Yet another Christmas has disappeared within the hours of the day. It's so strange how something that was once so magical as a kid is so simple when you hit puberty. The little ones, after a long day of beating (me, not them), fall asleep in bed, and we all put the gifts under the tree, build the train sets, hang the stockings by the chimney with care (except not really because they're far too heavy for that). How the kids manage to open presents longer than anyone because toys (can be/are) so cheap. Adults get a few decent sized gifts and then it's done. Then you eat lunch. Maybe watch a movie. Or spend the afternoon doing crafts with a friend like I did...and then work for 6.1 hours for time and a half. Cater entertainment, representing yourself as the only open business in town.
And then before you know it, you start writing a blog until it's the 26th of December.
It's strange not having all your brothers and sisters around for the whole day...or even to not have them there at all. For them to disappear right after lunch. For them to arrive late. To not be the youngest squirt running around beating people.
This year, I dub Casual Christmas.
<3<3<3
I don't know what to talk about so I'll take this excerpt to gripe more on the subject of honesty. I am a needy person. What is it that I need? The whole truth.
I'm not someone who just hates being lied to, though that of course is one of the worst things you can do (especially when I announce the truth and you just deny it). I'm someone who wants all the facts. I'm not that person who "doesn't want to know." I am a big girl, world.
I can handle the truth.
I can handle a lot of things.
<3<3<3
Self-exploration, we could talk about that more, right? Jesus, I always talk about the same seven things. I guess telling people on the phone that "yes, we are indeed open, that's why I'm answering" all day wore me out. (I'm a wuss. Some people have actual jobs and I should shove it.)
Yet anyways. It's funny, realizing the changes you go through.
Most people naturally transform, and I did up until recently, until I decided to take control.
People talk about a poetic license when writing...I like to think I have a writer's license on life. I use it as my excuse to try anything I want. Anything. Whether, you know, that's something like diet pepsi (argh, diet!) or a new skin. Ha, let me tell you, I have a blast trying on a new skin.
I am an introvert (hear me roar). So it's hard, the new skin thing sometimes.
But I also had a high school drama teacher for a mother.
I can successfully pretend to be anything I want. And sometimes I'm so good that I let people know I'm pretending so they won't really know when I am. They'll think I'm obvious.
I like catching people off guard, collecting their reactions in my safe.
I like convincing teachers I'm quiet and a rule-follower.
I like convincing strangers I'm more interesting than I really am.
I like convincing acquaintances to rapidly adapt their first, second, third impressions of me.
I like convincing my friends I have some sense.
I like trying on good and evil for size.
I really like convincing people I'm insane.
I like to think I'm this pretty sensible person, actually (and maybe that's the reason I'm not). But I had a crazy father growing up. I've watched all these Lifetime movies with my mother with these fascinating characters. I've often wondered what it would feel like to be crazy.
So I don't do it so obviously that someone's going to throw me in a mental ward, but very slyly, one of my many experiments.
I like watching people squirm.
Life is boring. I like laughing. So I make it interesting; at least for myself. Not everyone enjoys it, and by everyone I'm referring to the receiving end.
You know, it seems like the criminally insane are some of the most ingenious people ever. My father, that man's a declared sociopath, but I won't deny his wit. Not only is he extremely good at chess (that's only half-meant to be a joke, because I'm serious), but he can bug your house and stalk you better than Richard Ramirez (because that dude got the death penalty and my "daddy" just got breast cancer).
All those freaky psychopaths, sick and twisted and demented as they come...they're quite brilliant.
But have no fear, friends. This is not me admitting to being crazy. I'm just a writer. I just like trying things. Like diet pepsi and new skins. (Not of other people. I'm not Buffalo Bill.)
I'm just an actor in training. I'm learning to deceive you like you all have deceived me. I am the most sane person you might ever meet. I am a future psychologist. I love people. I love messing with people. I love butterfly effects.
Anyways, the most insane thing in the world is a person who's not the least bit insane.
So does "pretending" to be crazy make you crazy?
Good question...I was born on the day of the convincing storyteller.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Let them hate, so long as they fear.
I don't have anything to say today. I did. But I lost it a couple of hours ago, through the need of a pill that will make me not want to sleep all day.
So, I'll just do what I always do, eh?
<3<3<3
I have a kleptobession. With hats. Why?
<3<3<3
Have you ever wondered what you've done to someone? To make them...dislike you, lose respect for you, whatever it may be. This is the story of my life, and yours, and your sibling's.
Were you ever walking around the gym during PE in middle school, had a future meth-addict point at you and say, "I hate that girl" (even if you're a boy; especially if you're a boy)? I have.
But I'm (biologically) a girl, so it's not as weird.
We live in a strange world, kids. I'd leave it to everyone "judging a book by it's cover," but man, nowadays, they don't even bother checking out the cover half the time. We're all getting sized up. Seriously, I can't tell you how many times throughout the public school system I heard of people "hating" others...ones that they had never spoken to.
In one version of the story, it's due to reputation. Some guy screws a girl over, and sure, her friends are going to hate this guy whether they'd met him or not (or screw him, that is). That's what friends are supposed to do, I guess. You know. Have similar interests. Similar hates.
In the other version, though, I constantly see people claiming to hate one another for no reason. Maybe it's because they fit a certain group's description, like a friend of mine who hates hipsters, or Hitler hating the Jews. I guess that falls under reputation, kind of. I won't lie. I've thought about hating those teenagers that come to the movies on Friday and Saturday nights and cause a ruckus.
Sometimes, I guess it's just bad vibes. Someone forewarned me about a future roommate once, and this roommate probably didn't do anything to that person. It's our God-forsaken right to simply dislike someone.
Isn't it?
...isn't it?
Yeah. Yeah. If disliking someone makes you happy, albeit, you're on your pursuit (at least you have that government-forsaken right where I hail from). As long as you don't like...jump on them and pull a Mark Wahlberg in Fear and kick their ass for it. Actually, that's not really related, but my mother decided to get me some Lifetime movie at a garage sale and call it an early Christmas present. Makes me think she thinks I'm going to get in some abusive relationship like her, her bottle-feeding me all these LMN movies since I was a baby.
[To bracket a side note before a tangent, she should know better. I'd never stay with an abusive bitch. First strike, you're out, hoe. She should know by now I just keep dating losers anyways. Ha, people who've given me a reason to dislike them. Although, that's not totally true. Recently attempted to add the whopping three of them on Facebook. I think I'm more over their shit than they are, too, man. So I don't really dislike any of them that much (though I do find them all at least slightly pathetic, but that's more than not of the people I know, including myself [especially myself]). I've come to realize people are people, and we're young for a reason (to abuse our youth! and selves, so we can get wiser and stuff, right?). I enjoy watching people transform, as I seem to mention a lot. Best friends, family, and "significant" others are the best to do so with. Family knows you for forever, naturally. Best friends, you learn all about their past and spend future times with them. And those others, ha, you get that story in an hour (whether that's the entire and/or wholly truthful story is something else entirely), and go through phases as quick as possible: you meet them 'cause they're nice to you, date them 'cause they stay nice, dump them 'cause they're not, and if you're lucky, you can see that they still have lame troll profile pictures like the stuff they were into when you met, or they're an even bigger ass and won't add you at all ;); and maybe run into them several years down the road when you've got these beautiful kids and they've got AIDs. Transformations in a jiffy.]
Eh, back to haters hating, though.
We just don't give anyone a chance anymore.
I have this philosophy. (I have many of those.)
We could all get along, if we met each other at the right place, right time, under the right circumstances. Isn't that what happens with friendships and lovers anyways? Really, that was just your lucky draw. You could have had the same lucky draw with the person sitting next to you in your Writing Composition class, but the stars just weren't quite aligned.
Technically, we're all actually compatible. But because we're always so quick to judge, it doesn't always work out. All that person has to do is not hold the door open for you, or say thank you when you do. The goth and the cheerleader could've been best friends, until some simple misunderstanding and a cat fight to follow.
When you're in the perfect circumstances, anything could work out. Say you meet somebody in a speed-dating thing (a friend threatened to set me up with that, by the way), and you're...soul mates, or some shit. Perhaps one little thing could have changed it and you would have never seen them again. Say you just got out of a relationship and weren't ready (although for someone else that might would be exactly what you need). I don't know, I do know that I'm making no sense, and I'm not articulating this well.
My point that I can't back up is that no matter how different (or similar) two people are when you look at their charts, if the circumstances are just right, they match up.
But the circumstances aren't right, and you just got a speeding ticket which put you in a bad mood, so you just got a customer complaint from someone who, in another time/space continuum, could have been your best friend.
All that matters in this world is circumstance.
All that matters is chance.
Because you can't control circumstances.
<3<3<3
Which makes me think of something else.
You can't control people either. You can't control their choices. Your circumstances and theirs must line up for the best results.
I have learned that through trial and error. No matter how hard I will someone to do something, to say something...they don't.
Because life is not my story to write, apparently.
And you, you aren't my character.
<3<3<3
Wish I could write a blog without using the word(?) I for once.
<3<3<3
There's a lunar eclipse tonight, and I hope you see it.
So, I'll just do what I always do, eh?
<3<3<3
I have a kleptobession. With hats. Why?
<3<3<3
Have you ever wondered what you've done to someone? To make them...dislike you, lose respect for you, whatever it may be. This is the story of my life, and yours, and your sibling's.
Were you ever walking around the gym during PE in middle school, had a future meth-addict point at you and say, "I hate that girl" (even if you're a boy; especially if you're a boy)? I have.
But I'm (biologically) a girl, so it's not as weird.
We live in a strange world, kids. I'd leave it to everyone "judging a book by it's cover," but man, nowadays, they don't even bother checking out the cover half the time. We're all getting sized up. Seriously, I can't tell you how many times throughout the public school system I heard of people "hating" others...ones that they had never spoken to.
In one version of the story, it's due to reputation. Some guy screws a girl over, and sure, her friends are going to hate this guy whether they'd met him or not (or screw him, that is). That's what friends are supposed to do, I guess. You know. Have similar interests. Similar hates.
In the other version, though, I constantly see people claiming to hate one another for no reason. Maybe it's because they fit a certain group's description, like a friend of mine who hates hipsters, or Hitler hating the Jews. I guess that falls under reputation, kind of. I won't lie. I've thought about hating those teenagers that come to the movies on Friday and Saturday nights and cause a ruckus.
Sometimes, I guess it's just bad vibes. Someone forewarned me about a future roommate once, and this roommate probably didn't do anything to that person. It's our God-forsaken right to simply dislike someone.
Isn't it?
...isn't it?
Yeah. Yeah. If disliking someone makes you happy, albeit, you're on your pursuit (at least you have that government-forsaken right where I hail from). As long as you don't like...jump on them and pull a Mark Wahlberg in Fear and kick their ass for it. Actually, that's not really related, but my mother decided to get me some Lifetime movie at a garage sale and call it an early Christmas present. Makes me think she thinks I'm going to get in some abusive relationship like her, her bottle-feeding me all these LMN movies since I was a baby.
[To bracket a side note before a tangent, she should know better. I'd never stay with an abusive bitch. First strike, you're out, hoe. She should know by now I just keep dating losers anyways. Ha, people who've given me a reason to dislike them. Although, that's not totally true. Recently attempted to add the whopping three of them on Facebook. I think I'm more over their shit than they are, too, man. So I don't really dislike any of them that much (though I do find them all at least slightly pathetic, but that's more than not of the people I know, including myself [especially myself]). I've come to realize people are people, and we're young for a reason (to abuse our youth! and selves, so we can get wiser and stuff, right?). I enjoy watching people transform, as I seem to mention a lot. Best friends, family, and "significant" others are the best to do so with. Family knows you for forever, naturally. Best friends, you learn all about their past and spend future times with them. And those others, ha, you get that story in an hour (whether that's the entire and/or wholly truthful story is something else entirely), and go through phases as quick as possible: you meet them 'cause they're nice to you, date them 'cause they stay nice, dump them 'cause they're not, and if you're lucky, you can see that they still have lame troll profile pictures like the stuff they were into when you met, or they're an even bigger ass and won't add you at all ;); and maybe run into them several years down the road when you've got these beautiful kids and they've got AIDs. Transformations in a jiffy.]
Eh, back to haters hating, though.
We just don't give anyone a chance anymore.
I have this philosophy. (I have many of those.)
We could all get along, if we met each other at the right place, right time, under the right circumstances. Isn't that what happens with friendships and lovers anyways? Really, that was just your lucky draw. You could have had the same lucky draw with the person sitting next to you in your Writing Composition class, but the stars just weren't quite aligned.
Technically, we're all actually compatible. But because we're always so quick to judge, it doesn't always work out. All that person has to do is not hold the door open for you, or say thank you when you do. The goth and the cheerleader could've been best friends, until some simple misunderstanding and a cat fight to follow.
When you're in the perfect circumstances, anything could work out. Say you meet somebody in a speed-dating thing (a friend threatened to set me up with that, by the way), and you're...soul mates, or some shit. Perhaps one little thing could have changed it and you would have never seen them again. Say you just got out of a relationship and weren't ready (although for someone else that might would be exactly what you need). I don't know, I do know that I'm making no sense, and I'm not articulating this well.
My point that I can't back up is that no matter how different (or similar) two people are when you look at their charts, if the circumstances are just right, they match up.
But the circumstances aren't right, and you just got a speeding ticket which put you in a bad mood, so you just got a customer complaint from someone who, in another time/space continuum, could have been your best friend.
All that matters in this world is circumstance.
All that matters is chance.
Because you can't control circumstances.
<3<3<3
Which makes me think of something else.
You can't control people either. You can't control their choices. Your circumstances and theirs must line up for the best results.
I have learned that through trial and error. No matter how hard I will someone to do something, to say something...they don't.
Because life is not my story to write, apparently.
And you, you aren't my character.
<3<3<3
Wish I could write a blog without using the word(?) I for once.
<3<3<3
There's a lunar eclipse tonight, and I hope you see it.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Lady Sing the Blues So Well.
Number One: I hate Crohn's. I don't even have enough time to write this right now without a break.
Number Two: I hate insecurity. You've all been lookin' for my roots, and here's the truth that I've finally found: no. No one wants it to be a competition: it shouldn't be. But it is. And I always lose. [You can win, you can lose, you can just not play, and the last is worst than the middle. (So I'm rewriting the rules.)]
Number Three: I hate you. You is not you-the-reader-you. You is someone that I refuse to childishly outright call by name, and therefore result to childishly beating around the bush like any old girl.
And one of those numbers is wrong.
Because I don't hate anyone. I really don't. There are people I can barely stand, and people I can't respect, and maybe even people I'm scared of. (They tell me you're not supposed to end sentences with prepositions. That's why I'm an ex-English major, but not really.)
But buddy, let me tell you. (Oh sheer irony to be understood by no one, here. That wasn't on purpose.) I want to make you suffer. Because I'm not nice like they all keep saying. Because I'm bitter. And I am so bitter, so cruel, that I am not going to call you out on it. And I'm not going to let you apologize.
I'm going to make you call yourself out in front of everyone, because that's the worst thing I could make you do.
Merry Christmas, boy.
<3<3<3
Dear world: Please show me honesty.
Seriously. Strip yourself down to the core. (Speaking of strip, wearing no pants in this house was a mistake.) You can be as terrible as you want, I don't care.
Just spit it out. Don't lie about it. Lemme study your upchuck, word for word.
I am an investigator. I want to know everything.
Enlighten me.
<3<3<3
Oh, and dear USPS?
I don't even know if I'd rather my Lexapro or bass get here first, or even that classy Vinyl that's supposedly heading my way, but could you step on it?
<3<3<3
I've heard two contradictories today: Cynicism is sanity. Optimism is sanity.
I am optimistically cynical.
<3<3<3
As if I mean this.
Number Two: I hate insecurity. You've all been lookin' for my roots, and here's the truth that I've finally found: no. No one wants it to be a competition: it shouldn't be. But it is. And I always lose. [You can win, you can lose, you can just not play, and the last is worst than the middle. (So I'm rewriting the rules.)]
Number Three: I hate you. You is not you-the-reader-you. You is someone that I refuse to childishly outright call by name, and therefore result to childishly beating around the bush like any old girl.
And one of those numbers is wrong.
Because I don't hate anyone. I really don't. There are people I can barely stand, and people I can't respect, and maybe even people I'm scared of. (They tell me you're not supposed to end sentences with prepositions. That's why I'm an ex-English major, but not really.)
But buddy, let me tell you. (Oh sheer irony to be understood by no one, here. That wasn't on purpose.) I want to make you suffer. Because I'm not nice like they all keep saying. Because I'm bitter. And I am so bitter, so cruel, that I am not going to call you out on it. And I'm not going to let you apologize.
I'm going to make you call yourself out in front of everyone, because that's the worst thing I could make you do.
Merry Christmas, boy.
<3<3<3
Dear world: Please show me honesty.
Seriously. Strip yourself down to the core. (Speaking of strip, wearing no pants in this house was a mistake.) You can be as terrible as you want, I don't care.
Just spit it out. Don't lie about it. Lemme study your upchuck, word for word.
I am an investigator. I want to know everything.
Enlighten me.
<3<3<3
Oh, and dear USPS?
I don't even know if I'd rather my Lexapro or bass get here first, or even that classy Vinyl that's supposedly heading my way, but could you step on it?
<3<3<3
I've heard two contradictories today: Cynicism is sanity. Optimism is sanity.
I am optimistically cynical.
<3<3<3
As if I mean this.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Walt Disney had musophobia, which is the fear of mice.
Be forewarned, I have nothing to say (as usual). I just, for some absurd reason, thought it was a good idea to blog in the tub.
Now, it's not as sexy as that sounds: I'm not stupid. I'm not going to kill my laptop, nor myself.
I'm actually sitting in a dirty tub full of toys not meant for water, one ran by a five year old.
I am here to hide. In these walls of stone.
What is louder than college, you may ask? Two abnormally loud TV's, occasionally three (four if I would use mine) [we try to keep it American around here]. On different channels. One's always on the news or a horse race, maybe the occasional SNL or Cops. The other is either on a talk show, HGTV, or some Lifetime movie.
But that's not the problem. Nor is the constantly ringing self-employed business phone.
The problem is the King of the Tub.
He is loud, and he made a flour pool in the kitchen.
I hear him banging his trucks around in the living room now, through the walls with pipes, insulation, and tile. He is the terrorizing dictator of this household, and here I am, hiding in a dirty bathtub full of toys. Call it the ghetto.
Yet I'm not Anne Frank, and I don't have a tale worth telling in this electronic diary.
I'm just here, man.
<3<3<3
I don't know why I interrupted, there. I don't have a new point. I have nothing to say.
I watched the Expendables a bit ago with some good company: I've realized that action flicks are often even cornier than chick flicks.
Bodies don't work like that in those scenarios; oh, trust me. I know.
<3<3<3
You know, I really miss those pills you used to drop in a full sink that would turn into dinosaur sponges. I'm staring at some now; mom never used to get me those all the time. Kid cuisines either. Grandkids are different.
So I guess I found my topic.
Kids, man. Why do we all think we're worthy of reproducing? Who made our heads so big that we thought it'd be a good idea to have little replicas running around? I mean, when you think about it, we're either all brainwashed copies of our parents (with a little variety from society/government), or we smarted up (maybe) and became complete opposites.
Why does the semi-obvious purpose of life seem to be to reproduce?
Often times it seems the people who shouldn't are the ones who do so the most.
How many times have you been in public and thought to yourself, what a terrible parent? Ha, let me tell you, never tell your sister-in-law that (refer to Thanksgiving post).
These poor future generations.
People talk bad 'bout all these designer babies and what not...but man, aren't our own kids our little experiments? We just try out our "parenting skills" on them, make notes on how they turn out. Taste test at the end (sounds bad but) do we like them or not?
We don't need to keep putting more kids in the world. We seem to forget the ones that've already been cooked in the oven, their dough is a'risin', and no cook's a'there to watch 'em.
So let's adopt one a dem overpriced Chinese girlies and "experiment" on them.
Maybe a douchebag like myself can teach her some sense, show her the world, shining shimmering splendid--and that's the problem; we all think that. We all think we'd make a better parent than someone else.
And personally, I have little patience. And those Health class videos have scared me for good. Me no make good mom.
I think sitting in this tub is getting to me.
Why is the American dream to have a good job, spouse, kids, and house? What made that ideal? I mean, job/house=security, and family=love...but who's secure anymore, and where is the fucking love? Have you checked the divorce rates?
No one hardly loves anyone anymore.
So here we are, stuck in this autopilot, and we keep going to school and marrying and getting a job and reproducing and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and retiring when we're too old to do anything so we can die.
We crabs like security, brosef. [I don't want to hear it; your local paper's astrology may be shit, but the stuff itself is real, you don't even know. Not saying you can predict your future but my birth chart's been pinned to a T, and they know me better than I do. We all believe in something, right? Even if that belief is not to believe in anything.] And I hate that.
This semester, I've been trying to abandon a bit of that classic American dream. I've been trying things, living things, cutting strings, being young (you know, before I'm responsible for my little Chinese kid). It's not who I am. Better, it's not who I was. It is who I am. It may not be who I am tomorrow, though. Only time will tell that.
And it isn't amazing, honestly, letting loose.
But it's better.
I asked this once, and I'll say it again: Have you ever became (what you would consider) a worse person, and liked yourself more? 'Cause man, I have.
I'm young, and I think I'll fall right back into the pattern of that American picket fence in two and a half years if I'm not careful...so for now, I think I'm going to try and enjoy life.
They talk about those rebel kids, but unless they cross the line of another person's pursuit of happiness...there isn't anything wrong with what they do. They're testing out their shells. They're writing their stories and experience. They're seeing just how much they can take. I mean, they're living. What's the point of life but not that journey "they" keep talking about? If you're the same person along the way, what the hell kind of journey is that?
Honey, this shell's in a constant morph.
<3<3<3
Then again, this world just keeps getting more and more text, more and more information. The Library of Congress, the limits of the internet, they're all filling up. It's all because we think we all have something worth saying, especially ladies and douchebags. Ladies can't keep their traps shut, much like my nephew, and douchebags have that ego where they think everything they say means something.
We do all have something to say.
Just not everything we have to say is worth hearing, and with all of this piling up, Google keeps giving me crap results that I have to sort through 'cause some 12 year old from Nebraska decided to blog about it. Even ChaCha can't give me a decent answer with all the shit it has to browse.
So I'll stop mine now.
Saw on Facebook (^I lied, didn't I?) some kid's mouth being an asshole cause all the shit that comes out of it. Time to bleach it like Bruno, baby.
Now, it's not as sexy as that sounds: I'm not stupid. I'm not going to kill my laptop, nor myself.
I'm actually sitting in a dirty tub full of toys not meant for water, one ran by a five year old.
I am here to hide. In these walls of stone.
What is louder than college, you may ask? Two abnormally loud TV's, occasionally three (four if I would use mine) [we try to keep it American around here]. On different channels. One's always on the news or a horse race, maybe the occasional SNL or Cops. The other is either on a talk show, HGTV, or some Lifetime movie.
But that's not the problem. Nor is the constantly ringing self-employed business phone.
The problem is the King of the Tub.
He is loud, and he made a flour pool in the kitchen.
I hear him banging his trucks around in the living room now, through the walls with pipes, insulation, and tile. He is the terrorizing dictator of this household, and here I am, hiding in a dirty bathtub full of toys. Call it the ghetto.
Yet I'm not Anne Frank, and I don't have a tale worth telling in this electronic diary.
I'm just here, man.
<3<3<3
I don't know why I interrupted, there. I don't have a new point. I have nothing to say.
I watched the Expendables a bit ago with some good company: I've realized that action flicks are often even cornier than chick flicks.
Bodies don't work like that in those scenarios; oh, trust me. I know.
<3<3<3
You know, I really miss those pills you used to drop in a full sink that would turn into dinosaur sponges. I'm staring at some now; mom never used to get me those all the time. Kid cuisines either. Grandkids are different.
So I guess I found my topic.
Kids, man. Why do we all think we're worthy of reproducing? Who made our heads so big that we thought it'd be a good idea to have little replicas running around? I mean, when you think about it, we're either all brainwashed copies of our parents (with a little variety from society/government), or we smarted up (maybe) and became complete opposites.
Why does the semi-obvious purpose of life seem to be to reproduce?
Often times it seems the people who shouldn't are the ones who do so the most.
How many times have you been in public and thought to yourself, what a terrible parent? Ha, let me tell you, never tell your sister-in-law that (refer to Thanksgiving post).
These poor future generations.
People talk bad 'bout all these designer babies and what not...but man, aren't our own kids our little experiments? We just try out our "parenting skills" on them, make notes on how they turn out. Taste test at the end (sounds bad but) do we like them or not?
We don't need to keep putting more kids in the world. We seem to forget the ones that've already been cooked in the oven, their dough is a'risin', and no cook's a'there to watch 'em.
So let's adopt one a dem overpriced Chinese girlies and "experiment" on them.
Maybe a douchebag like myself can teach her some sense, show her the world, shining shimmering splendid--and that's the problem; we all think that. We all think we'd make a better parent than someone else.
And personally, I have little patience. And those Health class videos have scared me for good. Me no make good mom.
I think sitting in this tub is getting to me.
Why is the American dream to have a good job, spouse, kids, and house? What made that ideal? I mean, job/house=security, and family=love...but who's secure anymore, and where is the fucking love? Have you checked the divorce rates?
No one hardly loves anyone anymore.
So here we are, stuck in this autopilot, and we keep going to school and marrying and getting a job and reproducing and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and working our job and paying taxes and retiring when we're too old to do anything so we can die.
We crabs like security, brosef. [I don't want to hear it; your local paper's astrology may be shit, but the stuff itself is real, you don't even know. Not saying you can predict your future but my birth chart's been pinned to a T, and they know me better than I do. We all believe in something, right? Even if that belief is not to believe in anything.] And I hate that.
This semester, I've been trying to abandon a bit of that classic American dream. I've been trying things, living things, cutting strings, being young (you know, before I'm responsible for my little Chinese kid). It's not who I am. Better, it's not who I was. It is who I am. It may not be who I am tomorrow, though. Only time will tell that.
And it isn't amazing, honestly, letting loose.
But it's better.
I asked this once, and I'll say it again: Have you ever became (what you would consider) a worse person, and liked yourself more? 'Cause man, I have.
I'm young, and I think I'll fall right back into the pattern of that American picket fence in two and a half years if I'm not careful...so for now, I think I'm going to try and enjoy life.
They talk about those rebel kids, but unless they cross the line of another person's pursuit of happiness...there isn't anything wrong with what they do. They're testing out their shells. They're writing their stories and experience. They're seeing just how much they can take. I mean, they're living. What's the point of life but not that journey "they" keep talking about? If you're the same person along the way, what the hell kind of journey is that?
Honey, this shell's in a constant morph.
<3<3<3
Then again, this world just keeps getting more and more text, more and more information. The Library of Congress, the limits of the internet, they're all filling up. It's all because we think we all have something worth saying, especially ladies and douchebags. Ladies can't keep their traps shut, much like my nephew, and douchebags have that ego where they think everything they say means something.
We do all have something to say.
Just not everything we have to say is worth hearing, and with all of this piling up, Google keeps giving me crap results that I have to sort through 'cause some 12 year old from Nebraska decided to blog about it. Even ChaCha can't give me a decent answer with all the shit it has to browse.
So I'll stop mine now.
Saw on Facebook (^I lied, didn't I?) some kid's mouth being an asshole cause all the shit that comes out of it. Time to bleach it like Bruno, baby.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Lost & Found
I lose things a lot.
For instance, my ID card. My keys. My sanity.
Important things, like my car insurance & sentimental jewelry.
Sometimes I lose hope.
But I usually find things, I guess with a little ole help from St. Anthony. I'm pretty sure he just needs to adopt me. Trade places with my shadow.
I was writing a blog during health class a week ago, after a deep talk with a friend (she will be utterly disappointed to know she could have added another blog about her), and I had some good thoughts (I tend to lose those too before I can find a keyboard). They were dismissed by impeccable pictures of charmingly tasty STD's; you know, those slides they show in class, on TV. It was exactly like that.
Not only did I lose my train of thought then, but apparently I lost that word document, which I assure you could have potentially been more entertaining than this one.
Who am I kidding?
But I lost that one too.
Thing is, I usually find things; this time auto-save didn't have my back. Stupid Mac's.
I lose money a lot, because I'm too nice.
But I figure I deserve it, because I'm not really that nice of a person, contrary to popular belief. Then again, maybe this is just my self-deprication kicking in. I do believe I left my Lexapro in the dorm, after all.
My mom, she loses things too, and she usually blames me. Maybe two out of a hundred times it is, but hey, that 98% of the time has to count for something. Let her in on that.
She finds stuff too, maybe less frequently than me. So maybe I should rephrase. I "misplace" things quite often.
But to the point, that I never seem to get to (indeed, I'm always beating, right 'round the bush, folks)...is that my mother found something pretty cool.
See, my brother, Chris, died when he was nineteen years old; I was four. I think people overlook that because of my age, but no matter how old you are, when exposed, we all must deal with death. But that's not the point (again). Every December 12th (for that was his birthday), my mom gives a "Chris present." I wasn't here then, but tonight I unwrapped Pan's Labyrinth. That isn't the cool part, though it is a pretty excepcional movie (get it?).
We reuse things around these parts: like Christmas bags. She was digging around, emptying out an old bag, and after all these years, she found a tag in his writing, addressed "To: My Karen, From: Chris." My cousin called it a hug from heaven.
It makes me think of something an old friend mentioned today. Something 'bout them Christian people. And how everyone thinks they have to believe in something, and that this friend does not. The belief is not to believe. Which makes no sense to me, however, but goes on to add that they always say "they know where they're going when they die."
I don't know if my brother knew where he was going.
I think he knew when though. I get the feeling we get the feeling before we go.
(Ha, I was once called an old soul. At times I feel wise, and at times I feel plain silly. Today I feel both, but 95% silly, and this blog's probably full of it.)
And I don't know where my brother is. My eyes managed to lose sight of him.
But I think that wherever he may be, heaven, black holes, skeletons six feet under, whatever your theory is: he is, and he's somewhere where he can see me. So he can say hi.
I'm not sure why he chose to say hi now.
I've said hi to him a few times; I'm that crazy girl in the Catholic cemetery with an ever-changing hair color. Hell, I'm that crazy girl in general.
I'm only sane enough to recognize the fact.
But we talk about how we've "lost" our relatives x-amount of years ago.
Anyways, I don't think we can lose people.
We can lose faith, cellphones, and Christmas tags, and we can even misplace people.
But they're never really gone.
<3<3<3
I usually post a video of sorts, and I've been slacking lately, but sometimes when things you read get you down, you should just let them. And if you still need a pickerupper go to your local booze joint.
I guess this ex-english-major will go get a tumblr so I won't keep losing the things I mean to say.
I'm a female, and I need to learn word economy.
I'm a "writer," and I need to learn how to use words.
For instance, my ID card. My keys. My sanity.
Important things, like my car insurance & sentimental jewelry.
Sometimes I lose hope.
But I usually find things, I guess with a little ole help from St. Anthony. I'm pretty sure he just needs to adopt me. Trade places with my shadow.
I was writing a blog during health class a week ago, after a deep talk with a friend (she will be utterly disappointed to know she could have added another blog about her), and I had some good thoughts (I tend to lose those too before I can find a keyboard). They were dismissed by impeccable pictures of charmingly tasty STD's; you know, those slides they show in class, on TV. It was exactly like that.
Not only did I lose my train of thought then, but apparently I lost that word document, which I assure you could have potentially been more entertaining than this one.
Who am I kidding?
But I lost that one too.
Thing is, I usually find things; this time auto-save didn't have my back. Stupid Mac's.
I lose money a lot, because I'm too nice.
But I figure I deserve it, because I'm not really that nice of a person, contrary to popular belief. Then again, maybe this is just my self-deprication kicking in. I do believe I left my Lexapro in the dorm, after all.
My mom, she loses things too, and she usually blames me. Maybe two out of a hundred times it is, but hey, that 98% of the time has to count for something. Let her in on that.
She finds stuff too, maybe less frequently than me. So maybe I should rephrase. I "misplace" things quite often.
But to the point, that I never seem to get to (indeed, I'm always beating, right 'round the bush, folks)...is that my mother found something pretty cool.
See, my brother, Chris, died when he was nineteen years old; I was four. I think people overlook that because of my age, but no matter how old you are, when exposed, we all must deal with death. But that's not the point (again). Every December 12th (for that was his birthday), my mom gives a "Chris present." I wasn't here then, but tonight I unwrapped Pan's Labyrinth. That isn't the cool part, though it is a pretty excepcional movie (get it?).
We reuse things around these parts: like Christmas bags. She was digging around, emptying out an old bag, and after all these years, she found a tag in his writing, addressed "To: My Karen, From: Chris." My cousin called it a hug from heaven.
It makes me think of something an old friend mentioned today. Something 'bout them Christian people. And how everyone thinks they have to believe in something, and that this friend does not. The belief is not to believe. Which makes no sense to me, however, but goes on to add that they always say "they know where they're going when they die."
I don't know if my brother knew where he was going.
I think he knew when though. I get the feeling we get the feeling before we go.
(Ha, I was once called an old soul. At times I feel wise, and at times I feel plain silly. Today I feel both, but 95% silly, and this blog's probably full of it.)
And I don't know where my brother is. My eyes managed to lose sight of him.
But I think that wherever he may be, heaven, black holes, skeletons six feet under, whatever your theory is: he is, and he's somewhere where he can see me. So he can say hi.
I'm not sure why he chose to say hi now.
I've said hi to him a few times; I'm that crazy girl in the Catholic cemetery with an ever-changing hair color. Hell, I'm that crazy girl in general.
I'm only sane enough to recognize the fact.
But we talk about how we've "lost" our relatives x-amount of years ago.
Anyways, I don't think we can lose people.
We can lose faith, cellphones, and Christmas tags, and we can even misplace people.
But they're never really gone.
<3<3<3
I usually post a video of sorts, and I've been slacking lately, but sometimes when things you read get you down, you should just let them. And if you still need a pickerupper go to your local booze joint.
I guess this ex-english-major will go get a tumblr so I won't keep losing the things I mean to say.
I'm a female, and I need to learn word economy.
I'm a "writer," and I need to learn how to use words.
Monday, December 6, 2010
You can marry a dog in India: legally.
And finally … how to fall in love
|
How does a shark find fish? It can hear their hearts beating.
It was today, in 1865, that the 13th Amendment to our Constitution was ratified, banning slavery. Can I get a "thank the Lord"? I can't imagine ever thinking that another human being is less than myself...how terrible it is to imagine. To mistreat someone in that way. To think of a person as property.
Disgusting.
Really. To think of yourself as better than anything. You aren't. You're just you, and you of all people know you aren't perfect.
Brings me back to my AI class, and how we wonder how the relationship between human beings and robots will be. Will they come to realization that they're our slaves and rise up? Is it immoral to have robot slaves? Do they have rights? Will we have the same kind of wars for the metal race?
And to think of those movies, where they go on without us. There Will Come Soft Rains and WALL-E. How they can just keep going...long after we're gone. Kind of scary, huh? Got me wonderin'. You know, I'm a big believer in we all gotta have a creator, right up until you get some sort of supernatural being. What if that's what's happened? What if we're God's creation, and he's just gone, and here we are...going on without him?
I know a lot of people feel like He isn't here anymore.
And I have to wonder, if he was so in-contact with them peeps from the Old Testament, why isn't he talkin' to little ole me, hm?
<3<3<3
I'm an impatient person. I mean, I feel like I've been patient. But a whole semester has passed by now. Plus half the summer. Hell, it's been 19 years, 4 months, and 22 days.
I'm going to be so pissed when I find you.
You're late.
<3<3<3
One of my professors once had a pretty kick-ass kid. This is what he did.
And you know, he's right. All you need is a little inspiration.
So inspire me. Dear World, that is your mission.
As for my Christmas break mission? I want to force myself to learn to play a few songs, at least. I want to earn some money to make up for my expenses and fender bender. I want to buy my textbooks for as cheap as possible, and actually read the winter assignment like a good mentor. I want to make a huge posterboard of to-do's spring semester. I want to teach myself about good movies and literature, even music. I want to make gifts, and I want to spend time with the people I care about. I want to cook and experiment. I want to decide on, possibly even start, my sophomore lecture. I want to paint. I want to be thankful. I want to come to closure (again?).
So keep me pumped.
<3<3<3
I've decided that when I'm not living in a dorm room, I'd like an odd pet.
Disgusting.
Really. To think of yourself as better than anything. You aren't. You're just you, and you of all people know you aren't perfect.
Brings me back to my AI class, and how we wonder how the relationship between human beings and robots will be. Will they come to realization that they're our slaves and rise up? Is it immoral to have robot slaves? Do they have rights? Will we have the same kind of wars for the metal race?
And to think of those movies, where they go on without us. There Will Come Soft Rains and WALL-E. How they can just keep going...long after we're gone. Kind of scary, huh? Got me wonderin'. You know, I'm a big believer in we all gotta have a creator, right up until you get some sort of supernatural being. What if that's what's happened? What if we're God's creation, and he's just gone, and here we are...going on without him?
I know a lot of people feel like He isn't here anymore.
And I have to wonder, if he was so in-contact with them peeps from the Old Testament, why isn't he talkin' to little ole me, hm?
<3<3<3
I'm an impatient person. I mean, I feel like I've been patient. But a whole semester has passed by now. Plus half the summer. Hell, it's been 19 years, 4 months, and 22 days.
I'm going to be so pissed when I find you.
You're late.
<3<3<3
One of my professors once had a pretty kick-ass kid. This is what he did.
And you know, he's right. All you need is a little inspiration.
So inspire me. Dear World, that is your mission.
As for my Christmas break mission? I want to force myself to learn to play a few songs, at least. I want to earn some money to make up for my expenses and fender bender. I want to buy my textbooks for as cheap as possible, and actually read the winter assignment like a good mentor. I want to make a huge posterboard of to-do's spring semester. I want to teach myself about good movies and literature, even music. I want to make gifts, and I want to spend time with the people I care about. I want to cook and experiment. I want to decide on, possibly even start, my sophomore lecture. I want to paint. I want to be thankful. I want to come to closure (again?).
So keep me pumped.
<3<3<3
I've decided that when I'm not living in a dorm room, I'd like an odd pet.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Art & Artists are Different Things.
TGIF.
I've always heard people be thankful of Fridays. When do you ever hear they aren't?
When they've got a twelve page paper due the following Wednesday...and they may or may not have exactly had time to begin it yet...That is, on top of all of their other homework and many projects due during the last week of school. Oh my. The last week of school.
Next semester will be so beautiful.
However. That's only if I live through these next couple of weeks to see it.
I went to a soapbox today, addressing the "end of the world, 2012" phenomenon. I can't remember the exact quote, and he couldn't either...but he did mention something about it's a shame not to have seen it all when you go.
And therefore, I'm going to make a list. A big, lovely posterboard. And I'm going to list the things I want to do next semester. (Because sadly, this semester...there's just not a lot left.)
First, give me energy.
But I will say no more and attempt to do some homework so I won't feel guilty for typing this to you later.
I've always heard people be thankful of Fridays. When do you ever hear they aren't?
When they've got a twelve page paper due the following Wednesday...and they may or may not have exactly had time to begin it yet...That is, on top of all of their other homework and many projects due during the last week of school. Oh my. The last week of school.
Next semester will be so beautiful.
However. That's only if I live through these next couple of weeks to see it.
I went to a soapbox today, addressing the "end of the world, 2012" phenomenon. I can't remember the exact quote, and he couldn't either...but he did mention something about it's a shame not to have seen it all when you go.
And therefore, I'm going to make a list. A big, lovely posterboard. And I'm going to list the things I want to do next semester. (Because sadly, this semester...there's just not a lot left.)
First, give me energy.
But I will say no more and attempt to do some homework so I won't feel guilty for typing this to you later.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Static Electricity is the Closest Thing We've Got to Magic.
Elevators.
I read once that (if you live/work in a big city) you will spend three months of your life riding elevators. And occasionally we have that sole thirty to sixty or so seconds to our lonesome. A whole moving box with just little ole you in it. But really, that brief elevator ride is just one of the many times you will be stuck alone with someone, whether you know them or, more likely, they're a complete stranger.
And how many times is that little box filled tight with awkward silence?
We need to prepare ourselves for elevator conversation. Sure we might smile, say hi, perhaps even ask "what floor?" if we're feeling particularly feisty. (PS: I can't tell you how many times I've broken the i before e except after c rule today.)
But just think about it for a second...there are billions of people in the world. When you think about the ones that actually enter your life, there are relatively few. Let's make the most of it. I know I've blogged before about people entering and leaving our lives all the time and then never hearing from them, whether it be a childhood best friend or a guy you dated for a couple of months, and how that's a shame. Well, let's bring that down on an even more miniscule scale.
The person you get on the elevator with tomorrow has the potential to be your best friend, and you don't even know it. And even if it's not a stranger, say it's your dorm room...don't you want to be friendly with your neighbors?
Let's stop being ants. I challenge you to prepare elevator questions.
Do you know how hypocritically hard it is for me, an introvert, to challenge you to this? So let's do it together. If you bump into someone, ask them a random question. When the cafeteria lady swipes your card, don't just say thanks and walk away (unless perhaps there's a line). Throw compliments at people. Approach people. Tug those headphones out and your chin up when you walk to class.
Basically, don't care what the other person thinks. Don't have expectations. Just go out on a limb, put yourself out there, catch them off guard, and break the script, just for fun. Make people think. Ask someone for their life story.
Let's get real.
Which kind of reminds me when some friends and I were at the book signing for the man who wrote Everything is Illuminated. Instead of signing it, my friend asked him to draw a five second picture, something I had joyously encouraged her to go for. Her friend teased her afterwards, saying he probably hated her, how he probably thought to himself, "I'm a writer, not an artist."
But this is the kind of thing I'm talking about. I think her friend is reversing exactly what people need to be doing! When you're a writer, sitting and signing a thousand books, they have to get tired of hearing "I love your work" every seven seconds. I want to be caught off guard. People need to be caught off guard. Because for one spare moment, something new and unexpected happens. They wake up. The routine has been broken, and you just might leave them with a smile.
I had to encourage the same friend to talk to a kid she found interesting (and by encourage I may mean slightly black mail). He sat in the cafeteria during our lunch hour by himself every Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Nothing may come out of it, no, but the point is that she stepped out of her comfort zone and made a small connection to another one of the billions of people in the world. She wasn't an ant with her antennas bouncing off the colony. She stopped and talked to another ant about something other than the mundane routine of worklife. She interacted. She lived.
So if you're passing someone on the sidewalk and neither party seems to be in too big of a hurry, and you're curious to know their life story...maybe you just need to ask them: Hey...do you like flying kites?
<3<3<3
I am pissed at Hollywood as much as I am thankful for them. In one respect, I hate them for giving me unrealistic expectations and brainwashing the world into thinking people really work this and that way and that things do always work out. Which is one reason I loved the movie 500 Days of Summer...despite the lead male loving the lead female, she didn't love him back, and though they had their fun, nothing happened in the end. And in Little Miss Sunshine...Olive doesn't win, and her brother can't be a pilot. That's real. It's bittersweet. But that's a real representation of life. And it shows the beautiful bonds of a typical dysfunctional family.
But I'm also thankful of them when I'm not bitterly brooding about how no guy will ever act that way. Because like a book, movies are an escape. No, fantasy books aren't realistic, but you'd never see me criticizing them. We're silly for thinking the movies have to be realistic. That's not what they're for. They're for the extremes. It's a visual escape for people who aren't big on reading. For that 100 minutes you sit engrossed on the couch, you don't have to think about the world.
<3<3<3
I was angry to find that my milk had gone bad this morning, and I'm sitting next to a soggy bowl of Cinnamon Toasters that needs to be dumped. If you don't know, that's the cheap brand, cause that's how a college kid like myself rolls.
But I was just sitting here next to it, on this purple plastic chair the school has provided for my ergonomic comfort.
I have long arm hair. I'm a girl with hairy arms and peeling fingernail polish and faded exes on my hands, because my skin is easily stained with permanent marker. I realized that the hair on my hairy arms was standing tall, raising up to meet the purple plastic chair the school provides. With my right hand, I began to raise my hand up and down, moving the hair without touching it. I even started to play piano, watching the keys move like a ghost piano.
How I wish I could still play.
I read once that (if you live/work in a big city) you will spend three months of your life riding elevators. And occasionally we have that sole thirty to sixty or so seconds to our lonesome. A whole moving box with just little ole you in it. But really, that brief elevator ride is just one of the many times you will be stuck alone with someone, whether you know them or, more likely, they're a complete stranger.
And how many times is that little box filled tight with awkward silence?
We need to prepare ourselves for elevator conversation. Sure we might smile, say hi, perhaps even ask "what floor?" if we're feeling particularly feisty. (PS: I can't tell you how many times I've broken the i before e except after c rule today.)
But just think about it for a second...there are billions of people in the world. When you think about the ones that actually enter your life, there are relatively few. Let's make the most of it. I know I've blogged before about people entering and leaving our lives all the time and then never hearing from them, whether it be a childhood best friend or a guy you dated for a couple of months, and how that's a shame. Well, let's bring that down on an even more miniscule scale.
The person you get on the elevator with tomorrow has the potential to be your best friend, and you don't even know it. And even if it's not a stranger, say it's your dorm room...don't you want to be friendly with your neighbors?
Let's stop being ants. I challenge you to prepare elevator questions.
Do you know how hypocritically hard it is for me, an introvert, to challenge you to this? So let's do it together. If you bump into someone, ask them a random question. When the cafeteria lady swipes your card, don't just say thanks and walk away (unless perhaps there's a line). Throw compliments at people. Approach people. Tug those headphones out and your chin up when you walk to class.
Basically, don't care what the other person thinks. Don't have expectations. Just go out on a limb, put yourself out there, catch them off guard, and break the script, just for fun. Make people think. Ask someone for their life story.
Let's get real.
Which kind of reminds me when some friends and I were at the book signing for the man who wrote Everything is Illuminated. Instead of signing it, my friend asked him to draw a five second picture, something I had joyously encouraged her to go for. Her friend teased her afterwards, saying he probably hated her, how he probably thought to himself, "I'm a writer, not an artist."
But this is the kind of thing I'm talking about. I think her friend is reversing exactly what people need to be doing! When you're a writer, sitting and signing a thousand books, they have to get tired of hearing "I love your work" every seven seconds. I want to be caught off guard. People need to be caught off guard. Because for one spare moment, something new and unexpected happens. They wake up. The routine has been broken, and you just might leave them with a smile.
I had to encourage the same friend to talk to a kid she found interesting (and by encourage I may mean slightly black mail). He sat in the cafeteria during our lunch hour by himself every Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Nothing may come out of it, no, but the point is that she stepped out of her comfort zone and made a small connection to another one of the billions of people in the world. She wasn't an ant with her antennas bouncing off the colony. She stopped and talked to another ant about something other than the mundane routine of worklife. She interacted. She lived.
So if you're passing someone on the sidewalk and neither party seems to be in too big of a hurry, and you're curious to know their life story...maybe you just need to ask them: Hey...do you like flying kites?
<3<3<3
I am pissed at Hollywood as much as I am thankful for them. In one respect, I hate them for giving me unrealistic expectations and brainwashing the world into thinking people really work this and that way and that things do always work out. Which is one reason I loved the movie 500 Days of Summer...despite the lead male loving the lead female, she didn't love him back, and though they had their fun, nothing happened in the end. And in Little Miss Sunshine...Olive doesn't win, and her brother can't be a pilot. That's real. It's bittersweet. But that's a real representation of life. And it shows the beautiful bonds of a typical dysfunctional family.
But I'm also thankful of them when I'm not bitterly brooding about how no guy will ever act that way. Because like a book, movies are an escape. No, fantasy books aren't realistic, but you'd never see me criticizing them. We're silly for thinking the movies have to be realistic. That's not what they're for. They're for the extremes. It's a visual escape for people who aren't big on reading. For that 100 minutes you sit engrossed on the couch, you don't have to think about the world.
<3<3<3
I was angry to find that my milk had gone bad this morning, and I'm sitting next to a soggy bowl of Cinnamon Toasters that needs to be dumped. If you don't know, that's the cheap brand, cause that's how a college kid like myself rolls.
But I was just sitting here next to it, on this purple plastic chair the school has provided for my ergonomic comfort.
I have long arm hair. I'm a girl with hairy arms and peeling fingernail polish and faded exes on my hands, because my skin is easily stained with permanent marker. I realized that the hair on my hairy arms was standing tall, raising up to meet the purple plastic chair the school provides. With my right hand, I began to raise my hand up and down, moving the hair without touching it. I even started to play piano, watching the keys move like a ghost piano.
How I wish I could still play.
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