Hi, everyone. I see many of you got Sady Doyle‘s invite to my blog. Jeebus *perspires* Sady Doyle is awesome, and I love the way she writes at Tiger Beatdown because I too write in a loud, fast, hectic, way. I only hope I can be half as awesome since I know I’m not as uh, focused.
A short introduction is perhaps in order! On the interwebs I go by MKP.
I’m a bisexual woman currently dating a dude, who, though I love him to distraction, I sometimes worry means I’m opting “out of the culture.” I mean, how can you hang on to a label without participating in the lifestyle, you know? I am fully aware of my straight-passing privilege. Even though when I was at Staples yesterday buying a printer cartridge the clerk greeted me with “sir,” returned with my cartridge and handed it to “ma’am” then asked “sir” to follow him to the cash register where he introduced me to the cashier as “that gentleman.” I was wearing a baseball cap, a corduroy jacket, and mary jane flats with white socks. I apparently contain a multitude of 2, at least.
I’m also a recovering alcoholic. My last drink was on 2/5/7. I like that number almost as much as I like not being a hopelessly despairing, fearful, anxious drunk person anymore.
I get pissed off about stuff. Sometimes it’s Game of Thrones related, sometimes it’s feminism related and I have to pick some bones with Virginia Woolf before I decide that “Think Of Things In Themselves” is fantastic advice for anyone who doesn’t want to spend every day fighting up the same hill over and over again. But that doesn’t mean it’s not totally ok to get mad, and anyone who tells me to calm down because of all the humor indicated in your ironic detachment from my anger, IT’S NOT FUNNY AND I WON’T.
And in case you’re wondering what I could still have to be mad about, I had a conversation with my fella-type-person just a few days ago about the fact that no, I do not regard it as a compliment when strangers stare or make comments on public transit about my appearance. If I look awesome, I like it when my fella-type-person, my friends, my family notices. But having been an object, without consenting to it, since the first train-riding creepster chatted me up when I was 13… Err on the side of not being gross, fellas, and keep your admiring glances to a strict minimum and your traps shut. And my fella-type-person understands this now, but was at first skeptical that I might not appreciate having my worth appraised by all and sundry while I’m just trying to ride the damn train.
I’m currently in Grad School for Creative Nonfiction, where I try to steer away from memoir unless I have a good external spin to put on it. No offense to the rest of my program–lots of folks my age and younger (not Miley Cyrus young, but younger) have big stories to tell and book projects to do it in, and that is fine. Personally I am a short-form writer, and my genre so far is humor. This is half because my Serious Issues and Feelings deflectors are so solid and huge the occupants of a passing Millenium Falcon might not even realize they’re not a planet, and half because it is the way I process even the dark and stormy shiz. I have a hard time with accepting the “humor” label too, out of some misguided socialized tendency to be afraid of saying This is what I do and I do it well and I do it consistently because God forbid a woman love what she does and profess that it is good without blushing and stammering and saying Oh it’s nothing, really.
My heroes are Zadie Smith, David Sedaris, Jessica Valenti, Sady Doyle, Lynda Barry, Alison Bechdel, Mark Twain, Gail Collins, Pauline Kael, Jasper Fforde and Charlotte Bronte. [ETA: Mindy Kaling and Jane Lynch and Tina Fey and Kristen Wiig and Lucille Ball and Gracie Allen]
That’s uh, what I do. I also talk about my roommate’s dog, Gracie, and uh, clean my room infrequently.
So. Who are all you guys?