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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.