Pinterest is an interesting thing. At least 254 times a week I either hear, or say, the words, "I saw this thing on Pinterest," and cringe a little bit. Not sure why. Maybe it's the hipster in me that's screaming, "Noooo! Don't admit you use Pinterest! It's not obscure and cool enough! Start talking about bands no one has heard of, or at least tell everyone you used Pinterest in 2007*."
Pinterest is interesting because of how much you can tell about a person from a collection of seemingly unrelated images. You come to know people's humor, their hobbies, their style, and more, by what they pin. And most interesting, you can tell what big events are happening in their lives: Breakups (angry memes about boys), engagement/marriage (excessive pins about specific wedding things, like dresses, rings, photographer tips, bouquets), new motherhood ("How to breastfeed in public." I think that says it all). Except I think the people who follow me are quite baffled when I pin stuff, especially wedding-related. "Ha! Right," they say. "Elizabeth must be pinning that wedding dress for a friend. She's never getting married. ... I think she might be gay." ** 

*Pinterest was launched, in beta form, in 2010. Source.
**For the record, I'm straight. 


In the past I've pondered on the term "struggling with my weight." It implies effort and a strong desire to change, but just not being able to conquer as you hope. Yeah, it doesn't apply to me. I don't try. And heaven knows I probably should. I still eat like I'm a 14-year-old with a hollow leg. Except, even at 14 I had the metabolism of a menopausal woman with diabetes and a desk job.


Most mornings I wake up and think, "I feel like I got punched in the face." And then I look in the mirror and think, "Wow, I look like I got punched in the face." And then sometimes I go back to bed. But most days I just thank my lucky stars this is a common enough occurrence that people expect me to look like I got in a biker fight involving a crowbar and a gorilla.  


I had a dream the other night that was borderline nightmare (and I haven't had a nightmare in a long time!). I was in my apartment and opened the front door to find a notice taped to it: I was late on paying my already over-priced rent and now owed a $20 late fee. So I went to my room to get my check book, successfully tearing off the top of the last of my checks. Taping it back together, I then proceeded to put the wrong amount. In my mounting fury, I broke the pen in half, shoved my desk chair and sprayed ink across my room and my pants. Rubbing it made it worse, causing me to again shove my desk chair and physically shake in rage. In walked my roommate Jessica, who tells me my laundry is done washing, but I took too long, so they (I don't know who "they" are) not only removed it, but put it sopping wet into the Lost & Found. One more chair shove and a growl later and I was about to collapse onto the floor, screaming at the universe,"WHHYYYY?! Why do you hate me!" (I'm more dramatic while asleep. Obviously.) Then in true Disney-drama-like-fashion, I slowly looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror. I forced a smile and said to myself, "Ah, but life is OK. I still have 4-square."


My friend Nathan is a photographer and I got to sit for him the other day so he could use his large-format, accordion-lens, made-from-scratch kind of camera (I'm super knowledgable when it comes to photography. Obviously) to take a few portraits. It was rad. Dark garage, one big spotlight, a Home Depot bucket for a seat, IKEA blanket for a backdrop, cardboard boxes for a mirror to lay on underneath my face, four photographs, and two hours with one talented guy. And the next day, I felt like I had lifted weights incorrectly for 10 hours. Apparently holding still in slightly tweaked positions for that long works my muscles in such a way as to, well, make them sore. Who knew, "Sit up really straight," and "Put your right shoulder back," could be such a work out? Well, ha, maybe you did, my Pinterest-following, health-conscious friends. You probably know more about me than I care to know about myself.

Oh, in conclusion, Nathan is awesome, and I'm hoping he may have made this...

...look more like this...

Hey, miracles happen.

(Hey, Mom, I hope I haven't shamed the family too much with that picture of me. But, seriously, I think you'll have to admit it's pretty stinkin' hilarious. So, worth it.)


In case you're curious, or, like me, are always looking for new songs and artists to listen to, here's what's been playing on my iPhone the past couple weeks. Or, a sampling, anyway.

MusicPlaylistView Profile
  1. Deb Talan - "How Will He Find Me"
  2. Deb Talan - "Big Strong Girl"
  3. April Smith and the Great Picture Show - "Movie Loves a Screen"
  4. April Smith and the Great Picture Show - "Colors"
  5. A Fine Frenzy - "Almost Lover"
  6. Lily Allen - "Who'd Have Known"
  7. Melody Gardot - "Baby I'm a Fool"


I began this in March. It made sense to finish it now. -eg

I used to love Sundays. The sleep, the worship, the friends, the food, the renewal of spirit before another week. But the past weeks have begun and ended with seemingly normal Sundays metastasizing into black tar and bile, a culmination of frustration, guilt, loneliness and dissatisfaction. Ugly feelings that engulfed me, suffocated me. I was trapped in a sadness I could not explain and I could not overcome.

I have never experienced depression. Sometimes I'll get into a funk, a day or two of malcontent, and then it leaves. But this, this clung to me, like barbells on my limbs, latching on to my eyelids and dragging every part of me down into a haze, a fog, an endless mushroom cloud of choking self-pity and despair.

I suppose that was his plan, all along. To lure me in, to trap me there in my self-deprecating thoughts where I could rationalize them, validate them, and allow myself to excuse myself from goodness, from service, from light.

Instead of venturing out, I holed up, rearranging my room in an attempt to rearrange my sadness. To place it in the corner. Not get rid of it. No. I had begun to cling to it just as it clung to me. I reveled in the deep emotion and the fault I could place on it. "That is why I don't serve. That is why I keep to myself," I'd silently say as I pointed to the mess of destructive emotion and excuses heaped in an oozing mess in the corner of my room. The corner of my mind. My life.

One such Sunday night, ignoring phone calls, texts and knocks at the door, I shut myself in my room. Laying prostrate across my unmade bed, I was a tangled mess of curls, limbs, blankets and thoughts. Music was playing from my laptop, soft and slow and raw.

I gave up, that night. I gave up trying, because no matter how hard I tried, it wasn't enough. So I decided — I declared to the four white walls around me — that I was done. And that night I let the music wrap around me and I cared for nothing else. I let it encircle every inch of me, slowly, gently, completely. I dared not breathe, in fear it would flee. But there it stayed, an invisible embrace of melodies that no words can describe. No words can do justice. All words fall short.

It was in that darkness, that self-inflicted misery, that He broke through. I didn't invite Him, not consciously, but, oh, how glad I am He came. Yes, there He was, revealing what I did not allow for so long: light, courage, strength, desire, opportunities — even happiness. I just had to choose.


And so I chose.


Sometimes I find old pieces tucked away in the recesses of this blog. Pieces of writing. Pieces of me, of my past self. Unpublished and hiding from readers — readers known and unknown — because I fear the judgment. But time passes, memories fade, wounds are no longer fresh. And so I do not fear the judgment. I do not fear being misunderstood. Because that piece of me, that past self, is even misunderstood by my present self. And so, here is one such piece, from March 2011.

"Can't Sleep" by e.gosney

I couldn't sleep last night.
I could hear myself breathing.
Barley audible above the sound of my heart
smashing upward into my ribs.

I couldn't sleep last night.
I could hear my heart pounding.
Surging blood into my aching arms
that squeezed the dense air.

I couldn't sleep last night.
My arms were sore.
Heavy with regret.
With wondering.

My mind knew reason.
My heart knew emotion.

But my arms, they were left ignorant.
They couldn't see reason, nor process emotion.
Like a child screaming for solace, but left orphaned in a dirty street.

No amount of reason can fully dismiss
the stinging truth of emotion.
Of what the heart feels,
of what it sends coursing through the frail body at any time.
At all time.

Rock beats scissors.
Scissors beat paper.

The body bruises, oozes, clots.

Paper beats rock,
but only by masking.
By covering.
By pretending.

I couldn't sleep last night.
I could hear too much.
Feel too much.
Think too much.




Sometimes I drive up Provo Canyon and soak up the green, because the city is so gray. And sometimes I don't get out of my car because there are ruffians about. And it's raining. Aaaaaand I'm lazy.


I had something profound to write. I did. But it slipped away from me. The harder I grasped at it, the quicker and more fiercely it dropped from my grip, like a wet bar of soap, or one of those dollar-store plastic jelly roll toys, or men. Yeah. Like men.

I work eight hours a day, mostly on a computer, counting down the minutes until I can go home and get away from it. So I can go home and sleep. And what do I do? I come home and get on my computer and stay up way too late, so that the next day I can yawn and scowl and wish I was home so I could not be on the computer and instead be sleeping. I think I have a problem.

Sometimes I forget to put my contacts in in the morning and then I get in my car to drive and I have a panic attack because I can't see what the red octagon sign says 5 feet in front of me. I think I've had a stroke or overnight been afflicted with diabetes or maybe I have some incurable form of pink-eye that will forever be clouding my vision with its goopy refuse secreted from my tear ducts. And then I put on my glasses and calm down. I think this all goes back to the sleep thing.

You know what's great? Having a "condition" to blame stuff on. Like if you had a peg leg, and you didn't want to go hiking, you could always say, "Hey, guys, I'm gonna opt-out of the hiking. You know, because of my peg leg." And they couldn't argue with you. Same goes for people with long hair and being asked to man the industrial-sized bobbin threader. I mean, you could tie your hair back, but then again, you could not, and be exempt from risking your scalp being torn off. And so I blame being an introvert for my social adverseness. "I think I'm gonna stay home from the party. You know, too many people. I start to panic." I use that one a lot. It's awesome. (And it's true, just so no one gets their knickers in a bunch.) It's also great to blame introversion for not having friends. "Am I at the movies alone? Yes, yes I am. I like being alone. I'm pretty introverted." All of you can then translate that into, "I would've come with a friend, but their both out of town and everyone else is an acquaintance at best, or I've dated them, so I'm going to pretend like I'm meeting someone here, but really I'm not." Introversion. It's great. I'd suggest reading up on it a little bit before using it as you "condition," just in case the people you talk to happen to know anything about it, and so you can sound super educated about your debilitating social condition. Because being pretentiously educated is a good way for introverts to gain friends. Fact.

Or, you could always try the peg-leg thing.


© 2012 e.gosney

A little something I drew this weekend.


There's an amusement park here in Utah called Lagoon. It seemed promising when my friend Tom and I decided to go. But let me paint you a little picture of the blatantly false illusion of family fun this place is: Take Disneyland in 1955, give it 50 packs of cigarettes, a bottle of 80-proof alcohol, some crack cocaine and booty shorts, throw in sour-faced employees and an exhibit on Mormon Pioneer Furniture, and you have the run-down, malcontent atrocity that is Lagoon.

(In all honestly, the Mormon Pioneer Furniture exhibit was nice and air-conditioned, so it was probably my favorite part. And — bonus — no crowds.)

Don't get me wrong, it was actually quite fun. But mostly because Tom and I can (and did) laugh quite a bit about it all. Beginning with the fact that you can't have backpacks, purses, or, I assume, fanny packs on any of the rides. None. Unfortunately, we found this out after standing in line for the swinging pirate ship ride and having the very chipper *sarcasm* attendent tell us in her most enthusiastic voice, "You can't have bags on the ride." Tom: "Uh, can we leave it by the side of the ride?" Her: "You can leave it with a non-rider or in a locker." Tom: "What about just right there? By the side?" Her: "You can leave it with a non-rider or in a locker." She's so accommodating, that one. Love her. 

So we got a locker. It cost $5. And did they take credit cards? No, of course not, that's just silly. So I used the oh-so-convenient ATM next to the locker rental with the $2.50 surcharge and got me a locker with a key the size of a small squirrel, to put in my pocket, which luckily I had. 

We got back in line for the ship ride, not because we particularly wanted to ride it, but so we could — what was it, Tom? — look that woman in the eye and glare at her. Which we did. Into her blank, soulless eyes. 

Next came the swings, the ones that lift you up and twirl you around while playing music as the attendant tells you to not move side-to-side or hold onto other swingers in his heavy Middle Eastern-accent through a super high-tech speaker system that was installed in 1952. The swings were decorated with the faces of Renaissance women. I'm pretty certain that's when that ride was built. 

By the third ride — made with the highest-caliber craftsmanship and care hobo-construction workers of the 1850s can buy you — I was feeling like a hobo myself, if hobos typically feel like the carsick, middle child, sitting on the hump in the family Station Wagon on a 1500 mile road trip, taken on the Scenic Route of switchbacks and stop-and-go traffic. The wooden roller coaster, that hasn't been painted since it's construction at the turn of the twentieth century, didn't help too much, and the rocket ships (aka, metal cages spinning at 50 miles an hour three inches from the ground) were nearly my undoing. 

Thank goodness for $2.50 a piece, lukewarm bottled water to calm my trauma-stricken body. (It was only after buying a bottle that Tom found you can get ice water for free from the Icee people. I love the Icee people.) 

Like I said though, we had a good time. Not so much in the pulled-pork sandwich line in 100-degree heat while the 14-year-old cashier refused to take our order until the lady in front of us had her fries. That wasn't so much fun. But overall, it was a memorable day. And I will never go back. I've decided it's worth the 9-hour drive and $30 more to get into Disneyland. There's a reason that has been deemed the "Happiest Place on Earth": Because they went to Lagoon first. 


I rediscovered this song a couple months ago and have been meaning to post it. Mostly just so I remember this obsession of mine (with the song, not dude's hair in the video, believe me. Yikesah). But this is also for your benefit. It's a good song. (And everyone should remember these horrible styles and to keep them from ever repeating.)

"Somebody" by Depeche Mode

I want somebody to share
Share the rest of my life
Share my innermost thoughts
Know my intimate details
Someone who'll stand by my side
And give me support
And in return
She'll get my support
She will listen to me 
When I want to speak
About the world we live in
And life in general
Though my views may be wrong
They may even be perverted
She'll hear me out
And won't easily be converted
To my way of thinking 
In fact she'll often disagree
But at the end of it all
She will understand me

I want somebody who cares
For me passionately
With every thought 
With every breath
Someone who'll help me see things 
In a different light
All the things I detest
I will almost like 
I don't want to be tied
To anyone's strings
I'm carefully trying to steer clear of
Those things
But when I'm asleep
I want somebody
Who will put their arms around me 
And kiss me tenderly
Though things like this
Make me sick
In a case like this
I'll get away with it
And in a place like this 
I'll get away with it