Writing


“I ain’t sorry.” Except… Fine. Actually I am. I’m actually really sorry. 2

Alternate titles for this post include:

  • Self-examination can be a real bitch.
  • But I don’t waaaaaannna be a better person!
  • An open letter to a lot of people who have had it about up to *here* with me.

Ugh.

Sometimes I sit down to write and am relieved about finally getting everything rolling around in my brain downloaded and out of my constant thoughts. Other times I sit down to write and don’t really know what I have to say but trust that once the keys start clacking, it’ll flow. But occasionally I sit down to write and hope that I’ll feel better once I say what I have to say, but dread with every ounce of life in me what I know I need to write.

Here goes nothing…

I’m sorry. 

For those of you who have no idea why I would write that, you’re probably not friends with me on Facebook and probably haven’t tried to discuss politics with me.

–> Pause: When the election results came in, I basically didn’t get out of bed for two days because I was so upset. Not because I like really wanted Hillary to win, but because I’m genuinely afraid of what Trump will do to this country. I’m not actually looking to debate that, because this is driven mostly by gut instinct and feelings and those aren’t really debatable. Play–>

I have committed all of my least favorite sins:

 

  • Making broad, uninformed, inaccurate statements.
  • Lettings emotions control my word choice and therefore giving the wrong impression of what I really want to say.
  • Defending being an asshole when I should just recognize that I’m being an asshole, even it was on accident. Even if I still mean the heart of what I’m trying to say and believe that what’s at the bottom of my argument isn’t divisive or hurtful or ignorant. None of that matters if I’ve been an asshole.
  • Trying to solve all the world’s ills. Assuming I even understand all the world’s ills. This is maybe the most dangerous one- the intersection of delusion of hope and delusion of grandeur can make me a real dick.

Even as I type this I have this nagging fear that I’m saying something wrong again. And I say the following not as a disclaimer to my apology, but because in my mind a real apology comes with some sort of uncomfortable introspection as to why you slammed the door/ stole the crayons/ ate the cookies without permission/ acted like a judgmental, self-righteous prick on social media.

These past 3 weeks have been hard for me. (I’m sure you’re shocked.) They’ve been a different kind of hard that the 8 weeks before that or the 3 months before that or the 31 years before that. It’s a familiar but not in a good way kind of hard. It’s near drowning in inadequacy and fighting off crippling doubt that I’ll be revealed as a fraud because spoiler alert: I don’t feel brave or strong or any of the qualities that have been attributed to me in the aftermath of David/Romeo. I am scared every single day. I was a real bitch to him before we split and struggle with the “you deserved it/no one deserves this” debate in my head. I am angry and lonely. I am one Lifetime movie away from full on bitter. I am completely wingin’ it and charging onward with life because it’s literally the only option I have. Plain and simple.

And everything your mom told you about the loudmouthed kid on the playground being the one who really just is trying to convince themselves that they’re enough? Well, it’s true. And it’s been me. I have this unavoidable, overcompensating big ass mouth that always seems to pop up and pop off when I feel aaaaaaalll of the feelings and they are cranked aaaaaaalll the way up.

Two days ago I read my November horoscope and it told me that for this month I should really be cautious about thinking before speaking. THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL INFORMATION 25 DAYS AGO.

But real talk: I’m trying to be better. And I’ve been trying to be better at a lot of areas that I’ve been juggling, but this one slipped. I’m sorry.

Now I need to go drink like 32 beers because while I’m trying to rise above, I’m still a stubborn Sagittarius at heart, and damn a public apology is a hard pill to swallow.

 


I’m Just Trying to Not Cut My Ear Off 2

So here’s the deal…

I’m not funny right now. I’m sad. I’m exhausted. I’m overwhelmed. I’m fucking furious. I’m using literally every iota of energy in my body to not answer truthfully when the UPS guy asks how I’m doing. When I should be figuring out what city to live in, what job to find, how to emotionally and logistically recover from this gut wrenching betrayal, instead I’m having to set bite size life goals for myself:

Last Week: Get out of bed every single day.
This Week: Get back to a workout routine.
Next Week: Make it through an entire yoga class without crying.

And yet the pressure to whip up something witty and endearing for this blog is suffocating me. I’m a one trick pony you guys- I’m good at writing one thing- the truth. So when I can’t tell my truth, I don’t write. I hide. I pout. I drown. I congratulate myself for mastering the silent sob so that that the sweet woman on the mat next to me isn’t disturbed by the tears that are pooling on my mat during downward facing dog. I do things like go into job interviews and promisepromisepromise myself that I will not use the phrase “cry under my desk” and then accidentally end up word vomiting about how going back into teaching right now would feel like an excuse to hide from the emotional work that I need to do and that thanks, but no thanks, I just can’t yet.

vincent_van_gogh_-_national_gallery_of_art

I’m going to need you to just think of this as my Blue Period.

I’ll recover because I have to. That’s how it works. You get up, go through the motions, and eventually the hyper awareness that you are mourning not just a past but an unclaimed future calms down.

I’ll do the ugly work and one day I’ll wake up and for a few hours I’ll feel like myself again, and maybe I’ll want to write to share it with you guys, or maybe I’ll just relish a few hours of meaning it when I say “I’m good, thanks for asking. How are you?”

For those of you that like picking at scabs, this Blue Period is for you. But if you need some Sunflowers in your life, check out one of these old posts and try to remember that I don’t always sound like a series of rejected My Chemical Romance lyrics.

 
(Yes, I’m noticing the theme here. I’ll add it to the agenda for my therapist…)


When My Worlds Collide 2

Once upon a time, I was in a sorority. The greatest nugget of wisdom I gleaned from my time in a sorority is to never smell a shot before you take it. The second greatest nugget of wisdom is that when you are introducing two people who have never met before, always share with them something they have in common. For example:

Katie, this is Ryan. Katie is from Florida, and Ryan, didn’t your brother just move to Florida?

Daniel, meet Lindsey. Did you know she also is played tennis in college?

Erin, this is Taylor. My boyfriend cheated on me with both of you. (Still a little bitter. Whatever.)

So here I am now, with my worlds colliding in a good way, trying to figure out how to best introduce the readers of Terrible Poker Face to Whitney Holt, and the friends of Whitney Holt to Terrible Poker Face:

Readers, this is friends. You both like to read raw, unfiltered, occasionally witty commentary about the adventures and misadventures of Whitney.

Friends, this is Terrible Poker Face and its readership. It’s just like the Facebook posts you’ve grown to know and love, except that until now it’s been anonymous so that I could embrace my DGAF nature and let it all hang out. 

For those of you who know me in real life (or in Facebook life), SURPRISE!!!! All those times you told me I should start a blog? Well… umm… I did…. I just didn’t tell you about it. Check out the Little Black Book if any part of you wonders why I might be tempted to not shout this from the rooftops.

When I started this two years ago, I thought my DGAF was as low as it got. Turns out, posting about your boyfriend‘s infidelity in a very public, very vulnerable, very “only God can judge me” sort of way, is actually an even lower level of fucks given, which rendered the entire idea of anonymity for this blog to be rather useless. It’s time I start shamelessly whoring myself out to the blogosphere so that someone, somewhere will decide that they will pay me monies to write full time, and I can just stop pretending that I was ever meant for consistent, real life, public consumption.

So for those of you that aren’t new to me but are new to Terrible Poker Face, make yourself at home. I suggest you pour yourself a glass of wine, go watch an episode of The Mindy Project, pour yourself another glass of wine, maybe let the dog out while you let it all sink in, and then only after you have your wine coat on, start exploring my backlog of posts. I’d like for you to think of it like a two drink minimum sort of situation up in here.

And for those of you that aren’t new to TPF but are new to Whitney Holt, I’d say I’d like to properly introduce myself, but you know probably more about the ridiculous and salacious and dark and twisty and intimate details of my life than 97% of my acquaintances. I guess the only thing that’s been missing is putting a name to the man behind the curtain.

For anyone wondering what you can expect moving forward, well, I process my life through writing. Always have, probably always will. Right now I’m still reeling pretty hard from this shit show of a breakup, so it’s a given that the emotional post mortem will make the greatest hits list. I’m also about to move cities (to where? great question), change jobs for the 5th time this year (to what? great question), and reenter the dating world (why? because I’m a hopeless romantic and apparent masochist great question), so I can promise you’ll get to be a part of that inevitable roller coaster as well.

But for right now, I’m going to binge some Netflix, cuddle with some wine and pretzels, and enjoy getting to sleep like a starfish alone in this bed.

… Good night, y’all.


Just Because I Hate Him Doesn’t Mean I Don’t Love Him 3

Rejected titles for this entry include:

  • Is This What a Stroke Feels Like?
  • I Promise I Didn’t Type This on the Toilet
  • WHATTHEMOTHERFUCKINGWHAT?????

 

Y’all… you have no idea how anxious I am about this post. Like had to stop and buy my first pack of cigarettes in three weeks type of anxious. Been avoiding opening this blog to the point that my friends and friends of friends are straight calling me on my disappearing act bullshit type of anxious. Like spending too much time in the bathroom, and I’m not even hungover, so you know I’m not playing around type of anxious. (more…)


Terrible Poker Face 2.0 Plus a FREE Scavenger Hunt (God, I really hope you don’t think this is spam…)

This post comes with a bonus scavenger hunt question:
How many Julia Roberts references can I make in 800 words or less?

Ready. Set. GO.

 

Once upon a time there was a girl who knew only two things for certain:
1. Calling her an awful liar didn’t even begin to cover it because the reality was she didn’t see the point in lying and instead walked around like her life was an open blog.
2. If she didn’t start writing soon, she would implode because you can only tell the same stories to your friends so many times before they crowd fund a trip to Italy, India and Indonesia therapist for you.
Spoiler alert: that girl is me.

 

So here we are on the five month anniversary of Terrible Poker Face, and I have huge, FANTASTIC news for you… (more…)

Sharks Can’t Go Back to Bathtubs and Other Love Advice 9

As I mentioned in my post last week, I went to dinner with Not The One. I had the purest of intentions of showing up, being platonic friends, catching up, and going our different ways at the end of the night.

Turns out being just friends will never be in the cards for us. (more…)


The Evolution of My Spring Breaks and Wet T-Shirt Contests 5

Rejected titles for this post include:

  • This is Thirty
  • Stay Home Moms and Vodka Chuggers Deserve More Respect
  • Where is Sex and The City: Season 7 When You Need It?

For Spring Break my senior year of college, thirty or so friends of mine and I went on a six day booze cruise through the Caribbean. It was full of the typical Spring Break fanfare – smuggling alcohol onto the ship, excessive amounts hot tub make-outs, drinking mystery booze from a man with a whistle, half naked dancing on beaches, and I’m pretty sure I made out with someone in order to get shots at what I later found out was an open bar beach party.

I’m nothing if not classy. (more…)


I’m pretty sure I deserve a hug and a slap from Stevie Nicks. 13

If you already don’t like me, this post certainly isn’t going to help.

Then again, if you don’t like me you probably don’t know about or don’t care about my blog, so really this post is only going to make people who already like me a little like me less, and make those who like me a lot reconsider.

The thing is, I really like to feel sorry for myself. (more…)


This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things 6

Rejected titles for this entry include:

  • I’m About 10 Years Too Old To Throw Up in My Bushes
  • Thanks for Nothing, Tinder
  • What does one wear to their own intervention? I’m asking for a friend.

If you read Friday’s post, you know I was in a great place emotionally. Super pulled together. Healing all those brokenhearted wounds. Things were just going swimmingly. “Romeo, who?” kind of stuff.

Also, if you’ve read my much earlier posts, you know I feel very strongly about the need for an agreed-upon sarcasm font. Whatever you imagine that font to be in your head, envision the above paragraph to be written in bold version of that font.

So it’s no surprise (sarcasm font again but you’re going to have to start doing this yourself, ya know) that I was a total shit show this weekend.

It started with my brilliant idea to play The Tinder Game. (more…)


Now Hiring: School Pharmacist 1

Let me set the scene. I’m teaching my 6th grade reading class our new vocabulary word:

anxious

Me: Alright class, turn and talk to your partner and you each need to a pick a side and explain why telling a secret to your friend would make you anxious or not make you anxious. (more…)