i haven't written in nearly a month and i'm experiencing pangs of guilt. a logical assumption might be that i'm feeling uninspired or UNDERwhelmed. it's the opposite, however. the last month i've been going through some heavy shit. my head's been a veritable...(what's the cliched term i'm searching for here...uh.. ) hurricane of emotions. ok that wasn't it - that was quite generic, really - but essentially, i've been seriously overwhelmed with all the thoughts and feelings that generally induce the type of written vomit i like to call "journal writing." the things that equate substance.
wow. i'm really creating some profound images here, aren't i? so much for coming back with a bang...
so yeah. i'm already reneging on my little "promise" to be candid and forthright with this whole thing. a lot of what i REALLY want to write i have omitted for fear that my "audience" won't understand (or appreciate, empathize with, sympathize for, etc) me or the subject matter. and of course, some of the things i want to express to people, i don't feel i have the strength to say in person. that said, then, i can't write it here and take the risk that they might actually read this. wouldn't be too tactful on my part.
then again, it might be a little ambitious of me to assume i even have "an audience." god, i hate that idea. that word. i didn't want it to be this way. i didn't want to censor anything or write for anyone. i just wanted to be myself, to feel naked, for the very reason that i don't feel i can be so in the unwritten world; now i'm not doing that. so, what is my purpose here?
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Hello, Darkness.
The insomnia is back. Admitting this occurs with any kind of regularity probably only ensures it will linger, but whaddya do? I can't be in denial about the fact that I suffer from insomnia. Last night I finally got a decent night's sleep but the four nights prior to that were miserable. On Monday night, I slept for about 1.5 hours. Sunday night, about 2.5, and so on. I accumulated approximately six hours sleep in four nights, about 26 hrs short of my ideal. That kind of sleep deficit is not easily abolished, and if things continue at the present rate, it's not likely to happen any time soon.
Which...only lends itself to greater apprehension on my part. Fearing I won't be able to sleep, and then worse, actively trying to fall asleep, doesn't exactly assist in a flawless transfer from the waking world to darkness.
That's all I want: Darkness. I want my mind to somehow extinguish itself, to give me some much needed respite from...myself. However, it makes perfect sense that I can't sleep with the kind of activity going on between my ears. It feels like some kind pinball machine on speed, but one in which the pinballs break apart into smaller pinballs each time they touch something. That's what happens, see. The thoughts will bounce around in my head, and then other random anecdotes will be born from those. They, too, bounce around for a bit, but because there are so many, travelling so quickly, I can't possibly keep up or attend to all of them; many eventually fall by the wayside. Into the blackness that exists until another quarter is inserted.
This is how I feel every day. Some days, miraculously enough, I can tone things down, but much of the time, attempts are futile. This is especially prevalent in the times when I am in the (relative) quiet of my apartment, or driving, or any time I'm not devoting my attention to solely external forces.
Lying in my bed, the moments before I drift from consciousness, can sometimes feel like the sweetest of my waking life. I exhaust myself - mentally and emotionally - without intending to, and Darkness is often my only escape. Except, of course, those nights when It is elusive.
I thought I had outgrown the childhood fear of darkness, but I am quickly learning that it has only taken on a different meaning. I am not scared of darkness itself, rather, its getting away me. I'm scared of what it can do to upset my rhythm. The way its elusiveness then perpetuates emotional instability.
The perplexing and somewhat uncomfortable topics have been plaguing me, but the fugitive Darkness has led me to feel as though I'm fast approaching an emotional breakdown. That's what chronic lack of sleep can do. It can make one feel as though there is little left to cling to.
With a few exceptions, I can deal with the cognitive pinball. I've had to learn how to. But THIS shit is too much. I'm becoming desperate; I don't want to feel physically zombie-like. It's one of the most uncomfortable sensations, especially when my mind continues to prove that it can't be gotten down. Do you think it gives two shits that my body is sputtering pathetically along? It doesn't. And that, somehow, makes it all worse.
I'm wishing more than anything that I had two switches on the wall near my bed; one, of course, to turn out the lights, the second, to turn off the pinball machine. Or at least, force it to slow enough to allow all the balls to drop into that temporary Darkness.
Which...only lends itself to greater apprehension on my part. Fearing I won't be able to sleep, and then worse, actively trying to fall asleep, doesn't exactly assist in a flawless transfer from the waking world to darkness.
That's all I want: Darkness. I want my mind to somehow extinguish itself, to give me some much needed respite from...myself. However, it makes perfect sense that I can't sleep with the kind of activity going on between my ears. It feels like some kind pinball machine on speed, but one in which the pinballs break apart into smaller pinballs each time they touch something. That's what happens, see. The thoughts will bounce around in my head, and then other random anecdotes will be born from those. They, too, bounce around for a bit, but because there are so many, travelling so quickly, I can't possibly keep up or attend to all of them; many eventually fall by the wayside. Into the blackness that exists until another quarter is inserted.
This is how I feel every day. Some days, miraculously enough, I can tone things down, but much of the time, attempts are futile. This is especially prevalent in the times when I am in the (relative) quiet of my apartment, or driving, or any time I'm not devoting my attention to solely external forces.
Lying in my bed, the moments before I drift from consciousness, can sometimes feel like the sweetest of my waking life. I exhaust myself - mentally and emotionally - without intending to, and Darkness is often my only escape. Except, of course, those nights when It is elusive.
I thought I had outgrown the childhood fear of darkness, but I am quickly learning that it has only taken on a different meaning. I am not scared of darkness itself, rather, its getting away me. I'm scared of what it can do to upset my rhythm. The way its elusiveness then perpetuates emotional instability.
The perplexing and somewhat uncomfortable topics have been plaguing me, but the fugitive Darkness has led me to feel as though I'm fast approaching an emotional breakdown. That's what chronic lack of sleep can do. It can make one feel as though there is little left to cling to.
With a few exceptions, I can deal with the cognitive pinball. I've had to learn how to. But THIS shit is too much. I'm becoming desperate; I don't want to feel physically zombie-like. It's one of the most uncomfortable sensations, especially when my mind continues to prove that it can't be gotten down. Do you think it gives two shits that my body is sputtering pathetically along? It doesn't. And that, somehow, makes it all worse.
I'm wishing more than anything that I had two switches on the wall near my bed; one, of course, to turn out the lights, the second, to turn off the pinball machine. Or at least, force it to slow enough to allow all the balls to drop into that temporary Darkness.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Shine A Light On The Obviously-Single Girl
I have been lusting after this brushed nickel wall-mounted light for about eight months. It's designed to be mounted over one's bed, and it has two separate halogen reading lights, housed in simple nickel heads, on adjustable swingarms. Sooo sexy.
I finally broke down and bought it. I went in to the lighting store yesterday after work, and made sure to look around to verify that there was not a better light to be had. I happened upon a similarly styled light, although it was a single not a double. The head was partially transparent, and it was a bit more industrial-looking. It, too, was hot - and a little less expensive.
I thought on it for a bit because, really, do I need two lights? I am, after all, single, and rarely do I ever have someone in bed next to me, let alone reading next to me. And, as I always sleep on the same side of the bed, I imagined one light would be sufficient. Nevertheless, I liked the styling of the double better - it was slightly sexier - and it was only twenty dollars more. Either one would be a splurge, so what's twenty bucks? And, I know I'll want to keep it for a good length of time...
This is how I justified it to myself, you see.
So, having decided between the two, but before I hand over the card, I approach a service clerk to ask an important question. I say, "I'm interested in that wall-mount over there (I point). I noticed that there is a small hole on the underside of the unit. Does that mean that it can be used as a plug in or does it have to be hard-wired?" She tells me that, yes, it can be plugged in, and I am relieved because I don't want to deal with the hassle of the alternative. I tell her I'd like to buy it.
She looked at me - rather intensely - for a few moments, and then stated, "We also have a single if you want me to show you that."
O-U-C-H.
I cannot think of any other reason that she would suggest selling me a lesser expensive unit after I had already consented to the double, unless of course she assumed I'm a singleton and couldn't possibly have use for two lights. Maybe she thought I should spend that extra twenty on some fuck-me-red lipstick.
Ok, so maybe it's some wishful thinking on my part to think that I might someday have use for both! Or, maybe, I just happen to have some quirk regarding symmetry and balance, and therefore could not sleep at night if I had to look up and see a light dangling over one side of my bed with nothing to balance it on the other! Maaaybe, it's both. SHE doesn't know. I certainly do, but having some stranger I've known for all of thirty seconds point it out to me is not the most refreshing thing to happen to me in recent memory.
Seriously.
I take my merchandise, drive home while trying to think happy thoughts, settle down, and promptly grab my box cutter. Just as I am leaning down to cut, I take notice of the label on the end cap of the box. Next to model name it says: "Save Your Marriage."
You've got to be kidding me.
I thought for a second about using the box cutter on my pale little wrists, instead of the fucking box. But, then I realized the blade would not be sufficient enough to have the desired effect; I'd still be left to deal with "this" AND have scars on my wrists for all to see. Then I REALLY wouldn't ever have use for both lights. Call me crazy, but I don't think they'd exactly scream "level-headed-and-emotionally-stable-woman." I mean, jeez, it's hard enough to get men to think that about you without having signs of attempted suicide scrawled on your extremities.
I finally broke down and bought it. I went in to the lighting store yesterday after work, and made sure to look around to verify that there was not a better light to be had. I happened upon a similarly styled light, although it was a single not a double. The head was partially transparent, and it was a bit more industrial-looking. It, too, was hot - and a little less expensive.
I thought on it for a bit because, really, do I need two lights? I am, after all, single, and rarely do I ever have someone in bed next to me, let alone reading next to me. And, as I always sleep on the same side of the bed, I imagined one light would be sufficient. Nevertheless, I liked the styling of the double better - it was slightly sexier - and it was only twenty dollars more. Either one would be a splurge, so what's twenty bucks? And, I know I'll want to keep it for a good length of time...
This is how I justified it to myself, you see.
So, having decided between the two, but before I hand over the card, I approach a service clerk to ask an important question. I say, "I'm interested in that wall-mount over there (I point). I noticed that there is a small hole on the underside of the unit. Does that mean that it can be used as a plug in or does it have to be hard-wired?" She tells me that, yes, it can be plugged in, and I am relieved because I don't want to deal with the hassle of the alternative. I tell her I'd like to buy it.
She looked at me - rather intensely - for a few moments, and then stated, "We also have a single if you want me to show you that."
O-U-C-H.
I cannot think of any other reason that she would suggest selling me a lesser expensive unit after I had already consented to the double, unless of course she assumed I'm a singleton and couldn't possibly have use for two lights. Maybe she thought I should spend that extra twenty on some fuck-me-red lipstick.
Ok, so maybe it's some wishful thinking on my part to think that I might someday have use for both! Or, maybe, I just happen to have some quirk regarding symmetry and balance, and therefore could not sleep at night if I had to look up and see a light dangling over one side of my bed with nothing to balance it on the other! Maaaybe, it's both. SHE doesn't know. I certainly do, but having some stranger I've known for all of thirty seconds point it out to me is not the most refreshing thing to happen to me in recent memory.
Seriously.
I take my merchandise, drive home while trying to think happy thoughts, settle down, and promptly grab my box cutter. Just as I am leaning down to cut, I take notice of the label on the end cap of the box. Next to model name it says: "Save Your Marriage."
You've got to be kidding me.
I thought for a second about using the box cutter on my pale little wrists, instead of the fucking box. But, then I realized the blade would not be sufficient enough to have the desired effect; I'd still be left to deal with "this" AND have scars on my wrists for all to see. Then I REALLY wouldn't ever have use for both lights. Call me crazy, but I don't think they'd exactly scream "level-headed-and-emotionally-stable-woman." I mean, jeez, it's hard enough to get men to think that about you without having signs of attempted suicide scrawled on your extremities.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
And Now: Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy
There's a popular theory among sociologists regarding the perpetuation of some social problems. It's called the "labeling theory," and it holds that deviant behavior is the result of individuals being defined and labeled as deviants. Essentially, it is a form of self-fulfilling prophecy.
Rather than concentrating on the situational influences that affect one's behavior, we generally make assumptions and form beliefs about an individual based on their visible behavior(s). For example, if I were in a department store and I saw a woman berating a service clerk, I might assume that the woman had a bad temper simply because she was yelling. It's possible that she does, but I don't know the factors that influenced her behavior in that instance. Instead, she becomes a "mean woman" or a "loose cannon." Consequently, if I were around her enough or somehow came to know her personally, I might treat her as such, and she'd likely become that which I already believed her to be.
I wonder if this theory comes in to play for me, personally. I am told fairly often that I am "weird." And it's generally by people whose opinions I value, or whom I know on some personal level. Most of the time, it doesn't bother me - I think I'm weird too. But I think I'm weird in a good way. Sometimes though - and especially recently - I assume by a person's tone that their labeling of me as "weird" is not a particularly good thing.
As much as I value my individuality, and as fiercely as I strive to maintain some level of uniqueness, I am increasingly afraid of it. Sometimes, I use my idiosyncrasies as reasons to alienate myself from others. I have this ability to hide the very core of who I am, without realizing it until I'm removed from the situation. I've begun to feel a tinge of embarassment when I let my guard down - and this is just not me (or the person I want to be). It's unacceptable.
I always feel an intense need to be comfortable in a given situation and around particular people. As a rule, I avoid both if I feel my ability to act naturally is threatened. But lately, I have felt ill at ease around many people I ought not to, I've felt uncomfortable and almost blacklisted amongst those who are supposed to be my friends. Am I, as a result of what I think these people expect from me, becoming "weird?" Have their averse reactions become so deeply imbedded in my psyche that they have compelled me to change my behavior, and therefore, develop a different personality? Because, it's not always our personalities that dictate our behaviors, but our behaviors that dictate our personalities.
There's probably no way to know with certainty, but the thought scares the shit out of me in a way few things can.
Rather than concentrating on the situational influences that affect one's behavior, we generally make assumptions and form beliefs about an individual based on their visible behavior(s). For example, if I were in a department store and I saw a woman berating a service clerk, I might assume that the woman had a bad temper simply because she was yelling. It's possible that she does, but I don't know the factors that influenced her behavior in that instance. Instead, she becomes a "mean woman" or a "loose cannon." Consequently, if I were around her enough or somehow came to know her personally, I might treat her as such, and she'd likely become that which I already believed her to be.
I wonder if this theory comes in to play for me, personally. I am told fairly often that I am "weird." And it's generally by people whose opinions I value, or whom I know on some personal level. Most of the time, it doesn't bother me - I think I'm weird too. But I think I'm weird in a good way. Sometimes though - and especially recently - I assume by a person's tone that their labeling of me as "weird" is not a particularly good thing.
As much as I value my individuality, and as fiercely as I strive to maintain some level of uniqueness, I am increasingly afraid of it. Sometimes, I use my idiosyncrasies as reasons to alienate myself from others. I have this ability to hide the very core of who I am, without realizing it until I'm removed from the situation. I've begun to feel a tinge of embarassment when I let my guard down - and this is just not me (or the person I want to be). It's unacceptable.
I always feel an intense need to be comfortable in a given situation and around particular people. As a rule, I avoid both if I feel my ability to act naturally is threatened. But lately, I have felt ill at ease around many people I ought not to, I've felt uncomfortable and almost blacklisted amongst those who are supposed to be my friends. Am I, as a result of what I think these people expect from me, becoming "weird?" Have their averse reactions become so deeply imbedded in my psyche that they have compelled me to change my behavior, and therefore, develop a different personality? Because, it's not always our personalities that dictate our behaviors, but our behaviors that dictate our personalities.
There's probably no way to know with certainty, but the thought scares the shit out of me in a way few things can.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Confessions of a Jaded Bookworm
Today, I'm feeling especially random, so I'm just gonna go with it.
After a few recent trips to the library, I am beginning to wonder if libraries operate according to specific business plans. Perhaps I am naive but I have always been under the impression that libraries, like parks and other government-regulated or city-owned establishments, are media through which citizens can experience a greater quality of life. Mass appreciation/enjoyment is the name of the game. They're not in existence, like essentially everything else, to make money. Are they? The reason I ponder this, is because I have visited the library three times in the last two weeks, have searched for a total of 14 different books, and do you know how many of them have been available for use? ZERO. Mind you, I am not looking for titles that are hot-off-the-press, or rare, hard-to-find ones either. Most of the books have been in print for, at minimum, three years. Several of the titles I have searched for on each of my visits, just to see if they may have been returned. Nope.
The library has a computer system that allows one to look at all copies of a particular title, which location they are housed in, if they are checked out, being repaired, or if patrons have placed it on hold. A few of the books I want are somewhat popular titles and so the library owns several copies. All were checked out and many of the copies had waiting lists three or four people deep. As I stated before, these are not new titles; if the lines are this long and the books have been out for five years, what kind of waiting period was to be expected when new? You'd think some person has the job of monitoring the flow of books, how many times a particular title turns over, and then orchestrates the buys accordingly. I can't help but think that the library ought to buy more copies of these books. Call me crazy.
Or, are they trying to create demand? If so, what would be the purpose? The only way the library makes money is through late fees, right? And, if for some reason they're trying to create demand, it ain't workin' so hot; the only thing it's doing is pissing me off and making me want to go out and buy the damn books. And how will that help them? It's one less book I'm checking out from them, at the very least. If I get REALLY pissed off, I may not want to check out books from their library ever again, and then how many books will sit on their shelves and gather dust? A lifetime of books not being read by me...and I read like a mother fucker!
It's just impossible to comprehend the damage they're going to inflict upon themselves.
I just wanted to read some books, damnit. Instead, I've been forced to make threats that I'll feel obligated to follow through with now that I've put them in print.
Damn those cheap ass, scheming, library-owning bastards.
After a few recent trips to the library, I am beginning to wonder if libraries operate according to specific business plans. Perhaps I am naive but I have always been under the impression that libraries, like parks and other government-regulated or city-owned establishments, are media through which citizens can experience a greater quality of life. Mass appreciation/enjoyment is the name of the game. They're not in existence, like essentially everything else, to make money. Are they? The reason I ponder this, is because I have visited the library three times in the last two weeks, have searched for a total of 14 different books, and do you know how many of them have been available for use? ZERO. Mind you, I am not looking for titles that are hot-off-the-press, or rare, hard-to-find ones either. Most of the books have been in print for, at minimum, three years. Several of the titles I have searched for on each of my visits, just to see if they may have been returned. Nope.
The library has a computer system that allows one to look at all copies of a particular title, which location they are housed in, if they are checked out, being repaired, or if patrons have placed it on hold. A few of the books I want are somewhat popular titles and so the library owns several copies. All were checked out and many of the copies had waiting lists three or four people deep. As I stated before, these are not new titles; if the lines are this long and the books have been out for five years, what kind of waiting period was to be expected when new? You'd think some person has the job of monitoring the flow of books, how many times a particular title turns over, and then orchestrates the buys accordingly. I can't help but think that the library ought to buy more copies of these books. Call me crazy.
Or, are they trying to create demand? If so, what would be the purpose? The only way the library makes money is through late fees, right? And, if for some reason they're trying to create demand, it ain't workin' so hot; the only thing it's doing is pissing me off and making me want to go out and buy the damn books. And how will that help them? It's one less book I'm checking out from them, at the very least. If I get REALLY pissed off, I may not want to check out books from their library ever again, and then how many books will sit on their shelves and gather dust? A lifetime of books not being read by me...and I read like a mother fucker!
It's just impossible to comprehend the damage they're going to inflict upon themselves.
I just wanted to read some books, damnit. Instead, I've been forced to make threats that I'll feel obligated to follow through with now that I've put them in print.
Damn those cheap ass, scheming, library-owning bastards.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
I like to break a mental sweat, too...
On Saturday night, I read the dictionary.
Well, not the book in its entirety, but I tackled a rather sizeable portion.
And no, I am not shitting you.
What's more, I actually skipped out on a friend's party so I could do it. It's not as though I had some elaborate plan to stay home and read the dictionary per se, it just kinda...happened.
[Isn't that just the greatest of excuses, by the way? "I didn't MEAN to have three glasses of wine and let that gorgeous man seduce me, IT JUST HAPPENED."]
Anywho, normally one uses the dictionary for a very specific purpose (most of which should go without saying) and I found myself in that situation when it all began. I had spent much of the afternoon at one of my favorite book/record stores, I read several album reviews and came across two words that I had never before seen. Being the complete neurotic that I am, I scribbled them onto a receipt that I'd found in my purse, with the intention of looking them up that evening.
In addition, I've been keeping a list of random words - good, hearty words - that I like or have some relevance to me, and I have planned to incorporate them into a project I'm working on. When I got home I saw the list lying there on my kitchen counter; it was looking a little sparse, so I determined that a little multi-tasking was in order. I could look up the definitions of my two newly discovered words as well as look for a few new ones to add to the list. Hoorah!
What should have taken ten minutes turned into three hours. I came across words that reminded me of other words whose definitions somewhat eluded me, so one thing led to another, and....uh...yeah. I actually became - dare I use this word to descibe READING THE FUCKING DICTIONARY - engrossed. Instead of jumping around from word to word, I reached a point that I was just reading the pages.
Next thing I knew, it was 11 p.m. and upon realizing that I had spent a good part of my Saturday night in hot pursuit of intriguing strings of letters, a cloud of despair descended upon me. I felt strangely like Cinderella. She, who spent an unexpectedly blissful evening at the ball among society's finest, only to return home in a shitty old pumpkin, dressed not in a glamorous gown, but rags. I, in turn, spent my evening dancing merrily among many of the English language's finest, oblivious to the world around me. But, alas! At the stroke of 11:00, I was transplanted to my former reality, feeling quite pathetic, left only to ponder the nuances of my behavior.
Something is very, very wrong with me for two reasons. First, I just likened RTFD (Reading The Fucking Dictionary) to dancing gaily with Prince Charming whilst dressed in the finest Vera Wang. Even I cannot believe myself sometimes. Second, now that I think about it, I rather like this feeling of uniqueness. Granted, it's not considered any kind of literary feat but, I mean, how many people can actually say they've "read the dictionary?"
Well, not the book in its entirety, but I tackled a rather sizeable portion.
And no, I am not shitting you.
What's more, I actually skipped out on a friend's party so I could do it. It's not as though I had some elaborate plan to stay home and read the dictionary per se, it just kinda...happened.
[Isn't that just the greatest of excuses, by the way? "I didn't MEAN to have three glasses of wine and let that gorgeous man seduce me, IT JUST HAPPENED."]
Anywho, normally one uses the dictionary for a very specific purpose (most of which should go without saying) and I found myself in that situation when it all began. I had spent much of the afternoon at one of my favorite book/record stores, I read several album reviews and came across two words that I had never before seen. Being the complete neurotic that I am, I scribbled them onto a receipt that I'd found in my purse, with the intention of looking them up that evening.
In addition, I've been keeping a list of random words - good, hearty words - that I like or have some relevance to me, and I have planned to incorporate them into a project I'm working on. When I got home I saw the list lying there on my kitchen counter; it was looking a little sparse, so I determined that a little multi-tasking was in order. I could look up the definitions of my two newly discovered words as well as look for a few new ones to add to the list. Hoorah!
What should have taken ten minutes turned into three hours. I came across words that reminded me of other words whose definitions somewhat eluded me, so one thing led to another, and....uh...yeah. I actually became - dare I use this word to descibe READING THE FUCKING DICTIONARY - engrossed. Instead of jumping around from word to word, I reached a point that I was just reading the pages.
Next thing I knew, it was 11 p.m. and upon realizing that I had spent a good part of my Saturday night in hot pursuit of intriguing strings of letters, a cloud of despair descended upon me. I felt strangely like Cinderella. She, who spent an unexpectedly blissful evening at the ball among society's finest, only to return home in a shitty old pumpkin, dressed not in a glamorous gown, but rags. I, in turn, spent my evening dancing merrily among many of the English language's finest, oblivious to the world around me. But, alas! At the stroke of 11:00, I was transplanted to my former reality, feeling quite pathetic, left only to ponder the nuances of my behavior.
Something is very, very wrong with me for two reasons. First, I just likened RTFD (Reading The Fucking Dictionary) to dancing gaily with Prince Charming whilst dressed in the finest Vera Wang. Even I cannot believe myself sometimes. Second, now that I think about it, I rather like this feeling of uniqueness. Granted, it's not considered any kind of literary feat but, I mean, how many people can actually say they've "read the dictionary?"
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Oh brother, where art thou?
I've come to a somewhat disturbing realization: I don't know my family. I mean, I know to what family I belong, but aside from my younger sister, I don't know its members in the ways that are truly important. This is especially saddening because I am one of those people that desires to know people as thoroughly as possible. I prefer to keep a smallish circle of friends and have the opportunity to know them really well, as opposed to having many friends with whom my relationship is largely cursory.
So, I usually make a genuine effort to understand those in my inner circle, and yet, those at the very heart of it I have (somehow) missed. I don't think it's for lack of wanting, however. We've never really been big talkers, my family. That, number one, makes things somewhat difficult. There's also the fact that I didn't realize the importance of getting to know my siblings on a one-on-one basis until after I left home. So, here I am 1500 miles away trying to make a life for myself, and they are all in their respective corners of the world attempting to do the same. Life has a funny way of getting in the way.
Even though I lack a solid grasp of the inner workings of my family members, they are all of paramount importance to me. I would do nearly anything for them and on the rare occasions that I see them, my heart is full despite the (general) reality that our conversations aren't.
Why is this all of this so? How can I profess such love for this family that is, on the whole, an enigma? How can I work so hard to build a life and then leave them out of it? This logic of mine is completely askew.
I wonder if any of them feel the way I do, if they too long for more but don't understand how to go about obtaining "it."
The pathetic thing is - since we're such big talkers and all - I probably won't ever ask.
So, I usually make a genuine effort to understand those in my inner circle, and yet, those at the very heart of it I have (somehow) missed. I don't think it's for lack of wanting, however. We've never really been big talkers, my family. That, number one, makes things somewhat difficult. There's also the fact that I didn't realize the importance of getting to know my siblings on a one-on-one basis until after I left home. So, here I am 1500 miles away trying to make a life for myself, and they are all in their respective corners of the world attempting to do the same. Life has a funny way of getting in the way.
Even though I lack a solid grasp of the inner workings of my family members, they are all of paramount importance to me. I would do nearly anything for them and on the rare occasions that I see them, my heart is full despite the (general) reality that our conversations aren't.
Why is this all of this so? How can I profess such love for this family that is, on the whole, an enigma? How can I work so hard to build a life and then leave them out of it? This logic of mine is completely askew.
I wonder if any of them feel the way I do, if they too long for more but don't understand how to go about obtaining "it."
The pathetic thing is - since we're such big talkers and all - I probably won't ever ask.
Thursday, August 5, 2004
Ahh, sisterly love! What murderous behavior it can encourage!
I told my bigger little sister about this charming little journal I've been keeping. I told her how I wrote of our S.W.A.T. experiences, and she was rather disappointed to learn that I had shared THAT, but not her other (more frightening, for reasons you'll soon understand) near death experience:
Yeah, this one time, I tried to kill her.
Well, maybe KILLING was not my ultimate goal - I really can't remember - but I sure choked the shit out of her.
Growing up, we had one of those small (I think they're called "training") trampolines in our family room. You know, the ones that sit about a foot off the ground and are designed to accomodate one person. Since we were small children two of us could actually fit, albeit not well, so our mother made a rule which stated that only one child was permitted to jump at any given time.
One day, I was jumping on said trampoline, when Danielle came over and formed the waiting line. Apparently, I was not tying things up as quickly as she would have liked, so she she decided that a little torment was in order. She started jumping up onto the tramp, each jump ending with a nice little shove and some kind words from yours truly. Following each shove, which resulted in her landing back on the ground - where she belonged - she'd come back for more.
As you might imagine, this shit was pissing me off. I can't be sure how old I was, I think about six (which would put her at four), but this was waaaay back when I was still taller and heavier than she. So, I decided to put my size to use. The next time Danielle flung her scrawny behind onto MY TRAMPOLINE, I pinned her down on top of it, straddled her, and began choking her. Both hands were placed firmly around her delicate little neck.
It ought to go without saying that she didn't enjoy this.
I don't know how long it lasted, but it seemed like I was engaging in this murderous behavior for a good while. Her body was convulsing beneath me and I remember finally realizing - due to the pleading look in her eyes - that I was seriously hurting her. But I kept on, I was overcome with rage. Finally, our mother took notice of what was occuring, started yelling, and yanked me off of Danielle.
I'm pretty sure that, once the color returned to her face and oxygen was restored to her lungs, she began crying.
Later that day, in the privacy of my bedroom, I began to comprehend just how badly I had hurt and petrified her, and when I realized the finality I was foolishly headed toward, I cried too.
Yeah, this one time, I tried to kill her.
Well, maybe KILLING was not my ultimate goal - I really can't remember - but I sure choked the shit out of her.
Growing up, we had one of those small (I think they're called "training") trampolines in our family room. You know, the ones that sit about a foot off the ground and are designed to accomodate one person. Since we were small children two of us could actually fit, albeit not well, so our mother made a rule which stated that only one child was permitted to jump at any given time.
One day, I was jumping on said trampoline, when Danielle came over and formed the waiting line. Apparently, I was not tying things up as quickly as she would have liked, so she she decided that a little torment was in order. She started jumping up onto the tramp, each jump ending with a nice little shove and some kind words from yours truly. Following each shove, which resulted in her landing back on the ground - where she belonged - she'd come back for more.
As you might imagine, this shit was pissing me off. I can't be sure how old I was, I think about six (which would put her at four), but this was waaaay back when I was still taller and heavier than she. So, I decided to put my size to use. The next time Danielle flung her scrawny behind onto MY TRAMPOLINE, I pinned her down on top of it, straddled her, and began choking her. Both hands were placed firmly around her delicate little neck.
It ought to go without saying that she didn't enjoy this.
I don't know how long it lasted, but it seemed like I was engaging in this murderous behavior for a good while. Her body was convulsing beneath me and I remember finally realizing - due to the pleading look in her eyes - that I was seriously hurting her. But I kept on, I was overcome with rage. Finally, our mother took notice of what was occuring, started yelling, and yanked me off of Danielle.
I'm pretty sure that, once the color returned to her face and oxygen was restored to her lungs, she began crying.
Later that day, in the privacy of my bedroom, I began to comprehend just how badly I had hurt and petrified her, and when I realized the finality I was foolishly headed toward, I cried too.
Wednesday, August 4, 2004
I'm Not Bitter, I'm Cynically Hopeful.
I'm trying to determine which is worse:
A. Being interested in a man only to find out he has no interest in you, or;
B. Being interested in a man, finding out he has (some level of) interest in you, but that for whatever reason he can't date you
Hmmm...
I'm pretty sure it's B, actually.
And lucky for me, it's happened twice in the last two weeks! Fabulous. Now, before you go jumping the gun, assuming I'm trying to date two men at once, that I'm a hussy, or whatever, allow me to explain.
One guy, I hung out with here and there for several months, but nothing ever came of it, aside from a lot of confusion and retardedness on my part, but that's a whole 'nother story. A few months ago I finally set about "getting over him" (which, thankfully, I have been making strides toward) but I knew it was going to take a fair amount of time.
Enter guy two: Despite my best efforts to avoid new or further romantic involvement, I met someone that I instantly clicked with. This is a rarity in my world, so I thought, "What the hell? I’ll open myself up to the possibility." We hung out a few times, thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and we both saw potential for more.
No need for elaborate details here, but as it happened, I ended up sitting down with both of them, just a few days apart. With Guy #1 (G1) to discuss the past, and Guy #2 (G2) to discuss the present/future.
G1, at the end of our conversation, told me I was a "great catch." This came after he repeatedly told me why he had no interest in dating me. Greaaaaat. I already knew he wasn't interested in dating, but to hear that he thinks I'm great and wonderful doesn't exactly make me feel better. It’s actually worse than knowing he thinks I’m, say, a loser.
G2, for entirely separate but equally legitimate reasons, doesn't want to date me. And guess what? He thinks I'm great and wonderful too.
So, yeah. Sweet.
I should state here that I appreciate immensely the honesty and openness with which these men communicated, and I understand their reasoning (for the most part). HOWEVER, it's the principal of the thing that I can't get over.
At any rate, I can't exactly say that I'm surprised by the end results of my encounters with these two men. Frankly, such things are the story of my romantic life. Taking into account that I've really only been a member of the dating world for about six years, I've had an abnormally large number of bizarre/FUBARed/ridiculously complicated/twisted/enter appropriate term here experiences. Perhaps I'm exhibiting some signs of false uniqueness, but I swear, the ratio of these types of experiences to years in "the bigs" is skewed. My best girlfriend, at least, is constantly baffled by the way the forces seem to collide in my world.
It's maddening, and ya know what? I am so exhausted with the way things always seem to fall short of my, nowadays, meager expectations. I rarely, RARELY, find myself interested enough in someone to consider dating them at all, let alone long term. It takes a lot to 1) really take hold of my attention, and 2) keep hold of it. So, that's why these two situations suck so much ass. These two men make up the entirety of my potential “dating pool” - so it's more of a small BOWL than a pool, but - that is to say, in the last three years or so, they are the only two that have successfully accomplished the above criteria.
Yet, wouldn’t you know it, the planets failed to align themselves in both cases.
Just a wee bit disappointing. I am twenty-freaking-two; I should be getting a ridiculous amount of ass! Not that I want that, per se, but the option should still be there! (Cut me some slack, I’m an Aquarius; I like and need to know that I have options in any and all things.)
But I digress…
I guess what I’m attempting to ascertain from all of this convoluted fucktardedness, is just where, exactly, I am going wrong. It’s not as though I’m on some kind of manhunt, actively pursuing relationships; it’s quite the opposite. In fact, I am fairly comfortable being single – I like it for a variety of reasons – but after essentially three years of singleton status, I am ready and open to change. I’ve already stated that I’m fairly choosy in the people that I get involved with. I am independent, I have my own life and goals I’m working toward, I feel confident in what I have to offer my potential partner...
Would someone please tell me, then, WHAT on God's green earth, is the motherfucking deal?!
Phew. Ok. Allow me to collect myself...
[Enter deep breathing]
What good will come of documenting all my ridiculous thoughts, I am uncertain. The conclusions I have come to have done little to quiet my mental murmurings (as this lovely little rant should be evidence of). Because I have refused to divulge all of the intricacies of my experiences to even my few good friends, their conclusions have been largely deficient also. What’s more, I’ve been blessed with one of those minds that refuse to shut off. I can, without meaning to, think the minutiae of the even the most trivial things to death…
This topic, is just one of those things. And my mind, as usual, won’t let it go.
So, alas! This "great catch" will continue to live her fishy little life, swimming in the now murky waters of her little bowl, and watching as its two other inhabitants float lifelessly to its surface.
A. Being interested in a man only to find out he has no interest in you, or;
B. Being interested in a man, finding out he has (some level of) interest in you, but that for whatever reason he can't date you
Hmmm...
I'm pretty sure it's B, actually.
And lucky for me, it's happened twice in the last two weeks! Fabulous. Now, before you go jumping the gun, assuming I'm trying to date two men at once, that I'm a hussy, or whatever, allow me to explain.
One guy, I hung out with here and there for several months, but nothing ever came of it, aside from a lot of confusion and retardedness on my part, but that's a whole 'nother story. A few months ago I finally set about "getting over him" (which, thankfully, I have been making strides toward) but I knew it was going to take a fair amount of time.
Enter guy two: Despite my best efforts to avoid new or further romantic involvement, I met someone that I instantly clicked with. This is a rarity in my world, so I thought, "What the hell? I’ll open myself up to the possibility." We hung out a few times, thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and we both saw potential for more.
No need for elaborate details here, but as it happened, I ended up sitting down with both of them, just a few days apart. With Guy #1 (G1) to discuss the past, and Guy #2 (G2) to discuss the present/future.
G1, at the end of our conversation, told me I was a "great catch." This came after he repeatedly told me why he had no interest in dating me. Greaaaaat. I already knew he wasn't interested in dating, but to hear that he thinks I'm great and wonderful doesn't exactly make me feel better. It’s actually worse than knowing he thinks I’m, say, a loser.
G2, for entirely separate but equally legitimate reasons, doesn't want to date me. And guess what? He thinks I'm great and wonderful too.
So, yeah. Sweet.
I should state here that I appreciate immensely the honesty and openness with which these men communicated, and I understand their reasoning (for the most part). HOWEVER, it's the principal of the thing that I can't get over.
At any rate, I can't exactly say that I'm surprised by the end results of my encounters with these two men. Frankly, such things are the story of my romantic life. Taking into account that I've really only been a member of the dating world for about six years, I've had an abnormally large number of bizarre/FUBARed/ridiculously complicated/twisted/enter appropriate term here experiences. Perhaps I'm exhibiting some signs of false uniqueness, but I swear, the ratio of these types of experiences to years in "the bigs" is skewed. My best girlfriend, at least, is constantly baffled by the way the forces seem to collide in my world.
It's maddening, and ya know what? I am so exhausted with the way things always seem to fall short of my, nowadays, meager expectations. I rarely, RARELY, find myself interested enough in someone to consider dating them at all, let alone long term. It takes a lot to 1) really take hold of my attention, and 2) keep hold of it. So, that's why these two situations suck so much ass. These two men make up the entirety of my potential “dating pool” - so it's more of a small BOWL than a pool, but - that is to say, in the last three years or so, they are the only two that have successfully accomplished the above criteria.
Yet, wouldn’t you know it, the planets failed to align themselves in both cases.
Just a wee bit disappointing. I am twenty-freaking-two; I should be getting a ridiculous amount of ass! Not that I want that, per se, but the option should still be there! (Cut me some slack, I’m an Aquarius; I like and need to know that I have options in any and all things.)
But I digress…
I guess what I’m attempting to ascertain from all of this convoluted fucktardedness, is just where, exactly, I am going wrong. It’s not as though I’m on some kind of manhunt, actively pursuing relationships; it’s quite the opposite. In fact, I am fairly comfortable being single – I like it for a variety of reasons – but after essentially three years of singleton status, I am ready and open to change. I’ve already stated that I’m fairly choosy in the people that I get involved with. I am independent, I have my own life and goals I’m working toward, I feel confident in what I have to offer my potential partner...
Would someone please tell me, then, WHAT on God's green earth, is the motherfucking deal?!
Phew. Ok. Allow me to collect myself...
[Enter deep breathing]
What good will come of documenting all my ridiculous thoughts, I am uncertain. The conclusions I have come to have done little to quiet my mental murmurings (as this lovely little rant should be evidence of). Because I have refused to divulge all of the intricacies of my experiences to even my few good friends, their conclusions have been largely deficient also. What’s more, I’ve been blessed with one of those minds that refuse to shut off. I can, without meaning to, think the minutiae of the even the most trivial things to death…
This topic, is just one of those things. And my mind, as usual, won’t let it go.
So, alas! This "great catch" will continue to live her fishy little life, swimming in the now murky waters of her little bowl, and watching as its two other inhabitants float lifelessly to its surface.
Monday, August 2, 2004
I want you to talk to me...
...about as much as I want my body to be ravaged by ticks whilst my eyes are being violenty torn from their sockets by a devilish-looking clown.
------------------------------
I think there's something about a woman sitting alone in a dimly lit bar that screams "I need to be talked to." Or, at least, that's what men seem to think. On Saturday night, I went to a jazz lounge-y kinda place to see a local band play. I was supposed to meet some friends but, long story short, they never showed. As such, I ended up perched in a rather large booth, sans posse.
My booth sat in a longish row of booths, and to one side of me sat two men. At this point, the joint was still sparsely populated which, I believe, left me more vulnerable to approach. Before long, one of the guys looked over to see an unlit candle on the table top in front of me. It was tall and encased in glass, similar to those inexpensive candles with Catholic patron saints plastered to the front of them; my candle had burned down substantially. He leaned over and said, "I'd offer to light your candle, but I don't think I could reach in there." Nice, dude. Clever opening.
I humored him with a little chuckle, and that was that. Until about ten minutes later when he felt the need to offer me a beer, since I "shouldn't be sitting there without a drink in front of me." I graciously declined, but his little anecdotes continued spewing forth, every few minutes, for the better part of an hour. After a few rounds, I started getting perturbed considering that I felt my disinterest in conversing with him was apparent. Perhaps I was overestimating his perceptiveness.
Mind you, at this point, I was still thinking my friends were going to show, and I found myself quietly cursing their tardiness, for if they had been punctual, I would have easily escaped the encounter(s) with the Grotesquely-Thin-Acid-Washed-Jean-Wearing-Chain-Smokin'-Ass-Clown.
To my incomprehensible relief, the band started playing and I was assured a few minutes of "quiet time" during each song. To my utter disbelief, another guy came and sat down in my booth, the very one that I was now sure would remain empty otherwise. And since the place was now quite packed, seating was limited. I was friggin' boxed in! The exit was beginning to look impossibly far away...
The new guy, who we'll call Hippie-White-Trash-Hybrid-with-Unbelievably-Large-Horse-Teeth, or HWTHULHT for short, had within about three minutes completely obliterated GTAWJWCSAC. That is, if we're talking about a man's effectiveness in driving away a specimen of the opposite sex. His first mistake was asking:
"Do you jive?"
Enter blank female stare here.
"You know, dance?"
Oh.
O.M.G. I dance. I love to dance.
"Actually, no. I hate it."
Hey, just a little white lie. I could not give this guy AN INCH as I knew he'd attempt to capitalize on it. Oh! I neglected to mention that he had leaned across the sizable booth, positioned his face RIGHT next to my ear, and as he spoke sprayed rather large amounts of saliva on the side of my face. He was so close to me that all I could see from the corner of my eye were his chattering horse teeth...
Which made me suddenly wish I were a horse. A very ill one. One whose owner would reluctantly shoot it with a rifle in order to end its suffering.
Onward and upward...
I had planned for two weeks to go see this band, had paid a steep cover charge to get in, and so despite my misfortunes, I hung in for awhile. Goddammit, I was not going to allow a pair of bar flies to spoil my fun! Yet, in the end, they did. After approximately 90 minutes of tag team pick up efforts, I was exhausted. And pissed.
Because, why? why? WHY? did these guys think I wanted or needed attention? What makes them think I didn't WANT to be alone? Granted, in this instance I was expecting to (and wanted to) be with friends, but most of the time I am content to do things and go places alone. I am not the talking-to-strangers type. I just wanted to enjoy the music in peace! Yet at the same time, I have a very difficult time being outright rude to people I don't know, and especially men who are trying to pick me up. Somewhat cold and distant I can do like I pro, but there's some subtlety in that, you see.
Perhaps there is some part of a man that would feel guilty if he didn't "indulge" a girl like me a bit. He wouldn't be able to sleep soundly knowing he had actually seen a young woman at the bar on a Saturday freakin' night, A-L-O-N-E, and didn't at least say hi. He obviously thought there was some sad little story to explain my situation, yes?
I will have to ask some of my male friends if this is some kind of unspoken male commandment or something. I'd really like to know. Or if I want to be extremely masochistic, I could always conduct an experiment to test my new theory. Go to bars, vulnerable and alone, and see what kind of reactions I get. Although there is some twisted part of me that wants to know THAT badly, the overwhelmingly powerful other parts would not allow for such ludicrous behavior.
That, and maybe I don't want to find out my theory holds water. With the amount of time I spend solo, I am likely to find myself drinking alone at the bar with increasing regularity and I just don't think I could stomach knowing that, without a doubt, I would be preyed upon.
I'll just feign ignorance.
In addition to cold and distant, I can do denial too.
------------------------------
I think there's something about a woman sitting alone in a dimly lit bar that screams "I need to be talked to." Or, at least, that's what men seem to think. On Saturday night, I went to a jazz lounge-y kinda place to see a local band play. I was supposed to meet some friends but, long story short, they never showed. As such, I ended up perched in a rather large booth, sans posse.
My booth sat in a longish row of booths, and to one side of me sat two men. At this point, the joint was still sparsely populated which, I believe, left me more vulnerable to approach. Before long, one of the guys looked over to see an unlit candle on the table top in front of me. It was tall and encased in glass, similar to those inexpensive candles with Catholic patron saints plastered to the front of them; my candle had burned down substantially. He leaned over and said, "I'd offer to light your candle, but I don't think I could reach in there." Nice, dude. Clever opening.
I humored him with a little chuckle, and that was that. Until about ten minutes later when he felt the need to offer me a beer, since I "shouldn't be sitting there without a drink in front of me." I graciously declined, but his little anecdotes continued spewing forth, every few minutes, for the better part of an hour. After a few rounds, I started getting perturbed considering that I felt my disinterest in conversing with him was apparent. Perhaps I was overestimating his perceptiveness.
Mind you, at this point, I was still thinking my friends were going to show, and I found myself quietly cursing their tardiness, for if they had been punctual, I would have easily escaped the encounter(s) with the Grotesquely-Thin-Acid-Washed-Jean-Wearing-Chain-Smokin'-Ass-Clown.
To my incomprehensible relief, the band started playing and I was assured a few minutes of "quiet time" during each song. To my utter disbelief, another guy came and sat down in my booth, the very one that I was now sure would remain empty otherwise. And since the place was now quite packed, seating was limited. I was friggin' boxed in! The exit was beginning to look impossibly far away...
The new guy, who we'll call Hippie-White-Trash-Hybrid-with-Unbelievably-Large-Horse-Teeth, or HWTHULHT for short, had within about three minutes completely obliterated GTAWJWCSAC. That is, if we're talking about a man's effectiveness in driving away a specimen of the opposite sex. His first mistake was asking:
"Do you jive?"
Enter blank female stare here.
"You know, dance?"
Oh.
O.M.G. I dance. I love to dance.
"Actually, no. I hate it."
Hey, just a little white lie. I could not give this guy AN INCH as I knew he'd attempt to capitalize on it. Oh! I neglected to mention that he had leaned across the sizable booth, positioned his face RIGHT next to my ear, and as he spoke sprayed rather large amounts of saliva on the side of my face. He was so close to me that all I could see from the corner of my eye were his chattering horse teeth...
Which made me suddenly wish I were a horse. A very ill one. One whose owner would reluctantly shoot it with a rifle in order to end its suffering.
Onward and upward...
I had planned for two weeks to go see this band, had paid a steep cover charge to get in, and so despite my misfortunes, I hung in for awhile. Goddammit, I was not going to allow a pair of bar flies to spoil my fun! Yet, in the end, they did. After approximately 90 minutes of tag team pick up efforts, I was exhausted. And pissed.
Because, why? why? WHY? did these guys think I wanted or needed attention? What makes them think I didn't WANT to be alone? Granted, in this instance I was expecting to (and wanted to) be with friends, but most of the time I am content to do things and go places alone. I am not the talking-to-strangers type. I just wanted to enjoy the music in peace! Yet at the same time, I have a very difficult time being outright rude to people I don't know, and especially men who are trying to pick me up. Somewhat cold and distant I can do like I pro, but there's some subtlety in that, you see.
Perhaps there is some part of a man that would feel guilty if he didn't "indulge" a girl like me a bit. He wouldn't be able to sleep soundly knowing he had actually seen a young woman at the bar on a Saturday freakin' night, A-L-O-N-E, and didn't at least say hi. He obviously thought there was some sad little story to explain my situation, yes?
I will have to ask some of my male friends if this is some kind of unspoken male commandment or something. I'd really like to know. Or if I want to be extremely masochistic, I could always conduct an experiment to test my new theory. Go to bars, vulnerable and alone, and see what kind of reactions I get. Although there is some twisted part of me that wants to know THAT badly, the overwhelmingly powerful other parts would not allow for such ludicrous behavior.
That, and maybe I don't want to find out my theory holds water. With the amount of time I spend solo, I am likely to find myself drinking alone at the bar with increasing regularity and I just don't think I could stomach knowing that, without a doubt, I would be preyed upon.
I'll just feign ignorance.
In addition to cold and distant, I can do denial too.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
More heavy stuff.
My little sister called me from Phoenix recently; she wanted to pick my brain regarding my move to Oregon. It hadn't occured to me until then, but I had never really discussed with her, at length, my motivations for leaving "home" four years ago. Periodically, something insignificant will remind me of how much I have changed since being here, but it was nice to re-trace my steps with her.
She has been contemplating moving out-of-state, but is understandably nervous. She feels a need to change things up and refocus. I think all she needed was little advice and/or reassurance from her big sister, and I was more than happy to share my thoughts.
This is how I see it: Doing that which we are most scared of generally results in tremendous personal growth.
I left home at 18 years-old, just two months after I had graduated high school. I moved to Portland, a city that I had never so much as visited. I had a small amount of money saved, no job to come to, and no idea where I was going to live. I had never lived outside of Phoenix, and having grown up in a large family, never been "alone" for any length of time. Yet, I was eager to sacrifice what was familar for the sake of neoteric experiences. The unknown certainly scared me, but I was captivated by the idea that I could start anew, see my surroundings with fresh eyes.
My mother was vehemently opposed to my move. She couldn't understand what I wanted with this place and why I felt such a need to leave. I remember sitting next to her one day, participating in what was likely our 267th conversation/argument about said move. After all that time, she was NOT GETTING IT, and all I could think to say was, "Mom, I KNOW that this going to be extremely hard. I'm going to have to scrape by. But I'm actually LOOKING FORWARD to the struggles. It will be good for me." I remember this because my mother was quieted by that remark, something that doesn't happen often.
The last four years have been the most difficult and emotionally trying that I've encountered to this point. Yet, it's also been the greatest, most rewarding time of my life. I have been through more character building experiences than I can count, and I have grown in ways that would not have been possible otherwise.
Sometimes, when we relocate, we essentially transplant our existing lives. This move, for me, was a complete overhaul. Regardless of whether one seeks to maintain or rebuild, putting oneself "out there" in such a way is both refreshing and challenging.
I hope that Danielle makes the move. I can think of few things that will teach her such a multitude of things and force to get creative in the way she approaches the world.
Regardless of what she chooses, I'm grateful that she was able to help remind me of why I am here. Although I try to remain cognizant of where my motivations lie, it's easy to lose perspective in the moments we most need clarity.
She has been contemplating moving out-of-state, but is understandably nervous. She feels a need to change things up and refocus. I think all she needed was little advice and/or reassurance from her big sister, and I was more than happy to share my thoughts.
This is how I see it: Doing that which we are most scared of generally results in tremendous personal growth.
I left home at 18 years-old, just two months after I had graduated high school. I moved to Portland, a city that I had never so much as visited. I had a small amount of money saved, no job to come to, and no idea where I was going to live. I had never lived outside of Phoenix, and having grown up in a large family, never been "alone" for any length of time. Yet, I was eager to sacrifice what was familar for the sake of neoteric experiences. The unknown certainly scared me, but I was captivated by the idea that I could start anew, see my surroundings with fresh eyes.
My mother was vehemently opposed to my move. She couldn't understand what I wanted with this place and why I felt such a need to leave. I remember sitting next to her one day, participating in what was likely our 267th conversation/argument about said move. After all that time, she was NOT GETTING IT, and all I could think to say was, "Mom, I KNOW that this going to be extremely hard. I'm going to have to scrape by. But I'm actually LOOKING FORWARD to the struggles. It will be good for me." I remember this because my mother was quieted by that remark, something that doesn't happen often.
The last four years have been the most difficult and emotionally trying that I've encountered to this point. Yet, it's also been the greatest, most rewarding time of my life. I have been through more character building experiences than I can count, and I have grown in ways that would not have been possible otherwise.
Sometimes, when we relocate, we essentially transplant our existing lives. This move, for me, was a complete overhaul. Regardless of whether one seeks to maintain or rebuild, putting oneself "out there" in such a way is both refreshing and challenging.
I hope that Danielle makes the move. I can think of few things that will teach her such a multitude of things and force to get creative in the way she approaches the world.
Regardless of what she chooses, I'm grateful that she was able to help remind me of why I am here. Although I try to remain cognizant of where my motivations lie, it's easy to lose perspective in the moments we most need clarity.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Get me off of this conveyor belt...called life.
I would consider myself an extremely emotional being, but I often experience periods of time in which I become strangely detached, devoid of emotion. I can somehow transfer my decision-making capabilities to a less intuitive, more intellectual sphere. Simply put, sometimes I'm all heart, and other times I'm all head. Yet, with the way I've been living lately, I'm beginning to forget what it's like to be driven by my emotions, to live organically.
I've felt as though I've been in a period of "transition" for some time. There are big changes looming on the horizon, some of which I've planning for up to two years. Because of what I know is forthcoming, I have adjusted some of my priorities for the present and chosen a path whose experiences I expect to be most harmonious with those to come in the near future.
That probably makes no sense. Somehow it does in my head, but it's difficult to articulate.
At any rate, for the past 18 months I have lived in a primarily cerebral world. It's not that my heart hasn't struggled for some market share; it just hasn't been able to compete for any length of time. I know I have made some wise decisions, but I have felt (on more than a few occasions) like I've sacrificed happiness or some kind of fulfillment for the sake of being "smart." Sometimes, as ridiculous as it may seem, I just don't WANT to be smart. I'm 22 years old and most of the time I don't feel it. I feel like I should be "out there" having fun, taking risks, and making the most of my youth. Instead, I'm overwhelmingly preoccupied with being responsible.
My head has an interesting way of justifying its reasoning, too. It tells my heart, "I'm just trying to protect you, to make the big changes easier, more flawless." In the mean time, however, I am missing out on some potentially worthwhile experiences. And I can't help but wonder whether I will regret not taking better advantage of these years of my life.
How can I strike a balance? Why do I feel guilty about letting myself be happy in the now? Won't I find some way to work things out if I don't adhere strictly to "the plan?" That's what life's supposed to be about, I thought - taking what comes at you, digesting it, and planning your next move accordingly. Sure, there's a certain level of strategy involved, but how much planning is TOO much?
I read a quote recently, from Larry Flynt, in which he likened life to traveling on a conveyor belt, with the end result being death. He said it was our duty to have fun until we fell off at the end. Certainly a less-than-glamourous perspective but effective in its message, nonetheless.
All I know for now is that all this overanalyzation, strategizing, and anticipating for the future has left me feeling quite lonely on this little conveyor belt of mine.
I've felt as though I've been in a period of "transition" for some time. There are big changes looming on the horizon, some of which I've planning for up to two years. Because of what I know is forthcoming, I have adjusted some of my priorities for the present and chosen a path whose experiences I expect to be most harmonious with those to come in the near future.
That probably makes no sense. Somehow it does in my head, but it's difficult to articulate.
At any rate, for the past 18 months I have lived in a primarily cerebral world. It's not that my heart hasn't struggled for some market share; it just hasn't been able to compete for any length of time. I know I have made some wise decisions, but I have felt (on more than a few occasions) like I've sacrificed happiness or some kind of fulfillment for the sake of being "smart." Sometimes, as ridiculous as it may seem, I just don't WANT to be smart. I'm 22 years old and most of the time I don't feel it. I feel like I should be "out there" having fun, taking risks, and making the most of my youth. Instead, I'm overwhelmingly preoccupied with being responsible.
My head has an interesting way of justifying its reasoning, too. It tells my heart, "I'm just trying to protect you, to make the big changes easier, more flawless." In the mean time, however, I am missing out on some potentially worthwhile experiences. And I can't help but wonder whether I will regret not taking better advantage of these years of my life.
How can I strike a balance? Why do I feel guilty about letting myself be happy in the now? Won't I find some way to work things out if I don't adhere strictly to "the plan?" That's what life's supposed to be about, I thought - taking what comes at you, digesting it, and planning your next move accordingly. Sure, there's a certain level of strategy involved, but how much planning is TOO much?
I read a quote recently, from Larry Flynt, in which he likened life to traveling on a conveyor belt, with the end result being death. He said it was our duty to have fun until we fell off at the end. Certainly a less-than-glamourous perspective but effective in its message, nonetheless.
All I know for now is that all this overanalyzation, strategizing, and anticipating for the future has left me feeling quite lonely on this little conveyor belt of mine.
Friday, July 16, 2004
S.W.A.T Training for Paper Girls
For several years when I was a kid, I had a paper route. Most of my siblings did also, but I would usually do the weekly route with my younger sister, Danielle.
On one particular day, Dani rode up onto a police officer's driveway, but instead of depositing the paper at the foot of the garage she handed it directly to a woman who was sitting inside. We knew the man who lived there, and we knew his two children, but we'd not seen this woman before. She was very friendly, made small talk with Danielle, and we were on our way.
It turns out the woman, Eva, was the police officer's new wife. We began to see her each week, and soon we became friends. Although she was much older than my sister and I, we got on well. It wasn't long before we were going jet skiing with them, or spending the night at their house.
One evening, Eva's husband, Larry, was preparing dinner for us and we were out in the cul-de-sac killing time. Larry came outside for a bit, and in keeping with the norm, began badgering Danielle and I.
See, we had always prided ourselves on the fact that we were tough girls. We had grown up with four older brothers essentially kicking our asses on a regular basis, our parents made us toe-the-line when it came to household responsibilites, and so we developed a certain coarseness. We were tomboys. And Larry knew how fiercely we would defend that notion.
Therefore, he cranked up the reverse psychology - full force - by stating that he didn't think we were tough enough to handle the tear gas he had in the garage (apparently, it was left over from his days as a S.W.A.T. officer or something, but in any case, it was industrial-grade product).
Of course we were tough enough.
"Yeah, HUH!" we screamed in unison. "OK, you're probably right" he said, "after all, I had to complete the tear gas section six times at the Police Academy because it never made me cry. I'm sure you guys will be fine."
He enabled the gas bomb in the cul-de-sac, then quickly took his place on the front porch, a safe distance from the mayhem that was seconds from materializing. Gas started billowing towards the sky and within seconds we were enveloped. We began coughing violently, and running for safety. Larry yelled, "Get back in there! Make another pass!" He had instantly morphed into our own personal Drill Sargeant. Tears were cascading from our eyes but for some reason, that to this day escapes me, we obeyed. "Hurry up, or you're not getting ANY dinner!" he bellowed.
We loved his cooking. We were starving. So, we ducked and ran.
We were back in the thick of it, and by this time my lungs felt as though they were going to combust. I could scarcely see my little sister writhing in what I was sure was excruciating pain. I'm going to die, I thought. And she is too.
I was thrust from my panic-stricken thoughts by the sounds of laughter. Could it be? Larry? Laughing? Yes. YES. He. Is. Laughing. We. Are. Dying.
...
I should probably mention the fact that any number of our neighbors could have been watching the entire spectacle, seriously debating whether to call Child Protective Services. After all, watching two girls flail about in a storm of tear gas while a large paternal-looking figure of a man hysterically laughs from the porch is not exactly a comforting image.
Yet, miraculously, we made it out alive. And without the help of our neighbors or law-enforcement officials, thankyouverymuch. Granted, our eyes were swollen like tennis balls, bloodshot and teary, and we had horrendous coughing fits for an hour afterwards that eventually led to vomiting, but...we were alive.
And, being more than a little distracted by our physical state that evening, we never even ate Larry's dinner.
It's interesting how we seek out experiences in the hopes of proving something, but when all is said and done, what we prove or learn is rarely that which we sought.
At the time of our unanticipated S.W.A.T. training, Danielle and I were 8 and 10 years old, respectively. At that age all we desired was prove to the grown-ups that we were as invincible and strong as we felt. Unfortunately, our attempts failed miserably. What we did prove, however, was that we were ballsy as hell and we'd do nearly anything for a taste of Larry's famous cooking.
On one particular day, Dani rode up onto a police officer's driveway, but instead of depositing the paper at the foot of the garage she handed it directly to a woman who was sitting inside. We knew the man who lived there, and we knew his two children, but we'd not seen this woman before. She was very friendly, made small talk with Danielle, and we were on our way.
It turns out the woman, Eva, was the police officer's new wife. We began to see her each week, and soon we became friends. Although she was much older than my sister and I, we got on well. It wasn't long before we were going jet skiing with them, or spending the night at their house.
One evening, Eva's husband, Larry, was preparing dinner for us and we were out in the cul-de-sac killing time. Larry came outside for a bit, and in keeping with the norm, began badgering Danielle and I.
See, we had always prided ourselves on the fact that we were tough girls. We had grown up with four older brothers essentially kicking our asses on a regular basis, our parents made us toe-the-line when it came to household responsibilites, and so we developed a certain coarseness. We were tomboys. And Larry knew how fiercely we would defend that notion.
Therefore, he cranked up the reverse psychology - full force - by stating that he didn't think we were tough enough to handle the tear gas he had in the garage (apparently, it was left over from his days as a S.W.A.T. officer or something, but in any case, it was industrial-grade product).
Of course we were tough enough.
"Yeah, HUH!" we screamed in unison. "OK, you're probably right" he said, "after all, I had to complete the tear gas section six times at the Police Academy because it never made me cry. I'm sure you guys will be fine."
He enabled the gas bomb in the cul-de-sac, then quickly took his place on the front porch, a safe distance from the mayhem that was seconds from materializing. Gas started billowing towards the sky and within seconds we were enveloped. We began coughing violently, and running for safety. Larry yelled, "Get back in there! Make another pass!" He had instantly morphed into our own personal Drill Sargeant. Tears were cascading from our eyes but for some reason, that to this day escapes me, we obeyed. "Hurry up, or you're not getting ANY dinner!" he bellowed.
We loved his cooking. We were starving. So, we ducked and ran.
We were back in the thick of it, and by this time my lungs felt as though they were going to combust. I could scarcely see my little sister writhing in what I was sure was excruciating pain. I'm going to die, I thought. And she is too.
I was thrust from my panic-stricken thoughts by the sounds of laughter. Could it be? Larry? Laughing? Yes. YES. He. Is. Laughing. We. Are. Dying.
...
I should probably mention the fact that any number of our neighbors could have been watching the entire spectacle, seriously debating whether to call Child Protective Services. After all, watching two girls flail about in a storm of tear gas while a large paternal-looking figure of a man hysterically laughs from the porch is not exactly a comforting image.
Yet, miraculously, we made it out alive. And without the help of our neighbors or law-enforcement officials, thankyouverymuch. Granted, our eyes were swollen like tennis balls, bloodshot and teary, and we had horrendous coughing fits for an hour afterwards that eventually led to vomiting, but...we were alive.
And, being more than a little distracted by our physical state that evening, we never even ate Larry's dinner.
It's interesting how we seek out experiences in the hopes of proving something, but when all is said and done, what we prove or learn is rarely that which we sought.
At the time of our unanticipated S.W.A.T. training, Danielle and I were 8 and 10 years old, respectively. At that age all we desired was prove to the grown-ups that we were as invincible and strong as we felt. Unfortunately, our attempts failed miserably. What we did prove, however, was that we were ballsy as hell and we'd do nearly anything for a taste of Larry's famous cooking.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Do you remember me, or shall I walk by another three times?
One thing I love about living in a large city is the feeling of anonymity that it imparts. The simple fact that very few people know me is comforting, not unlike a warm blanket. My business is mine. I like to be able to go about my daily routine without having to worry about running into a childhood best friend that now hates me because I snagged female lead in the school play 11 years ago, or my ex-boyfriends' parents that are glad we broke up because they didn't like my style of dress. Frankly, I don't care to make small talk with those people, yet somehow we feel an obligation to acknowledge familiar faces whether we're in the mood or not. We feel like we're "bad people" if we don't at least say hello. That's one social norm I could do without.
Last weekend, I flew to Sun Valley, Idaho with two friends. One of them grew up there and we went to visit her mother and enjoy a relaxing weekend. Mom showed us around town and we went out to eat a few times; it seems every time we left the house someone would approach her and a short chat would ensue. I remember thinking repeatedly how I couldn't imagine living in such a small town and that I was glad I knew only those few in my weekend posse.
On the whole, I am comfortable with being anonymous. I'm not as keen on the thought that I make little to no impression on those whom I encounter, however. Part of this "impressionlessness" can be blamed on the lifestyle I've cultivated, but it would be nice to know that I leave something of a mark where I've been. Some people have an air about them - a quality - something that ensures you'll remember them after they've gone. I'm guessing I do not possess that...
See, I'm not the type of woman that turns heads, which is more of a blessing than a curse. I would however, like to make enough impact on people standing right in front of me that they remember me five seconds later. Is that too much to ask? Take for example, my food service experiences in Sun Valley. I ate out a total of four times in two days. In three out of four instances, my order was either wrong, or items were omitted completely. However, in each instance I was with one to three other people, and not one of them had any problems the entire weekend.
The first time, I shrugged it off. These things happen, right? Second time, I laughed. The third time I started to develop a complex.
Was I that dispensable? They can't even remember to bring my order because I'm so insignificant a presence that I might just be invisible? I know I have a terrible habit of avoiding eye contact and seeing one's eyes are what give them identity...but come on!?! I just wanted to say to one waitress in particular, "Hey, I know I'm a relatively plain, unanimated personality sitting here in seat two, but I still need to eat and if it's not too much trouble I would like the friggin' salad I ordered. And before you ask for the fourth time, I want RANCH DRESSING."
Maybe the increase in elevation was messing with my emotions and I was a bordering on hypersensitive, but all this seemed a bit more than coincidence to me.
Last weekend, I flew to Sun Valley, Idaho with two friends. One of them grew up there and we went to visit her mother and enjoy a relaxing weekend. Mom showed us around town and we went out to eat a few times; it seems every time we left the house someone would approach her and a short chat would ensue. I remember thinking repeatedly how I couldn't imagine living in such a small town and that I was glad I knew only those few in my weekend posse.
On the whole, I am comfortable with being anonymous. I'm not as keen on the thought that I make little to no impression on those whom I encounter, however. Part of this "impressionlessness" can be blamed on the lifestyle I've cultivated, but it would be nice to know that I leave something of a mark where I've been. Some people have an air about them - a quality - something that ensures you'll remember them after they've gone. I'm guessing I do not possess that...
See, I'm not the type of woman that turns heads, which is more of a blessing than a curse. I would however, like to make enough impact on people standing right in front of me that they remember me five seconds later. Is that too much to ask? Take for example, my food service experiences in Sun Valley. I ate out a total of four times in two days. In three out of four instances, my order was either wrong, or items were omitted completely. However, in each instance I was with one to three other people, and not one of them had any problems the entire weekend.
The first time, I shrugged it off. These things happen, right? Second time, I laughed. The third time I started to develop a complex.
Was I that dispensable? They can't even remember to bring my order because I'm so insignificant a presence that I might just be invisible? I know I have a terrible habit of avoiding eye contact and seeing one's eyes are what give them identity...but come on!?! I just wanted to say to one waitress in particular, "Hey, I know I'm a relatively plain, unanimated personality sitting here in seat two, but I still need to eat and if it's not too much trouble I would like the friggin' salad I ordered. And before you ask for the fourth time, I want RANCH DRESSING."
Maybe the increase in elevation was messing with my emotions and I was a bordering on hypersensitive, but all this seemed a bit more than coincidence to me.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Now Serving: Burgers and Birth Defects
Yesterday, I stood outside a small-town burger joint. As I waited, I took stock of my surroundings and my eyes gradually settled upon the large wooden barrel that sat next to me. It had become a sort of makeshift ashtray and I found myself pondering the pasts of the hundreds of cigarette butts that canvased its surface. A woman's hand came into view, taking hold of my attention, and I watched as she extinguished her cigarette. As she nestled it in the sand among the others, my eyes naturally crept up her arm, to her torso, and then down to her very pregnant belly.
I was on my way home from a weekend trip and we had stopped to fill up both our gas tank and our stomachs. Thankfully, I had not eaten yet because the sight of this woman and the obvious disregard she had for the well being of her unborn child was enough to make my stomach turn.
Habits of any kind can be a hard thing to break. But if the vast responsibility that accompanies pregnancy is not enough to deter one from a bit of short-lived pleasure, I don't know what is.
In that brief moment, in the most unspectacular of experiences, I lost a bit of the already dwindling faith I have in humanity.
I was on my way home from a weekend trip and we had stopped to fill up both our gas tank and our stomachs. Thankfully, I had not eaten yet because the sight of this woman and the obvious disregard she had for the well being of her unborn child was enough to make my stomach turn.
Habits of any kind can be a hard thing to break. But if the vast responsibility that accompanies pregnancy is not enough to deter one from a bit of short-lived pleasure, I don't know what is.
In that brief moment, in the most unspectacular of experiences, I lost a bit of the already dwindling faith I have in humanity.
Friday, July 9, 2004
Playstation and Handicap Bathrooms
I recently moved into a new apartment, a smallish studio in a trendy, bustling part of town. It is the first space that I've inhabited alone, and although I don't care much for the apartment itself, two things are fantastic: the location, and the fact that it is all MINE. I've spent the last four years with roommates and I felt it was time to have some space to myself.
Within the first couple days I noticed some rather quirky things about the place, the most noteworthy being that there is no elevator in the building. This is peculiar because the bathroom in my apartment happens to be handicap ready. I'm talking slightly-higher-than-normal toilet seat, a plethora of metal handrails in both the shower and toilet area, and a mirror that angles dramatically downward for the wheelchair bound.
Why would a bathroom be converted in this manner if handicapped tenants have no way of actually getting to and from the apartment? The building itself is rather old; it was built sometime in the early 1900s but was remodeled in the 80s(according to my leasing agent). I trust that this bathroom update was done at that time, possibly in anticipation of installing an elevator? However, its been nearly twenty years and still NO ELEVATOR. For the love of God, at least remove all the bloody handrails! I'm 5'3" so I don't have the wingspan of an American Bald Eagle or anything, yet every time I take a shower I am violently whacking my elbows on the handrail that runs diagonally along the wall.
Oh, and the mirror over the sink? As mentioned, it angles downward. It also appears to be on somewhat of a magnification-type program (VERY bad). Being a woman, I have spent many an hour in front of mirrors, all the varying types found in department stores and boutiques. I have learned a thing or two about what types of mirrors are most flattering and I can say without hesitation that the bathroom mirror I have been blessed with is the absolute WORST kind. Even Kate Moss would appear a bit chunky whilst posing in front of my mirror. And since I'm about 8 inches shorter and a good ten pounds heavier than she, I quite detest having to see myself in it each day.
All of this nonsense could be avoided if some forethought were taken on the part of the property management company. Hell, even the contractors could have asked the question, "Why are we installing a handicap bathroom in a building with no elevators?"
I believe it's important to consider the details.
Now, onto the other lovely discovery I've made. This is of the less quirky, more infuriating variety. It seems my neighbor, with whom I share a wall, has placed his television against the same very wall that I've placed my bed against. It should be noted that I have not met my neighbor so I don't know whether he's a he or she's a she, but for the sake of simplicity we'll call him Edward. At any rate, it seems as though Edward enjoys playing Playstation at 4:30 a.m. In the middle of the week, mind you. Yet another fun detail is that this neighbor is either going deaf or feels it necessary to enable surround sound at full volume to play a fucking video game in the wee hours of the morning.
Obviously, I know all of these things because I have heard them. Since I wake at 5.30 a.m. each day, I can assure you I'm not in the habit of staying up 'til such an hour, so that means my kind neighbor has woken me from my peaceful slumber. Three nights in a row and counting...if it happens again, I plan to confront said neighbor and kindly ask that he and his kung fu fighting friends tone it down a bit.
I really don't want to be the bitchy neighbor. I don't like drama. But I have limits. Don't f*&k with my sleeping habits, Edward, or my wrath will descend upon you faster than you can say "Street Fighter II."
Within the first couple days I noticed some rather quirky things about the place, the most noteworthy being that there is no elevator in the building. This is peculiar because the bathroom in my apartment happens to be handicap ready. I'm talking slightly-higher-than-normal toilet seat, a plethora of metal handrails in both the shower and toilet area, and a mirror that angles dramatically downward for the wheelchair bound.
Why would a bathroom be converted in this manner if handicapped tenants have no way of actually getting to and from the apartment? The building itself is rather old; it was built sometime in the early 1900s but was remodeled in the 80s(according to my leasing agent). I trust that this bathroom update was done at that time, possibly in anticipation of installing an elevator? However, its been nearly twenty years and still NO ELEVATOR. For the love of God, at least remove all the bloody handrails! I'm 5'3" so I don't have the wingspan of an American Bald Eagle or anything, yet every time I take a shower I am violently whacking my elbows on the handrail that runs diagonally along the wall.
Oh, and the mirror over the sink? As mentioned, it angles downward. It also appears to be on somewhat of a magnification-type program (VERY bad). Being a woman, I have spent many an hour in front of mirrors, all the varying types found in department stores and boutiques. I have learned a thing or two about what types of mirrors are most flattering and I can say without hesitation that the bathroom mirror I have been blessed with is the absolute WORST kind. Even Kate Moss would appear a bit chunky whilst posing in front of my mirror. And since I'm about 8 inches shorter and a good ten pounds heavier than she, I quite detest having to see myself in it each day.
All of this nonsense could be avoided if some forethought were taken on the part of the property management company. Hell, even the contractors could have asked the question, "Why are we installing a handicap bathroom in a building with no elevators?"
I believe it's important to consider the details.
Now, onto the other lovely discovery I've made. This is of the less quirky, more infuriating variety. It seems my neighbor, with whom I share a wall, has placed his television against the same very wall that I've placed my bed against. It should be noted that I have not met my neighbor so I don't know whether he's a he or she's a she, but for the sake of simplicity we'll call him Edward. At any rate, it seems as though Edward enjoys playing Playstation at 4:30 a.m. In the middle of the week, mind you. Yet another fun detail is that this neighbor is either going deaf or feels it necessary to enable surround sound at full volume to play a fucking video game in the wee hours of the morning.
Obviously, I know all of these things because I have heard them. Since I wake at 5.30 a.m. each day, I can assure you I'm not in the habit of staying up 'til such an hour, so that means my kind neighbor has woken me from my peaceful slumber. Three nights in a row and counting...if it happens again, I plan to confront said neighbor and kindly ask that he and his kung fu fighting friends tone it down a bit.
I really don't want to be the bitchy neighbor. I don't like drama. But I have limits. Don't f*&k with my sleeping habits, Edward, or my wrath will descend upon you faster than you can say "Street Fighter II."
Thursday, July 8, 2004
I Want to Be Socially Handicapped When I Grow Up
Have you ever been at a social gathering and caught yourself watching a man who's desperately trying to pick up a fellow partygoer? I'm referring to the individuals that are visibly uncomfortable, and although you're out of earshot you're all but certain they're stumbling over their words, the conversation peppered with uncomfortable silences and nervous, one-sided laughter.
You're in your cozy corner of the room, beverage of choice in hand, surrounded by friends, and yet the fumbling idiot and his prey of choice have completely captured your attention. It's actually hurting you to watch their exchange because you can tell from the look on her face that any chance he had of winning her favor went out the window a good six minutes earlier...
This has become the verbal equivalent of kicking a dead horse. "Please, just..STOP!" you're aching to say. But you don't. You can't. You can only look on in agony because you've likely been there before and know that navigating such situations must be done alone.
Yeah. That's usually me. The Fumbling Idiot, that is. But a female version of that. And not when trying to pick up men, (because I pretty much never attempt that) but at ANY function where social skills are called for.
Aside from a few rare occasions where I have exercised social prowess, I'm socially inept. Put me around more than two other people and the minute amount of charm and wit I possess miraculously departs. I'm the Fumbling Idiot that, despite valiant effort, never graduates to the cool, collected conversationalist.
The other day I was lounging poolside with two of my female comrades. We were bikini-clad, lying face down (see also: vulnerable) when a man approached my friend and started talking to her. Actually, he was really talking to himself and she was politely nodding her head, but for the sake of the story they were "chatting." Apparently, he works for the same company we do; he knew her name but none of us had seen him before. Although he started the conversation on a casual note, it became painfully obvious that he was interested in her. Maybe she didn't see it, but I and our other friend certainly did as we confirmed through the unspoken female language of eye rolls and arched eyebrows.
You see, he had it ALL WRONG. I had to admire his assertiveness, however, it wasn't long before pity crept into my being and a burning sensation was emanating in my ears, one that suggested they might soon catch fire. Thankfully, our friend got the subconscious "Abort! Abort!" vibes we were sending and proceeded to excuse herself.
As he walked away, I first felt the urge to laugh at his communication missteps but then I reflected on the countless times I've unwisely traversed conversations, the resulting feelings of embarassment, and so I refrained.
But only for a few moments.
And then I laughed. Because somehow, it just seemed fitting.
You're in your cozy corner of the room, beverage of choice in hand, surrounded by friends, and yet the fumbling idiot and his prey of choice have completely captured your attention. It's actually hurting you to watch their exchange because you can tell from the look on her face that any chance he had of winning her favor went out the window a good six minutes earlier...
This has become the verbal equivalent of kicking a dead horse. "Please, just..STOP!" you're aching to say. But you don't. You can't. You can only look on in agony because you've likely been there before and know that navigating such situations must be done alone.
Yeah. That's usually me. The Fumbling Idiot, that is. But a female version of that. And not when trying to pick up men, (because I pretty much never attempt that) but at ANY function where social skills are called for.
Aside from a few rare occasions where I have exercised social prowess, I'm socially inept. Put me around more than two other people and the minute amount of charm and wit I possess miraculously departs. I'm the Fumbling Idiot that, despite valiant effort, never graduates to the cool, collected conversationalist.
The other day I was lounging poolside with two of my female comrades. We were bikini-clad, lying face down (see also: vulnerable) when a man approached my friend and started talking to her. Actually, he was really talking to himself and she was politely nodding her head, but for the sake of the story they were "chatting." Apparently, he works for the same company we do; he knew her name but none of us had seen him before. Although he started the conversation on a casual note, it became painfully obvious that he was interested in her. Maybe she didn't see it, but I and our other friend certainly did as we confirmed through the unspoken female language of eye rolls and arched eyebrows.
You see, he had it ALL WRONG. I had to admire his assertiveness, however, it wasn't long before pity crept into my being and a burning sensation was emanating in my ears, one that suggested they might soon catch fire. Thankfully, our friend got the subconscious "Abort! Abort!" vibes we were sending and proceeded to excuse herself.
As he walked away, I first felt the urge to laugh at his communication missteps but then I reflected on the countless times I've unwisely traversed conversations, the resulting feelings of embarassment, and so I refrained.
But only for a few moments.
And then I laughed. Because somehow, it just seemed fitting.
Friday, July 2, 2004
"Sexy Redhead Seeks Mate, No Muggles Need Apply!"
I never cease to be completely baffled by people. I'm a people-watcher, an observer. I am constantly trying to understand why individuals behave the way they do, say the things they say, and more importantly, imbibe on the things they don't do and say. What are the internal motivating forces in each of us that somehow manifest themselves externally?
Being a cynic, it's impossible for me to accept anything or anyone at face value. Not only do I see blind acceptance as (generally) foolish, it's just not as fun or fulfilling as seeking out that which lies beyond the surface.
And so today, when a friend told me about some interesting online personal ads he came across on Craig's List, I was instantly intrigued. I went to said site, and to the "women seeking men" section where I was able to read about a "sexy redhead who is open to love!" I recommend checking out the below link, it is (in my estimation) a truly unbelievable piece of prose. Hopefully, it will still be available for your viewing pleasure.
http://portland.craigslist.org/w4m/35117345.html
Above all, I am utterly blown away by thought of actually meeting this ad's author. Can she be for real, I wonder? What place is she coming from that these words seem most pertinent to her finding a mate? What type of man would it take to read this and feel compelled to respond, rather than strangely self-conscious and inadequate? How can one's "energy" (as she refers to it) be accurately captured in a single email message or personal photograph?
Perhaps I am not as highly evolved as this mystery author, or perhaps I just have a knack for overanalyzation of the seemingly trivial. Possibly both. All is know is that at this moment I wish I were a single man somewhere around the age of 29 who could effortlessly convey the "energy" necessary to pique the interest of the Sexy Redhead. To converse with her over dinner or drinks in an attempt to understand the mental and emotional positions from which she operates would surely have the potential to make my week. Hell, my month even.
But until that happens or I can somehow talk one of my single male friends into wearing a "wire" and standing in for me, I am left to ponder...
Being a cynic, it's impossible for me to accept anything or anyone at face value. Not only do I see blind acceptance as (generally) foolish, it's just not as fun or fulfilling as seeking out that which lies beyond the surface.
And so today, when a friend told me about some interesting online personal ads he came across on Craig's List, I was instantly intrigued. I went to said site, and to the "women seeking men" section where I was able to read about a "sexy redhead who is open to love!" I recommend checking out the below link, it is (in my estimation) a truly unbelievable piece of prose. Hopefully, it will still be available for your viewing pleasure.
http://portland.craigslist.org/w4m/35117345.html
Above all, I am utterly blown away by thought of actually meeting this ad's author. Can she be for real, I wonder? What place is she coming from that these words seem most pertinent to her finding a mate? What type of man would it take to read this and feel compelled to respond, rather than strangely self-conscious and inadequate? How can one's "energy" (as she refers to it) be accurately captured in a single email message or personal photograph?
Perhaps I am not as highly evolved as this mystery author, or perhaps I just have a knack for overanalyzation of the seemingly trivial. Possibly both. All is know is that at this moment I wish I were a single man somewhere around the age of 29 who could effortlessly convey the "energy" necessary to pique the interest of the Sexy Redhead. To converse with her over dinner or drinks in an attempt to understand the mental and emotional positions from which she operates would surely have the potential to make my week. Hell, my month even.
But until that happens or I can somehow talk one of my single male friends into wearing a "wire" and standing in for me, I am left to ponder...
Thursday, July 1, 2004
Ahem...
I'm complete shit when it comes to maintaining diaries. Starting them I can do, it's the keeping up part I struggle with. It's interesting because I enjoy writing for the sake of expression, but I have this idea that I ought to have something worthwhile to say if I'm going to take the time and energy to write. I am doing my best to revisit that notion regularly and reshape my perspective on the whole "diary" thing.
Because if I am diligent maybe the person-I-become will thank the me-I-am later. Or something.
But for the record, I prefer the word "journal." The word "diary" conjures up images of brightly-colored plastic notebooks whereby one can document their deepest, darkest secrets, plans for covert operations, relay information about what one's "crush" had to eat for lunch that day, and all the other classified information contained in the minds of adolescents the world over. Diaries, at least in my experience, came equipped with cheap locking devices to keep unwanted eyes out but which nearly anyone could circumvent with little effort (as I'm sure my older brothers can attest).
"Journals" don't need to be locked because they're nothing spectacular. Just musings about everyday life, a kind of running commentary. For me, its a process of mental purging and it's beneficial for at least two reasons: 1) despite my youth, I have increasingly poor memory, both short- and long-term, so this is a way to bring about some permanence and 2) I can write of the things I'm usually too petrified to verbally express to others for fear of inarticulate delivery, confused or disinterested looks on the part of my listener, and other complex-inducing reactions.
But I'm going to make it easy. No locks. Some censoring is to be expected but I hope to create a nice, little online world of vulnerability for myself and those deranged enough to relate. A world with an I'm-not-ok-you're-not-ok-but-that's-ok mentality. Because that's what these things seek to bring about, right?
So, yeah. It'll be fun. Just wait. And I'll get right to the whole business of recording my mental drippings...tomorrow.
Because if I am diligent maybe the person-I-become will thank the me-I-am later. Or something.
But for the record, I prefer the word "journal." The word "diary" conjures up images of brightly-colored plastic notebooks whereby one can document their deepest, darkest secrets, plans for covert operations, relay information about what one's "crush" had to eat for lunch that day, and all the other classified information contained in the minds of adolescents the world over. Diaries, at least in my experience, came equipped with cheap locking devices to keep unwanted eyes out but which nearly anyone could circumvent with little effort (as I'm sure my older brothers can attest).
"Journals" don't need to be locked because they're nothing spectacular. Just musings about everyday life, a kind of running commentary. For me, its a process of mental purging and it's beneficial for at least two reasons: 1) despite my youth, I have increasingly poor memory, both short- and long-term, so this is a way to bring about some permanence and 2) I can write of the things I'm usually too petrified to verbally express to others for fear of inarticulate delivery, confused or disinterested looks on the part of my listener, and other complex-inducing reactions.
But I'm going to make it easy. No locks. Some censoring is to be expected but I hope to create a nice, little online world of vulnerability for myself and those deranged enough to relate. A world with an I'm-not-ok-you're-not-ok-but-that's-ok mentality. Because that's what these things seek to bring about, right?
So, yeah. It'll be fun. Just wait. And I'll get right to the whole business of recording my mental drippings...tomorrow.
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