the lamest of threats because it is not your name that will be dragged through the mud, but mine. My actions – which have not been pure or holy or lady-like in the very least will come out, too. I have never been and will never be a “Virtuous Woman”. My name will be done. And your name will live on as a “Well…. he MAY have done this ….” But another man will redeem you. Because that is our world. You stuck your dick down my throat while I was unconscious and your name will live on. You told me you were wearing a condom when you were not and your name will live on. I punched you in your face, clawed at your neck, and asked you to stop and apologized the next day for being “crazy” and your name will live on.

This is our world.

You could one day run for office. And I’d have to stand before a court,  I would have to speak out, because you should not be in any form governing a country. It would be my civic fucking duty. But me coming forward? Ever?  Would only be a hell of a week for you.

So. Here I am. Asking you and anyone else with questionable character to own up. And fucking change. Be a better person, not a better man—because the toxic ideal of what a man is has to change. I’m not asking what it means to be a woman anymore. I’m asking, what is it to be a man. What does it take for you to feel secure? To feel whole? To feel good about yourself? Because all I’m seeing are sad broken men, raging just as much as women about this changing world. What is YOUR problem?

I was never taught to be, nor am I, a man’s ear. I was never taught to be, nor am I, a man’s support. I am mine. And you, are your own, too. This is your chance, your time, to take a step back and fucking listen, and think. Go to therapy. Figure it out. Because women? Obviously… we’re done with helping you along. You have to be your own, and be what’s right. I am not asking for your power, or wisdom, or heart. I’m asking for your integrity.
 
My mother taught me integrity. She fed it to me in my pop tarts at breakfast, my PB & J's at lunch, and my meatloaf’s at dinner. Your mother, I guarantee, taught you the same. Integrity is not a man or a woman’s role. It is a human role, but somehow… most men have let it slide to continue their search for power, success, and their “rightful” place. It’s asinine, and cowardly. Give up the search. Join the struggle for peace hope and love like the rest of us. It’s not as easy, but it’s far more rewarding, I promise.

I recognize almost none of what I said is filled with peace, hope, or love. And many of the women who have raised me would be disheartened by my bluntness, my “cruelty” to my fellow man. They’d ask me to calm, to stick to my lane. To continue being the neck instead of the head. But that’s where I come in. I am no neck. The women who raised me, the world I have lived in, created a monster.

They made me a head.
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This is NOT a Manifesto

5/8/2018

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An exploration of the current state of Feminism, and the movie, “I Feel Pretty"
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Merriam-Webster defines a manifesto as, “A written statement declaring publicly the intentions, motives, or views of its issuer.” I have views. I have intentions, and motives. I am definitely “an issuer”, and yes, this is a written form of all of these posted on the very public internet. But please, refer to the title.

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Songs I've Written & Performed this Month

4/24/2018

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I, like Snow White's dwarfs, enjoy "whistling" while I work. As I can't whistle, I've improvised. With my impeccable ability to remember an array of tunes, yet forget all lyrics, I have parodied many a melody to fit whatever mindless activity I may be doing.

And now, I will share with you, dear reader, this month's selected collection of songs I have sung, mostly, to myself.
Song Title:  “These Jeans!”
To the tune of:  “These Dreams” by Heart.
Location of Performance:  Marshall’s off of Hollywood and Western. 
Lyrics: “THESE JEEEEANS are awesome and I just might diiiiiiie. Only niiiiiineteen ninty-five! And then they can be miiine."
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​Song Title:  “Banana”
To the tune of:   “Fever” by someone who probably doesn’t get paid royalties.
Location of Performance:  My kitchen.
Lyrics: “Gonna get a banana.   . . .  BANANA! . . .  Banana when you kiss me, Banana when you hold me tight…” a brief pause. Then, slowly, ending the song, “That. is. not. what. Bananaaaaas,"  (breath in) "dooooooooooo.”

Song Title:  “Fresh Air, Please.”
To the tune of:  Less of a tune, more of a cheer/chant with stomps and claps.
Location of Performance:  My bathroom.
From the Album:  Defecation Nation
Lyrics: “Fresh. Air. Up. In. Hurr." (stomp) "Fresh Air. Up in Hurr.” 

Song Title: “More than likely, Sex.”
To the tune of:  Some song from Jock Jams Vol. 1... possibly Vol. 2. 
Location of Performance:  Mark Rohner’s car. 
Lyrics: “You gonna get that dick today! You gonna get that dick today! You gonna get you gonna get you gonna get you gonna get you gonna get that dick today!”

Song Title: “More than Likely Sex: Part 2” 
To the tune of:  “The Hustle” by Van McCoy. 
Location of Performance:  Performed immediately after "More than Likely, Sex" in Mark Rohner’s car.
Lyrics: “Dick dick dick da dick da da dick dick Dick dick dick da dick GET SOME DICK NOW!... ”

Song Title: “Red Protein (Hemoglobin)” 
To the tune of:  “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” by somebody who didn’t realize they should have fucking titled it “In the Jungle”. Also, more than likely, not getting paid enough in royalties.
Location of Performance:  At my desk responding to emails. 
Lyrics: “He mo globin, HE mo globIN, He mo gloOOObiiin. He mo globin. HE mo globIIIn, HE mo GloooOOObiiiin. Ahhhh HEEEEEEEEEeeeeEEEeeeeee HE MO GLO-O-O-BIN.”

Song Title: “Almost Laundry”
To the tune of:  A Frank Sinatra-like song. Similar to  "My Way". Sung as though I’m that distant cousin at great-grandmother’s funeral who is very emotional, and was not invited to sing, but felt compelled to at her grave-side.
Location of Performance:  On bended knee, searching under my dresser for a fallen quarter.
Lyrics:  “She was always just a quarter aaawwwwaaaay.. from doing her lauuuundry.”

Song Title:  “#2” 
To the tune of:  “U Guessed It” by OG Maco (but let's be honest, I heard the Lil Wayne version first, and listen to that one more... How do them royalties work?)
Location of Performance:  On my toilet while my phone was ringing in the next room.
From the Album:  Defecation Nation
Lyrics: “BITCH I’M POOPING. …. WOO.”

Song Title:  “Highland Ave.”
To the tune of:  Praise & Worship hit “Hunger & Thirst” (How do THOSE royalties work?..)
Location of Performance:  In my car on Highland Avenue in Hollywood Bowl traffic. 
Lyrics: “I’m waiting for traffic to move. I’m waiting for traffic to MOOOOOoooove. In the desert of my days. Just wishing I didn’t have to stay. In this mother fucking gridlock for todAAAAYYY. I really need traffic to moooooove.”

Laura is currently an unsigned musician. For bookings, please don't.
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List of Things I Did Today Instead of Write:

3/20/2018

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  • ​Moved my car for street sweeping
  • Ate breakfast
  • Washed almost all of my sink full of dishes
  • Had a conversation with my vagina (Asked it to stop bleeding. It’s still bleeding.)
  • Hung up my coat
  • Made coffee
  • Drank coffee
  • Thought about walking to get better coffee
  • Did 4 crossword puzzles (cheated on 3 out of 4)
  • Showered
  • Teared up in the shower thinking about an episode of “Queer Eye”
  • Unsuccessfully hunted around my apartment for quarters to do laundry
  • Looked up the lyrics to Uncle Kracker’s “Follow Me”
  • Applied different shades of lipstick to choose my favorite (No plans to go out. Just wanted to know my #1.)
  • Laid on my floor and stretched
  • Laid on my floor and tried to meditate
  • Laid on my floor and tried to connect with my spirit guides
  • Feel asleep on my floor
  • Made this list
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Airplane Stories: Part 2

1/8/2018

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If you are an “avid follower” of this blog, whatever that means, you are familiar with my lack of travel grace and dignity. If you are not, don’t worry about it. (Spoiler: I'm a ball of nerves, and am certain I will die on a plane.)
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​This year, I flew home to Arkansas for Christmas. I refused to pay the $700+ it was going to be to fly into XNA (Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport), the closet airport to my family’s home, so the next best thing was Tulsa. I got an amazing deal on a round trip flight out of Burbank through Southwest Airlines, so I saved myself by not flying out of the dreaded LAX. In short, I was relieved. My patience was not tested too greatly, every flight was on time, and Southwest Airlines appears to only hire kick ass people. I’m a fan. I support them. (This is not an ad.)

I did, however, walk away with 2 stories of comedic gold, and I had absolutely nothing to do with it, I swear. I was merely an observer in these 2 tales of mayhem, and I bring those stories to you now. So please, fasten your seat belts, switch that phone over to airplane mode, and prepare for takeoff.


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&Run

1/4/2018

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​It’s 11:50pm, and I’ve just pulled off of the PCH into a very small, side parking lot by the Pacific Ocean. I’m close to the Santa Monica pier, but far enough away that I don’t have to deal with people. I’ve just gotten off work, cater-waiting a New Year’s Eve party at a private home in Malibu. The people were nice. They did not turn on the TV to watch the ball drop. They wanted to spend the end of their year with each other. They let us leave early. I had no other plans. I did not want to be in my car when the clock struck 12, so here I am. At the ocean at night. There’s a couple in the parking lot smoking a bowl, waiting to watch the pier’s fireworks. They acknowledge me with a, “Happy New Year”.
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I'll Be Home for Christmas (JTT is not in this story, sorry)

12/11/2017

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I do not "fly well". I am neurotic, easily annoyed, and I over-pack. There are lines. There are people, everywhere. There are small spaces that, yes, I fit into with ease, but that does not mean I enjoy them. And though I always treat myself to a new book from Hudson Booksellers, I am rarely pleased with my purchase. It’s always a waste of a day, and a loss of control. For me, it is always a lesson in humility.
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​​Holiday travel has never shown me a kindness. Each year, I end up with an 8-12 hour delay, making a should be 6 hour travel day triple into a 24 hour experience of Satan. I’ve seen Satan in an airport. I’ve felt his hot, nasty coffee-breathe. He is not the charming, more beautiful than all the jewels of the Earth Lucifer the Bible says he is, oh no. He’s a lady in an infinity scarf, shoving her 4 bags she somehow snuck onto the plane into MY personal space, and trying to have a conversation with me about how TSA took EVERYTHING from her, and all I want to do is sleep. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world, and I still have yet to get a Xanax prescription.

I always end up crying for, truly, no valid reason. The amount of times someone has asked me, "Are you okay?", in an airport are far too many to count. Once outside of LAX, when I was waiting on the FlyAway bus to get it’s shit together (it was an hour late), I was so spent, I just put my head in my hands and shed a few “woah is me” silent tears, and I felt a hand on my back, and a very calm, “Hey, there. Can I help you?”  As I hate being touched, in general, and especially hate being touched unexpectedly, and EVEN MORE SO WHEN I AM “HAVING A MOMENT”, I turned abruptly to the man with a look of deep rage. He retracted his touch immediately, put both hands up in defense, and uttered, “Annnnnd, looks like you want me to fuck right off.”  And he LITERALLY ran away. No one should talk to me in airports. I am my worst self.

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READ ME FIRST.

11/20/2017

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There’s no question about it, blogging is included in one of the circles of hell.


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#PettyWap

11/20/2017

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The term Petty Wap was introduced to me, possibly coined?, by a dear friend of mine who shall remain nameless.  I am forever grateful  to her for keeping me updated on what the kids are doing and saying these days.

​Y'all... I am a 28 year old woman. That's not old, but it's old enough to, as my mother puts it, "know better".
Here are some texts I've sent to 'gentleman callers' where I haven fallen short of "knowing better". 
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