i have clumsy hands.

i've been neglecting this post in favor of Notes to Self, but recently i discovered a few non-comedy mini-journal entries that i felt impelled - in accordance with the promise i made to myself, of sharing all of my writing - to post here instead.

the following is an example of Drunk Vickie's poor penmanship and penchant for the poetics (and slightly more emo ramblings).

or some poor excuse for them.

i'm no writer and i'm saptastic to a fault:

I have clumsy hands. They stiffen at my sides when I'm about, keeping to myself. They twitch, itch to reach out and touch things their limbs - attached to my guilt, which seems to constantly outweigh curiosity - forbid them to touch.

The knuckles crack and bend in ways they shouldn't, interjecting when my voice has nothing to contribute.

They stutter when I write, become inky with accidentally blotted mistakes that run across the rest of my words in smudges and smears.

Sometimes they don't feel like hands at all: dumbbells that hold me back, making me all the more aware of the awkwardness of my entire body.

Or they're weightless and with minds of their own, belligerently swinging or pointing or poking, my innards squirming with instantaneous regret and humiliation.

Sometimes they're monsters.

Famished, insatiable.

They ache with hunger pangs, coveting contact.

To pick at and pull out my voice, pulling strand after strand of words lost, phrases confused, thoughts disfigured.

Throbbing - my heart pumping into them the want and beating voice that gets my attention - so I have no choice but to comply.

To go on lamenting the fact that I have nothing and no one else with which, whom, to nourish them.

They rejoice in my drunkenness - the loosened hold of my guilt that allows them to inarticulately speak for me, show affection my lips and chords are otherwise too cowardly to express.

Grab things and create the illusion of a temporary ownership.

Connection.

And then they become too eager.

Earnest.

The bottle cap to their full and shaken yearning finally explodes and they live up to their infantile and clumsy reputation by flying like shrapnel any which way all over their victim.

Soon after, another bottle moves down the conveyor belt, top open, awaiting jilted temptations and silenced protestations and affirmations. What with the likely dismal consequences of the previous pop, this new bottle is packed with a revitalized fervor.

Capped again.

Shaken again.

Embarrassed again.

Next.

They seem to fight back: regret belonging to the rest of this, want to be attached to someone more deserving of their curiosity and need to make. They're a large dog, fed up with my measured steps and dragging me along.

They rush, I try to keep up, trip over myself, and land on my face.

They wish they were a carpenter's hands, harmonizing machinery with craftsmanship.

Scarring with experience and satisfying caresses of their tools and their handiwork.

Building calluses from repetitious but worthwhile labors: hard work that both builds and satiates their appetite.

Their newly hardened touch will make for firmer grips, affectionate and practical.

They tell the world they're learned, they create.

They have the strength to give as well as to take.

As they are now, one would think they were spoiled: soft with naivete; long, the better to touch you with. The thinness and knobbiness and length are an illusion.

The kinds of things that suggest delicacy and prowess: strangers to these parts.

Their form is misleading, lying to passersby.

Present themselves as something more deliberate than they are.

If they are in any way delicate, it must actually be because of the inhibitions trying to keep the capped earnestness at bay.

Everything touched is a relic.

But I don't hate my hands: the feelings aren't mutual. At times, they may not feel like my own, but they feel.

Sometimes they're the only concrete proof of my self.

That I am here.

The fact that they pine, so painfully, is, in a strange way, heartening.

Desire is passion, passion is sometimes agony.

But if this pain livens us - makes us more aware of our humanity by spilling itself, warm and red, into every facet of our lives - then it's essential and honest and beautiful.

They do make mistakes.

I have regrets.

But I also have a new sense of vigor - to run and try my best to catch up.

To be a breadwinner.

To create and give back.

Maybe someday my tapered nature will be reconciled with the overzealous neediness of my hands.

Someday, they'll touch something wonderful.

Something wonderful will come from my touch.

starting a fresh page! and blogging on it.

over time, this blog has become something of a diary.

but, as of late, i've decided to start a brand new one that only includes comedy bits.

i need to practice.

word.

http://notestoselfbah.blogspot.com

and you can/should join the facebook fanpage, under Notes to Self.

where'd the title come from?

i have 0 common sense, meaning that, all sorts of things that have and will happen in my most recent life, need to be shared.

in other words, as i embarrass myself, or have embarrassing thoughts, you guys will have access to them.

i'll try to keep up with this one, too, to talk about more personal stuff, but Notes to Self will be my way of practicing my comedy writing.

all in all, i've decided to start taking my dreams of writing comedy a little more seriously.

so hop to it! chop chop!

and please give me some feedback!

long time, no see. When Vickie Met Billy...and When Billy Met Dane...

i'm just like Billy Crystal.

at least, that's what my dad says.

some girls are princesses, sweethearts, mermaids, even.

but me?

i'm Billy Crystal.

he meant it in a good way, he assured me, and i don't really doubt this: if there's one thing my dad and i have in common, it's our inability to hold an anything but awkward conversation.

another would be our tendency to inarticulately pay strange compliments because of our debilitating and irreversible senses of humor and romantics.

the other would be our obnoxious laughs.

but i digress.

really, i don't think of the Billy Crystal thing as negative.

and lord knows that when my mother tried to dress me up as a Disney princess when i was little, i refused.

but i wonder if being like Billy Crystal, especially nowadays, is all that positive, either.

in his prime, Crystal was amazing.

along the lines of George Carlin and Richard Pryor and Lenny Bruce.

they're all still considered some of the "greats" of all-time, and no one doubts their creativity and astuteness.

but nowadays, who can really relate to any of these comedians?

when i saw the movie Funny People for the first time, all i could think was, I could never make it as a comedienne. I hate penis jokes, and I definitely don't appreciate making fun of other people or the word "fuck" half this much.

could i ever really make it as a "nice" comedian?

or even a thoughtful one?

the more and more i think about it, the less sure i am of pursuing my "dream job."

i know i'd like to write good, clean, but inspiring comedy.

i know that, in a dream world, where i'm not ridden by the fear and the insecurities, i'd like to get up on stage and perform my comedy.

but i really don't know how willing modern audiences would be to accept my old brand of jokes and commentary.

we're in an age where gross-out, shock-value comedy seems to be taking centre-stage.

comedians are getting more and more vulgar.

and louder.

and i really don't think i can pull either of those things off.

i can't Dane Cook my way through a joke, and yell it as loudly as possible to trick people into laughing.

and i can't pull a Sarah Silverman and make a totally perverse or over-the-top story cute, just by pulling a cute face.

and i'm not hott, so i don't have that going for me.

i'm not suave.

or confident.

and all of the things that might've been my "schtick" have already been done:

1. lesbian;
2. Asian mom;
3. Latino family;
4. awkwardness.

bah.

the only "nice" comedians i can think of can be counted on one hand:

1. Eddie Izzard;
2. Dmitri Martin;
3. Tina Fey;
4. Amy Poehler;
5. Ellen.

still, though.

i'm not saying that ALL mean or modern comedians have no merits.

Chris Rock is one, along with Margaret Cho (who, even though she's now mostly political, still has her moments).

but the fact remains that i just don't think i can pull that kind of work off.

what options are out there for me, then?

what can i really do?

do i sell out and try to break my way into that kind of humor?

what hope is there for someone who doesn't want to trash-talk Britney Spears or rant about vaginas for thirty minutes?

what can someone who's totally awkward and shy and just wants to talk about her awkward and shy experiences really accomplish in this new comedy industry?

why has comedy gone down this track?

all's i know's is, i'm at a loss.

without comedy, i have no idea what i'd do with my life.

and, more than that, i don't know how i'd be able to really get out there and reach people.

what if my comedy/humor is my own, and no one else would really appreciate it?

what am i supposed to do with my life?

my dad told me that i'm just like Billy Crystal.

because i'm self-deprecating and awkward and harmless.

but is that good enough these days?

popular?

in middle school they taught us that, "Just because it's popular doesn't mean that it's right."

but in an industry that's all about visibility and popularity, what can i do to really succeed?

anyways.

i'll try to be more consistent with my postings.

so 'til next time!

mine.

i'm spoiled. this isn't a news, and it definitely isn't earth-shattering, but lately i've been learning, in fuller detail, the extent to which i secretly wish the entire universe revolved around me. it's never easy to come to the realization, as a youngest sibling - the baby - that maybe all of those assertions made by child psychologists (and eldest siblings) are right.

for years we deny any possibility of our selfishness, neediness, dependency on everyone else in the family, in favor of rougher, tougher light.

we aren't pampered and soft, we say, and we certainly aren't self-absorbed or offered special allowances.

but we totally were.

are.

at least, i was and am.

looking back, i know that none of the Toro girls managed to survive childhood with our parents completely unscathed.

there were consistencies in all of our upbringings: the shouting, the insecurities, the high bars. if anything, we were brought up to fill in those voids that went unchecked in our mother's own childhood.

and if there's one thing about unfilled voids, it's that some things just don't fit, and try as you might, you can never really force them to without ripping pieces apart.

but i don't pretend to completely relate to the strife my sisters endured.

true, i'm still wildly insecure about a number of really arbitrary and minute things: i still experience severe anxiety episodes and my trichotillomania was never completely cured. but i still fared way better than my sisters did.

i had the benefit of being the youngest. the privilege. the kind of thing that you never realize when you're growing up and going through the motions of dumbshitty adolescence. the kind of thing that, in all your spoiledness, neediness, self-absorption, you take for granted.

the eldest Toro girl was the experiment, really. our parents, very young and very clueless and idealistic and desperate, didn't know what they were doing. and, on top of all of this, they were out of place. always out of place, as they were always on the move.

finally, our mother managed to escape Korea, but it was only to find a place that was anything but welcoming or accommodating to one-half of a mixed-race, young, immigrant couple.

and she floundered.

and our father didn't know how to cope: the denial of his own ethnic background, and any implications of his own potential Otherness, which he thought he'd pulled off for the entirety of his youth, was finally facing him head-on. suddenly, he was Different.

at least, more Different than he was prior to his hurried marriage.

so they were naive, and unprepared for much else besides the wedding night.

so much so that our mother's very first pregnancy ended in an abortion.

the second pregnancy came only very shortly afterward, though, and little time prepared for almost no improvement in their situation.

and Olivia was born.

and they weren't ready.

and Olivia suffered.

more deeply than anyone could ever imagine.

and when Annie came along, a couple of years later, they were financially in a slightly better place, and they had a little more experience.

and there were newer issues.

new pains.

slightly different pains.

and Annie suffered, too.

and Olivia and Annie, together, were put through another kind if hell, though i suppose it was slightly more tolerable than the last.

but nothing could completely erase the anguish our mother was hiding from everyone: the kind that managed to manifest itself in the quieter corners of every Toro's life.

she wouldn't scream about the language barrier she was forced to confront, daily, and she didn't hit for the emptiness she felt because of unrealized dreams; instead, she would make a raucous over the smaller things, in ways that were beyond a child's comprehension.

almost four years later, when things were a little more stable, i came along.

i was quiet from birth, which was lucky.

i never asked for much, and i rarely cried - staying silent was something that seemed to pay off for the earlier years.

nobody questioned it.

with all the business that came with moving and settling down, over and over again, the only real concerns had to do with the things that could stay consistently managed: not so much on people and friends, but more on our music, swimming, and academics.

if we managed to keep the three essentials under control, then all of the other superfluous things would fall into place, too.

but i was spoiled.

really, i had to deal with much of the same restrictions as my sisters for the first decade or so, but things changed.

even i noticed.

who knows what might've incited the shift: it could've been the call from an elementary school teacher who was worried because i hadn't spoken a word to anyone in six months, or the clear increase in trichotillomania.

in the end, i tend to think it had more to do with the fact that, finally, i got the chance to stay and grow up, at least partially, in one place.

as Olivia and Annie both only had a few years left before college, it wasn't a new experience for them: they spent as much time in Virginia as they had everywhere else we've lived.

so we settled down a bit.

the same expectations were there, but i had a new sense of being grounded.

i had a place i could escape to, even when things got bad.

and my parents had fewer worries to occupy them.

with a steadier hand, they could hone in on other aspects of my life that had previously gone unnoticed.

i got to make a more permanent group of friends, and i felt safe.

slowly but surely, i opened up to people and let myself get close.

granted, i still had certain insecurities that more or less stemmed from fear of my own mother, on top of other things, but i had a home.

and my parents had a home, too.

and, being the only kid left in this home, i reaped the benefits.

and nowadays, after leaving for college, i'm coming to terms with other ways in which i'm spoiled.

my mother was robbed of her dreams.

my father dealt with much of the same, but, given his gender and locality, was afforded more freedom and ultimately found what he was looking for.

so they never stifled my own dreams.

sure, there were subtle hints dropped here and there, for my own good, i suppose, but now i'm at my dream school, and i'm out, and i'm happy.

my pipe dream of being a comedy writer - which is probably shared by billions - still isn't unrealistic.

i'm an investment, they told me, and they're just waiting for the return.

and i'm happy.

it took awhile to get here, and it wasn't easy, but i'm here.

and i'm happy.

hoofah!

yes, hoofah.

why?

it's been ages since my last post.

how long?

a number that's much higher than i'm able to count t0.

how come?

so many things to do.

and learning, learning, learning:

1. i'm gonna do it. comedy, i mean. yes. writing. i'm shit at it, but i'm less shitty at it than i am at other things.

like math.

or taking care of old people.

2. i'm wildly immature. it's true. and i'm hoping the fact that i'm more aware of this will help me to finally grow up.

all there is to do now is get over my fear of growing up.

fearofoldnessphobia.

which, incidentally, is tied to my fear of Depends.

3. on top of the whole immaturity thing, i need to work out my relationship issues.

honestly, i don't know what the heck is wrong with me.

so many wonderful people - all of whom are clearly out of my league - come into my life and i end up panicking and letting them slip away, or not letting things develop in the first place.

i don't know what's wrong with me.

i think it has something to do with the fact that i'm pretty sure that someday they'll realize they're too good for me and'll end up leaving me anyway.

and sometimes i think i'm too picky.

i'm still ridiculously inexperienced and therefore naive and too expectant of first love experiences.

or any kind of love experience.

i'm always subconsciously looking for that initial spark, and if it's not there then i immediately give up.

and this is no good because sometimes i wonder if i just don't let myself feel that spark.

anywho, i've got issues to work out.

maybe being more assertive'll force me out of my own head.

4. i think my comedy schtick'll have something to do with my cluelessness. lately i've been trying to think of ways to write a routine or sketch of some kind that's laden with innuendo that's doubly hilarious because the actual speaker is unaware of it all.

work in progress.

tough.

but it's the kind of tough that i think i'll actually enjoy.

5. i miss swimming. i really do. sometimes i still wonder if it's too late to make something out of it. i never thought i'd miss morning practices and dryland and competition, but i do. i need to get back into it.

6. i also miss music. tomorrow i'm going to cut my nails and suck it up and practice. maybe. when everyone's out of the house or i manage to sneak into the USC music halls like i did during my freshman and sophomore years.

7. i've been swearing a lot lately. i need to stop. i might invest in a swear jar, and at the end of every week i'll take the jar out on the town and give its contents to the first hobo i meet.

though, this is even more incentive to increase my swearing.

...i've never actually understood the purpose and effectiveness of swear jars.

anywho, that's where i'm at at the moment. well, there and underneath a massive pile of homework i'm ignoring right now.

which i should probably get to.

k, bye.

Jennifer's Body

i saw Jennifer's Body last night.

i was told to go in without expectations.

it wasn't difficult, as i was secretly worried because i'd read quite a few negative reviews of the film.

my own reaction? epic.

why can't movies like this be advertised and produced more often?

All Woman Movies.

the kind where, in feminist speak, women take back their name and write (and attempt to re-draft) their own identity.

seriously.

this movie starred and was written and directed by nothing but women.

and it had a positive message about relationships and body image.

it's the kind of movie that gives me hope. the industry is finally expanding, and it's finally becoming cool to be different, in a way.

who knows what started it, but now, sometimes, PC is becoming as marketable as sex.

"good girls" like Taylor Swift and awkward but lovable dorks like Michael Cera are taking the entertainment industry by storm.

it's a sad fact that individuality is becoming commodified, but, at the same time, you gotta love the fact that movies like Jennifer's Body are finally seeing the light of day.

it's all inevitable, really, what with things like YouTube that give people the power to choose and craft their own work and have a ready and willing audience.

and blogging paves the way for good writers, like Cody, to develop their own voice and build a fan base and get their work published and produced - unique voices laden with original thoughts and humor that previously went unheard.

granted, i can see why someone might give the movie a negative review.

people've started to pick on Cody's chosen vernacular and therefore completely disregard the real meat of what her characters say and how they behave.

i suppose they think Cody's trying too hard to be clever and hip, when, really, it's all just a discourse about the inherent absurdity of adolescence.

no, we might not be THAT ridiculous at that age, but there's no harm in poking fun and laughing at ourselves or our pasts.

and, honestly, sometimes Cody really isn't that far off, anyhow.

also, sugarcoating the pill's been a part of the film industry since practically its inception - it's Cody's way of saying, "This is serious stuff - real emotions - but let's not forget that there can be some humor and fun in this, too."

it's pitch-perfect.

Cody's fascination with the female body is also really interesting and awesome.

with Juno, the main character, a teenage girl in the throes of hormones and young love, copes with emotional needs with the most intimate physical action.

the result? 9 months of endless bodily changes that directly corresponds to profound emotional and mental growth.

more than that, the way Juno always subtly and not-so-subtly dealt with her own insecurities - especially those tied to her own image/body (i.e. when she adjusts her hipster skirt before seeing Mark and Paulie, and the way her classmates react to her body as she walks down the hall in school) - was always so spot-on that there were times when i might've gotten a little weepy and nostalgic.

in her latest flick, Cody again emphasizes the importance of Body in girl culture and ideology.

the way Jennifer purges after she eats a boy, and it is later revealed that she uses laxatives to stay skinny, all point to this Hott Girl's secret insecurities - the kind that most high school Hott Girls probably feel and are completely aware of.

the title itself is a big reminder to the audience about what the film is actually about.

this girl who has this body - that she knows to use like a weapon - and needs boys to strengthen it.

she needs boys, literally, to revitalize her body: a metaphor for the real reason why girls strive and starve stay skinny and attractive (that is, it isn't for their own health).

it's why Jennifer's biggest prize is Chip, who's the one boy in school who, even with all of her efforts to be the most desirable girl in school, prefers her best friend Needy.

(but this all also presents a really interesting dilemma because it can be read a different way: the fact that when she manages to successfully lure her prey into her trap by using her sexuality only to tell Colin that she needs him to be terrified so that she can consume him might suggest that Jennifer is, in fact, some form of an extremist feminist maneater (pun intended!).

though, maybe not quite a feminist.

maybe one of those faux-feminists, like Samantha on Sex and the City, who's actually a female chauvinist pig.)

and then comes Needy, the archetypal best friend character who idolizes the hott girl but remains in the shadows of everyone's minds when Jennifer enters the room.

her name is loosely veiled symbolism in the beginning, but, in the end, becomes ironic.

she's the one with the steady boyfriend even though she wears glasses and dorky clothes.

she only becomes self-conscious about her looks when Jennifer's involved.

and she never needs to alter her own self-representation in order to be happy or snag a boyfriend.

unlike so many other teen movies nowadays, where the positive message allegedly lies in the fact that any girl can be beautiful, or that girls can and should reflect their inner beauty in their outer beauty, Chip, like Paulie Bleaker, accepts his girl just the way she is.

even when she's wearing what's supposed to be a totally heinous prom dress.

and it's this security that drives Jennifer over the edge and motivates her to go after Chip.

she needs to know that she somehow holds some kind of power of Needy - that Chip prefers her just because she's invested so much time and energy and starvation into being hott.

but, bless him, Chip refuses.

granted, he ultimately dies for it, but it's a hero's death at least.

::sigh::

someday, Tina Fey and Diablo Cody will merge to form one super human who will forever alter the female image.

and, well, kick ass.

...someday.

Lucky Penny - a poem.

my one clear talent: self-deprecation.

am i ashamed?

meh, maybe a little.

but, honestly, no one fucks up like i do.

case in point: my car accident (on duty) on Saturday night that ended my month-long career as a USC Campus Cruiser - which makes this the second job i've managed to lose in a matter of a couple of months.

awesome.

all in all, i'd been having a pretty effed up couple of weeks, often resorting to old coping methods that have never let me down (but only because i deny the negative effects of large quantities of junk food, sleeping an obscene number of hours, avoiding all responsibilities at all costs, and laughing aloud when, really, i was crying on the inside).

yes, everything was under control.

(as it's been awhile, i probably owe you a short recap of my awesome couple of weeks:

1. got a 30% on a reading pop quiz in my Lit. class because i read the wrong pages.

yes.

a 30.

that just about ties with my lowest ever grade, which was a geography quiz in the 6th grade.

i vowed never to get that low ever again.

i lied.

2 - 3. i got the flu, which developed into a sinus infection.

missed classes (including improv) for several days straight.

4. again, i got into a car accident that was entirely my fault and i consequently lost my job.

5. my old paranoia has returned as i'm almost fairly certain i wasn't born to lead.

6. plans to clean my room fell through as, yet again, my depression managed to incapacitate me.

7-9. more personal reasons.

sorry.

too personal.)

from here, i suspect that you're probably thinking 2 things:
1. "But, Vickie, all of these things are your own doing! You're a dumbshit! Get yourself together!"

and you're probably right.

all my fault.

but is it all REALLY my fault if i was born without much needed common sense and resilience?

wah wah wah annoying self-pity wah wah.

my apologies.

2. "Chin up! Be optimistic! Stop your crazy biznatching and whining!"

also right.

and to this, i bring up The Lucky Penny.

i've never been one to invest my sometimes wanting sack of optimism in a small, nearly worthless piece of copper; but today, in an effort to snap myself out of my annoyingly down state, i've decided to turn to age-old superstition and allow my entire happiness to depend on just 1 cent.

yes, all i ask for is 1 cent of happiness and luck.

1 cent.

not too much.

and if all goes well, i might move on to more sense.

er, cents.

i might end up making my own.

yes, today when i was delivering a letter cross-campus for the office Bigot who i love to work for, and i saw that tiniest of shimmers on the ground some 10 feet in front of me, my heart skipped a little.

hoping no one else had made this discovery, i quickened my pace a bit and prayed that Lincoln would be looking up at me.

and he was.

secretly more excited than i should have been, i picked it up.

i could feel the winds of change around me.

the start of a lucky streak, at last.

finally, hope.

all of my hope and luck in this miniscule, seemingly meaningless piece of copper.

the One Penny.

i almost punched the air in triumph before i remembered that i was in public.

i even composed a poem to show my appreciation:

Lucky Penny
Lucky penny, lucky penny
Oh how you give me hope.
Your little shimmer on the ground
Pushed from my mind to tope.

I picked you up, in a hurry
To secure a little luck;
Because as of late, to be frank,
I've been a little fucked.

Lucky penny, lucky penny
Your head and tail so true,
"In God we trust," in you I trust,
I'll turn to gold from blue.

is this the proper length of a poem?

whatever.

i don't care.

it comes from the heart, and that's all that matters.

yes.

today is a new day.

thank you, Lucky Penny.

i think i'll name you Phillip.