I should be going to bed right now. I certainly shouldn't be blogging but I'm afraid tonight is a must. I knew the moment I left the movie I saw earlier that a blog would be in short order. What movie is this that has spurred me flaunt my bedtime and treat you all to a marvelous rant? I will tell you, Mona Lisa's Smile.
What was it about you ask? It was about many things, choices, restrictions, life. But more specifically, it was about women's lives. Yes I know, you have heard it all before, multiple times from me at least. But this was different. See this movie takes place in 1953. And yet, through many of the things that seemed so out of date and ancient, I realized I had lived those same situations. Let me explain.
These girls go to college more as a step on the road to marriage than for any real hope of education. They look forward to the time when they will keep house and home for dear old hubby, raise babies and be a housewife. At the conclusion of the movie the woman I was watching it with asked me why I was laughing. It wasn't particularly funny. I told her, if I don't laugh I'll cry. You see, growing up my plan was to be married by twenty-one and having babies by twenty-five. I am now twenty-two and have absolutely no intention of carrying out that plan, but the fact I ever considered that the way things ought to be is quite scary. This movie is set in 1953. I was born in 1981. Some things never change huh?
All sorts of thoughts swirled through my head, so many things that I have been told, or have assumed to be correct over the years. What is right? What is the correct decision? What is morally or ethically the way to live your life? I seemed to find the way a few years back when I settled on anything is fine so long as it doesn't hurt anyone. But is that really the answer? What is a man or a woman supposed to be? What does that mean? There are so many self-help books out there, so many guidebooks and handbooks to lead you on the right path. But what is the right path? I know what the stereotype of women is. I know what I like and don't like about my gender. But there are things that at times I wish I could be but feel inapproriate allowing. Most times I feel so guilty for sharing emotion with anyone. I suppose I have an innate fear of being labled a hysterical or weak female. How much of what I am is hysterical woman, and how much of it is just the real and true me?
As I began to consider that another thought occured to me. What is it like to live a man's life? To be taught from infancy that weakness is unacceptable and anything "feminine" in nature is to be repressed and/or removed from one's character? How must that affect someone. Men have as many moods as women, their hormones affect how they feel as much as ours do, but they are never taught that. They are never given help or insight in how to deal with such mood swings. They have no recourse when it comes to dealing with their emotions. If we are pushed and prodded into a mold of hysterical woman they are forced to be the stoic man.
Is it our culture or human nature to label everything? All must be neatly defined and labeled in a pretty box. Always there must be a popular path for all to follow. Always others must judge those around them. Always we must know what we want to do with our lives immediately upon entering adulthood and the course is to be followed for the rest of our days.
It is all very confusing and I am well and truly tired now. There are no answers. There never are. I realize this but I continue to search anyway. Some days I feel I am getting closer to answers, only to be shown another side, another path. I know at least one answer. No one knows what is right for me except myself, just as I have no idea what is right for anyone else. We all must choose our own path in this world. The only solution for the moment is to remember that no one has all the answers. To judge others for a path or decision is to rule without all the evidence. Some girls want to be housewives, work at hooters, rule the world. Some men want the freedom to cry, be an artist, express themselves. The decision is up to them and I feel I must fall back on my earlier discovery. So long as no one is hurt I can do nothing but respect the decision of others.
There are no answers, but thank goodness for provoking questions. Without them I fear my life would be stagnant. To never realize questions are there...that is the only true wrong I can see.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Saturday, December 27, 2003
Oh goodness gracious--just for the record if there were a blog olympics for writing this while cats jump all over me and my laptop I would have a gold medal. I will illustrate for you. A small, not so bright cat, a bright screen with a flashing line moving all over, obviously it is a toy! I'm not a cat person. I'm simply too nice to kick them out on the street.
Now for the good news. I successfully managed to link my old computer to my old where I proceeded to transfer files. I even managed to transfer my music which is hellacool because now I can make cd's with all those cool songs I downloaded oh so long ago. On the bad side, one of my disks has gone bad which means I have lost the most updated verision of my 43 page story. Yeah, that put a damper on the night. I have it printed out and I was going to work on it so I suppose I can just revise as I go but that really isn't very cool.
I say god damn, these cats are getting sold to the nearest Chinese restaurant. Their fat; I need the money. Sounds like a plan.
I am definitely enjoying my new toy. I enjoyed it so much on Christmas day, in fact, that I forgot to sing Happy Birthday to my father. Way I look at it, he never wants to stop watching whatever sporting event is on the television during my birthday so we're even. He and I are in agreement that singing the birthday song to someone doesn't exactly define a relationship. We're both just new age like that.
I had a fairly disturbing realization this Christmas. I'm starting to forget my uncle. For those of you just tuning in I will enlighten you--my uncle died when I was twelve. My only real memories are that he always seemed extremely refined, very cultured, slightly cold. I know had I the chance I would have really enjoyed him when I got older. What still pisses me off to this day is that he didn't have to die. The man had AIDS--there was no way to save him and no reason for him to die.
It is a strange thing that I have had these thoughts. At twelve his death didn't affect me much. I was too young to know him, and too young to care. I don't think I really ever missed him until about two years ago. It was then, finally getting to know my aunt, his older sister, that I realized how cool of a person he was. I realized how much fun I doubtless would have had with him just as I was with my aunt. Talk about delayed reaction. Eight years later I miss the bloke. How fucked up is that for emotional development? I suppose it all makes sense in some way. Now that I'm older and a tad wiser I know what I'm missing. Ignorance really is bliss.
VH1 had an AIDS special on the some morning. A tribute to all those dead and dying, an educational speech or two on where we as a country stand concerning the disease. It is disturbing to not be educated by the show, but reminded of the past. Growing up I spent a whole lot of time thinking "wow, I'm glad I'm not one of those people. It would be terrible to know what that feels like." Now I spend a whole lot of time wondering when I became on more grieving relative and faceless vicitm. I'm a statistic. It seems with every year I add to my tally, I prove another theory.
I sat through a sermon once, I remember one specific idea from it. The pastor discussed meeting people and how boring it is to meet someone who has never experienced anything. No one wishes tragedy on another, but how dull are the people that have never suffered? Is that because we percieve ourselves as having suffered and thus want someone to empathize with? Or is it because with suffering comes the hardest, purest kinds of truth and all people of a questioning nature crave that kind of wisdom? When tragedy strikes we want to know two things. Why did it happen to me and how can I feel better. Anyone can tell you it happened because "that's life" and you won't feel better until a period of time has passed. That's common sense. A sympathetic fellow, however, somone who has suffered before you can vocalize your feelings. Their wisdom isn't in knowing the answers it is in handling the pain. They've faced their demons, walked over the coals and come to terms with the ordeal. They can vocalize the roiling pain inside the chest that never seems to abate. They have the words for the feelings othesr are afraid to express. Listening to them you can stop feeling ashamed of your pain and understand it. Let it flow over you until you too have learned the art of survival. I think that is why people who have suffered are "interesting". Because if they've grown from their pain, not been destroyed by it, then they are living proof that life does go on. Sometimes when you're hit for the fist time you need that--you need to be reminded that the sun does rise tomorrow with or without your consent. A person at peace with her pain shows others there is a better life than simple survival. She is interesting because she is amazing.
I'm not sure what is too be learned here except some pains never go away. More amazing, though, is that old wounds always break open. The Christmas season is terribly hard for that. I doubt there is a person alive who doesn't feel alone one way or another through the holidays. How important it is, then, to let those you care for know you are thinking about them. How important it is to be understanding of everyone. While life can always be better what must be remembered is that it can always be worse. I don't know if that is optimistic or not. I'd rather think of it as plain old common sense.
Now for the good news. I successfully managed to link my old computer to my old where I proceeded to transfer files. I even managed to transfer my music which is hellacool because now I can make cd's with all those cool songs I downloaded oh so long ago. On the bad side, one of my disks has gone bad which means I have lost the most updated verision of my 43 page story. Yeah, that put a damper on the night. I have it printed out and I was going to work on it so I suppose I can just revise as I go but that really isn't very cool.
I say god damn, these cats are getting sold to the nearest Chinese restaurant. Their fat; I need the money. Sounds like a plan.
I am definitely enjoying my new toy. I enjoyed it so much on Christmas day, in fact, that I forgot to sing Happy Birthday to my father. Way I look at it, he never wants to stop watching whatever sporting event is on the television during my birthday so we're even. He and I are in agreement that singing the birthday song to someone doesn't exactly define a relationship. We're both just new age like that.
I had a fairly disturbing realization this Christmas. I'm starting to forget my uncle. For those of you just tuning in I will enlighten you--my uncle died when I was twelve. My only real memories are that he always seemed extremely refined, very cultured, slightly cold. I know had I the chance I would have really enjoyed him when I got older. What still pisses me off to this day is that he didn't have to die. The man had AIDS--there was no way to save him and no reason for him to die.
It is a strange thing that I have had these thoughts. At twelve his death didn't affect me much. I was too young to know him, and too young to care. I don't think I really ever missed him until about two years ago. It was then, finally getting to know my aunt, his older sister, that I realized how cool of a person he was. I realized how much fun I doubtless would have had with him just as I was with my aunt. Talk about delayed reaction. Eight years later I miss the bloke. How fucked up is that for emotional development? I suppose it all makes sense in some way. Now that I'm older and a tad wiser I know what I'm missing. Ignorance really is bliss.
VH1 had an AIDS special on the some morning. A tribute to all those dead and dying, an educational speech or two on where we as a country stand concerning the disease. It is disturbing to not be educated by the show, but reminded of the past. Growing up I spent a whole lot of time thinking "wow, I'm glad I'm not one of those people. It would be terrible to know what that feels like." Now I spend a whole lot of time wondering when I became on more grieving relative and faceless vicitm. I'm a statistic. It seems with every year I add to my tally, I prove another theory.
I sat through a sermon once, I remember one specific idea from it. The pastor discussed meeting people and how boring it is to meet someone who has never experienced anything. No one wishes tragedy on another, but how dull are the people that have never suffered? Is that because we percieve ourselves as having suffered and thus want someone to empathize with? Or is it because with suffering comes the hardest, purest kinds of truth and all people of a questioning nature crave that kind of wisdom? When tragedy strikes we want to know two things. Why did it happen to me and how can I feel better. Anyone can tell you it happened because "that's life" and you won't feel better until a period of time has passed. That's common sense. A sympathetic fellow, however, somone who has suffered before you can vocalize your feelings. Their wisdom isn't in knowing the answers it is in handling the pain. They've faced their demons, walked over the coals and come to terms with the ordeal. They can vocalize the roiling pain inside the chest that never seems to abate. They have the words for the feelings othesr are afraid to express. Listening to them you can stop feeling ashamed of your pain and understand it. Let it flow over you until you too have learned the art of survival. I think that is why people who have suffered are "interesting". Because if they've grown from their pain, not been destroyed by it, then they are living proof that life does go on. Sometimes when you're hit for the fist time you need that--you need to be reminded that the sun does rise tomorrow with or without your consent. A person at peace with her pain shows others there is a better life than simple survival. She is interesting because she is amazing.
I'm not sure what is too be learned here except some pains never go away. More amazing, though, is that old wounds always break open. The Christmas season is terribly hard for that. I doubt there is a person alive who doesn't feel alone one way or another through the holidays. How important it is, then, to let those you care for know you are thinking about them. How important it is to be understanding of everyone. While life can always be better what must be remembered is that it can always be worse. I don't know if that is optimistic or not. I'd rather think of it as plain old common sense.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Oh where to start--such a fun, great and absolutely horrible weekend all at once. Let's start at the very beginning...
Friday night, take off from work early to travel the route to Champaign. Now for those of you not familiar I will enlighten you. Traveling to Champaign is like going across Kansas. It's flat, it's dead and it never ends. Sure there are a few hills, maybe even a dilapidated tree here and there but over all it is a butt-ass ugly trip and boring as hell to drive. Add to this that every slow-ass, afraid to pass driver in the entire state seeming to be in front of me and you get a healthy dose of road rage. It doesn't help that I am no longer smoking and have discovered the car is the *absolute* worst place for nicotine cravings. Words were coming out of my mouth in combinations that I didn't know I knew and if I weren't so pissed off I might have been impressed with myself. But wait, there's more.
Salt is all over the road. Fine, good I'm glad, I don't like ice, but that means that salt was then on my windshield. I can't see so what do I do? Try to use the wiper fluid. But alas! Nothing comes out. Fine, I clean the windshield, continue on my way and stop about thirty minutes later at a truck stop. There I purchase wiper fluid, call a friend and stumble around under my hood until I find the appropriate hole and pour it in. Not until after I've filled it to the top do I notice the label says to only fill ¾ of the way during the winter to prevent freezing and cracking your wiper system. Not a big deal I think, I'll use some of it up. I get in, turn on the car (freezing at this point because it is hellaciously cold out) press the magic button and nothing comes out. I am at this point, more than mildly irritated. Little did I know my car had significantly more dastardly thoughts in mind for me. Unbeknownst to me my car was like and old person's heart, every start was one beat closer to death.
So I make it to Champaign, I curse, I grumble, I chew a lot of gum but I make it. I pull in I turn the car off I step back into the car to drive another block and nothing. No start, no whine, no click, not even a horrible screeching noise to let me know it has some fight left in it. The car is just dead.
Long story long I make it to Chicago. The weekend is fine (get to that later) and about fifty miles on my way home I stop for gas and it quits again. I sit at the gas station for an hour and a half and it starts one last time. I make it home and it will not start anymore. My car is possessed. I used to joke that my mom bribed me to stay at home instead of the dorm when I went to college with a new computer and a car. I got a computer that didn't work and car I couldn't drive. Sometimes life is too evil for words.
There was a time, following my amazing displays of rear-ending every known resident of Mac-town that family members referred to the car as "devil-car". I shook my head and said no, no, it isn't the car's fault, I'm just a bad driver. Now I may be a bad driver, but that car is definitely possessed. I no longer doubt it. I refuse to be careless and allow the car to hit other cars so it just isn't going to drive anymore. I can hear its voice in my head so clear, a whiny, hissing voice that tickles your ear as it says, "you think I'll let you travel with easssse? If you won't let me hit anyone I simply won't drive!" It is a hideous, evil, twisted thing and it needs to be put down. If only I had enough money to do so.
I cannot stand the insecurity of being without a reliable vehicle. I did it for three years, successfully, but during those three years everything I needed was near me. I could walk where I wanted to go and friends were in Mac-town at school. I had no need to travel alone. Now I have tasted the freedom of being able to travel on my own. I have felt the release in just going away for a weekend, sometimes without a plan or a destination but just leaving everything behind. I'm not sure I can go back to no car if I am still in Mac-town. I know I can't. I hate this town. I hate being an hour to four hours away from everyone I want to talk to and having no way to get to any of them. I don't necessarily know what I want or where I want to be but I know it isn't here. My car taking a big shit on me is further proof that Mac-town is a big black hole. It will suck you in and do everything in its power to keep you here.
Okay, enough of that. I think that is probably my longest useless rant in a good long while. The funny thing is I am in surprisingly good spirits. Irritated yes, but angry, no.
As to the no smoking thing it is going fine. I don't have cravings, at least not for cigarettes, but just like before I am now having the burst of energy that comes from not smoking. And as before there are not enough batteries in the country to wear me out. You want an aphrodisiac? Put away your cigarettes for a week. You're not jittery because of cigarette cravings.
Well that is probably enough of an update (more than most of you probably wanted to know but when have I ever pulled punches here?) for now. I look forward to getting completely plastered on New Years wherever up north my ride takes me. Hopefully I won't have three beers and puke on the outside of the bar like last time. That was just plain pitiful. Until then I bid you adieu, and watch out for purple Berettas. Stephen King's Christie has nothing on my egg-plant colored monstrosity.
Friday night, take off from work early to travel the route to Champaign. Now for those of you not familiar I will enlighten you. Traveling to Champaign is like going across Kansas. It's flat, it's dead and it never ends. Sure there are a few hills, maybe even a dilapidated tree here and there but over all it is a butt-ass ugly trip and boring as hell to drive. Add to this that every slow-ass, afraid to pass driver in the entire state seeming to be in front of me and you get a healthy dose of road rage. It doesn't help that I am no longer smoking and have discovered the car is the *absolute* worst place for nicotine cravings. Words were coming out of my mouth in combinations that I didn't know I knew and if I weren't so pissed off I might have been impressed with myself. But wait, there's more.
Salt is all over the road. Fine, good I'm glad, I don't like ice, but that means that salt was then on my windshield. I can't see so what do I do? Try to use the wiper fluid. But alas! Nothing comes out. Fine, I clean the windshield, continue on my way and stop about thirty minutes later at a truck stop. There I purchase wiper fluid, call a friend and stumble around under my hood until I find the appropriate hole and pour it in. Not until after I've filled it to the top do I notice the label says to only fill ¾ of the way during the winter to prevent freezing and cracking your wiper system. Not a big deal I think, I'll use some of it up. I get in, turn on the car (freezing at this point because it is hellaciously cold out) press the magic button and nothing comes out. I am at this point, more than mildly irritated. Little did I know my car had significantly more dastardly thoughts in mind for me. Unbeknownst to me my car was like and old person's heart, every start was one beat closer to death.
So I make it to Champaign, I curse, I grumble, I chew a lot of gum but I make it. I pull in I turn the car off I step back into the car to drive another block and nothing. No start, no whine, no click, not even a horrible screeching noise to let me know it has some fight left in it. The car is just dead.
Long story long I make it to Chicago. The weekend is fine (get to that later) and about fifty miles on my way home I stop for gas and it quits again. I sit at the gas station for an hour and a half and it starts one last time. I make it home and it will not start anymore. My car is possessed. I used to joke that my mom bribed me to stay at home instead of the dorm when I went to college with a new computer and a car. I got a computer that didn't work and car I couldn't drive. Sometimes life is too evil for words.
There was a time, following my amazing displays of rear-ending every known resident of Mac-town that family members referred to the car as "devil-car". I shook my head and said no, no, it isn't the car's fault, I'm just a bad driver. Now I may be a bad driver, but that car is definitely possessed. I no longer doubt it. I refuse to be careless and allow the car to hit other cars so it just isn't going to drive anymore. I can hear its voice in my head so clear, a whiny, hissing voice that tickles your ear as it says, "you think I'll let you travel with easssse? If you won't let me hit anyone I simply won't drive!" It is a hideous, evil, twisted thing and it needs to be put down. If only I had enough money to do so.
I cannot stand the insecurity of being without a reliable vehicle. I did it for three years, successfully, but during those three years everything I needed was near me. I could walk where I wanted to go and friends were in Mac-town at school. I had no need to travel alone. Now I have tasted the freedom of being able to travel on my own. I have felt the release in just going away for a weekend, sometimes without a plan or a destination but just leaving everything behind. I'm not sure I can go back to no car if I am still in Mac-town. I know I can't. I hate this town. I hate being an hour to four hours away from everyone I want to talk to and having no way to get to any of them. I don't necessarily know what I want or where I want to be but I know it isn't here. My car taking a big shit on me is further proof that Mac-town is a big black hole. It will suck you in and do everything in its power to keep you here.
Okay, enough of that. I think that is probably my longest useless rant in a good long while. The funny thing is I am in surprisingly good spirits. Irritated yes, but angry, no.
As to the no smoking thing it is going fine. I don't have cravings, at least not for cigarettes, but just like before I am now having the burst of energy that comes from not smoking. And as before there are not enough batteries in the country to wear me out. You want an aphrodisiac? Put away your cigarettes for a week. You're not jittery because of cigarette cravings.
Well that is probably enough of an update (more than most of you probably wanted to know but when have I ever pulled punches here?) for now. I look forward to getting completely plastered on New Years wherever up north my ride takes me. Hopefully I won't have three beers and puke on the outside of the bar like last time. That was just plain pitiful. Until then I bid you adieu, and watch out for purple Berettas. Stephen King's Christie has nothing on my egg-plant colored monstrosity.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Wow, I actually had someone ask me when I was going to update. I'm amazed there is someone out there still reading this. Well here you go, buh-bye now. Just kidding.
Where to start and what to say. I�ve had two revelations in the past four days, neither of them pleasant. The first is that you carry a lot of old ghosts with you when you go to a funeral. It brings to mind entirely too many memories. The second is that it is time for me to stop smoking. I do not want to die from cancer.
Many people would call me dumb for smoking and they would be right. There is no defense for why I do it, why I started. Maybe you could say peer pressure, maybe you could say naivete. I suppose I thought I was invincible. Not really of course, but I watched my boyfriend in high school battle cancer and he beat it. I think somewhere in my head that convinced me I would be fine. I had years and years to smoke before I had to worry. Maybe I could have smoked for twenty years before anything happened. Maybe I would die of a car crash long before it affected my health. But maybe, just maybe, I will wake up one morning with a pain in my chest that wouldn't go away.
I've come to accept that one day I will lose one or both of my breasts. Every female on my mother's side has had breast cancer by the age of sixty. Some of them died in weeks, others lived for years. I suppose I figure if it is in my genetics so be it. I can't fight it, can't help it, so there is no use worrying about it. But smoking, I can help that. There is no reason for me to heighten my chances of laying in a bed somewhere peeing and shitting in a tube, completely oblivious to the world around me. I've watched too many people waste away. I've held too many hands with blank stares behind them. I vowed two years ago when I gagged my way down the hall of a cancer hospital I would not end up some place like that. But I started smoking and I didn't stop. It doesn't make sense. It is nothing except stupid. While I find myself with a craving at this very moment and I know the cravings won't stop for the better part of a month I know I have to quit. I don't fear death. I fear pain. I fear wasting away. It happens to too many people. It robs too many lives. To knowingly add myself to the tally is idiotic--suicidal.
I don't begrudge people the right to smoke. Everyone must make their own choice. I know it pissed the hell out of me when people judged me for it. But it does scare me. I find I worry I'm going to receive a phone call one day, another call where the voice on the other end mutters she or he or someone we both love has cancer. Even as I know nothing I do will change that I will lose the ones I love I find myself scared. That is the true poison of diseases like cancer and AIDS. They don't just kill the people who have them, they kill a little part of the family and friends too. You lose a little bit of yourself every time you smell that smell--the one of rancid sweet corn that fills your throat until you gag. The smell that clings to every pore on your body until you fear you will never be clean again. And indeed, you never really are.
I missed my last chance to see my grandmother healthy and cognizant. She wasn't supposed to look through me, ask my mom if I was marching that day, as I held her hand. I wasn't supposed to see my uncle wheeled away on a cart wasted and dying not knowing if he would be okay. Fifteen year old boys aren't supposed to die. Life doesn't care what is supposed and not supposed to happen--I know that. It's hard and it hurts, there is no denying that. But I'll be damned if I'll keep smoking and give it one more weapon to use against me. I'm too smart for that.
Where to start and what to say. I�ve had two revelations in the past four days, neither of them pleasant. The first is that you carry a lot of old ghosts with you when you go to a funeral. It brings to mind entirely too many memories. The second is that it is time for me to stop smoking. I do not want to die from cancer.
Many people would call me dumb for smoking and they would be right. There is no defense for why I do it, why I started. Maybe you could say peer pressure, maybe you could say naivete. I suppose I thought I was invincible. Not really of course, but I watched my boyfriend in high school battle cancer and he beat it. I think somewhere in my head that convinced me I would be fine. I had years and years to smoke before I had to worry. Maybe I could have smoked for twenty years before anything happened. Maybe I would die of a car crash long before it affected my health. But maybe, just maybe, I will wake up one morning with a pain in my chest that wouldn't go away.
I've come to accept that one day I will lose one or both of my breasts. Every female on my mother's side has had breast cancer by the age of sixty. Some of them died in weeks, others lived for years. I suppose I figure if it is in my genetics so be it. I can't fight it, can't help it, so there is no use worrying about it. But smoking, I can help that. There is no reason for me to heighten my chances of laying in a bed somewhere peeing and shitting in a tube, completely oblivious to the world around me. I've watched too many people waste away. I've held too many hands with blank stares behind them. I vowed two years ago when I gagged my way down the hall of a cancer hospital I would not end up some place like that. But I started smoking and I didn't stop. It doesn't make sense. It is nothing except stupid. While I find myself with a craving at this very moment and I know the cravings won't stop for the better part of a month I know I have to quit. I don't fear death. I fear pain. I fear wasting away. It happens to too many people. It robs too many lives. To knowingly add myself to the tally is idiotic--suicidal.
I don't begrudge people the right to smoke. Everyone must make their own choice. I know it pissed the hell out of me when people judged me for it. But it does scare me. I find I worry I'm going to receive a phone call one day, another call where the voice on the other end mutters she or he or someone we both love has cancer. Even as I know nothing I do will change that I will lose the ones I love I find myself scared. That is the true poison of diseases like cancer and AIDS. They don't just kill the people who have them, they kill a little part of the family and friends too. You lose a little bit of yourself every time you smell that smell--the one of rancid sweet corn that fills your throat until you gag. The smell that clings to every pore on your body until you fear you will never be clean again. And indeed, you never really are.
I missed my last chance to see my grandmother healthy and cognizant. She wasn't supposed to look through me, ask my mom if I was marching that day, as I held her hand. I wasn't supposed to see my uncle wheeled away on a cart wasted and dying not knowing if he would be okay. Fifteen year old boys aren't supposed to die. Life doesn't care what is supposed and not supposed to happen--I know that. It's hard and it hurts, there is no denying that. But I'll be damned if I'll keep smoking and give it one more weapon to use against me. I'm too smart for that.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
There is nothing better than pounding out a sacred tune on the piano. Maybe a little Brahms, but honestly, if ever I doubt there is a higher power I have only to sit down at the piano and I’m reminded it exists. I don’t know what or who or where but I know something is there. It is more than a feeling, more than an instinct. When playing on the piano it is exploded through your fingers into the keys below. Forearm pain, wrist pain, numb fingers, none of that matters until the song is done. That is simply all there is too it. Some days I can not wait until I have a house of my own where I can have a piano at my disposal once again. I miss it with a passion that scares me.
It is somewhat an odd thing. I surprised a friend a few weeks back by sitting down and playing some notes in a music store. “I had no idea you could do that!” she said. It shocked me before I realized there was no reason for her to know. I didn’t play piano outwardly in college as I did through my youth. I no longer soloed at church or accompanied choirs. It was something that had become truly personal for there was no longer a public outlet. A few years from now there will be people with no idea I’m a musician. I find that thought scares me. It might be necessary for my survival to continue to perform. Piano is an emotional outlet that I never realized I had until it wasn’t there any more. Angry, play loud and hard, sappy play soft and slow, mischievous play something with a kick. Bored, learn a new song. I don’t always hit the right notes (especially lately) but I’m not playing for anyone else. Just me. A side job in a store playing background music would be absolutely heaven. I’m just not sure my arms and hands could do it. By the time I graduated high school my fingers were numb by the time I finished a song and I woke up every night near tears from the pain. That’s gone away only by not playing for nearly four years. Where is the happy medium? I’ll give up Brahms so long as I can still play. I wonder if my body will negotiate.
Oh but here I am rambling and you don’t really care. I know this but I do it any way. Welcome to me. Ah I digress. Though, how one digresses when she has no direction I do not know.
What a week it has been. It seems to have flown by but it doesn’t seem as if all that has happened could have occurred in just this past week. I would tell the tales but they are not mine to tell. I would berate my mother but that would old and idiotic. I mean honestly, how do you berate a saint? Though, something I found very amusing. I might have laughed had it not been so inappropriate. Wait, maybe I did laugh…oh well. Anyway, I’ll tell you the story. For all you gals out there you will probably appreciate more than the men. The mother and I were talking and she was hesitant to tell me somewhat discouraging news--a) I need to not be a loser and b) she was disappointed in me. Fair enough. I’ve heard it before. This time, though, there is a twist. I agreed with her! She kept arguing with me that I was fighting her. “You don’t believe me” she would say over and over and I would reply with “Yes, yes I do.” She was so flustered. She couldn’t comprehend that I wasn’t having a fit but in fact saying “yes mom, you’re right.” It was as if she was arguing with a ghost of me while I tried to show her that I was different. All these years I spent fighting her, I finally agree she knows more than I do and she argues that I don’t believe what I’m telling her. I mean, honestly. I think it must be a mother-daughter thing. We simply can not get along. It would be like the Cubs winning the world series. The day it happens you know the end is near.
Anywho, this is basically just a winding down ramble if you made it this far I am most impressed. I think I’m going to go work on my story now. Hopefully this one doesn’t short out on me like all the others. I’ll keep you posted.
Donde esta el burro!
It is somewhat an odd thing. I surprised a friend a few weeks back by sitting down and playing some notes in a music store. “I had no idea you could do that!” she said. It shocked me before I realized there was no reason for her to know. I didn’t play piano outwardly in college as I did through my youth. I no longer soloed at church or accompanied choirs. It was something that had become truly personal for there was no longer a public outlet. A few years from now there will be people with no idea I’m a musician. I find that thought scares me. It might be necessary for my survival to continue to perform. Piano is an emotional outlet that I never realized I had until it wasn’t there any more. Angry, play loud and hard, sappy play soft and slow, mischievous play something with a kick. Bored, learn a new song. I don’t always hit the right notes (especially lately) but I’m not playing for anyone else. Just me. A side job in a store playing background music would be absolutely heaven. I’m just not sure my arms and hands could do it. By the time I graduated high school my fingers were numb by the time I finished a song and I woke up every night near tears from the pain. That’s gone away only by not playing for nearly four years. Where is the happy medium? I’ll give up Brahms so long as I can still play. I wonder if my body will negotiate.
Oh but here I am rambling and you don’t really care. I know this but I do it any way. Welcome to me. Ah I digress. Though, how one digresses when she has no direction I do not know.
What a week it has been. It seems to have flown by but it doesn’t seem as if all that has happened could have occurred in just this past week. I would tell the tales but they are not mine to tell. I would berate my mother but that would old and idiotic. I mean honestly, how do you berate a saint? Though, something I found very amusing. I might have laughed had it not been so inappropriate. Wait, maybe I did laugh…oh well. Anyway, I’ll tell you the story. For all you gals out there you will probably appreciate more than the men. The mother and I were talking and she was hesitant to tell me somewhat discouraging news--a) I need to not be a loser and b) she was disappointed in me. Fair enough. I’ve heard it before. This time, though, there is a twist. I agreed with her! She kept arguing with me that I was fighting her. “You don’t believe me” she would say over and over and I would reply with “Yes, yes I do.” She was so flustered. She couldn’t comprehend that I wasn’t having a fit but in fact saying “yes mom, you’re right.” It was as if she was arguing with a ghost of me while I tried to show her that I was different. All these years I spent fighting her, I finally agree she knows more than I do and she argues that I don’t believe what I’m telling her. I mean, honestly. I think it must be a mother-daughter thing. We simply can not get along. It would be like the Cubs winning the world series. The day it happens you know the end is near.
Anywho, this is basically just a winding down ramble if you made it this far I am most impressed. I think I’m going to go work on my story now. Hopefully this one doesn’t short out on me like all the others. I’ll keep you posted.
Donde esta el burro!
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
I am so amazingly bored at work right now. Yes, that's right, I writing this from work. You could even say I'm getting paid to write this. So there. Unfortunately I would rather be working because that makes the time pass faster. As it is I have to wile the hours away until Justice League comes on. I love that cartoon.
So I had a nasty shock today. $25,000 a year for grad school. Whoops. For whatever reason, what I was looking at when I figured this scheme out did not amount to that. Let's hope the loans come through eh? I am starting a collection as well. Feel free to contribute to the "put me through grad school so I'm not a loser and under acheiver my whole life" fund. No pressure, promise.
There is good news, however. My cousin in Mass. said I can come live with her if things don't work out. That's not so bad. I like Massachusets. Don't mind my spelling please. It's beautiful out there and there is quite a bit to do. It is so very far away, though--two years ago that wouldn't have bothered me, but now I admit it gives me pause. I like my family. I realize that isn't very "cool" now-a-days but fuck if I care. I have one of the coolest families around in my humble opinion. I would like to be around for my younger cousins. I like hanging out with my grandparents because I feel like it. I love all the free dinners I get from my mom. Yes, it's dorky but I like it. I'm not sure I want to go so far away I can't just come home for a weekend.
More than that, all my friends are here. Not that I couldn't go somewhere and start over again, but do I want to? I have a lot of history with some of these people. Some of these relationships have been built on an amount of time and pain that I don't want to go through again. Some people are nomads, they wonder around and never set roots. While that sort of life has a certain amount of appeal I'm not sure it is for me. Roots give you an anchor. If you have a strong enough base you can make it through anything. Not to mention there is a certain level of friendship that isn't attained over night. The type of friend you can fart in front of and all that happens is you laugh--the friend that doesn't care how long you sit in the bathroom and talks to you through the door. I mean, honestly, that's a level of comfort that is only reached when you two might as well be related. That's a whole lot of effort to go through again just to move across the country.
I know what people say, don't let your relationships decide what you do but when you don't really have a good reason to choose one place over another what do you use to decide? The pretty scenery? Ugh, ten minutes to Justice League. Boss is gone, kids on break, I'm getting paid to sit on my ass. Life could be worse.
I am not a self motivator. Give me a project, tell me what you want done and I'm all over it like a two-penny whore on a five dollar bill. Leave me to motivate myself and you get a bored secretary sitting on her ass in an office. Ah dammit, Justice League is a rerun. Mac-town even takes the fun out of tv. It is the devil. I knew it.
I was half-joking, it's okay to laugh.
I ain't got shit to say. Yeah, that's right, I just typed "I ain't got shit". It was marvelously mutilated grammar and I liked it. Good alliteration there. Alright, I can't spell and I've resorted to playing with english so I am definitely leaving you all alone. I promise to stop wasting your time for the moment. I haven't said a damn thing worth reading and you are all dumber now for having read this. Hahaha I laugh at you, you silly english ka-nigits!
So I had a nasty shock today. $25,000 a year for grad school. Whoops. For whatever reason, what I was looking at when I figured this scheme out did not amount to that. Let's hope the loans come through eh? I am starting a collection as well. Feel free to contribute to the "put me through grad school so I'm not a loser and under acheiver my whole life" fund. No pressure, promise.
There is good news, however. My cousin in Mass. said I can come live with her if things don't work out. That's not so bad. I like Massachusets. Don't mind my spelling please. It's beautiful out there and there is quite a bit to do. It is so very far away, though--two years ago that wouldn't have bothered me, but now I admit it gives me pause. I like my family. I realize that isn't very "cool" now-a-days but fuck if I care. I have one of the coolest families around in my humble opinion. I would like to be around for my younger cousins. I like hanging out with my grandparents because I feel like it. I love all the free dinners I get from my mom. Yes, it's dorky but I like it. I'm not sure I want to go so far away I can't just come home for a weekend.
More than that, all my friends are here. Not that I couldn't go somewhere and start over again, but do I want to? I have a lot of history with some of these people. Some of these relationships have been built on an amount of time and pain that I don't want to go through again. Some people are nomads, they wonder around and never set roots. While that sort of life has a certain amount of appeal I'm not sure it is for me. Roots give you an anchor. If you have a strong enough base you can make it through anything. Not to mention there is a certain level of friendship that isn't attained over night. The type of friend you can fart in front of and all that happens is you laugh--the friend that doesn't care how long you sit in the bathroom and talks to you through the door. I mean, honestly, that's a level of comfort that is only reached when you two might as well be related. That's a whole lot of effort to go through again just to move across the country.
I know what people say, don't let your relationships decide what you do but when you don't really have a good reason to choose one place over another what do you use to decide? The pretty scenery? Ugh, ten minutes to Justice League. Boss is gone, kids on break, I'm getting paid to sit on my ass. Life could be worse.
I am not a self motivator. Give me a project, tell me what you want done and I'm all over it like a two-penny whore on a five dollar bill. Leave me to motivate myself and you get a bored secretary sitting on her ass in an office. Ah dammit, Justice League is a rerun. Mac-town even takes the fun out of tv. It is the devil. I knew it.
I was half-joking, it's okay to laugh.
I ain't got shit to say. Yeah, that's right, I just typed "I ain't got shit". It was marvelously mutilated grammar and I liked it. Good alliteration there. Alright, I can't spell and I've resorted to playing with english so I am definitely leaving you all alone. I promise to stop wasting your time for the moment. I haven't said a damn thing worth reading and you are all dumber now for having read this. Hahaha I laugh at you, you silly english ka-nigits!
Sunday, November 16, 2003
What silly creatures we humans are. To even consider the system of our evolution--how we came to be what we are is baffling. I am not even sure I can make all of this make sense but I will try. Damn, I had some good thoughts but now that I’m here typing I can only hope they will come back to me. How do you say all the things you think constantly?
I suppose the first thing on my mind would be my grandmother. Wednesday marks the first year since her death. Funny that, I don’t know the exact date of her birthday but I know the day she died. Granted it helps that one of my friend’s b-day’s also falls on that particular day but still…Maybe it isn’t funny. Maybe it is just the way the mind works. That day made an impact on me, a serious one so I remember it. While her birthday was joyous it wasn’t special per say--I liked seeing her every time I did so her birthday wasn’t anything different. Lord how does a person even put this in writing? What is it about life that makes it so painful? Maybe that’s what I’m driving toward. Why did we evolve to have such pain in our lives? Emotions are fine, I realize they are part of what makes us human but dear god, they are a pain in my ass. You only want what you can’t have and then if you are lucky enough to want what you can have other emotions get in the way and mess the issue. It doesn’t make sense. And no, this isn’t my pms talking. That is over now, thank god.
On the other hand I should definitely be grateful; I only have weeks such as this one once in a while. In general I am a pretty happy person. Granted this particular slump has lasted the better part of two months, but that is to be expected. I’m stuck in a town I’ve outlived working a job I hate. I mean honestly, I think I’ve earned the right to be perpetually pissed off. I do not, however, believe in taking that anger out on the people around me. Just not my style. My family suffers but families are different--they treat you like shit and you do it back. But it is okay because that right has been earned. Friends do not deserve that. You listen to friends, you help friends, you comfort them. You don’t search them out to be angry at them. That is wrong and childish in my opinion. But what do you do when you are the friend that is always there, always available and when you need some help no one’s around? On the one side if you are a fairly happy person most of the time I can definitely understand why that would make everyone feel uneasy to see you upset. After all, they never deal with that side of you, have absolutely no idea what to do about it. But on the other side doesn’t it stand to reason if someone never shows s/he is upset when it finally happens you should want to do whatever you can? Hell just listening and giving a hug is better than listening then immediately changing the subject to all the wonderful things happening in your life.
My problem would definitely be, not my willingness to listen, but my complete lack of ability to comfort. I don’t know what to say. Give me a problem and I can help you fix it. Come to me in tears and I’ll hold you till you stop crying. Pour your heart out to me about stuff that isn’t fixable and I’m lost. Not because I don’t care but because my instinct is to make people feel better. I’m a cheerer-upper. I do my best but I am well aware of the fact it isn’t very much. I do think, though, that if someone is kind enough to listen to you assuming they don’t write you off you should not be angry with them. Once again, the whole taking out the anger on someone just isn’t right. I do not understand why people are so…childish. Why compromise is such a difficult thing, why controlling yourself in the presence of others is so inconceivable. But I do have to understand that a great majority of the time people do not know what they are feeling exactly. They just know they feel bad. When you feel bad you want to be surrounded by or talking to people you care about. You do not always think of what they want or are doing. I accept that. It makes sense. But still, there are only so many times a person can play that card. Not to be harsh but eventually you just need to know yourself. You need to know what you feel and be in touch with your moods enough to recognize they are erratic or shifting and understand what effect that has on other people.
I’m rambling, completely aware of that and I do apologize. I suppose it boils down to me needing to get out of this town and away from this job. It isn’t people so much--though they definitely are a pain in my ass at times. Shit, I think I sound like some chick off Lifetime. I don’t know how I can be such a girl and such a guy at the same time. Here I am babbling about feelings and emotions (yes gag you all with a spoon) but when it comes time to practice what I preach I might as well be my brother. I don’t soothe, I don’t sympathize and I’m completely lost around tears. I do not catch hints, everything better be spelled out clearly (and the words better be small) or I will think the opposite of whatever is hinted. Body language is lost on me and if people don’t offer information concerning how they are feeling I don’t ask. And yet, here I am offering a blog about emotions and how to handle them. But hey, never said I made sense. Who does really? Once again it all comes down to communication. If people would just say what they mean and mean what they say so much of the bullshit could be avoided. I’ve almost given up talking because I don’t want to bullshit and I can’t say what I’m thinking. It’s easier to be the silent, available friend then all alone because you told everyone more than they wanted to hear. Truth hurts and I have found it’s in my best interests to shut up.
I suppose the first thing on my mind would be my grandmother. Wednesday marks the first year since her death. Funny that, I don’t know the exact date of her birthday but I know the day she died. Granted it helps that one of my friend’s b-day’s also falls on that particular day but still…Maybe it isn’t funny. Maybe it is just the way the mind works. That day made an impact on me, a serious one so I remember it. While her birthday was joyous it wasn’t special per say--I liked seeing her every time I did so her birthday wasn’t anything different. Lord how does a person even put this in writing? What is it about life that makes it so painful? Maybe that’s what I’m driving toward. Why did we evolve to have such pain in our lives? Emotions are fine, I realize they are part of what makes us human but dear god, they are a pain in my ass. You only want what you can’t have and then if you are lucky enough to want what you can have other emotions get in the way and mess the issue. It doesn’t make sense. And no, this isn’t my pms talking. That is over now, thank god.
On the other hand I should definitely be grateful; I only have weeks such as this one once in a while. In general I am a pretty happy person. Granted this particular slump has lasted the better part of two months, but that is to be expected. I’m stuck in a town I’ve outlived working a job I hate. I mean honestly, I think I’ve earned the right to be perpetually pissed off. I do not, however, believe in taking that anger out on the people around me. Just not my style. My family suffers but families are different--they treat you like shit and you do it back. But it is okay because that right has been earned. Friends do not deserve that. You listen to friends, you help friends, you comfort them. You don’t search them out to be angry at them. That is wrong and childish in my opinion. But what do you do when you are the friend that is always there, always available and when you need some help no one’s around? On the one side if you are a fairly happy person most of the time I can definitely understand why that would make everyone feel uneasy to see you upset. After all, they never deal with that side of you, have absolutely no idea what to do about it. But on the other side doesn’t it stand to reason if someone never shows s/he is upset when it finally happens you should want to do whatever you can? Hell just listening and giving a hug is better than listening then immediately changing the subject to all the wonderful things happening in your life.
My problem would definitely be, not my willingness to listen, but my complete lack of ability to comfort. I don’t know what to say. Give me a problem and I can help you fix it. Come to me in tears and I’ll hold you till you stop crying. Pour your heart out to me about stuff that isn’t fixable and I’m lost. Not because I don’t care but because my instinct is to make people feel better. I’m a cheerer-upper. I do my best but I am well aware of the fact it isn’t very much. I do think, though, that if someone is kind enough to listen to you assuming they don’t write you off you should not be angry with them. Once again, the whole taking out the anger on someone just isn’t right. I do not understand why people are so…childish. Why compromise is such a difficult thing, why controlling yourself in the presence of others is so inconceivable. But I do have to understand that a great majority of the time people do not know what they are feeling exactly. They just know they feel bad. When you feel bad you want to be surrounded by or talking to people you care about. You do not always think of what they want or are doing. I accept that. It makes sense. But still, there are only so many times a person can play that card. Not to be harsh but eventually you just need to know yourself. You need to know what you feel and be in touch with your moods enough to recognize they are erratic or shifting and understand what effect that has on other people.
I’m rambling, completely aware of that and I do apologize. I suppose it boils down to me needing to get out of this town and away from this job. It isn’t people so much--though they definitely are a pain in my ass at times. Shit, I think I sound like some chick off Lifetime. I don’t know how I can be such a girl and such a guy at the same time. Here I am babbling about feelings and emotions (yes gag you all with a spoon) but when it comes time to practice what I preach I might as well be my brother. I don’t soothe, I don’t sympathize and I’m completely lost around tears. I do not catch hints, everything better be spelled out clearly (and the words better be small) or I will think the opposite of whatever is hinted. Body language is lost on me and if people don’t offer information concerning how they are feeling I don’t ask. And yet, here I am offering a blog about emotions and how to handle them. But hey, never said I made sense. Who does really? Once again it all comes down to communication. If people would just say what they mean and mean what they say so much of the bullshit could be avoided. I’ve almost given up talking because I don’t want to bullshit and I can’t say what I’m thinking. It’s easier to be the silent, available friend then all alone because you told everyone more than they wanted to hear. Truth hurts and I have found it’s in my best interests to shut up.
Monday, November 10, 2003
I can't keep from pissing people off. I feel bad about it because the times I really piss people off I don't mean too! It's one thing to intentionally be rude or hurt someone (which I try never to do) but I always manage to do something dumb and hurt somebody's feelings. I guess this blog should just be a giant I'm sorry to everyone who allows me to call them "friend" and a few who don't anymore. Luckily I haven't irritated anyone lately, but I'm feeling guilty and it never hurts to say I'm sorry again. Especially because I really, really am.
I had some really good lyrics I wanted to put in here but I can't remember them now...damn. Oh well, I'll share some other time when it comes to me.
For all the other blogs out there you need to update. I'm running out of shit to read in the world and I'm holding all of you responsible.
I really have no thoughts, mostly I wanted to say I'm sorry. For no particular reason at all--god I love being a woman. (Note the sarcasm).
People will be visiting again this weekend for the final homegame. I'll be making the pilgramage to pick up the Stouty--silly silly boy not being able to drive. Hopefully it is a good time. It usually is, I'll get to hear the news of the world outside Mac-town and live vicariously through others. Yes that was probably misspelled no I do not care.
I've got nothing, I'll stop wasting everyone's time. Hope you are having a marvelous day and life is more exciting elsewhere.
Toodles
I had some really good lyrics I wanted to put in here but I can't remember them now...damn. Oh well, I'll share some other time when it comes to me.
For all the other blogs out there you need to update. I'm running out of shit to read in the world and I'm holding all of you responsible.
I really have no thoughts, mostly I wanted to say I'm sorry. For no particular reason at all--god I love being a woman. (Note the sarcasm).
People will be visiting again this weekend for the final homegame. I'll be making the pilgramage to pick up the Stouty--silly silly boy not being able to drive. Hopefully it is a good time. It usually is, I'll get to hear the news of the world outside Mac-town and live vicariously through others. Yes that was probably misspelled no I do not care.
I've got nothing, I'll stop wasting everyone's time. Hope you are having a marvelous day and life is more exciting elsewhere.
Toodles
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Ah yes, good news. My wonderful darling aunt has found romance again!! Congrats aunt! I am so happy for her I fairly bounced all the way home after hearing the news.
More good news—less than three months before I am out of Mac-town. One way or another it’s done. Everything not necessary for survival goes back to mom and dad’s and I move with one car full. This should be fun. I have to say I’m excited. If I had a better driving record I might consider being a truck driver. Then I could just go be a wanderer. There are days that idea has significant appeal.
Other news…is there any other news? I suppose there always is but will any of it be said here? Now that is a good question. My quest to avoid meaningless sex continues but I’ve discovered a catch. Just because one person doesn’t think s/he is having meaningless sex does not mean the sex isn’t meaningless. That is a minor inconvenience I hadn’t counted on. But I also discovered something else. Given the slightest provocation I am a fucking psychotic once a month. It doesn’t necessarily bother me because I already knew this. I am fortunate enough to have people surrounding me that let me know “hey, you’re crazy. Go away and come back in a week.” But I have found significant humor in observing females who have yet to learn the evil, devious ways of their body. I never knew of a female who believed she didn’t suffer from pms, I think at this point most of us simply assume we do, but there are exceptions. The tricky part is, which I never considered having a mother that never let me forget I was a bitch one a month, that if no one ever tells you your mood changes you would never know. The first time it happens you don’t feel any different. There isn’t a little light that goes on inside the head saying “you’re crazy for a week, stop all action!” You feel completely justified in everything you are feeling. It isn’t until you are informed that what you’re feeling may be, shall we say exaggerated, that you can learn to see and feel the signs.
So this is my helpful handbook to all the men out there. If you know it’s close to that time of the month or she has even mentioned that she’s cramping or some such problem, do not take to heart ANYTHING she says. Don’t disregard her, even the craziest notions are based on fact, but don’t let it get you down. Women act two ways during that time of month, want to be held or don’t want to be touched at all. Don’t overreact. If she wants to be held it doesn’t mean she’s a crazy codependent. And if she doesn’t want to be touched it doesn’t mean she doesn’t like/love you. It just means our uteruses are bigger bitches than we are and we’re helpless against them. Bear with us. We’ll make it up to you when we are ourselves again.
More good news—less than three months before I am out of Mac-town. One way or another it’s done. Everything not necessary for survival goes back to mom and dad’s and I move with one car full. This should be fun. I have to say I’m excited. If I had a better driving record I might consider being a truck driver. Then I could just go be a wanderer. There are days that idea has significant appeal.
Other news…is there any other news? I suppose there always is but will any of it be said here? Now that is a good question. My quest to avoid meaningless sex continues but I’ve discovered a catch. Just because one person doesn’t think s/he is having meaningless sex does not mean the sex isn’t meaningless. That is a minor inconvenience I hadn’t counted on. But I also discovered something else. Given the slightest provocation I am a fucking psychotic once a month. It doesn’t necessarily bother me because I already knew this. I am fortunate enough to have people surrounding me that let me know “hey, you’re crazy. Go away and come back in a week.” But I have found significant humor in observing females who have yet to learn the evil, devious ways of their body. I never knew of a female who believed she didn’t suffer from pms, I think at this point most of us simply assume we do, but there are exceptions. The tricky part is, which I never considered having a mother that never let me forget I was a bitch one a month, that if no one ever tells you your mood changes you would never know. The first time it happens you don’t feel any different. There isn’t a little light that goes on inside the head saying “you’re crazy for a week, stop all action!” You feel completely justified in everything you are feeling. It isn’t until you are informed that what you’re feeling may be, shall we say exaggerated, that you can learn to see and feel the signs.
So this is my helpful handbook to all the men out there. If you know it’s close to that time of the month or she has even mentioned that she’s cramping or some such problem, do not take to heart ANYTHING she says. Don’t disregard her, even the craziest notions are based on fact, but don’t let it get you down. Women act two ways during that time of month, want to be held or don’t want to be touched at all. Don’t overreact. If she wants to be held it doesn’t mean she’s a crazy codependent. And if she doesn’t want to be touched it doesn’t mean she doesn’t like/love you. It just means our uteruses are bigger bitches than we are and we’re helpless against them. Bear with us. We’ll make it up to you when we are ourselves again.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Oh holy sweet jesus. I felt like ranting and do I have something to rant about now. If you are timid of heart or don’t care what I have to say stop reading now. That’s your only warning.
Men wonder why women are insecure. Why so many of us are man haters. Well go to clevescene.com news and follow the link to the article on “hogging”. I think that sums up why every woman who has grown up in American culture is afraid for a man to see her naked. For those of you who are uneducated in the ways of “hogging” let me explain.
Hogging is when a group of guys go out with the express purpose of picking up “large” women. As they put it themselves:
Rick explains the attraction bluntly: "Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"
It's not that they prefer fat women, they say. It's just easier.
"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."
Mark's had nothing but big women for a long time. On a woman of average height, he'll go up to 160, 170 pounds -- 225 if it's St. Patrick's Day or New Year's Eve.
"I wake up and see monsters in his bed," Rick says, feigning horror.
I can’t even formulate my thoughts to rant properly. The worst part is you can’t argue with stupidity. These men have something wrong with them, something much worse than simply being bad people. To go out with the express purpose of degrading another human being and finding pleasure only when you can “treat her like a pig” is so infuriating, so shocking that I find it to almost be unthinkable. Luckily this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of hogging. It is the first time I’ve really read what men thought about it, but if this were my first experience with it this blog would most likely be an entire page of the phrase fuck you all.
People get this sad look in their eyes when a fat girl comments about being fat. “You’re not fat” they say trying to be sympathetic. What they really mean is “but I like you and you’re cool and fat people aren’t supposed to be cool or attractive.” That’s the message that is fed into our minds from the moment we are born. No, unhealthy is not attractive. Yes, when someone is literally too big to have sex with it is unnerving and not a stimulant. But truth is truth and some people are fat. I am fat and I don’t feel bad about it. I don’t feel bad about myself. When I don’t want to be seen naked or I worry if someone hits on me at the bar or I pull away when approached by a guy it isn’t because I don’t feel I’m worthy. It isn’t because I feel unattractive. It is because of shit like this. It’s because it is real and it happens. It happens to girls like me. As these little troglodytes say themselves, “the best is when she’s got a pretty face and a big soft body.” DING DING DING!!!
No I don’t believe any one I know personally participates in this. I think they all know better than to tell me if they did but guys talk to guys. They might know people who do this to women. Do you understand how incredibly terrible this is? How inhuman and what it does to a person? When a man brings up hogging do you stop him or do you listen and laugh along nervously? Do you feel sorry if you bring home a fat girl? I know some people that don’t mind big women but would never date one. It isn’t just boys being boys. It isn’t just a joke. This isn’t simple degradation of women. It has absolutely nothing to do with porn or hooters or strip clubs—this is a fucked up prejudice that is never addressed. We fight for gay rights and equal opportunity among races. Yes a 500lb. person should loose weight and no it isn’t right to be so big you are winded by walking up stairs but this isn’t happening to 500lb. people. This is happening to 160, 170, 225 if you’re really drunk, people. 160lbs?! That is a fucking size 10. For those of you not familiar with women’s clothing that would equal around a 35-inch waist depending on height.
If that doesn’t enrage you then you have no regard for your fellow human.
This is why women are the way they are. No it isn’t going to change soon. Maybe it will never change at all. I’ve accepted that as surely as I’ve accepted myself. But knowing this can you understand why sometimes women get upset with “boys being boys”? Shit like this is so very real. The point of this rant isn’t to change the world but explain that a fat girl’s hesitance isn’t about her lack of self-esteem. It’s about her protecting herself from predators. Meaningless sex is one thing, preying on another human being is another. Don’t wonder why girls act the way they do. Don’t call a girl a slut or a whore or a pig. If you do thank yourself. You’re a member of the group that made us that way.
Men wonder why women are insecure. Why so many of us are man haters. Well go to clevescene.com news and follow the link to the article on “hogging”. I think that sums up why every woman who has grown up in American culture is afraid for a man to see her naked. For those of you who are uneducated in the ways of “hogging” let me explain.
Hogging is when a group of guys go out with the express purpose of picking up “large” women. As they put it themselves:
Rick explains the attraction bluntly: "Everyone knows that if you want to get belligerent with your friends, hogging is the way to go. It's not something you aspire to, but no one decent is going to talk to you when you're at the bar with your friends, doing shots of Jaeger. Sometimes you just say, 'Fuck it, let's get a pig.'"
It's not that they prefer fat women, they say. It's just easier.
"You're not embarrassed getting shot down by them," Mark says. "You're not embarrassed when they leave."
Mark's had nothing but big women for a long time. On a woman of average height, he'll go up to 160, 170 pounds -- 225 if it's St. Patrick's Day or New Year's Eve.
"I wake up and see monsters in his bed," Rick says, feigning horror.
I can’t even formulate my thoughts to rant properly. The worst part is you can’t argue with stupidity. These men have something wrong with them, something much worse than simply being bad people. To go out with the express purpose of degrading another human being and finding pleasure only when you can “treat her like a pig” is so infuriating, so shocking that I find it to almost be unthinkable. Luckily this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of hogging. It is the first time I’ve really read what men thought about it, but if this were my first experience with it this blog would most likely be an entire page of the phrase fuck you all.
People get this sad look in their eyes when a fat girl comments about being fat. “You’re not fat” they say trying to be sympathetic. What they really mean is “but I like you and you’re cool and fat people aren’t supposed to be cool or attractive.” That’s the message that is fed into our minds from the moment we are born. No, unhealthy is not attractive. Yes, when someone is literally too big to have sex with it is unnerving and not a stimulant. But truth is truth and some people are fat. I am fat and I don’t feel bad about it. I don’t feel bad about myself. When I don’t want to be seen naked or I worry if someone hits on me at the bar or I pull away when approached by a guy it isn’t because I don’t feel I’m worthy. It isn’t because I feel unattractive. It is because of shit like this. It’s because it is real and it happens. It happens to girls like me. As these little troglodytes say themselves, “the best is when she’s got a pretty face and a big soft body.” DING DING DING!!!
No I don’t believe any one I know personally participates in this. I think they all know better than to tell me if they did but guys talk to guys. They might know people who do this to women. Do you understand how incredibly terrible this is? How inhuman and what it does to a person? When a man brings up hogging do you stop him or do you listen and laugh along nervously? Do you feel sorry if you bring home a fat girl? I know some people that don’t mind big women but would never date one. It isn’t just boys being boys. It isn’t just a joke. This isn’t simple degradation of women. It has absolutely nothing to do with porn or hooters or strip clubs—this is a fucked up prejudice that is never addressed. We fight for gay rights and equal opportunity among races. Yes a 500lb. person should loose weight and no it isn’t right to be so big you are winded by walking up stairs but this isn’t happening to 500lb. people. This is happening to 160, 170, 225 if you’re really drunk, people. 160lbs?! That is a fucking size 10. For those of you not familiar with women’s clothing that would equal around a 35-inch waist depending on height.
If that doesn’t enrage you then you have no regard for your fellow human.
This is why women are the way they are. No it isn’t going to change soon. Maybe it will never change at all. I’ve accepted that as surely as I’ve accepted myself. But knowing this can you understand why sometimes women get upset with “boys being boys”? Shit like this is so very real. The point of this rant isn’t to change the world but explain that a fat girl’s hesitance isn’t about her lack of self-esteem. It’s about her protecting herself from predators. Meaningless sex is one thing, preying on another human being is another. Don’t wonder why girls act the way they do. Don’t call a girl a slut or a whore or a pig. If you do thank yourself. You’re a member of the group that made us that way.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Ah Wee-u has blown it again. We had the chance to win the football game and we blew it. Am I surprised? Only a little. Here is irony for you. Me, the girl who spent her childhood irritated at her dad and brother because they hooted and hollered at the television while watching sports games has become a sports fan. I don’t even like baseball and I was rooting for the Cubs. No, not just because they made it to the playoffs, but also because they really deserve to win. I mean come on. How can you now want them to win? But also when I leave a football game early (I had a valid excuse, crazy infection of some kind) I go home and turn on the radio. Four years ago there would have been no radio listening! I would have said huh, I wonder if we won. Doesn’t matter to me. Now I’m all sorts of pissed because the team blew it. Grumble.
I have got to get out of this town. It’s sucking the life out of me. I am a full believer that the only person who can make me happy is myself but I’m not going to make anyone happy until I get out of this god-forsaken wasteland. There are some that like this town. There are some that want to stay. I say good for them. If Mac-town is treating you right, more power too you. It is not treating me right. It’s turning me into another mediocre human being.
Now I’m not so arrogant as to proclaim I will ever be more than a mediocre human being to the world, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be only mediocre to myself. The world needs secretaries. The world needs librarians. One day when I’m old and retired I’ll be one of those two things. Right now, I’m better than that. I can’t write, can’t sleep, I’m certainly not happy. It isn’t good when you don’t want to go to bed because you dread the coming day. That isn’t right. It isn’t good you look for reasons to get out of town because that offers the illusion of doing something with your time. I’m glad I didn’t go to school immediately, if I hadn’t taken some time out of school I wouldn’t have realized it’s what I love, but now I’m stuck in limbo until I can find some place else to go. I know if all else fails I can go to Peoria come January, but I really want to get into school. I really want to get a degree and go teach at a college somewhere. Not a big one necessarily. But it isn’t about the salary or the size or the prestige. It’s about helping people learn.
I don’t know if I can teach English as well as drums but I know I’ve got to try. It’s what I should have done in the first place. I like teaching. I like watching someone get better at what they’re doing because I helped them. I like making the world a better place. I looked at my parents and their struggles in the school system and I thought that wasn’t for me. And I still think elementary or high school is not for me but college—community college or a university could be for me. Teach kids that books are cool. That poetry is worth reading. There is so much to be learned from books! I am young but I was so young at eighteen. Hell if I knew what I wanted to do with myself. I still don’t know exactly but I know what I could do for a little while. That’s a lot more than I’ve known for about four years. But the first step is getting out of this town. If I were braver I would just cut ties and go. Maybe I’ll find it within myself to do that…I don’t know. There are places I could go, Vegas, North Carolina, Peoria, Chicago. At some point I just have to decide if I want to pursue present hopes and dreams or take off and make new ones. I’ve never been good at that.
Ah well, I’m sure no one reading this cares but then hey, maybe no one’s reading this. One can only hope. Maybe I’ll inspire some one else to get out of this town. That would be worthwhile. Maybe I’ll inspire myself. Maybe I should stop making excuses and just go. Hmm..there’s an idea. I hate it when I’m honest with myself. But I’d hate myself if I weren’t. What’s a girl to do. Maybe I’ll go pray, couldn’t hurt. Dear God let me be accepted…
I have got to get out of this town. It’s sucking the life out of me. I am a full believer that the only person who can make me happy is myself but I’m not going to make anyone happy until I get out of this god-forsaken wasteland. There are some that like this town. There are some that want to stay. I say good for them. If Mac-town is treating you right, more power too you. It is not treating me right. It’s turning me into another mediocre human being.
Now I’m not so arrogant as to proclaim I will ever be more than a mediocre human being to the world, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be only mediocre to myself. The world needs secretaries. The world needs librarians. One day when I’m old and retired I’ll be one of those two things. Right now, I’m better than that. I can’t write, can’t sleep, I’m certainly not happy. It isn’t good when you don’t want to go to bed because you dread the coming day. That isn’t right. It isn’t good you look for reasons to get out of town because that offers the illusion of doing something with your time. I’m glad I didn’t go to school immediately, if I hadn’t taken some time out of school I wouldn’t have realized it’s what I love, but now I’m stuck in limbo until I can find some place else to go. I know if all else fails I can go to Peoria come January, but I really want to get into school. I really want to get a degree and go teach at a college somewhere. Not a big one necessarily. But it isn’t about the salary or the size or the prestige. It’s about helping people learn.
I don’t know if I can teach English as well as drums but I know I’ve got to try. It’s what I should have done in the first place. I like teaching. I like watching someone get better at what they’re doing because I helped them. I like making the world a better place. I looked at my parents and their struggles in the school system and I thought that wasn’t for me. And I still think elementary or high school is not for me but college—community college or a university could be for me. Teach kids that books are cool. That poetry is worth reading. There is so much to be learned from books! I am young but I was so young at eighteen. Hell if I knew what I wanted to do with myself. I still don’t know exactly but I know what I could do for a little while. That’s a lot more than I’ve known for about four years. But the first step is getting out of this town. If I were braver I would just cut ties and go. Maybe I’ll find it within myself to do that…I don’t know. There are places I could go, Vegas, North Carolina, Peoria, Chicago. At some point I just have to decide if I want to pursue present hopes and dreams or take off and make new ones. I’ve never been good at that.
Ah well, I’m sure no one reading this cares but then hey, maybe no one’s reading this. One can only hope. Maybe I’ll inspire some one else to get out of this town. That would be worthwhile. Maybe I’ll inspire myself. Maybe I should stop making excuses and just go. Hmm..there’s an idea. I hate it when I’m honest with myself. But I’d hate myself if I weren’t. What’s a girl to do. Maybe I’ll go pray, couldn’t hurt. Dear God let me be accepted…
Monday, September 22, 2003
So the applying for Grad School has begun. Oh joy, hold me back. Seriously, though, I am excited. I definitely want to go back to school—I definitely do not want to be a secretary in Mac-town for the rest of my life, completely unacceptable. I just hate all the paperwork. Get this many letters of recommendation, send this many transcripts, put your right foot in and turn it all about. Oh yeah, and don’t forget the essay to convince you are a worthy person. Those are my favorite. “I deserve to be admitted because…” One day when I’m old and it doesn’t matter I’m going to write one of those and say, “I deserve to be admitted because I am a cool person. I’m not dumb.” Wonder how that will turn out. Let you know in fifty years.
Oh what else, I’ve been to Louisiana that was exciting. Somewhere about a fifth of a way through Missouri it occurred to I was an idiot for getting in the car on Friday night and driving to Louisiana. But hey, I never said I was smart. I did say I wasn’t dumb, but that is probably debatable.
So I think I might have an epiphany, it has been awhile so bear with me if this comes out rough. What is it about the proverbial hot stove that keeps people coming back for more? It is a behavior I have witnessed in people over the years, sometimes even in myself. As a child I had only to burn my hand once before I knew not to touch the hot burner again. Why is it, as adults, we can’t seem to learn that lesson? We touch it over and over and get mad at everyone except ourselves when we’re burned. “He’s so dumb” or “she’s so crazy” we tell everyone else. And yet it is our own decision to go back for more. Why? What is it about certain people that keeps us from breaking away? I’ve watched several guy friends fawn over crazy girls (emotionally unstable if you prefer) and get completely torn up by them. Again and again they are hurt but never once do they say “I should stop liking her”. Why?
On a side note why am I always asking why and never finding answers? The stuff of life I suppose.
As a young girl you watch the lifetime movies and laugh at the main characters. The emotional “angst” and the “issues”. It all disgusted me. Why doesn’t she just tell him to fuck off? I asked. Why are girls so dumb? Is it hormones? Loneliness? What is it about men, where are the pros? Do they outweigh the cons? If you’re a male reading this don’t worry, I’m not a man hater—quite the opposite whether I want to be or not. It isn’t logical, definitely doesn’t make sense. Some days it would certainly make more sense (and be more beneficial) to be a lesbian. Doesn’t work like that, though. No matter what I tell myself or how logical I try to be the heart never agrees. I’ve spent the past seven years being logical. The older I get the harder it is to control emotions. I want a handbook. I want everything spelled out. I want all the facts so I can put it all on a very simple, scientific chart and make a well-informed sensible decision. I want a great big red sign that says “HOT STOVE DO NOT TOUCH”.
I grew up a good girl. I was supposed to go to school, get a good job, meet a knight in shining armor and live happily ever after. I went to school, have a crappy job and my knight had everything in common with the knights of old. Including bad teeth and a penchant for taking advantage of young girls. Where was the red sign on that one? I knew better; there was enough history there for me to know not to go drunk over to his house by myself. But I did it anyway. I stuck my whole head in the stove on that one. Then I looked in the mirror the next morning and wondered why I was burned. Why? Where was my vaulted logic on that one? What is it about human nature that makes us so dumb?
Mine is not the only story of the hot stove, nor will it be the last. What really bothers me is that no one ever seems to learn. Again and again we touch the stove. Over and over we cry to each other, holding out the blackened flesh to friends asking to be consoled. It doesn’t make sense. Not that I thought it would. I just thought I would rant a little bit. Maybe I’ll email my congressman and ask him to issue every deserving man in the state a big red sign that says “HOT STOVE DO NOT TOUCH”. At least then I know for sure and would have no excuses except my own stupidity. Maybe instead of a trashy romance I should write a handbook for all the other confused twenty-somethings out there. Too bad I need a handbook for myself first. Maybe I’ll just go back to ordering take-out instead of trying to cook something wholesome on the stove. With take out you never have to worry about burning yourself. Unfortunately you never know what quality you are getting. It’s a trade-off either way. But it isn’t really a decision. At heart, for all my efforts to not be a dumb girl, I am. I don’t make sense, and I’m definitely not logical. I suppose the only option is to get better at treating the burns since I don’t foresee any big red signs to warn me off in the future. I may not be smart but at least I can take care of myself. Thank God for small blessings.
Oh what else, I’ve been to Louisiana that was exciting. Somewhere about a fifth of a way through Missouri it occurred to I was an idiot for getting in the car on Friday night and driving to Louisiana. But hey, I never said I was smart. I did say I wasn’t dumb, but that is probably debatable.
So I think I might have an epiphany, it has been awhile so bear with me if this comes out rough. What is it about the proverbial hot stove that keeps people coming back for more? It is a behavior I have witnessed in people over the years, sometimes even in myself. As a child I had only to burn my hand once before I knew not to touch the hot burner again. Why is it, as adults, we can’t seem to learn that lesson? We touch it over and over and get mad at everyone except ourselves when we’re burned. “He’s so dumb” or “she’s so crazy” we tell everyone else. And yet it is our own decision to go back for more. Why? What is it about certain people that keeps us from breaking away? I’ve watched several guy friends fawn over crazy girls (emotionally unstable if you prefer) and get completely torn up by them. Again and again they are hurt but never once do they say “I should stop liking her”. Why?
On a side note why am I always asking why and never finding answers? The stuff of life I suppose.
As a young girl you watch the lifetime movies and laugh at the main characters. The emotional “angst” and the “issues”. It all disgusted me. Why doesn’t she just tell him to fuck off? I asked. Why are girls so dumb? Is it hormones? Loneliness? What is it about men, where are the pros? Do they outweigh the cons? If you’re a male reading this don’t worry, I’m not a man hater—quite the opposite whether I want to be or not. It isn’t logical, definitely doesn’t make sense. Some days it would certainly make more sense (and be more beneficial) to be a lesbian. Doesn’t work like that, though. No matter what I tell myself or how logical I try to be the heart never agrees. I’ve spent the past seven years being logical. The older I get the harder it is to control emotions. I want a handbook. I want everything spelled out. I want all the facts so I can put it all on a very simple, scientific chart and make a well-informed sensible decision. I want a great big red sign that says “HOT STOVE DO NOT TOUCH”.
I grew up a good girl. I was supposed to go to school, get a good job, meet a knight in shining armor and live happily ever after. I went to school, have a crappy job and my knight had everything in common with the knights of old. Including bad teeth and a penchant for taking advantage of young girls. Where was the red sign on that one? I knew better; there was enough history there for me to know not to go drunk over to his house by myself. But I did it anyway. I stuck my whole head in the stove on that one. Then I looked in the mirror the next morning and wondered why I was burned. Why? Where was my vaulted logic on that one? What is it about human nature that makes us so dumb?
Mine is not the only story of the hot stove, nor will it be the last. What really bothers me is that no one ever seems to learn. Again and again we touch the stove. Over and over we cry to each other, holding out the blackened flesh to friends asking to be consoled. It doesn’t make sense. Not that I thought it would. I just thought I would rant a little bit. Maybe I’ll email my congressman and ask him to issue every deserving man in the state a big red sign that says “HOT STOVE DO NOT TOUCH”. At least then I know for sure and would have no excuses except my own stupidity. Maybe instead of a trashy romance I should write a handbook for all the other confused twenty-somethings out there. Too bad I need a handbook for myself first. Maybe I’ll just go back to ordering take-out instead of trying to cook something wholesome on the stove. With take out you never have to worry about burning yourself. Unfortunately you never know what quality you are getting. It’s a trade-off either way. But it isn’t really a decision. At heart, for all my efforts to not be a dumb girl, I am. I don’t make sense, and I’m definitely not logical. I suppose the only option is to get better at treating the burns since I don’t foresee any big red signs to warn me off in the future. I may not be smart but at least I can take care of myself. Thank God for small blessings.
Monday, September 01, 2003
So my first three-day weekend as a working girl has come to a close. I am entering week three of the Atkin’s diet and aside from one very vivid dream about little Debbie cakes I’m doing exceptionally well. I get to eat (which places this particular lifestyle high above all else) but I can’t eat a lot of things. It isn’t terrible—I love meat now as opposed to the past, but I would kill for some noodles or a good piece of chocolate pie. Ah well, my thighs are thanking me (not to mention my chance for diabetes) so I suppose it will all work out in the end. It usually does.
On the good side of things I sent out for GRE registration today. I think I need to go to grad school and go teach at a college somewhere. I like teaching—I think I do an okay job of it. I’m also not cut out to be a secretary. I suppose I always knew that but I thought a job is a job. Live and learn I suppose. I’m not politic, I hate to lie, and I hate being a scapegoat because someone else doesn’t do his job. It irritates me. Some days it infuriates me. Life, you would think I was used to it by now.
I was reading an old story the other night; I think I need to send it out somewhere. It really was an excellent story. I don’t say that often. It could still be better, but unfortunately I’m so emotionally tied to it, it is very difficult for me to edit it at all. It was perhaps a bit to tied to reality for safety’s sake but…that is, in part, what makes the story good. At some point I should have someone not connected to the events read it and tell me if it does anything for them. I might have made a classic writers error in writing too close to the heart. Oops. These things they happen.
That about does it I think. I’m still waiting for my knight in shining armor to come save the day. I think I’ve just about accepted that the knight will come in the form of a small cardboard box with the name “Blue Bunny Ice Cream” on it, but that’s okay. I’ve gotten very good at the independent lifestyle. I’ve even decided I’m not interested in the friends with benefits anymore. Who would have ever thought I would say meaningless sex is no fun. But I have. It was an odd realization, but I suppose I’ve always been a good girl at heart. In general it’s much more fun to cuddle up with someone you care about than have sex with someone you don’t. Dear lord save me I’ve turned into a sap. Obviously I need to spend less time with my beaver cleaver family. I’ll let you all know when my newfound morality runs dry.
On the good side of things I sent out for GRE registration today. I think I need to go to grad school and go teach at a college somewhere. I like teaching—I think I do an okay job of it. I’m also not cut out to be a secretary. I suppose I always knew that but I thought a job is a job. Live and learn I suppose. I’m not politic, I hate to lie, and I hate being a scapegoat because someone else doesn’t do his job. It irritates me. Some days it infuriates me. Life, you would think I was used to it by now.
I was reading an old story the other night; I think I need to send it out somewhere. It really was an excellent story. I don’t say that often. It could still be better, but unfortunately I’m so emotionally tied to it, it is very difficult for me to edit it at all. It was perhaps a bit to tied to reality for safety’s sake but…that is, in part, what makes the story good. At some point I should have someone not connected to the events read it and tell me if it does anything for them. I might have made a classic writers error in writing too close to the heart. Oops. These things they happen.
That about does it I think. I’m still waiting for my knight in shining armor to come save the day. I think I’ve just about accepted that the knight will come in the form of a small cardboard box with the name “Blue Bunny Ice Cream” on it, but that’s okay. I’ve gotten very good at the independent lifestyle. I’ve even decided I’m not interested in the friends with benefits anymore. Who would have ever thought I would say meaningless sex is no fun. But I have. It was an odd realization, but I suppose I’ve always been a good girl at heart. In general it’s much more fun to cuddle up with someone you care about than have sex with someone you don’t. Dear lord save me I’ve turned into a sap. Obviously I need to spend less time with my beaver cleaver family. I’ll let you all know when my newfound morality runs dry.
Monday, August 18, 2003
Rule #1: Stop being a lesbian.
Rule #2: Any questions see Rule #1.
I love that quote. I heard it tonight from a female friend as we ranted to each other about life in general and I laughed for the better part of a minute. As the same friend once said, “stop the lesbian bullshit!”
I fear I should clarify for those of you who don’t understand. I am not in any way implying that being a lesbian is a bad thing. The quote was brought about by the erratic behavior of lesbian friends (think about it, two women in a relationship?) and we have found that it applies to so many aspects of life. It isn’t that I have a particular direction for that rant to travel, more that I felt like saying that. I feel better now.
Ah, tonight is my first band trip where I’m not with the band. I was considering calling a friend when I realized he was away with the band tonight…and I wasn’t with him. It was definitely a weird sensation. I don’t miss band practice. I don’t miss the unnecessary drama and the aches and pains and the heat and annoyances. But as I think about the crowd they are playing for tonight and the definite adrenaline rush that will follow I can’t help but be jealous. That I miss. The knowledge that I helped make these people howl. That was a good feeling. Standing on a football field at the end of a performance knowing I had infused the crowd with a piece of me. I miss that.
What else? I feel the need to write tonight—not all of it can be written here but certainly some of it. It was a busy weekend, too much working and not enough drinking or maybe too much of both. That’s a hard one to call. Parts of it were great, others not so much. Some just went by. The whole two job thing is maybe not the wisest decision of my life. While the extra cash is good I miss my weekends. I know I’ll have them back come October but that isn’t much consolation right now.
I should say it is a different, but not unpleasant sensation to have nothing to do at the end of the day. Come five o’clock I go home. Not to rehearsal, not to another class, not to homework. Just home. Home to my A.D.D. cats and their craziness. Home to my thoughts and an empty apartment. I like being by myself. Or I should say, living by myself, but it is a change that will take some getting used too. I really like being able to drive again. I don’t like driving—I’m entirely too scarred to ever like driving again, but I like the freedom that comes with driving.
I’m not sure I truly have a point to this blog. More just a need to write. It happens on occasion. Sometimes with more ferocity than others. I apologize for offering no epiphanies or entertaining rants. I have only a few random thoughts and unvoiced emotions. I can feel a story building. As always it will be my true voice. Maybe I’ll ask a few of you too read it, maybe not. Perhaps just writing it will be enough. As always I can say everything on paper and pretend I said it in real life. Self-delusion is a beautiful thing.
Rule #2: Any questions see Rule #1.
I love that quote. I heard it tonight from a female friend as we ranted to each other about life in general and I laughed for the better part of a minute. As the same friend once said, “stop the lesbian bullshit!”
I fear I should clarify for those of you who don’t understand. I am not in any way implying that being a lesbian is a bad thing. The quote was brought about by the erratic behavior of lesbian friends (think about it, two women in a relationship?) and we have found that it applies to so many aspects of life. It isn’t that I have a particular direction for that rant to travel, more that I felt like saying that. I feel better now.
Ah, tonight is my first band trip where I’m not with the band. I was considering calling a friend when I realized he was away with the band tonight…and I wasn’t with him. It was definitely a weird sensation. I don’t miss band practice. I don’t miss the unnecessary drama and the aches and pains and the heat and annoyances. But as I think about the crowd they are playing for tonight and the definite adrenaline rush that will follow I can’t help but be jealous. That I miss. The knowledge that I helped make these people howl. That was a good feeling. Standing on a football field at the end of a performance knowing I had infused the crowd with a piece of me. I miss that.
What else? I feel the need to write tonight—not all of it can be written here but certainly some of it. It was a busy weekend, too much working and not enough drinking or maybe too much of both. That’s a hard one to call. Parts of it were great, others not so much. Some just went by. The whole two job thing is maybe not the wisest decision of my life. While the extra cash is good I miss my weekends. I know I’ll have them back come October but that isn’t much consolation right now.
I should say it is a different, but not unpleasant sensation to have nothing to do at the end of the day. Come five o’clock I go home. Not to rehearsal, not to another class, not to homework. Just home. Home to my A.D.D. cats and their craziness. Home to my thoughts and an empty apartment. I like being by myself. Or I should say, living by myself, but it is a change that will take some getting used too. I really like being able to drive again. I don’t like driving—I’m entirely too scarred to ever like driving again, but I like the freedom that comes with driving.
I’m not sure I truly have a point to this blog. More just a need to write. It happens on occasion. Sometimes with more ferocity than others. I apologize for offering no epiphanies or entertaining rants. I have only a few random thoughts and unvoiced emotions. I can feel a story building. As always it will be my true voice. Maybe I’ll ask a few of you too read it, maybe not. Perhaps just writing it will be enough. As always I can say everything on paper and pretend I said it in real life. Self-delusion is a beautiful thing.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
So my last “summer” in the vacation sense of the word has come to an end. I drove back from a most enjoyable family reunion today and just felt wrong—it is the first time in eight years I am not rushing home to get to marching band. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. I should be out playing drums, getting sweaty, ruining my hearing and my joints…instead I’m sitting at home typing. Hm, maybe better in the long run but definitely sitting sour right now. The logical side of me is content considering I can’t pick up a drum without my shoulders and elbows aching for days but the sentimental side—it always has this annoying knack for blocking out the bad memories and expanding the good ones. I suppose that makes my life seem more pleasant to me than it has probably been, but it makes it terribly difficult to move on. No happy solution to this problem I suppose except to stop wasting your time and mine worrying about it.
I would like to discuss some recent occurrences, though. As aforementioned I did just return from a family reunion. I think it was perhaps one of the best I have been too in a long time. That is of course a good thing, but also a bad thing because it makes it harder to leave. I might also admit that I am a tad emotional as I travel through my first year without my grandma on that side. She was my (and my immediate family’s) link to that entire side of the family. Now we will see them once a year but I will never hear the gossip of who is doing what, which child broke the law or received an award or did well in school. I never realized I enjoyed that until this weekend. I never realized how much I relied on my grandma being there until she wasn’t anymore. Once again I never learn until it is too late. I do have the small consolation of spending my college years in correspondence with Dee (the grandmother) so I did get to know her as more than just “grandma” before she went but I wonder if that only made it worse. I don’t regret it at all, but it is certainly true the better to you know and love someone the more you miss them. Goodness if I’m this big a mess with one grandma I’m screwed when the immediate family starts to go. I will definitely have to die before any of them. Not to mention the logistics of a funeral are the hugest pain in the ass. Who wants to fuck with settling the estate and finding money to pay for things and moving stuff out when you feel like shit? One of life’s little ironies I guess. A time you are supposed to be able to mourn and instead you’re buried ass deep in paperwork. Woo-hoo. Enough of that. I apologize for not being more chipper. This whole starting work for real on Monday and not going to school thing is getting to me. I definitely need to not get stuck in a dead end job. But what do I want to do? If anyone knows please tell me. I’ll be sitting at home playing with my cats.
I would like to discuss some recent occurrences, though. As aforementioned I did just return from a family reunion. I think it was perhaps one of the best I have been too in a long time. That is of course a good thing, but also a bad thing because it makes it harder to leave. I might also admit that I am a tad emotional as I travel through my first year without my grandma on that side. She was my (and my immediate family’s) link to that entire side of the family. Now we will see them once a year but I will never hear the gossip of who is doing what, which child broke the law or received an award or did well in school. I never realized I enjoyed that until this weekend. I never realized how much I relied on my grandma being there until she wasn’t anymore. Once again I never learn until it is too late. I do have the small consolation of spending my college years in correspondence with Dee (the grandmother) so I did get to know her as more than just “grandma” before she went but I wonder if that only made it worse. I don’t regret it at all, but it is certainly true the better to you know and love someone the more you miss them. Goodness if I’m this big a mess with one grandma I’m screwed when the immediate family starts to go. I will definitely have to die before any of them. Not to mention the logistics of a funeral are the hugest pain in the ass. Who wants to fuck with settling the estate and finding money to pay for things and moving stuff out when you feel like shit? One of life’s little ironies I guess. A time you are supposed to be able to mourn and instead you’re buried ass deep in paperwork. Woo-hoo. Enough of that. I apologize for not being more chipper. This whole starting work for real on Monday and not going to school thing is getting to me. I definitely need to not get stuck in a dead end job. But what do I want to do? If anyone knows please tell me. I’ll be sitting at home playing with my cats.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Happy birthday to me/ Happy birthday to me/ Happy birthday dear meeee-eee/ Happy birthday to me. Yay, I got older. Ah, the birthday weekend, and what a weekend it was. I find myself as drained after this weekend as I was after my twenty-first, but for very different reasons. Traveling hours upon end in a mini-van with four other people wears a person out.
Now, in defense of my immediate family (who were my fellow travelers) it did not help that I started the weekend off tired and hung over. So let’s start at the very beginning…
I had a great time Thursday with one side of the family, eating, playing cards, being merry, the usual. I then got dressed up and went out dancing. Here is where I was struck with the double-edged birthday sword. On your birthday everyone wants to do a shot with you and pay for it, but it is never good timing (at least in my experience) to get as drunk as one will undoubtedly end up. I ended up very, very well off. I then got to deal with drama the likes of which I haven’t seen since school got out. That is all I will say about that. I will say one more thing—I life without drama is a glorious thing indeed.
Moving on, I spent my first real drunk night at home with the parents sleeping peacefully upstairs; that was a cool feeling. I did the whole, sit down in front of the refrigerator and stare drunkenly at the contents routine then wandered around aimlessly for a bit. Very young, dumb, and drunk of me. What else what else…
There are some things I would love to type, but this is not the place for them. Oh well.
Ah yes, how could I forget? I saw The Matrix: Reloaded in an IMAX theatre. Now, those of you who have been to an IMAX know any IMAX is fun to see. Those of you who have seen the Matrix 2 know that is an exceptionally kick ass movie to see on IMAX. It was abso-fucking-lutely amazing. (A moment of silence for the word “fuck”. It is so marvelously versatile.) I still maintain that the dance scene (don’t worry I’m not giving anything away) was one of the most sensual scenes ever done. Some disagree. I think they are too immature to appreciate it, or too cynical. But hey, what do I know. I am a romantic at heart so probably I shouldn’t throw stones but I digress. It was a great experience. Right up there with Fantasia 2000 for coolness.
I hate Microsoft word, it tells a person to make very wrong decisions concerning grammar.
So much to ramble about so little drive. Ah yes such is the way of things. Peace be with you and God bless. An ode to Bob Ross.
Now, in defense of my immediate family (who were my fellow travelers) it did not help that I started the weekend off tired and hung over. So let’s start at the very beginning…
I had a great time Thursday with one side of the family, eating, playing cards, being merry, the usual. I then got dressed up and went out dancing. Here is where I was struck with the double-edged birthday sword. On your birthday everyone wants to do a shot with you and pay for it, but it is never good timing (at least in my experience) to get as drunk as one will undoubtedly end up. I ended up very, very well off. I then got to deal with drama the likes of which I haven’t seen since school got out. That is all I will say about that. I will say one more thing—I life without drama is a glorious thing indeed.
Moving on, I spent my first real drunk night at home with the parents sleeping peacefully upstairs; that was a cool feeling. I did the whole, sit down in front of the refrigerator and stare drunkenly at the contents routine then wandered around aimlessly for a bit. Very young, dumb, and drunk of me. What else what else…
There are some things I would love to type, but this is not the place for them. Oh well.
Ah yes, how could I forget? I saw The Matrix: Reloaded in an IMAX theatre. Now, those of you who have been to an IMAX know any IMAX is fun to see. Those of you who have seen the Matrix 2 know that is an exceptionally kick ass movie to see on IMAX. It was abso-fucking-lutely amazing. (A moment of silence for the word “fuck”. It is so marvelously versatile.) I still maintain that the dance scene (don’t worry I’m not giving anything away) was one of the most sensual scenes ever done. Some disagree. I think they are too immature to appreciate it, or too cynical. But hey, what do I know. I am a romantic at heart so probably I shouldn’t throw stones but I digress. It was a great experience. Right up there with Fantasia 2000 for coolness.
I hate Microsoft word, it tells a person to make very wrong decisions concerning grammar.
So much to ramble about so little drive. Ah yes such is the way of things. Peace be with you and God bless. An ode to Bob Ross.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Hello fellow travelers, how are all ya’ll doin’? Haha, forgive the terrible, terrible grammar there but I can’t help myself. On this fine night of drinking and yodeling I fear correct grammar has escaped me. Now that is of course, implying that I use correct grammar other times. In fact, I really don’t. That is neither here nor there as they say and so let us continue onward and upward in this journey together.
I rediscovered my roots tonight. That is to say I ventured back to everyone’s favorite bar in Mac-town, the Café. I had some marvelous drinks and it was a spectacular time and despite the encroaching tiredness of my body I felt I simply had to blog. Now here is the humorous part—I have nothing to blog about! Ah-ha!
Some of you might argue I never have anything to blog about. I’m not sure I could argue back…
Wow, add a little vodka to your night and the thoughts just don’t flow like normal. Everything is fuzzy, so fuzzy. Marvelous little pastels, I like it, I like it. I want to roll around in the fuzziness, paint with pastels. I think I’m scaring myself.
I can say that despite the fact I am unemployed (at least in a “career” sense of the word) that I realized tonight I am really happy to not be going to school next year. Grad school is most likely going to happen, I simply don’t see a way around it, but in the meantime I will have an apartment, two (three for a bit) jobs, and no homework. I can handle that, quite honestly. The plan (haha I never plan and it is sooo not going to happen) is to work on the writing and try to get that going. I need to finish the old trashy romance and begin the revision process. The problem with writing such a long piece however is that it takes forever. For instance, I write 8-10 pages a night, single spaced, and the story still progresses with agonizing slowness. That isn’t to say it drags (at least I hope not) but there is still so much more story in my head. And then I think about the job of revising it all—you know, making it not suck. That is the really hard part. Yeah, yeah I know, poor me. But hey it’s my rant so I get to be selfish. It feels really, really good to not have to worry about school or band though. It’s a freedom I’ve never experienced before. Now if I could only get out of Mac-town and have that…a thought for another day.
Well, the vodka is saying “put me to bed!” and I can ignore it no longer. Adieu fair people and remember, watch out for camels, they spit.
I rediscovered my roots tonight. That is to say I ventured back to everyone’s favorite bar in Mac-town, the Café. I had some marvelous drinks and it was a spectacular time and despite the encroaching tiredness of my body I felt I simply had to blog. Now here is the humorous part—I have nothing to blog about! Ah-ha!
Some of you might argue I never have anything to blog about. I’m not sure I could argue back…
Wow, add a little vodka to your night and the thoughts just don’t flow like normal. Everything is fuzzy, so fuzzy. Marvelous little pastels, I like it, I like it. I want to roll around in the fuzziness, paint with pastels. I think I’m scaring myself.
I can say that despite the fact I am unemployed (at least in a “career” sense of the word) that I realized tonight I am really happy to not be going to school next year. Grad school is most likely going to happen, I simply don’t see a way around it, but in the meantime I will have an apartment, two (three for a bit) jobs, and no homework. I can handle that, quite honestly. The plan (haha I never plan and it is sooo not going to happen) is to work on the writing and try to get that going. I need to finish the old trashy romance and begin the revision process. The problem with writing such a long piece however is that it takes forever. For instance, I write 8-10 pages a night, single spaced, and the story still progresses with agonizing slowness. That isn’t to say it drags (at least I hope not) but there is still so much more story in my head. And then I think about the job of revising it all—you know, making it not suck. That is the really hard part. Yeah, yeah I know, poor me. But hey it’s my rant so I get to be selfish. It feels really, really good to not have to worry about school or band though. It’s a freedom I’ve never experienced before. Now if I could only get out of Mac-town and have that…a thought for another day.
Well, the vodka is saying “put me to bed!” and I can ignore it no longer. Adieu fair people and remember, watch out for camels, they spit.
Friday, July 11, 2003
Oh where to begin. I suppose I shall start with an apology. Whether that is a good thing or bad I couldn’t tell you, but upon rereading some of my posts here I have noticed the extreme level of intimacy I reach with some of my views. Not that I necessarily mind that I posted it, but I am a little bit surprised. And of course, I should apologize for the typos but you know, life happens.
The other bit of news I have is that I have begun work on a trashy romance. At least, I think it is going to be a trashy romance…it might end up being a fantasy novel but I doubt it. I’ve had a trashy romance inside of me for a very long time and I think it is about time it came out. I would say I’m sorry to those of you I disappoint with that news…I know some people hate to see me sell myself out like this, but I don’t really consider it to be that. A good story is a good story after all. And I’m stubborn enough to write what I want to, but nobody has to read it (though if a few lonely housewives would that would be great because then I can make money). That probably sounds very mercenary to some of you folks but just remember—I’m living at home with my parents. Be damned happy for me if I make money however it is done.
So I had a thought earlier today, actually it was on the way home very late at night, but you get the drift. It was a very good thought too and I thought “I shall have to blog that” and now you know what? I cannot remember what it was. That really yanks my chain. I was so excited because it was a good thing to share. Perhaps it will come to me.
I did think of this (and maybe this was the thought but I cannot remember to tell you). I made a wrong turn on the way home and I said, “stop being retarded” and it occurred to me I needed to stop using that word in a negative way. Let me explain. No, that will take to long, let me sum up. (Movie reference anyone?) I realized I needed to stop saying I was “being retarded” because it gives mental handicaps a negative stigma they simply do not need. As when someone says, “that is so gay” referring to a stupid comment or a misdeed it works on the human mind making us see retarded (or gay or what have you) as in league with everything negative in our lives. I was sure you were all already aware of this but the thought continued and what I was truly considering was the effects this has had on the way people talk.
For instance, if a retarded person is walking down the street and someone asks “what’s wrong with him?” a person is likely to answer, “he is mentally handicapped” or if they do say “he’s retarded” they whisper it behind their hand like it is a bad word. Everyone gives words a power manifested of our own prejudices and fears. It bothers me. Being retarded is not a bad thing. I would imagine it would suck, but it does not make someone a “bad” person by default. Being retarded is simply the way you are born. Every negative aspect of a person has to be sugarcoated or talked around instead of acknowledged and accepted. I much prefer to see (and say) things like they are and give nothing more power than deserved. If a woman is ugly she is ugly. She may have the best personality in the world but she’s still ugly. It sucks but that was the way she was born. I suppose I am being judgmental in not accepting everyone is entitled to live their life as they see fit, but is ignorance really bliss? Isn’t it better to know exactly what you are: strengths, weaknesses, assets, and faults included? Maybe not, perhaps ignorance is bliss for the majority of people but when am I allowed to be unhappy with their ignorance because it makes my life more difficult? Where is the line? What is too judgmental? Depending on the time of month I can be very accepting or not at all. Go figure.
Oh well, more useless and shallow thoughts, I hope you have all enjoyed. I will leave you with a bit of advice, something I have found invaluable:
Never date anyone more moody than you are.
And if you aren’t very moody and therefore everyone is more moody than you are then here is this:
Never date anyone who can’t control his or her moods 99% of the time.
Yeah, I’m judgmental. Oops.
The other bit of news I have is that I have begun work on a trashy romance. At least, I think it is going to be a trashy romance…it might end up being a fantasy novel but I doubt it. I’ve had a trashy romance inside of me for a very long time and I think it is about time it came out. I would say I’m sorry to those of you I disappoint with that news…I know some people hate to see me sell myself out like this, but I don’t really consider it to be that. A good story is a good story after all. And I’m stubborn enough to write what I want to, but nobody has to read it (though if a few lonely housewives would that would be great because then I can make money). That probably sounds very mercenary to some of you folks but just remember—I’m living at home with my parents. Be damned happy for me if I make money however it is done.
So I had a thought earlier today, actually it was on the way home very late at night, but you get the drift. It was a very good thought too and I thought “I shall have to blog that” and now you know what? I cannot remember what it was. That really yanks my chain. I was so excited because it was a good thing to share. Perhaps it will come to me.
I did think of this (and maybe this was the thought but I cannot remember to tell you). I made a wrong turn on the way home and I said, “stop being retarded” and it occurred to me I needed to stop using that word in a negative way. Let me explain. No, that will take to long, let me sum up. (Movie reference anyone?) I realized I needed to stop saying I was “being retarded” because it gives mental handicaps a negative stigma they simply do not need. As when someone says, “that is so gay” referring to a stupid comment or a misdeed it works on the human mind making us see retarded (or gay or what have you) as in league with everything negative in our lives. I was sure you were all already aware of this but the thought continued and what I was truly considering was the effects this has had on the way people talk.
For instance, if a retarded person is walking down the street and someone asks “what’s wrong with him?” a person is likely to answer, “he is mentally handicapped” or if they do say “he’s retarded” they whisper it behind their hand like it is a bad word. Everyone gives words a power manifested of our own prejudices and fears. It bothers me. Being retarded is not a bad thing. I would imagine it would suck, but it does not make someone a “bad” person by default. Being retarded is simply the way you are born. Every negative aspect of a person has to be sugarcoated or talked around instead of acknowledged and accepted. I much prefer to see (and say) things like they are and give nothing more power than deserved. If a woman is ugly she is ugly. She may have the best personality in the world but she’s still ugly. It sucks but that was the way she was born. I suppose I am being judgmental in not accepting everyone is entitled to live their life as they see fit, but is ignorance really bliss? Isn’t it better to know exactly what you are: strengths, weaknesses, assets, and faults included? Maybe not, perhaps ignorance is bliss for the majority of people but when am I allowed to be unhappy with their ignorance because it makes my life more difficult? Where is the line? What is too judgmental? Depending on the time of month I can be very accepting or not at all. Go figure.
Oh well, more useless and shallow thoughts, I hope you have all enjoyed. I will leave you with a bit of advice, something I have found invaluable:
Never date anyone more moody than you are.
And if you aren’t very moody and therefore everyone is more moody than you are then here is this:
Never date anyone who can’t control his or her moods 99% of the time.
Yeah, I’m judgmental. Oops.
Sunday, July 06, 2003
I am a terrible person. I have easily one of the best families in the world and I still want to kill them. I have no clue how people live with their parents past the age of 22. That being said how is everyone this evening? I am bored out of my mind. I’m on page 490-something and the damn book still isn’t done. Not that it is a bad book, but sometimes I’m just ready for a story to be over. Next story please. Unfortunately the damn thing just won’t end. It keeps going and going…and energizer bunny with diarrhea.
My mind is slowly eating away at itself…perhaps I should really attempt to apply myself to some fiction writing in an attempt to save my thoughts. The problem is it is impossible to get any real privacy when living with someone else. Even if it is only roommates you love and adore inevitably they will knock on your door and want to chat or cry or gossip or just waste air. With family it’s come do this and come do that. Myself having a semi-overactive guilt reflex (which I’m working on) I feel the need to do these things because, after all, these people did raise me. Unfortunately if I don’t do it with a smile it’s “what’s wrong?” “why are you sad?” “are you okay?”. Everyday I say the same thing. Nothing is wrong, I am not sad and I am fine. I just hate questions. Really, really, really hate questions. At least the idiotic ones, which is painfully ironic since I tend to ask lots and lots of dumb questions but we’ll ignore that for now. Anyone know that annoying and rather irritating saying that has been floating around on forward for years now? The one that says what do you do if the only person that can stop your tears is the one that made you cry? My life has turned into the twisted teen movie version. How do you answer a question happily when the very asking of the question drives you insane? If no one understands why I said teen movie sorry, I’m not sure I could explain it.
I apologize for the pointlessness of this rant. I don’t really have a lot, more boredom than anything else. I suppose I am hoping if I type out a few pointless thoughts for your amusement/revulsion I can jumpstart my brain into producing something productive. Oooh, “producing something productive”. That was a terrible sentence! (Brownie points to whoever knows why.) I can’t even make a few good provocative comments. Ah well, it gets old when all you talk about is the body anyway. Not for me, but I am trying to keep your interests in mind. I have got to find something to do with myself before I implode though. Not explode, to explode would mean I would have to have something inside me with tremendous energy. Nope, I will implode, simply collapse in upon myself like the great black hole I live in. I’ll suck the life out of everyone around me like some many others in this town. That will be fun. I’m on my way to becoming a mindless, soul sucking zombie. It’s good to have goals.
My mind is slowly eating away at itself…perhaps I should really attempt to apply myself to some fiction writing in an attempt to save my thoughts. The problem is it is impossible to get any real privacy when living with someone else. Even if it is only roommates you love and adore inevitably they will knock on your door and want to chat or cry or gossip or just waste air. With family it’s come do this and come do that. Myself having a semi-overactive guilt reflex (which I’m working on) I feel the need to do these things because, after all, these people did raise me. Unfortunately if I don’t do it with a smile it’s “what’s wrong?” “why are you sad?” “are you okay?”. Everyday I say the same thing. Nothing is wrong, I am not sad and I am fine. I just hate questions. Really, really, really hate questions. At least the idiotic ones, which is painfully ironic since I tend to ask lots and lots of dumb questions but we’ll ignore that for now. Anyone know that annoying and rather irritating saying that has been floating around on forward for years now? The one that says what do you do if the only person that can stop your tears is the one that made you cry? My life has turned into the twisted teen movie version. How do you answer a question happily when the very asking of the question drives you insane? If no one understands why I said teen movie sorry, I’m not sure I could explain it.
I apologize for the pointlessness of this rant. I don’t really have a lot, more boredom than anything else. I suppose I am hoping if I type out a few pointless thoughts for your amusement/revulsion I can jumpstart my brain into producing something productive. Oooh, “producing something productive”. That was a terrible sentence! (Brownie points to whoever knows why.) I can’t even make a few good provocative comments. Ah well, it gets old when all you talk about is the body anyway. Not for me, but I am trying to keep your interests in mind. I have got to find something to do with myself before I implode though. Not explode, to explode would mean I would have to have something inside me with tremendous energy. Nope, I will implode, simply collapse in upon myself like the great black hole I live in. I’ll suck the life out of everyone around me like some many others in this town. That will be fun. I’m on my way to becoming a mindless, soul sucking zombie. It’s good to have goals.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Ah yes, it has been awhile. For anyone still checking this periodically, good for you! Now, on with the post...
I...am a hopeless romantic. Embarrassingly so as a matter of fact. I just watched an old 80’s flick, “Ladyhawke” and now find myself embroiled muttering some good old fashioned “ooh’s” and “aah’s”. How can I help myself? The main hero is tough and solid but helplessly in love. The heroine is tough and feisty. They defy all odds, kill a lot of people and live happily ever after. If that isn’t a love story I don’t know what is. Makes me want to find a little love of my own. Ah yes.
Okay, I’ll stop wasting everyone’s time now. The only thing worse than watching a couple smooch, grope and coo at each other is listen to a consummate single moon over not having anyone. Therefore, onward we go!
I had my tonsils out. Now there was an experience. I giggled like a mad elf before I passed out from drugs then I woke up crying. Isn’t that interesting? The worst part was, it didn’t hurt that bad. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t hurt. I just couldn’t stop crying. And of course the nurses don’t understand that I simply do not cry for no good reason. They just kept telling me it was all because of the medicine and left me alone. I hear they have a lot of cries after surgery. It pains me to be one of the masses. I fancied myself above such sillyness. Guess not. I did have a delightful conversation with my blood pressure machine though. I thought I heard someone mention something about morphine and wouldn’t know, a few minutes later I had named the machine next to me “William” and we were having a delightful conversation. The next few days were not nearly so entertaining but all in all it wasn’t too bad. I couldn’t talk for three or four days and I was dizzy for five or six, but not too shabby. A week later and I can almost eat and swallow without pain. No blow jobs for another week I think. But just imagine how much easier deep throating will be without tonsils to get in the way! Did I just type that? Oops, anyone who didn’t want to know that just forget those last lines there.
So that is just about all my exciting news. No breakthroughs, no deep thoughts, no epiphanies. I did find employment with another blue collar place for the summer so that is good, but that’s about it. I hope everyone is well and healthy. Have a drink in my honor and watch a chick flick. A little mushiness is good for the soul on occasion.
I...am a hopeless romantic. Embarrassingly so as a matter of fact. I just watched an old 80’s flick, “Ladyhawke” and now find myself embroiled muttering some good old fashioned “ooh’s” and “aah’s”. How can I help myself? The main hero is tough and solid but helplessly in love. The heroine is tough and feisty. They defy all odds, kill a lot of people and live happily ever after. If that isn’t a love story I don’t know what is. Makes me want to find a little love of my own. Ah yes.
Okay, I’ll stop wasting everyone’s time now. The only thing worse than watching a couple smooch, grope and coo at each other is listen to a consummate single moon over not having anyone. Therefore, onward we go!
I had my tonsils out. Now there was an experience. I giggled like a mad elf before I passed out from drugs then I woke up crying. Isn’t that interesting? The worst part was, it didn’t hurt that bad. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t hurt. I just couldn’t stop crying. And of course the nurses don’t understand that I simply do not cry for no good reason. They just kept telling me it was all because of the medicine and left me alone. I hear they have a lot of cries after surgery. It pains me to be one of the masses. I fancied myself above such sillyness. Guess not. I did have a delightful conversation with my blood pressure machine though. I thought I heard someone mention something about morphine and wouldn’t know, a few minutes later I had named the machine next to me “William” and we were having a delightful conversation. The next few days were not nearly so entertaining but all in all it wasn’t too bad. I couldn’t talk for three or four days and I was dizzy for five or six, but not too shabby. A week later and I can almost eat and swallow without pain. No blow jobs for another week I think. But just imagine how much easier deep throating will be without tonsils to get in the way! Did I just type that? Oops, anyone who didn’t want to know that just forget those last lines there.
So that is just about all my exciting news. No breakthroughs, no deep thoughts, no epiphanies. I did find employment with another blue collar place for the summer so that is good, but that’s about it. I hope everyone is well and healthy. Have a drink in my honor and watch a chick flick. A little mushiness is good for the soul on occasion.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Oh my goodness, we are half way into June already. Maybe not completely half way but damn close. Still no job and not even a prospect. Life is good ain’t it?
So I have found several new addictions, or at least, spins on old addictions. I have relearned my love for books, found some beautiful vampire novels to read. I’m on my third novel in three days, not bad huh? I’m not normally a vampire reader, too clichéd, to angsty, but I find myself very intrigued by these books. The author does a fantastic job of humanizing her, making me care about her characters. That isn’t easy to do. Heaven’s knows I’m still working on it. The books are by Laurell Hamilton and they are the Anita Blake novels if you are wondering.
So how has everyone been? I’ve lost myself to the mindless drudgery that is living at home being unemployed. I read (rarely write) and eat. Seems to be all I do these days. The occasional drumline rehearsal, for which I am eternally thankful, breaks up the monotony but that is just about it. I have the urge to work on a story tonight, I’m going to try to feed that instead of my mouth, maybe something good will come of it. Only time will tell I suppose.
One thing I have certainly learned in my job search, I should have tried for a god damned internship. Things would be so much better! Or I need to go to grad school and get an internship. That might still happen, but in the meantime I would really like to have a job without having to go through more school. I’m not real hopeful about that but let me dream please, I don’t want to accept reality if at all possible. I am still fighting the good fight in the meantime. Doing my darndest to live at home like an adult and not take my irrational annoyances with my parents out on them. Sometimes I just want to leap up and rip their throats out with my bare teeth. Not because they did anything wrong or bad. Just because I’m at home. And it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.
And yes, I am a bad person.
On to more happy things…oh yes, that’s right, there aren’t more happy things. Happy things would mean getting laid, or at least a little make-out time with someone who gave a damn. I’ll keep hoping if you keep praying. This is what I want you to do. Go out and find a piece of booty and get off two or three times. Do it for me. Do it for you. Do it because everyone should get off two or three times without having to use a battery or their hand. We deserve it. It’s not going to happen for me so go, save yourself, don’t look back. I’ll be alright.
Oh yeah, and don’t forget the condom ;)
So I have found several new addictions, or at least, spins on old addictions. I have relearned my love for books, found some beautiful vampire novels to read. I’m on my third novel in three days, not bad huh? I’m not normally a vampire reader, too clichéd, to angsty, but I find myself very intrigued by these books. The author does a fantastic job of humanizing her, making me care about her characters. That isn’t easy to do. Heaven’s knows I’m still working on it. The books are by Laurell Hamilton and they are the Anita Blake novels if you are wondering.
So how has everyone been? I’ve lost myself to the mindless drudgery that is living at home being unemployed. I read (rarely write) and eat. Seems to be all I do these days. The occasional drumline rehearsal, for which I am eternally thankful, breaks up the monotony but that is just about it. I have the urge to work on a story tonight, I’m going to try to feed that instead of my mouth, maybe something good will come of it. Only time will tell I suppose.
One thing I have certainly learned in my job search, I should have tried for a god damned internship. Things would be so much better! Or I need to go to grad school and get an internship. That might still happen, but in the meantime I would really like to have a job without having to go through more school. I’m not real hopeful about that but let me dream please, I don’t want to accept reality if at all possible. I am still fighting the good fight in the meantime. Doing my darndest to live at home like an adult and not take my irrational annoyances with my parents out on them. Sometimes I just want to leap up and rip their throats out with my bare teeth. Not because they did anything wrong or bad. Just because I’m at home. And it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.
And yes, I am a bad person.
On to more happy things…oh yes, that’s right, there aren’t more happy things. Happy things would mean getting laid, or at least a little make-out time with someone who gave a damn. I’ll keep hoping if you keep praying. This is what I want you to do. Go out and find a piece of booty and get off two or three times. Do it for me. Do it for you. Do it because everyone should get off two or three times without having to use a battery or their hand. We deserve it. It’s not going to happen for me so go, save yourself, don’t look back. I’ll be alright.
Oh yeah, and don’t forget the condom ;)
Oh my goodness, we are half way into June already. Maybe not completely half way but damn close. Still no job and not even a prospect. Life is good ain’t it?
So I have found several new addictions, or at least, spins on old addictions. I have relearned my love for books, found some beautiful vampire novels to read. I’m on my third novel in three days, not bad huh? I’m not normally a vampire reader, too clichéd, to angsty, but I find myself very intrigued by these books. The author does a fantastic job of humanizing her, making me care about her characters. That isn’t easy to do. Heaven’s knows I’m still working on it. The books are by Laurell Hamilton and they are the Anita Blake novels if you are wondering.
So how has everyone been? I’ve lost myself to the mindless drudgery that is living at home being unemployed. I read (rarely write) and eat. Seems to be all I do these days. The occasional drumline rehearsal, for which I am eternally thankful, breaks up the monotony but that is just about it. I have the urge to work on a story tonight, I’m going to try to feed that instead of my mouth, maybe something good will come of it. Only time will tell I suppose.
One thing I have certainly learned in my job search, I should have tried for a god damned internship. Things would be so much better! Or I need to go to grad school and get an internship. That might still happen, but in the meantime I would really like to have a job without having to go through more school. I’m not real hopeful about that but let me dream please, I don’t want to accept reality if at all possible. I am still fighting the good fight in the meantime. Doing my darndest to live at home like an adult and not take my irrational annoyances with my parents out on them. Sometimes I just want to leap up and rip their throats out with my bare teeth. Not because they did anything wrong or bad. Just because I’m at home. And it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.
And yes, I am a bad person.
On to more happy things…oh yes, that’s right, there aren’t more happy things. Happy things would mean getting laid, or at least a little make-out time with someone who gave a damn. I’ll keep hoping if you keep praying. This is what I want you to do. Go out and find a piece of booty and get off two or three times. Do it for me. Do it for you. Do it because everyone should get off two or three times without having to use a battery or their hand. We deserve it. It’s not going to happen for me so go, save yourself, don’t look back. I’ll be alright.
Oh yeah, and don’t forget the condom ;)
So I have found several new addictions, or at least, spins on old addictions. I have relearned my love for books, found some beautiful vampire novels to read. I’m on my third novel in three days, not bad huh? I’m not normally a vampire reader, too clichéd, to angsty, but I find myself very intrigued by these books. The author does a fantastic job of humanizing her, making me care about her characters. That isn’t easy to do. Heaven’s knows I’m still working on it. The books are by Laurell Hamilton and they are the Anita Blake novels if you are wondering.
So how has everyone been? I’ve lost myself to the mindless drudgery that is living at home being unemployed. I read (rarely write) and eat. Seems to be all I do these days. The occasional drumline rehearsal, for which I am eternally thankful, breaks up the monotony but that is just about it. I have the urge to work on a story tonight, I’m going to try to feed that instead of my mouth, maybe something good will come of it. Only time will tell I suppose.
One thing I have certainly learned in my job search, I should have tried for a god damned internship. Things would be so much better! Or I need to go to grad school and get an internship. That might still happen, but in the meantime I would really like to have a job without having to go through more school. I’m not real hopeful about that but let me dream please, I don’t want to accept reality if at all possible. I am still fighting the good fight in the meantime. Doing my darndest to live at home like an adult and not take my irrational annoyances with my parents out on them. Sometimes I just want to leap up and rip their throats out with my bare teeth. Not because they did anything wrong or bad. Just because I’m at home. And it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon.
And yes, I am a bad person.
On to more happy things…oh yes, that’s right, there aren’t more happy things. Happy things would mean getting laid, or at least a little make-out time with someone who gave a damn. I’ll keep hoping if you keep praying. This is what I want you to do. Go out and find a piece of booty and get off two or three times. Do it for me. Do it for you. Do it because everyone should get off two or three times without having to use a battery or their hand. We deserve it. It’s not going to happen for me so go, save yourself, don’t look back. I’ll be alright.
Oh yeah, and don’t forget the condom ;)
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
I am so terribly sorry it has taken me over a week to blog. I know I left this on a very…strong note with the last post. I’m not apologizing mind you, but I hate to not follow up something so personal with something more idiotic and lighthearted. Don’t ask why, even I don’t understand me. So where to begin?
I haven’t had any deep thoughts lately to speak of. The longer I am out of school the more my mind goes numb. Perhaps it is the disgusting amount of comic books I find myself reading; perhaps it is the effect of being in Mac-town without a god damn thing to do. I don’t know. I do know I need a job, desperately. At this point I would work at Neiman’s (a grocery store in town for those of you just tuning in). My only real revelation is that I want to marry Batman. My cousin and I discussed this. What wouldn’t be perfect about that?
Batman is most certainly a manly-man—he can kick ass without showing off but has that deep-rooted angst thing going for him (which all girls melt over). You know if he loved you he would never let anything happen to you and a person wouldn’t have to worry about him not coming home at night because he’s Batman. Batman does not get killed. Captured, shot, beat up, but never killed. He always makes it back in the end. He’s smart (being a detective and all) he’s hot (that body, with the things he has to do physically?) and let’s face it, everyone knows he’s great in bed. The man is quite possibly the greatest detective to ever live. I would bet money he would know how to show a girl a good time. I want to marry Batman. If not marry; at least have an illicit affair with. Mmmm…*daydreaming*. Sorry, couldn’t help myself.
Ah yes, aside from *ahem* daydreaming about comic book characters the only other news in my life is that I finally had my sleep study. Probably I don’t have sleep apnea, but I did get to spend the night in a hospital bed hooked up to all kinds of wonderful machines. I had more electrodes on me than Michael Jackson has had surgeries. The damn things hurt when they peel them off too. Then they tell me to sleep naturally. How does a person sleep naturally when they’re covered in wires that inhibit movement? Not to mention the lady had to keep coming in and waking me up because I thrash like a mad person in my sleep (I could have told you that) and kept knocking shit off. Oh well, such is the way of things, the way of the force. I will of course let you know if I get to have my tonsils out. Granted, how I sleep has nothing to do with the fact I can’t swallow my food so maybe I’ll have them out anyway, but that remains to be seen. Well, visions of Batman are dancing in my head so I’m off to read. Have a marvelous day and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Of course, don’t do anything I would either.
I haven’t had any deep thoughts lately to speak of. The longer I am out of school the more my mind goes numb. Perhaps it is the disgusting amount of comic books I find myself reading; perhaps it is the effect of being in Mac-town without a god damn thing to do. I don’t know. I do know I need a job, desperately. At this point I would work at Neiman’s (a grocery store in town for those of you just tuning in). My only real revelation is that I want to marry Batman. My cousin and I discussed this. What wouldn’t be perfect about that?
Batman is most certainly a manly-man—he can kick ass without showing off but has that deep-rooted angst thing going for him (which all girls melt over). You know if he loved you he would never let anything happen to you and a person wouldn’t have to worry about him not coming home at night because he’s Batman. Batman does not get killed. Captured, shot, beat up, but never killed. He always makes it back in the end. He’s smart (being a detective and all) he’s hot (that body, with the things he has to do physically?) and let’s face it, everyone knows he’s great in bed. The man is quite possibly the greatest detective to ever live. I would bet money he would know how to show a girl a good time. I want to marry Batman. If not marry; at least have an illicit affair with. Mmmm…*daydreaming*. Sorry, couldn’t help myself.
Ah yes, aside from *ahem* daydreaming about comic book characters the only other news in my life is that I finally had my sleep study. Probably I don’t have sleep apnea, but I did get to spend the night in a hospital bed hooked up to all kinds of wonderful machines. I had more electrodes on me than Michael Jackson has had surgeries. The damn things hurt when they peel them off too. Then they tell me to sleep naturally. How does a person sleep naturally when they’re covered in wires that inhibit movement? Not to mention the lady had to keep coming in and waking me up because I thrash like a mad person in my sleep (I could have told you that) and kept knocking shit off. Oh well, such is the way of things, the way of the force. I will of course let you know if I get to have my tonsils out. Granted, how I sleep has nothing to do with the fact I can’t swallow my food so maybe I’ll have them out anyway, but that remains to be seen. Well, visions of Batman are dancing in my head so I’m off to read. Have a marvelous day and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Of course, don’t do anything I would either.
Sunday, May 25, 2003
I had my first Hooters experience this weekend. I don’t think I would care to enter that establishment ever again. Not because the food was bad, it was in fact quite tasty, but because I have never felt like less of a human being and more like a malformed object.
I almost hate to harp on it. The subject is so old, so overdone. If I don’t like the restaurant I’m just a prude, I have no sense of humor. After all, it’s only a restaurant right? No, not right at all. It wasn’t something I could bring up at dinner. There was no point to starting the argument, and I did enter the establishment knowing what it was. All it would have done was ruin what was a perfectly fine time amongst friends. Except I felt dirty, under appreciated and, above all, objectified. There was no way to “know” what that restaurant was. How do you explain the feeling of objectification to someone who has no concept of the idea? How do you make mentally stable, heterosexual, white males understand that forgetting a woman is a person isn’t funny? They understand being harassed, or discriminated; they have experienced those situations. Many have felt some pressure concerning their appearance. But they have no concept of what it is to walk down the street and know that every man is immediately making judgments about who you are based on nothing but your appearance. They have never entered a room and seen eyes immediately scorn their too large ass then light up upon viewing a friend’s much slender frame.
Some would say they know those feelings. Some would argue they have had to listen to women oogle men as they walk by. Isn’t that the same? No, it isn’t. There are some similarities. I am guilty of appreciating a man loudly if he is attractive. But I don’t judge. I don’t make assumptions about his personality. While not all men do, it is still a very, very prevalent trait in our society.
If a woman wears too much make up and skimpy clothing she is a whore or ho. If she wears too much clothing and not enough make up she is a prude and boring. If she cuts her hair and wears no make up she is a dike. Men can wear whatever they want; however they want. At most they’ll be called a fag, but if he’s big and strong (or has big and strong friends) he can proclaim that he just wants to do his thing and he is lauded for it. A woman is only judged. Over and over again all because of how she looks.
I’m tired of it. I’m tired of biting my tongue in a restaurant like Hooters because my friends can’t understand why it is incredibly insulting and that while I knew what the restaurant was based on I should still be allowed my outrage. I’m tired of fighting a battle every time I meet someone new. Having to prove to them that just because I’m fat does not mean I am a lazy, nonsexual slob. I’m tired of watching men drool over boobs and short skirts while simultaneously calling them whores but also demanding everyone look that way. Anyone who doesn’t is condemned to be “one of the guys”. Fuck that. Why can’t I just be a woman? My own woman? Why do I have to be a girly-girl or a tomboy? Why can’t I just be me? Why do I have to explain that I don’t like Hooters because every second of every moment I was in there I knew, KNEW, I was being compared and judged to the waitresses. It bothers me that those girls can so easily be forgotten as people, remembered instead as tits and ass.
I will catch shit for this ranting. I know that even as I write it. I’m a feminazi now, some lesser form of woman that can’t be happy and hates men. Well fuck that too. I can be happy, but not with a world where equal pay is NOT a reality and men think with their dicks so often eating disorders still mar the bodies of the young. If that means I’m labeled a lesbian feminazi so be it. I’ll die happy with my vibrator for company, but I will not keep quiet. I will not look the other way. It isn’t right. Objectification is not right. Whether you are male looking at female or female looking at male or any combination thereof. Appreciation is fine. Forgetting they are a person, not fine. If my friends disown me and I only attract women in camouflage then I guess that’s the price I pay. But I cannot stand idly by while these problems persist. Because they are problems and they are real. Just because you don’t want to believe it, just because it doesn’t affect you directly right now doesn’t change the reality. What about when you have a daughter one day? What about a sister or a cousin or a friend? Do you want this for them? Do you want a world that doesn’t let you be what you want to be? That simultaneously demands purity while scoffing virgins? Is that right? Everyone should be allowed to be the best person they can be, physically and mentally. If that means you’re a size 8 or 18 so be it, so long as you can do what you want to do and are happy. When will that be enough? When will we stop judging and just live? Who are you to judge another person? If s/he has not and is not hurting you what right do you have?
I would apologize for offending, but I’m not sorry. I won’t be. I can’t be. This is how I feel because it is real. I refuse to apologize. I refuse to accept my place in society as the fat white girl who is one of the guys. If that’s all I get fuck it. I’ll take my vibrator and go play by myself.
I almost hate to harp on it. The subject is so old, so overdone. If I don’t like the restaurant I’m just a prude, I have no sense of humor. After all, it’s only a restaurant right? No, not right at all. It wasn’t something I could bring up at dinner. There was no point to starting the argument, and I did enter the establishment knowing what it was. All it would have done was ruin what was a perfectly fine time amongst friends. Except I felt dirty, under appreciated and, above all, objectified. There was no way to “know” what that restaurant was. How do you explain the feeling of objectification to someone who has no concept of the idea? How do you make mentally stable, heterosexual, white males understand that forgetting a woman is a person isn’t funny? They understand being harassed, or discriminated; they have experienced those situations. Many have felt some pressure concerning their appearance. But they have no concept of what it is to walk down the street and know that every man is immediately making judgments about who you are based on nothing but your appearance. They have never entered a room and seen eyes immediately scorn their too large ass then light up upon viewing a friend’s much slender frame.
Some would say they know those feelings. Some would argue they have had to listen to women oogle men as they walk by. Isn’t that the same? No, it isn’t. There are some similarities. I am guilty of appreciating a man loudly if he is attractive. But I don’t judge. I don’t make assumptions about his personality. While not all men do, it is still a very, very prevalent trait in our society.
If a woman wears too much make up and skimpy clothing she is a whore or ho. If she wears too much clothing and not enough make up she is a prude and boring. If she cuts her hair and wears no make up she is a dike. Men can wear whatever they want; however they want. At most they’ll be called a fag, but if he’s big and strong (or has big and strong friends) he can proclaim that he just wants to do his thing and he is lauded for it. A woman is only judged. Over and over again all because of how she looks.
I’m tired of it. I’m tired of biting my tongue in a restaurant like Hooters because my friends can’t understand why it is incredibly insulting and that while I knew what the restaurant was based on I should still be allowed my outrage. I’m tired of fighting a battle every time I meet someone new. Having to prove to them that just because I’m fat does not mean I am a lazy, nonsexual slob. I’m tired of watching men drool over boobs and short skirts while simultaneously calling them whores but also demanding everyone look that way. Anyone who doesn’t is condemned to be “one of the guys”. Fuck that. Why can’t I just be a woman? My own woman? Why do I have to be a girly-girl or a tomboy? Why can’t I just be me? Why do I have to explain that I don’t like Hooters because every second of every moment I was in there I knew, KNEW, I was being compared and judged to the waitresses. It bothers me that those girls can so easily be forgotten as people, remembered instead as tits and ass.
I will catch shit for this ranting. I know that even as I write it. I’m a feminazi now, some lesser form of woman that can’t be happy and hates men. Well fuck that too. I can be happy, but not with a world where equal pay is NOT a reality and men think with their dicks so often eating disorders still mar the bodies of the young. If that means I’m labeled a lesbian feminazi so be it. I’ll die happy with my vibrator for company, but I will not keep quiet. I will not look the other way. It isn’t right. Objectification is not right. Whether you are male looking at female or female looking at male or any combination thereof. Appreciation is fine. Forgetting they are a person, not fine. If my friends disown me and I only attract women in camouflage then I guess that’s the price I pay. But I cannot stand idly by while these problems persist. Because they are problems and they are real. Just because you don’t want to believe it, just because it doesn’t affect you directly right now doesn’t change the reality. What about when you have a daughter one day? What about a sister or a cousin or a friend? Do you want this for them? Do you want a world that doesn’t let you be what you want to be? That simultaneously demands purity while scoffing virgins? Is that right? Everyone should be allowed to be the best person they can be, physically and mentally. If that means you’re a size 8 or 18 so be it, so long as you can do what you want to do and are happy. When will that be enough? When will we stop judging and just live? Who are you to judge another person? If s/he has not and is not hurting you what right do you have?
I would apologize for offending, but I’m not sorry. I won’t be. I can’t be. This is how I feel because it is real. I refuse to apologize. I refuse to accept my place in society as the fat white girl who is one of the guys. If that’s all I get fuck it. I’ll take my vibrator and go play by myself.
Thursday, May 22, 2003
You are what you love, not what loves you.
~Adaptation
Wow, those are great words I think. I just watched that film for the first time tonight; I highly suggest it to anyone who hasn’t seen it. Some won’t appreciate it. Some will love it. I don’t think I can put it into words yet; it is simply something that must be seen and decided by one’s self.
I’m ready for a job, ready to write, more ready, perhaps, than ever before in my life. But the economy does not agree with me. I have sent out a story to friends for the first round of criticism. There comes a point with a story that you cannot fathom how to fix it. You know there are problems. They stare you in the eye, daring you to fix them. But for the life of you it is impossible to figure out what must be done. As the author you know what you are striving for and that constantly overshadows what you see in front of you. At that point you simply have to let friends read it, suffer the blow to the ego that will undoubtedly accompany their criticism the best you can and move on. I think perhaps it is a disillusionment of sorts when people realize stories aren’t birthed from the mind whole and perfect. An idea is there, a hope, and you write towards that. You try to capture it on paper but it fails, over and over again. A friend of mine once said this to me, “It isn’t hard to write the story. That’s just shitting all over the page. The hard part is fixing it, making it good.” He put it in perspective for me. I always knew my stories could be great if I worked on them, but I never saw it through. I got the idea on paper, out of my head and cut myself off from it. I love my imagination, it’s seen me through some very rough times and having the story thought out was enough for me. But now I want more. Now I want it to help someone else. I want to write for others.
Another friend once told me it was bullshit to write for anyone but myself. Not his exact words but the idea I think. The conversation was halted before a true debate ensued so I’ll say right now I might be warping his thoughts but that isn’t the point. The point is that some people believe that. They believe it about any art, any thing. To compose, music, literature, or art, or to compete for anyone other than you is faulty. A waste of time. I disagree. I disagree strongly. A person should live for what they want to live. If it’s other people than so be it. If it’s yourself, even better. It isn’t what you live for—it’s simply that you live. Not enough people live anymore. They hide behind cynicism and big words and forget that sometimes, simpler is better. Sometimes being your own person isn’t all that much fun. Company can be entertaining.
Some have never been their own person. They are at the other end of the spectrum having only lived for others. They don’t know what it is to self indulge because all their life, joy was wrought from making other people happy. It is all about the middle of the road. If you stay in the middle of the road you never fall off into the ditch. You never careen down into the ravine. In the middle of the road it’s always safe and smooth, minus a few potholes. There is never any danger of going over the edge.
A person must first find what makes them happy. What can you love more than anyone else? What do you think about when you dream? Or what do you wish you could dream about? Not another person. It cannot have anything to do with another person. To be of use to other people you must first be of use to yourself. To be of use to yourself you must first be able to survive, happily, alone. That means you have to know yourself. You have to know what it is you love. What do you strive for? What do you want to be when you grow up? And growing up is never done until you’re dead.
While you work towards that, while you sweat and strain to reach that goal everything else is filler. It isn’t necessary that you attain that goal; it is necessary that you have it. As long as you know what it is you want than you discover everything you need to get it. While you discover everything you need to get it you find wonderful little things along the way that help pass the time on your journey. Then, and only then, are you of use to other people. Because now you can be happy on your own striving for your own goal, or you can be happy with them helping them reach theirs. But when they drain you, when you are tired of them you can step back and retreat to your place, to your dreams. That is the key. Your dreams rejuvenate you. Striving to make yourself a better person for purely selfish reasons keeps you balanced that you can be there for others when they need you. That way you can always be there for others because you haven’t burned out.
Writing and music are my dreams. I do them inherently for me. I write a story to affect people, provoke a reaction. I perform to inspire people, entertain. But ultimately it is for me, even though the intent is to affect them. By affecting them I fulfill my own personal, selfish dream. We are at heart selfish. That isn’t a bad thing. The key is to understand the selfishness. Know how much is needed to survive and maintain sanity. That way you can help others at no real cost to yourself. It makes you happy to help others so the act is in fact selfish not selfless. But making helping them is what you’re doing so the selfish act seems selfless. Everyone goes home happy. Isn’t that better than destroying yourself for people you end up hating in the end?
Life is easier when you love it.
~Adaptation
Wow, those are great words I think. I just watched that film for the first time tonight; I highly suggest it to anyone who hasn’t seen it. Some won’t appreciate it. Some will love it. I don’t think I can put it into words yet; it is simply something that must be seen and decided by one’s self.
I’m ready for a job, ready to write, more ready, perhaps, than ever before in my life. But the economy does not agree with me. I have sent out a story to friends for the first round of criticism. There comes a point with a story that you cannot fathom how to fix it. You know there are problems. They stare you in the eye, daring you to fix them. But for the life of you it is impossible to figure out what must be done. As the author you know what you are striving for and that constantly overshadows what you see in front of you. At that point you simply have to let friends read it, suffer the blow to the ego that will undoubtedly accompany their criticism the best you can and move on. I think perhaps it is a disillusionment of sorts when people realize stories aren’t birthed from the mind whole and perfect. An idea is there, a hope, and you write towards that. You try to capture it on paper but it fails, over and over again. A friend of mine once said this to me, “It isn’t hard to write the story. That’s just shitting all over the page. The hard part is fixing it, making it good.” He put it in perspective for me. I always knew my stories could be great if I worked on them, but I never saw it through. I got the idea on paper, out of my head and cut myself off from it. I love my imagination, it’s seen me through some very rough times and having the story thought out was enough for me. But now I want more. Now I want it to help someone else. I want to write for others.
Another friend once told me it was bullshit to write for anyone but myself. Not his exact words but the idea I think. The conversation was halted before a true debate ensued so I’ll say right now I might be warping his thoughts but that isn’t the point. The point is that some people believe that. They believe it about any art, any thing. To compose, music, literature, or art, or to compete for anyone other than you is faulty. A waste of time. I disagree. I disagree strongly. A person should live for what they want to live. If it’s other people than so be it. If it’s yourself, even better. It isn’t what you live for—it’s simply that you live. Not enough people live anymore. They hide behind cynicism and big words and forget that sometimes, simpler is better. Sometimes being your own person isn’t all that much fun. Company can be entertaining.
Some have never been their own person. They are at the other end of the spectrum having only lived for others. They don’t know what it is to self indulge because all their life, joy was wrought from making other people happy. It is all about the middle of the road. If you stay in the middle of the road you never fall off into the ditch. You never careen down into the ravine. In the middle of the road it’s always safe and smooth, minus a few potholes. There is never any danger of going over the edge.
A person must first find what makes them happy. What can you love more than anyone else? What do you think about when you dream? Or what do you wish you could dream about? Not another person. It cannot have anything to do with another person. To be of use to other people you must first be of use to yourself. To be of use to yourself you must first be able to survive, happily, alone. That means you have to know yourself. You have to know what it is you love. What do you strive for? What do you want to be when you grow up? And growing up is never done until you’re dead.
While you work towards that, while you sweat and strain to reach that goal everything else is filler. It isn’t necessary that you attain that goal; it is necessary that you have it. As long as you know what it is you want than you discover everything you need to get it. While you discover everything you need to get it you find wonderful little things along the way that help pass the time on your journey. Then, and only then, are you of use to other people. Because now you can be happy on your own striving for your own goal, or you can be happy with them helping them reach theirs. But when they drain you, when you are tired of them you can step back and retreat to your place, to your dreams. That is the key. Your dreams rejuvenate you. Striving to make yourself a better person for purely selfish reasons keeps you balanced that you can be there for others when they need you. That way you can always be there for others because you haven’t burned out.
Writing and music are my dreams. I do them inherently for me. I write a story to affect people, provoke a reaction. I perform to inspire people, entertain. But ultimately it is for me, even though the intent is to affect them. By affecting them I fulfill my own personal, selfish dream. We are at heart selfish. That isn’t a bad thing. The key is to understand the selfishness. Know how much is needed to survive and maintain sanity. That way you can help others at no real cost to yourself. It makes you happy to help others so the act is in fact selfish not selfless. But making helping them is what you’re doing so the selfish act seems selfless. Everyone goes home happy. Isn’t that better than destroying yourself for people you end up hating in the end?
Life is easier when you love it.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
So I spent $58 dollars on comic books today. I never cease to amaze myself with my foolish ways. I can’t help it; comic book heroes are just too damn studly. I also went for a walk somewhere in the neighborhood of four miles, I am particularly proud of that. Not that walking four miles is a great accomplishment, but when all a person has done since graduation is sit on her ass and read comic books, walking is a very good thing. I’m still waiting for the pill that makes my double chin go away—I think I could deal with the ass and thighs if my chin would just shrink. It’s the little things in life.
So this month looks to be particularly interesting as far as mood swings go. I am definitely looking forward to the rest of the week. The further into my cycle I get the greater the chance of a bitchy response when talked to. My poor mother, this is why living at home is not a good thing. I mean honestly, who better to set a girl’s PMS off than her mother? She always wants to tell me what to do while I’m in the middle of a comic book. I don’t do a damn thing 90% of the day, talk to me then, not while I’m sleeping or reading. I know my life is so tough.
And yes, that was sarcasm for all the relatively slow people out there.
Ah, see? I’m even a bitch in the blog. You have my sincerest apologies.
Months like this I want my own mansion complete with indoor/outdoor pools, hiking trails, stables, and state of the art computer lab. And maybe a harem full of handsome men that gave great massages.
That’s not too much to ask is it?
So this month looks to be particularly interesting as far as mood swings go. I am definitely looking forward to the rest of the week. The further into my cycle I get the greater the chance of a bitchy response when talked to. My poor mother, this is why living at home is not a good thing. I mean honestly, who better to set a girl’s PMS off than her mother? She always wants to tell me what to do while I’m in the middle of a comic book. I don’t do a damn thing 90% of the day, talk to me then, not while I’m sleeping or reading. I know my life is so tough.
And yes, that was sarcasm for all the relatively slow people out there.
Ah, see? I’m even a bitch in the blog. You have my sincerest apologies.
Months like this I want my own mansion complete with indoor/outdoor pools, hiking trails, stables, and state of the art computer lab. And maybe a harem full of handsome men that gave great massages.
That’s not too much to ask is it?
Sunday, May 18, 2003
I hate it when I am a whiny snatch. Not to be crude, but sometimes the crude description is the best. I hate to lose emotion because of propriety. Let me explain. In my last entry (I believe) I harped about a teacher writing me a not nice note. Upon reevaluating the situation, as painful as it really is I would have to thank her instead of being irritated with her. I never reached angry, but I was certainly affected. It was a good thing. Every now and then it’s good to have your ass handed to you, even if all the whooping isn’t totally deserved. I think a general ass kicking with or without validation is good for the soul. Keeps a person balanced.
Here is the problem with modern society. Everyone pussyfoots around everyone else and is so scared of saying the wrong thing nothing ever gets said. What does get said is so watered-down and tactful that the real emotion behind the words, the very thing the speaker is trying to communicate is lost. The general idea might make it across but not the specific. No one says, “You are a fucking asshole and need to stop stroking your cock.” Instead it’s “hey, that wasn’t cool man.” Granted the first quote might make an appearance in an argument but that isn’t the time for such a statement. Arguments are the time to think things through, be very careful what you say since emotions are out of control and thoughts lose all logic. In every day conversation bluntness is wonderful. It might catch people off guard, it might even offend them, but there is never any confusion where you stand.
I’ve found there are two types of people where bluntness is concerned. Type A) gets in a huff, completely ignores what you are telling them and concentrates instead on how you are telling them. For these people such bluntness is useless unless you’re looking for a good show. Type B) is another situation entirely. These people might be offended at first, but come to their senses within a marginal amount of time. You can always rely on them to think through what has been said and come to a decent conclusion concerning it. I fall into type B. It is a definite possibility I will bite your head off if confronted with such bluntness, but after a bit of pondering I will come to my own conclusion and have one hell of a discussion with you. I do, in fact, appreciate in the end. The letter, while mildly offensive and certainly blunt, did one very spectacular thing for me: it made me think. Whether I agree with her or not is inconsequential. What matters is that she told it to me how she saw fit, no catering to my thoughts, no tactfulness, just good old fashioned, no Vaseline ass-rape. I can respect that. It made me consider aspects of my life. It made me look at my writing in a new way. It made me refuse to settle for “okay”. I might still give her a fuck you, but a thank you is definitely close on its heels.
Here is the problem with modern society. Everyone pussyfoots around everyone else and is so scared of saying the wrong thing nothing ever gets said. What does get said is so watered-down and tactful that the real emotion behind the words, the very thing the speaker is trying to communicate is lost. The general idea might make it across but not the specific. No one says, “You are a fucking asshole and need to stop stroking your cock.” Instead it’s “hey, that wasn’t cool man.” Granted the first quote might make an appearance in an argument but that isn’t the time for such a statement. Arguments are the time to think things through, be very careful what you say since emotions are out of control and thoughts lose all logic. In every day conversation bluntness is wonderful. It might catch people off guard, it might even offend them, but there is never any confusion where you stand.
I’ve found there are two types of people where bluntness is concerned. Type A) gets in a huff, completely ignores what you are telling them and concentrates instead on how you are telling them. For these people such bluntness is useless unless you’re looking for a good show. Type B) is another situation entirely. These people might be offended at first, but come to their senses within a marginal amount of time. You can always rely on them to think through what has been said and come to a decent conclusion concerning it. I fall into type B. It is a definite possibility I will bite your head off if confronted with such bluntness, but after a bit of pondering I will come to my own conclusion and have one hell of a discussion with you. I do, in fact, appreciate in the end. The letter, while mildly offensive and certainly blunt, did one very spectacular thing for me: it made me think. Whether I agree with her or not is inconsequential. What matters is that she told it to me how she saw fit, no catering to my thoughts, no tactfulness, just good old fashioned, no Vaseline ass-rape. I can respect that. It made me consider aspects of my life. It made me look at my writing in a new way. It made me refuse to settle for “okay”. I might still give her a fuck you, but a thank you is definitely close on its heels.
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