Just Be Who You Are and Fail Up

The second most important woman in my life in terms of influence is Mummo. Not her real name, but she has the same real name as one of Tiina’s kids, so I love getting to say it out loud…. but that part is for me. I hear music when I think of her, but it’s bombastic.

That’s because she walked into a recruiting office and thought, “I could probably be a welder” and finished her career at the top of Marine Command, State, you name it. But the only reason the military even knew to look for a senior intelligence officer is because she only thought she was qualified to be a welder.

Jesus fucking Christ do you see how neurodivergence is punished in this country?

My life would have been both better and worse if I’d joined the military as well. I tried, but the Air Force wouldn’t take me. I didn’t want to be a soldier, I wanted to be in a jazz band called “The Airmen of Note.” I was medically disqualified and heartbroken, because that’s really the only thing I’d thought about doing after high school. I wasn’t actually interested in anything. I was interested in everything and the information came at me like a fire hose.

But if I’d been in the military, it would have been so disciplined that I would not have had to create structure out of nothing. I wouldn’t have flailed. Because I wasn’t flailing career-wise. I was in the wrong operating system. Most of the world runs on Windows. My brain is running an old, bulletproof version of Slackware.

I need to outsource scaffolding because I am simply not capable of managing a household by myself. It’s too much cognitive load. I need to find some roommates or join a group house, but living alone is not it.

Now that I have scaffolding, I’ve gotten 342K views on Threads in a few days. I’m followed by lots of celebrities, and now I have a feud with Wil Wheaton (not really). We’ve just been colleagues since 2001. I don’t chase his career because I didn’t know who he was except Wil the blogger.

Dana, however, practically fainted.

So I owe Wil a lot because he made me look cool in front of a girl.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to shut his trap on Wes Moore. I was furious, Wil. Furious. I didn’t go off on you but you deserved it because racism is so deeply ingrained in this country that it didn’t occur to white America that of course they were going to release something on Moore. You think Trump doesn’t want the only Black governor gone? Come on now.

Wil gave him four hours to respond. He doesn’t even live here.

It’s a different world than it used to be because I’m back in the saddle with Wil, Anil Dash, and Dooce (Emeritus). Tanking Clever Title was a mistake because I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to my sister-in-law. Because I didn’t fucking realize I was famous. Not in numbers, in fans that matter.

I didn’t just get to meet Wil. He got to meet me. But I shit on myself for so long that I didn’t recognize what I had.

Aada was right. I am a hot shot blogger. I just didn’t make much money off of it so I thought it was worthless. And the reason I know I’m famous in terms of respect is because once I got out of Aada’s clutches, the blowback loop stopped. She wasn’t constantly slicing into me so that I thought I was dark, irredeemable, and a shitty writer. Because she said she was impressed, and slowly crushed me with anger at being seen.

I was recognized on the street in Portland and I didn’t take it in.

I TANKED MY WHOLE FUCKING CAREER, MARY JO.

And the reason I did it was not because I couldn’t write, but because I couldn’t take constant criticism that got below the belt fast. Counselor took a butterfly and crushed it in her hand, then Aada redeemed it with lovebombing and destroyed it with discard.

Smelly Neighbors.

Ugh.

But it’s a new era. I’m not focusing on the past. I am jotting it down so I don’t forget. I’m a big deal, but never believe your own press.

There’s a reason I haven’t met Dooce, and it’s because she couldn’t handle being a blogger anymore, either.

I got to rebrand with Stories.

I’m taking shots she didn’t in her memory.