This is my golden post (and I'm not talking about word quality but rather post number)! As a matter of fact, I should be sleeping til a golden anniversary...pulling a Rip Van Winkle--but instead, here I am, because let me tell you, it's difficult to fall asleep with all that raging silence in your ears and my parents should be getting to town in an hour anyways.
The reason I'm in need of sleep is because I stayed up late writing a paper instead of studying for a French test that I bombed today. When I walk into Research Methods he tells us we have until Friday for our Introduction section of the research paper due to the death of a family member. Well, maybe it's too soon for jokes, but his family is about to lose another member due to my stress overload and inability to think due to the worst sinus infection in all my two very decades.
Speaking of two decades, I don't see how anyone can call a toy I played with as a child "vintage." I'm not even quite twenty. Slow your roll, geezers.
Segway back to my terrible day. In order to unterrify it, I gave a choppy monologue over a Chick-fil-A picnic table (in the cold, because I "wanted to suffer" [and I have a strange friend]) depicting my perfect life coming true before my eyes. I'd give you an encore, but it wouldn't be funny here, and maybe wasn't funny to begin with. However, later in the day my cynicism disappeared with delirium and I actually did begin to "tweet" (tehe, how cute) things I legitimately enjoy that aren't, more or less, probably pipe dreams. I realized it wasn't quite so hard to achieve, other than the challenge of time.
For instance, I now have a Super Nintendo, Furby, scooter, and laser tag set (that needs to be uncorroded) in my dorm. I think that balances nicely with the textbooks. I've realized if you don't enjoy your life all that much, you just have to go back to a time when you did. I should've been a video gamed kid. I'm not sure why I'm not.
--Segway to flashback of older brothers not letting me play so I sat and watched, enjoying the graphics instead, segway to actually getting a chance to play with other kids but not wanting to be embarrassed due to my lack of experience, segway to the creation of more complicated games than Aladdin as I watched quietly from the sidelines--
Oh yeah. Now I remember. It's because I had older brothers. Too much older brothers. They could not take the incompetence of someone a decade younger.
If life is structured like a video game, the boss is time.
All those little mini-bosses are just ages in your life. If only I had the time to destress by sitting around playing games and riding scooters with my pals. Maybe take in a nice (currently overpriced) nanodog keychain since real fur isn't allowed in these parts. Instead I get piled under a ton of assignments like a pea under thirteen mattresses, and I don't really feel like I'm learning. There's gotta be a better way to handle this whole education thing. If this little Jill could just tumbl(r) all day, Jack wouldn't have to jump over some candlestick.
But after everything is due this Friday (granted I'm sure I'll have some exciting work assigned for Monday), I'm kickin' back and enjoying myself this weekend. Legit. I'm going to cook some food, even if that's more Totino's because I'm cheap. I'm going to play some games, take some pictures, pop some bubblewrap, catch some Z's, build a spud gun, and bro, I'm going to beat that pinata I got for my birthday. Psychology can kick my ass all day, but if there's one thing I'll never forget, it's how to be a kid. And kid equals fun.
Wanna join the Mischief squad?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
We'll Use Our Eyes Instead.
I've had quite a day. What started off with a bump in a friendship became quite possibly my favorite day in New Orleans. After walking around an incredible cemetery (St. Louis #1, folks) on a terribly hot day, I somehow end up taking pictures of the Mississippi River. Not too fascinating I suppose.
That's when this guy popped up into my peripherals out of nowhere. He says to me, "hey, you can't be taking pictures of my church!" I tilt my head and raise a brow at this curly headed mongrel. His bleached hair is grown out, showing his true roots, and all of his tattoos on his tan arms match his black wife-beater; clearly, he didn't bother paying extra for color. Smart man.
I'm starting to get used to people's corny jokes, so it doesn't take but .7 seconds for me to catch on. "Yes I can!" Know that my memory is a fuzzy one, but what follows is something along the lines of "I just saw your hair and had to talk to you, you're so beautiful!"
But no worries, because I shortly find out he's gay. He's this scrawny, gay 26 year old squatter. He tells me about the time he was driving around Alaska with a guy who stole his car, his guitar, and a camera much like the one I was snapping terrible shots with. He asks me, repetitively, what my story is. He wants to know everything, and he wants to share everything. He asks me if I recognize the symbol on his arm, the squatter symbol. He tells me a bit about his travels and his family. His squatter family. Their beliefs. Introduces me. They're this group sitting by the Mississippi (em eye crooked letter crooked letter eye, crooked letter crooked letter eye, humpback humpback eye), playing instruments and hugging each other, chatting.
One guy runs up and jumps on the train that stops in front of us, presenting difficult-to-imitate acrobatic poses (semi insert sarcasm there). He leaps off when it starts moving. Keith, my friend here, asks for a penny, chases the train, and returns with his "new form of currency."
I hand my bro, who was "full of nothing but love," five bucks as he gives me my goodbye hug. He truly means it, too.
I smooth out my friendship bump over at Krystal (burgers). She's broke, so we create a plan to sell drawings for a dollar at Jackson Square. No one buys into this. But when we change spots and change our sign to free, business gets cracking'. One of the kindest men waits around nearly an hour for his drawing of a bride and groom out in front of the cathedral. When she's finally through, this man gives her twenty dollars for a shitastically wonderful drawing. But before that, a woman walking around dressed in black, with silver pointed…thumbtacks?…asks for a Raven, for that's "what they call her." Another friend joined us, a gypsy he called himself, and he goes by Ta(y)len. We're also approached my missionaries from Minnesota. I listen to this conversation that somehow turns into a talk on neuropathology or something. He shows us around Frenchmen Street, introduces us to his people. Fabulously interesting people, they are. Shares stories. We give up some of the drawing profits to a few homeless folks.
We part ways and dig our way through excellent diner food. My friend somehow walks into their cooler on her way back from the bathroom. Cool people, good laughs. When we leave, a guy walking down the street says, "I like your hair." I say thanks. "You're welcome." I laugh a little. "Let me buy you a drink." I laugh more. "I'm not kidding." I laugh a lot as I continue walking. "Don't make me chase you."
And that, my friends, is the men from Bourbon street.
We head back to the hotel and stop in a bar at the sound of a "Handlebars" ballad. Baby had some lungs on her. We walk back through a shady bit of town. We walk down a shady bit of town. Another man sitting outside a hotel tells me "You look like a lady leprechaun."
"Thanks, I think," I smile.
"No," he laughs. "You're beautiful."
I can't tell you how many people freely say this phrase to me in this town, repetitively. Over and over. I might have to move here to raise my self-esteem is all I can say.
But to put a damper, right before we reached our hotel, this kind lady leans her grimy face out a window and yells real lady like at us, "if you ain't from New Orleans, catch a cab!" Mind you, the window she's leaning out of is a taxi. I just smile and continue.
Once the pool is a fail because it's past 10, my friend has Tim and Eric's Awesome Show On, so I guess it's time for sleep soon. All I can say is buildings and souvenirs and pictures and tours and sights…they're nice things, but they don't make a town.
The people do. And if you don't like one group (let's not get into an argument over stereotypes), in a town this size, you can always find another. Without the people, a town would just be a concrete pasture with timed streetlights.
Next time you go out of town…talk to someone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
1939
Take a look at them. They're all nice guys, but they'll finish last. Nice guys. Finish last.
That's where the original saying came from--Leo Durocher--and he was referring to the opposing baseball team, not relationship dynamics.
Now, I don't necessarily agree that nice guys always finish last, but here I am in New Orleans, bathing the hand grenades that dripped from balconies above off of me, and I was thinking about nice people in general. Now, the friend I'm with is probably going to think that I'm talking about her, however, let it be known to her that I just so happened to be remembering a different situation entirely.
My saying is: People use nice people. Ha, and also maybe that selfish people create nice people.
But really. If you wear a sign around your neck that says, "Hola, I'm nice," people tend to take notice. They use this as permission to use you for their gain. Now, notice I said that people use nice people. It could be a not-so-nice person, an average person, or even a fellow comrade of good deeds.
But I see it everywhere. Maybe it's in your group project for class or the beggar on the street or your best friend or a lazy ex-boyfriend. But if you're nice, prepared to be used. Yet the brilliant thing about most nice people is that they don't mind. Though it might exhaust them, they enjoy lending a hand.
<3<3<3
New Orleans is a brilliantly beautiful city. Gets me thinking about how different my life would be if I had grown up anywhere else. How different it would be if I left for something else.
That's where the original saying came from--Leo Durocher--and he was referring to the opposing baseball team, not relationship dynamics.
Now, I don't necessarily agree that nice guys always finish last, but here I am in New Orleans, bathing the hand grenades that dripped from balconies above off of me, and I was thinking about nice people in general. Now, the friend I'm with is probably going to think that I'm talking about her, however, let it be known to her that I just so happened to be remembering a different situation entirely.
My saying is: People use nice people. Ha, and also maybe that selfish people create nice people.
But really. If you wear a sign around your neck that says, "Hola, I'm nice," people tend to take notice. They use this as permission to use you for their gain. Now, notice I said that people use nice people. It could be a not-so-nice person, an average person, or even a fellow comrade of good deeds.
But I see it everywhere. Maybe it's in your group project for class or the beggar on the street or your best friend or a lazy ex-boyfriend. But if you're nice, prepared to be used. Yet the brilliant thing about most nice people is that they don't mind. Though it might exhaust them, they enjoy lending a hand.
<3<3<3
New Orleans is a brilliantly beautiful city. Gets me thinking about how different my life would be if I had grown up anywhere else. How different it would be if I left for something else.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Life is the art of drawing without an eraser.
You know that saying, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all"?
Nobody ever told my grandma that. I hadn't seen her in a few weeks, so she'd yet to see my hair...and the first thing she said when I jumped into the pew next to her was, "that's terrible!"
Much like the kid behind me who whispered "your breath smells like fish" to his mom...mind you, this was today, not Friday. And then that poor little Southern deacon with his stuttering over "tuh...tuh-nahm-ee."
See? God can be funny.
Man, I'm fool of excuses. I was about to tell you, as I am now, of how I was thinking of all these decent points about half an hour ago...and yet, here I am, on an empty set of tracks, looking for any sign of a caboose or freight car.
I'm about to be incredibly egotistical and quote myself yet again in saying that the happiest person in the world is the most selfish. I promise you that if you truly find the most selfish, he'll be happy as a clam with a cheshire grin stretching from ear to ear.
Maybe I'll add to that and say that his rival would be the most foolish man in the world.
I guess both are hidden--behind cold and naive bars, respectively. Neither of them truly accept reality, so technically they'd be so-called "happy" in another.
Life is so relative.
Life is living through whatever perspective you choose to live it through. Perhaps a mental disease is really only the disability of that choice. But truly...even if you feel yourself faking it at first, live in a certain fashion long enough, acting like you come from a particular mindset...and eventually, you will be, genuinely.
Part of our problem is our pride, you know? We all think our viewpoint's the best. The optimist boasts about their love for life (or perhaps simply doesn't think about it), the cynic sits at her computer, thinking on how lucky she is to see the reality and darkness of the world. One Eve sank her teeth in that fruit and relished that open-eyed knowledge. The other just through the loincloth on and kept dancing.
And you know, as I always repeat, one's no better than the other, it's always about a balance between the two, as with everything else. It's just a shame that we constantly feel like we understand so much more than another, that our viewpoint is, for whatever reason, so much better.
I am the epiphany of cognitive dissonance, hear me roar (see me squirm). I need to learn the difference between that and balance, myself.
How silly I am for thinking my opinion of balance is more right than yours, of perhaps extreme introverted or extrovertedness.
<3<3<3
You know, our world is full of some pretty average to morally-poor people.
It drives me absolutely crazy to put up with so many crazies, and then ever-so-often, find this perfectly good person. And then you have to watch them beat themselves up all the time for any minor error. Their flaw is that they know not of imperfection. It's hard to do. And when it happens, you just want to laugh, toss 'em a beer, and tell them, "if only you knew."
People truly are too hard on themselves, and it's a difficult thing to watch.
Generally speaking, we're hard on ourselves at the wrong times. I want to make myself stop doing this now so I can read an article for class, but I'm doing something remotely productive that I shouldn't really feel guilty for...yet I know the ways of the snooze button oh-too-well, and my fridge reeks. I need to start getting my ill body into wealthy health, but that hasn't happened either. Hancock in the flesh, here.
It's sad how they're all "deadly," but we bare them all, and it would appear my favorite is sloth.
I hide behind excuses as always. This is where my intestines "pop" in: "I have Crohn's disease and I approve this message." So I pray for a little energy that I say never comes. I've got a thirty-pack of batteries sitting on the shelf, yet to be tested on a corroded childhood memory.
<3<3<3
One thing I didn't mention in my last blog was all the signs that I seemed to get about taking that trip...and one of them was an elderly French woman I sat next to during the Woody Allen lecture. Immediately, I was entranced by her. And here she is at her age, going to sexy-movie-talks and taking classes at a public university in the middle of Arkansas, asking me if I was a "part of that black box" because of my hair (shocked was she to know I was a Psych major). Lady was rad.
I'd like to be her.
Oh, the things we want. The lives we want for ourselves. I have a terrible short term memory, or any term memory at that, but I was just watching Catfish (originally I linked that to the trailer but I hadn't heard anything about the "documentary" before seeing it, and just watched the trailer myself, and I think it severely misleads you, so if you haven't seen the trailer yet, I encourage you to see the movie without it), and I'm pretty sure towards the end Vince says something to do with...how to word this...
He asked his wife what she really wanted out of life, something I addressed the other day as not knowing the answer for myself, and she would tell him the family, the home, security, etc. And she had that. And he would tell her that if it was something different that she wanted and didn't have, then she'd certainly need to chase after it.
I guess that's what all this travel on my own-business has been about lately, along with the urge to turn off my cellphone and hide in my room for a while. I'm trying to find a life to chase after. Something that I can be passionate about, my wittle ittle apathetic self.
Sometimes we yearn for specific events of excitement and sometimes we strive for a certain lifestyle.
I see the differences.
I'm not yet quite comfortable and confident in my own skin, so I reside with the latter and envy the ones who merely want the small movements of change alone. But I know it takes life bringing you those events that will allow you to fall into that lifestyle. Something I've been trying to express lately is simply that...you cannot force life. You cannot force [insert adjective] lifestyles. Life's a river and you just need to jump on in and flow with the current. Doesn't mean you can't develop your own doggy paddle.
But I see it. I see the natural and the forced. There's a separation between trying to take control of your life and trying to control it: don't you know that you're merely a human? Especially if what you're trying to force is creativity, which is a very unique and natural thing that can't be fabricated.
Just post the inspirations on your walls and stumble for more. (That sentence could be interpreted many ways by my generation.)
You'll regret the things you didn't do more than what you did. I'm not saying you need to wrangle those hogs down on your own, but if one comes prancin' up to ya...
Why the hell not?
Nobody ever told my grandma that. I hadn't seen her in a few weeks, so she'd yet to see my hair...and the first thing she said when I jumped into the pew next to her was, "that's terrible!"
Much like the kid behind me who whispered "your breath smells like fish" to his mom...mind you, this was today, not Friday. And then that poor little Southern deacon with his stuttering over "tuh...tuh-nahm-ee."
See? God can be funny.
Man, I'm fool of excuses. I was about to tell you, as I am now, of how I was thinking of all these decent points about half an hour ago...and yet, here I am, on an empty set of tracks, looking for any sign of a caboose or freight car.
I'm about to be incredibly egotistical and quote myself yet again in saying that the happiest person in the world is the most selfish. I promise you that if you truly find the most selfish, he'll be happy as a clam with a cheshire grin stretching from ear to ear.
Maybe I'll add to that and say that his rival would be the most foolish man in the world.
I guess both are hidden--behind cold and naive bars, respectively. Neither of them truly accept reality, so technically they'd be so-called "happy" in another.
Life is so relative.
Life is living through whatever perspective you choose to live it through. Perhaps a mental disease is really only the disability of that choice. But truly...even if you feel yourself faking it at first, live in a certain fashion long enough, acting like you come from a particular mindset...and eventually, you will be, genuinely.
Part of our problem is our pride, you know? We all think our viewpoint's the best. The optimist boasts about their love for life (or perhaps simply doesn't think about it), the cynic sits at her computer, thinking on how lucky she is to see the reality and darkness of the world. One Eve sank her teeth in that fruit and relished that open-eyed knowledge. The other just through the loincloth on and kept dancing.
And you know, as I always repeat, one's no better than the other, it's always about a balance between the two, as with everything else. It's just a shame that we constantly feel like we understand so much more than another, that our viewpoint is, for whatever reason, so much better.
I am the epiphany of cognitive dissonance, hear me roar (see me squirm). I need to learn the difference between that and balance, myself.
How silly I am for thinking my opinion of balance is more right than yours, of perhaps extreme introverted or extrovertedness.
<3<3<3
You know, our world is full of some pretty average to morally-poor people.
It drives me absolutely crazy to put up with so many crazies, and then ever-so-often, find this perfectly good person. And then you have to watch them beat themselves up all the time for any minor error. Their flaw is that they know not of imperfection. It's hard to do. And when it happens, you just want to laugh, toss 'em a beer, and tell them, "if only you knew."
People truly are too hard on themselves, and it's a difficult thing to watch.
Generally speaking, we're hard on ourselves at the wrong times. I want to make myself stop doing this now so I can read an article for class, but I'm doing something remotely productive that I shouldn't really feel guilty for...yet I know the ways of the snooze button oh-too-well, and my fridge reeks. I need to start getting my ill body into wealthy health, but that hasn't happened either. Hancock in the flesh, here.
It's sad how they're all "deadly," but we bare them all, and it would appear my favorite is sloth.
I hide behind excuses as always. This is where my intestines "pop" in: "I have Crohn's disease and I approve this message." So I pray for a little energy that I say never comes. I've got a thirty-pack of batteries sitting on the shelf, yet to be tested on a corroded childhood memory.
<3<3<3
One thing I didn't mention in my last blog was all the signs that I seemed to get about taking that trip...and one of them was an elderly French woman I sat next to during the Woody Allen lecture. Immediately, I was entranced by her. And here she is at her age, going to sexy-movie-talks and taking classes at a public university in the middle of Arkansas, asking me if I was a "part of that black box" because of my hair (shocked was she to know I was a Psych major). Lady was rad.
I'd like to be her.
Oh, the things we want. The lives we want for ourselves. I have a terrible short term memory, or any term memory at that, but I was just watching Catfish (originally I linked that to the trailer but I hadn't heard anything about the "documentary" before seeing it, and just watched the trailer myself, and I think it severely misleads you, so if you haven't seen the trailer yet, I encourage you to see the movie without it), and I'm pretty sure towards the end Vince says something to do with...how to word this...
He asked his wife what she really wanted out of life, something I addressed the other day as not knowing the answer for myself, and she would tell him the family, the home, security, etc. And she had that. And he would tell her that if it was something different that she wanted and didn't have, then she'd certainly need to chase after it.
I guess that's what all this travel on my own-business has been about lately, along with the urge to turn off my cellphone and hide in my room for a while. I'm trying to find a life to chase after. Something that I can be passionate about, my wittle ittle apathetic self.
Sometimes we yearn for specific events of excitement and sometimes we strive for a certain lifestyle.
I see the differences.
I'm not yet quite comfortable and confident in my own skin, so I reside with the latter and envy the ones who merely want the small movements of change alone. But I know it takes life bringing you those events that will allow you to fall into that lifestyle. Something I've been trying to express lately is simply that...you cannot force life. You cannot force [insert adjective] lifestyles. Life's a river and you just need to jump on in and flow with the current. Doesn't mean you can't develop your own doggy paddle.
But I see it. I see the natural and the forced. There's a separation between trying to take control of your life and trying to control it: don't you know that you're merely a human? Especially if what you're trying to force is creativity, which is a very unique and natural thing that can't be fabricated.
Just post the inspirations on your walls and stumble for more. (That sentence could be interpreted many ways by my generation.)
You'll regret the things you didn't do more than what you did. I'm not saying you need to wrangle those hogs down on your own, but if one comes prancin' up to ya...
Why the hell not?
Running is something that we've always done well and mostly I can't even tell what I'm running from.
Yesterday, a man from the Université Sainte-Anne in Nova Scotia came to my French II class to talk to us about their five-week French immersion program in the summer. It sounds like a good jolly scary blast that I can afford--yet don't need. What am I going to do with the French that I would learn there? I'm not sure. All I can say is that I do plan on visiting a cousin possibly the summer after this one in Paris.
This isn't really about my needs-to-be-hasty and figure out if I want to do the trip-blog. (Actually, I wrote all of this yesterday [it's a trap!] and sent in the registration & had my mother mail a registration check already.) The point is that one of the first things I do is tell my mom I'd like to go (and not in regards to money at all)...the moment after I sent that text, I thought to myself, why am I asking for permission? I'm an adult who's old enough to vote and smoke (and drink in Canada!), and I'll be spending my own money...so why do I feel like I always have to ask the one person who's likely to say no?
This isn't the only example, but I can also say it led into another conversation telling my mom how I plan on campin' out in the wilderness on my own at some point. (I'm dreadfully jealous that men can get away with such plans with such ease. Sure, it can be risky for anyone, but a young girl? Fuggedaboutit.)
I, along with many others, need to learn that I'm in college. This is the time of my life that I'm supposed to start making decisions all for myself. This is when I have to become an adult. This is my chance to "find" myself, to form my own opinions.
I realize that everywhere I go, I rely on people; to parties, I bring at least one of my closest friends (and the more the better so I have more options to talk to during said event, since I can't seem to talk to strangers); when trying some new program (take the Honors College, for example), I read up on it as much as I can, try and figure out exactly what it will be like.......
--PEOPLE. I try to fucking figure people out before they attempt to do so themselves. I creep on Facebook to learn as much as I can.
I guess I don't like surprises. I can deal with events of any kind...as long as I know about it. Just like when a guy is suddenly a dick: that's the shocker that I can't deal with. I've asked a guy in advance when he was being fishy, and he lied, and then pulled that sudden dick move, which I could have handled had he been truthful and warned me about it.
I guess I've found my problem. I don't like living. I don't like really living. Because I'm too scared to, perhaps something my mother engraved into my brain. Why don't I talk to an interesting stranger at a party? Because I'm scared to. Why am I scared? Because I don't know what to expect.
I need expectations to function.
Fuck that. Wow. I apologize, because I'm kind of having a moment...
I'm really getting somewhere tonight folks, you can't see it, you can't read it, but the neurons, they're poppin'. I always say I like my younger self better. I always say that I don't know where, but somewhere, someone broke me. But no, that isn't true. Someone wrapped me up in a cast before I had a chance to get broken. That's my problem.
I went to this girl's birthday party once. It was at the public pool that Texarkana had, before it shut down. I guess I'm "showing my age." I jumped right off that high board, barely having had access to a pool at all in the past. And I jumped again, and again, and again. All the other little girls? Hell no.
Moving back to my grandma's ottoman and the singing/shrieking that went on on top of it...And fast forward to now when I only sing loudly in my car, or goofily in the presence of friends. I wasn't scared what people thought back then. I just went for it.
Now, it takes a failed Facebook event to plan for my friends to go out and attempt some long exposure light photography...that we've yet to do. Back in the day, if I wanted to make a mudpie cooking show, I just did it. If I wanted to paint a damn painting, I wouldn't think of ten thousand excuses not to. There was none of this talking the talk and not walking the walk.
Where'd my balls go, because I'm pretty sure I heard those things were supposed to drop when you got older, not disappear.
I used to just do things, and now I'm just an observer.
Now I'm just too much of a scared little girl to jump into anything. I don't want to mess anything up, I don't want to be disappointed, I don't want to be embarrassed, I don't want to be judged, and Lord forbid if I feel like I've wasted any time (or money at that). Imagine if I didn't like it! The horror! If I wasn't going to like it, I could've just sat on my lethargic ass at home.
No more shoulda done's.
Remember those times you thought to yourself, "I could have done that"? (Take writing terribly well-selling vampire fiction. [Read that sentence any way you want to.]) Well, stuh-foo, because if you could have, you should have. Life's a race...it's not that you want it to be over as soon as possible, but it's a race, a competition with the ideas of others. You've just got to beat 'em to the punch. Otherwise, you're some sucker who is just recognized for standing on the shoulders of the giants before you and expanding upon their genius research.
So I'm tossing out the nervousness with the old bathwater. (I'm sure that'll have changed by next blog, but.) That's the reason I can't seem to have an opinion, or a passion at that, and why I can't find myself or some form of happiness...because I'm not living, so there's no life to be found.
Time to jump off the deep end again.
<3<3<3
I've been thinking about all the applications and interviews I've gone through for different processes. They always ask you about your strengths and weaknesses. I've finally realized that for my application in life: I have no strengths.
It's time for a quart-life revolution.
This isn't really about my needs-to-be-hasty and figure out if I want to do the trip-blog. (Actually, I wrote all of this yesterday [it's a trap!] and sent in the registration & had my mother mail a registration check already.) The point is that one of the first things I do is tell my mom I'd like to go (and not in regards to money at all)...the moment after I sent that text, I thought to myself, why am I asking for permission? I'm an adult who's old enough to vote and smoke (and drink in Canada!), and I'll be spending my own money...so why do I feel like I always have to ask the one person who's likely to say no?
This isn't the only example, but I can also say it led into another conversation telling my mom how I plan on campin' out in the wilderness on my own at some point. (I'm dreadfully jealous that men can get away with such plans with such ease. Sure, it can be risky for anyone, but a young girl? Fuggedaboutit.)
I, along with many others, need to learn that I'm in college. This is the time of my life that I'm supposed to start making decisions all for myself. This is when I have to become an adult. This is my chance to "find" myself, to form my own opinions.
I realize that everywhere I go, I rely on people; to parties, I bring at least one of my closest friends (and the more the better so I have more options to talk to during said event, since I can't seem to talk to strangers); when trying some new program (take the Honors College, for example), I read up on it as much as I can, try and figure out exactly what it will be like.......
--PEOPLE. I try to fucking figure people out before they attempt to do so themselves. I creep on Facebook to learn as much as I can.
I guess I don't like surprises. I can deal with events of any kind...as long as I know about it. Just like when a guy is suddenly a dick: that's the shocker that I can't deal with. I've asked a guy in advance when he was being fishy, and he lied, and then pulled that sudden dick move, which I could have handled had he been truthful and warned me about it.
I guess I've found my problem. I don't like living. I don't like really living. Because I'm too scared to, perhaps something my mother engraved into my brain. Why don't I talk to an interesting stranger at a party? Because I'm scared to. Why am I scared? Because I don't know what to expect.
I need expectations to function.
Fuck that. Wow. I apologize, because I'm kind of having a moment...
I'm really getting somewhere tonight folks, you can't see it, you can't read it, but the neurons, they're poppin'. I always say I like my younger self better. I always say that I don't know where, but somewhere, someone broke me. But no, that isn't true. Someone wrapped me up in a cast before I had a chance to get broken. That's my problem.
I went to this girl's birthday party once. It was at the public pool that Texarkana had, before it shut down. I guess I'm "showing my age." I jumped right off that high board, barely having had access to a pool at all in the past. And I jumped again, and again, and again. All the other little girls? Hell no.
Moving back to my grandma's ottoman and the singing/shrieking that went on on top of it...And fast forward to now when I only sing loudly in my car, or goofily in the presence of friends. I wasn't scared what people thought back then. I just went for it.
Now, it takes a failed Facebook event to plan for my friends to go out and attempt some long exposure light photography...that we've yet to do. Back in the day, if I wanted to make a mudpie cooking show, I just did it. If I wanted to paint a damn painting, I wouldn't think of ten thousand excuses not to. There was none of this talking the talk and not walking the walk.
Where'd my balls go, because I'm pretty sure I heard those things were supposed to drop when you got older, not disappear.
I used to just do things, and now I'm just an observer.
Now I'm just too much of a scared little girl to jump into anything. I don't want to mess anything up, I don't want to be disappointed, I don't want to be embarrassed, I don't want to be judged, and Lord forbid if I feel like I've wasted any time (or money at that). Imagine if I didn't like it! The horror! If I wasn't going to like it, I could've just sat on my lethargic ass at home.
No more shoulda done's.
Remember those times you thought to yourself, "I could have done that"? (Take writing terribly well-selling vampire fiction. [Read that sentence any way you want to.]) Well, stuh-foo, because if you could have, you should have. Life's a race...it's not that you want it to be over as soon as possible, but it's a race, a competition with the ideas of others. You've just got to beat 'em to the punch. Otherwise, you're some sucker who is just recognized for standing on the shoulders of the giants before you and expanding upon their genius research.
So I'm tossing out the nervousness with the old bathwater. (I'm sure that'll have changed by next blog, but.) That's the reason I can't seem to have an opinion, or a passion at that, and why I can't find myself or some form of happiness...because I'm not living, so there's no life to be found.
Time to jump off the deep end again.
<3<3<3
I've been thinking about all the applications and interviews I've gone through for different processes. They always ask you about your strengths and weaknesses. I've finally realized that for my application in life: I have no strengths.
It's time for a quart-life revolution.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Instead of a birthday cake, many Russian children are given a birthday pie...step on it, America.
Well, I was in a beautifully creative mode earlier today, with the perfect snippets of witty blog banter coming to mind...yet this is the first time since 7:50 this morning that I've been next to my laptop charger.
Shame.
I guess I'll just have to have horribly stressful, not studying for midterms (among other belated works of the home), and two a.m. phone call weekends more often. Let me tell you, I feel as old as I look young (and honey's got the freckles). There's this scene (6 minutes in) in Company where Marta reveals her secret to understanding different New Yorkers by their asshole...yeah, I'm pretty sure the world's trying to rip mine open. (There's Classy Karen, she's back!)
Did you know that I sporadically check my email, just to delete the spam, to have something to do? (Of course not, nor do you care.) But then sometimes I leave it to read later...just in case I think I'll need more of something to do.
There's also these times where I'm sitting completely still, until I suddenly get the sensation that I'm rocking back and forth involuntarily...and I can't tell if I really am. Maybe I need to be exorcised.
I can keep someone from jumping off the edge, but I can't convince anyone to back away from it, myself included. I'd say my stress today has been dramatic...but I started twirling around in the forum on a computer chair earlier...not to say that isn't fun, but I saw it as a sign of insanity. I can only handle one group of stress at a time, and I'm getting all these categories.
And boy, you can be a damn good person, but I promise that you can't make people treat you better. Life Lesson Number I Lost Count: The Golden Rule. Treat others the way that you want to be treated (so you'll have good karma and shit). But don't expect them to do the same.
I'm paranoid.
I'm schizo.
I think I may even have hypochondriasis.
(See what I did there?)
(...^that's a funny joke, by the way. It's ironic.)
Wait...my friends are talking about Beatle bondage...I can no longer focus on this blog.
[To be continued...]
Shame.
I guess I'll just have to have horribly stressful, not studying for midterms (among other belated works of the home), and two a.m. phone call weekends more often. Let me tell you, I feel as old as I look young (and honey's got the freckles). There's this scene (6 minutes in) in Company where Marta reveals her secret to understanding different New Yorkers by their asshole...yeah, I'm pretty sure the world's trying to rip mine open. (There's Classy Karen, she's back!)
Did you know that I sporadically check my email, just to delete the spam, to have something to do? (Of course not, nor do you care.) But then sometimes I leave it to read later...just in case I think I'll need more of something to do.
There's also these times where I'm sitting completely still, until I suddenly get the sensation that I'm rocking back and forth involuntarily...and I can't tell if I really am. Maybe I need to be exorcised.
I can keep someone from jumping off the edge, but I can't convince anyone to back away from it, myself included. I'd say my stress today has been dramatic...but I started twirling around in the forum on a computer chair earlier...not to say that isn't fun, but I saw it as a sign of insanity. I can only handle one group of stress at a time, and I'm getting all these categories.
And boy, you can be a damn good person, but I promise that you can't make people treat you better. Life Lesson Number I Lost Count: The Golden Rule. Treat others the way that you want to be treated (so you'll have good karma and shit). But don't expect them to do the same.
I'm paranoid.
I'm schizo.
I think I may even have hypochondriasis.
(See what I did there?)
(...^that's a funny joke, by the way. It's ironic.)
Wait...my friends are talking about Beatle bondage...I can no longer focus on this blog.
[To be continued...]
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus has left town.
I appreciate the world's concern for me, but I wish they understood one thing: I don't get addicted to things. The closest thing to that is my addiction for attempting to tempt myself with addiction.
I mean, studies seem to show that, yes, our physical bodies become naturally addicted to a substance...but a friend and I were talking the other day, about the difference between weak and strong minded people. She has somewhat of a theory that someone with strong will won't really fall into that addiction, and it seems like I might be the candidate for that.
I'll say, I do things out of habit, for sure. Typing this blog, refreshing Facebook, taking naps where I never fall asleep...those activities have habituated themselves into my schedule, but I don't need them. I won't go into relapse without them.
I guess maybe my point is I'm discovering how strong-minded of a person I am, at least perhaps for someone who seems so weak. I'm sure I have my Achille's heel. But a myriad of substances, sexual activities, video games, shopping...they just don't do it for me. I'll try what you ask me to just to see if I can feel something for it.
...But I won't. So it seems.
Sometimes it's as if I'm not even human. But I know I am 'cause I can't stop giving a damn. That's all I've got going for me. I'm real good at sugar and spice and everything nice when I'm not popping off some terrible joke that no one else thinks is funny.
Ha, I guess that's how I have friends, since in regards to my last post (among others) I can't join in to card games or dances or anything that requires remotely any social skills. Give me a self-deprication battle and I'll win hands down, but don't feel sorry for me because in the end I'm egotistical enough to believe I'm one of the kindest, sensible people you'll ever meet. Or at the very least I'll let you puke on me and not hold a grudge.
Why do I always talk about myself when I'm blogging? --I must not dislike myself too much.
But hey, since I haven't been the best at actually doing my homework this semester and replace that time with pointless thinking inside my head, let's reuse that time wisely.
The only addiction I have is to getting enough sleep, and I want to give it up. So can I just start playing laser tag in the nature reserve at one in the morning? And can I just experiment with food again and promise you'll taste it? (Can't believe I used to make my parents dinner.) Why the hell did I stop going for midnight scooter rides across campus anyways? And why haven't I tagged someone's car in ages?
I miss being juvenile. Growing up's boring to do.
Back in those days, I was addicted to one thing: the present.
I mean, studies seem to show that, yes, our physical bodies become naturally addicted to a substance...but a friend and I were talking the other day, about the difference between weak and strong minded people. She has somewhat of a theory that someone with strong will won't really fall into that addiction, and it seems like I might be the candidate for that.
I'll say, I do things out of habit, for sure. Typing this blog, refreshing Facebook, taking naps where I never fall asleep...those activities have habituated themselves into my schedule, but I don't need them. I won't go into relapse without them.
I guess maybe my point is I'm discovering how strong-minded of a person I am, at least perhaps for someone who seems so weak. I'm sure I have my Achille's heel. But a myriad of substances, sexual activities, video games, shopping...they just don't do it for me. I'll try what you ask me to just to see if I can feel something for it.
...But I won't. So it seems.
Sometimes it's as if I'm not even human. But I know I am 'cause I can't stop giving a damn. That's all I've got going for me. I'm real good at sugar and spice and everything nice when I'm not popping off some terrible joke that no one else thinks is funny.
Ha, I guess that's how I have friends, since in regards to my last post (among others) I can't join in to card games or dances or anything that requires remotely any social skills. Give me a self-deprication battle and I'll win hands down, but don't feel sorry for me because in the end I'm egotistical enough to believe I'm one of the kindest, sensible people you'll ever meet. Or at the very least I'll let you puke on me and not hold a grudge.
Why do I always talk about myself when I'm blogging? --I must not dislike myself too much.
But hey, since I haven't been the best at actually doing my homework this semester and replace that time with pointless thinking inside my head, let's reuse that time wisely.
The only addiction I have is to getting enough sleep, and I want to give it up. So can I just start playing laser tag in the nature reserve at one in the morning? And can I just experiment with food again and promise you'll taste it? (Can't believe I used to make my parents dinner.) Why the hell did I stop going for midnight scooter rides across campus anyways? And why haven't I tagged someone's car in ages?
I miss being juvenile. Growing up's boring to do.
Back in those days, I was addicted to one thing: the present.
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