Tag Archive: life


I’m pissed off. I’ve had a shitty, SHITTY couple of fucking weeks, and nothing seems to be getting better– in fact, more things keep going wrong. So I’m going to rant about a few things that are bothering me. Feel free to skip this post, because it really just is a bunch of angry snarling.  Ready? 1. I don’t care about your fucking kids.  Do not send me pictures of them, do not talk about them at great length, do not expect me to coo over them. I don’t fucking care. Your fuck trophy, as it were, is not of any interest to me, nor is the idiotic craft of the day they did at camp, nor anything else. Children are about as smart as dogs up until they’re ten, and even after that, the dog is better behaved. Do not try to fucking guilt me into doing anything using them. If someone snatched them off the street in front of me, I’d call the police, but that’s all I’d do. Do not expect me to watch them. Do not say I’ll change my mind when they’re my own. I’m not having them. Period. End of discussion. Yours are not going to convince me otherwise. Why do I bring this up? Because people keep sending me pictures of their larvae, or larvae they enjoy being around, and expecting me to find it as enthralling and adorable as they do. They’re not. And they get all fucking weirded out when I have nothing to say, because what do you say about to a misshapen little creature that can’t figure out the complexities of a sliding glass door. There has been ONE person that has a kid that respects this limit of mine. She sent me ONE picture, and that’s when the kid was born. And that was the end of it. Follow her example. 2. Do your own fucking job, and do not expect me to do your job.  I love helping out. I do. I’m happy to do it. But not when it impacts my work. I should not be doing the lion’s share of your job while you’re off chatting and fucking around. Further, do not expect me to be happy if you change what I’m doing every five fucking minutes and I can never finish anything. And do not expect me to accomplish anything if you will not let me. 3. If someone commits suicide, there’s a reason for it.  I never said it was a good reason, but there’s a reason. Depression is an evil disease. And chances are, if someone killed themselves and you “can’t imagine why they would do that/what could be so awful/what they were thinking,” chances are you’ve never been depressed. I’m not even going to bother going into the way it twists and distorts the world, but let it be said something that is not necessarily a good choice seems the only solution at times. Anyway, if you have no experience with suicide/depression, here’s what the proper thing to do in that situation is: SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH. Don’t fucking go on, especially to anyone that knows anything about mental illness, about how much it “hurts” you that they offed themselves. Don’t go on about how they should have “reached out.” Chances are, if you had no idea there was anything wrong, you were part of the problem. Or, at the very least, you were not of any help. So, shut the fuck up. In addition, the proper response to someone dying via suicide that you supposedly care about is not to pat yourselves on the back about how sorry you are and how much you were a great family/friend/whatever and you can’t fathom why they would want to leave you. It’s also not to fucking complain about making the trip to the funeral, it’s not to gossip about who’s having a baby. Oh, and it’s also not to share the life plan that YOU had for the deceased, and lament that now you’ll never see that plan completed. The proper response is to mourn, you self-centered twats. TL;DR: If you didn’t know, you’re part of the problem, kindly fuck off. 4. I can’t have male friends.  I can’t. Want to know why? Because they, apparently, all think I’m supposed to be their fucking girlfriend without the sex. Or with it! Most of them think that if I REALLY got to know them, I’d want to fuck them instead! That I would explain, “Oh ho ho! Silly me, I don’t love my girlfriend! Please, stick your cock in my mouth and I’ll make you a sandwich after clad only in a maid outfit! Tee hee!” Let me explain something to you men, the few of you that are reading this: I am bisexual, but that does not mean you have a chance. I am not going to be your frat buddy that you send nonstop jokes about tits back and forth with. I am happy to provide a female perspective for you, but I am also not the end all and be all of what womanhood is. I’m actually a very poor example, given how gender fucked I am. If I laugh at your jokes, I am not flirting with you. If I talk to you, I am not flirting with you. If I text you, I am not flirting with you. If I message you, I am not flirting with you. If I am nice to you, I do not have feelings for you. You have no chance, none at all. AT. ALL. FUCKING. STOP. Now, this all sounds extremely arrogant. I know it does. But over the past five years of my life, I’ve discovered I’m not allowed to talk to men without them saying things that make me very uncomfortable. Such as that “They have feelings for me, and just want to be honest.” Or, “they were thinking about, in an alternate universe, how good we’d be together.” Or feel the need to ask me to rate their attractiveness. Or make inappropriate comments/ask questions repeatedly that I have declined to answer about my sex life, body, and person in general. I fully admit this could just be a symptom of where I am in the Midwest. I sincerely hope it is. I will stop fucking talking to you, and I will not tell you why. I’m an asshole, I know, and that’s a classic “girl” move. I know this. But I don’t feel like explaining to you every fucking thing you’re doing wrong. Chances are, by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it’s a long list. I want to have male friends. Badly. For me to rage quit, you have to have pissed me off in quite an extraordinary way. And furthermore, if you’re not smart enough to know that you shouldn’t say those things to people, I don’t think you’re going to comprehend what I’m going to tell you to begin with. Protip: If a person changes a subject, DROP IT. Further, when I am welcoming comments and critiques on my body, I will ask for them, or be dressed as a literal whore. And now, I feel somewhat better, or at least less like punching a fucking wall. Thanks for reading.

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I graduated college on May 5th. I think. I didn’t bother going to commencement, but I do have a piece of paper.

The first thing that struck me is the fact that there’s nothing on this piece of paper, it just says “Bachelors Degree” and that’s it. Not that it was in English. Or Psych. Or anything else. I could have done underwater basket weaving for all my future employers care, apparently. I always think of that fact when people ask me “HOW DOES IT FEEL TO GRADUATE?”

“It feels like no one actually gave a fuck what I did, just that I put in the time. And it feels like I don’t have to go to class anymore. Yay me?”

To avoid the look that would follow that statement, I only include a part of it: “It feels like I don’t have to go to class anymore.”

People keep acting like this is a huge milestone. I suppose it is, but I didn’t exactly not see this coming. I’ve been working hard at making this happen for five years. It feels like an accomplishment, yeah, but frankly, it isn’t very satisfying or surprising. Or, at least, it isn’t as satisfying as everyone seems to think it should be. I’m not jet setting off to a new and exotic job. I’m not running off to get married and have babies. Those seem to be the big life changes everyone is actually expecting me to go on to and on both counts are being vastly disappointed.

Why does it matter? It doesn’t, really. But I do feel oddly disconnected from the world around me due to how strange my expectations for life seem to be compared to theirs. People seem to expect big changes at these “milestones” and  the only real difference I’ve noticed is now my job is bitching and moaning at me to go full-time, which is pissing me off. I’d like a little time to be left alone and get my shit together. I’d like a small break before I surrender to a lifetime of servitude, thanks. I realize it’s the last one I’m ever going to get.

Anyway, in my little bits of free time my job seems so desperate to take away in the name of moar money because moar, I’ve been reading. Books, magazines, fanfiction, blogs, a bit of everything. I’m trying to catch up on five years of not being able to read anything because I have to plow through plays and text books and frankly, I’m a little disappointed in what I’m finding.

I don’t know how many of you out there are biologically female, but if you are and you’re American, you’ve probably heard of Glamour magazine. It’s one of the less shitty women’s magazines out there, especially next to the likes of Cosmo. 

Or so I thought.

I’ve gotten through two backlogged issues so far and suddenly, see the problem with being a subscriber.

I’ve read the May issue before. Last May, in fact. There was just a different celebrity on the cover. All of the shit inside is the same.

Speaking of, I have a question to pose to biological females that consider themselves to be of the womanly persuasion: Why the FUCK do you let them treat you like this?

If you look inside, everything is about either babies, men, or “fixing” yourself. They tell my friend with small breasts that she needs “ruching” to fix her “lack of curves,” they tell my busty friends that they need “support” to “get the girls under control,” they tell my “curvy” friends with hips that they need to “make themselves look smaller.” Who is this ideal woman they’re trying to make them all look like?

Oh, and furthermore, if you look at your body and realize that you’re not ‘boy shaped’ (i.e. thin) or ‘curvy’ (i.e. Girl code for “fat,” I’m quickly learning) and go “hey! There’s nothing wrong with me. So, Glamour, what should I wear?” You will receive nothing but resonant silence in response. If there’s not something “wrong” with you, they want nothing to do with you. According to them, there’s always something wrong with you. And it needs to be fixed, because otherwise HOW will you get to find a man and get married and have babies and have OMG THE PERFECT LIFE?!!111!!

… Why do you let them do this to you? Here. Go check out Curve or Bust. I know they’re probably a little weird, and one is rather queer (Curve), but in leafing through their pages in the book store, I don’t feel like I’m a failure at womanhood because I want to pursue a life that is mine, not ruled by who I find attractive, by what I think is wrong with me, or by children. There’s stuff about kids and womanhood in there, but the approach is less forceful. It’s information about pregnancy and kids, but it doesn’t imply that “OMG IT’S THE HIGHEST HONOR ANY WOMAN CAN HAVE AND ANYONE THAT HATES KIDS IS A FREAK AND YOU SHOULD WANT BABIES NOW RIGHT NOW HAVE BABIES NOW.” They have articles about sex and sexuality that are not dictated by how to please your man, but how to have pleasure as a couple, or, hell, how to pleasure yourself. Some of the shit in the magazines is pretty out there, granted, but so is a lot of the shit in Glamour. 

For those of you of the less womanly gender persuasion, I would recommend hopping over to your local Barnes and Noble, and pick up a copy of the British version of GQ. No, put the American GQ down. Trust me on this one. You want the British one. The girls are less fake (and therefore, much hotter) and the writing is hysterical and high quality. I have never laughed so hard at a magazine, and that’s even with missing half the jokes because I’m a Yank. Everything in there breathes, it’s fresh, and most importantly, it doesn’t make you feel like shit about yourself. Much like Curve and Bust don’t belittle women, Brit GQ doesn’t seem to suffer from the same stupidity the American one does of making men into someone they’re not. There are health tips and things, yeah, but when they talk about clothes, it’s about the clothes, the watches, the ties, not about “look how awesome Johnny Depp looks in these. Now, you’ll never be as good-looking as him, BUT here are some clothes so you can pretend.”

Now then, I’m going to go off and catch up on some more reading, and see if I can work out a plan to blog on here weekly again. If you have any other alternative magazines, please leave them in the comments so I and other folks can try ’em out. Doesn’t matter if they’re for girls, boys, or fish. Tell me what you like to read, and I’ll go check them out.

P.S. If you want to check out the actual, physical magazines I’ve listed here, try your local Barnes and Noble Bookseller’s. I can find all three of those mags there, even in the conservative, Midwestern area I live in.

I’m a twenty something. I’ve been in college a few years now and I’m close to getting out. Over the course of those years, I’ve realized just how many of my high school friends were not due to similarities, their better qualities, or actual ability to be a friend– it was due to proximity.

We all have, and/or had, friends like this. Co-workers, high school friends, people in our classes or studies programs. When removed from the situation we originally befriended them in, too often their shortcomings become clear and just why you befriended them does as well: You needed companionship and a mutually beneficial relationship to get through a situation, nothing more. They don’t fit into your life, and the more you see them outside their original friend-habitat, the more you wonder why you ever liked them in the first place.

Now, this is not to say that all friends met in these places are this way. You can meet your best friend and/or soul mate in school or on the job, no one denies that. However, it is not the norm. Not from what I’ve observed.

The reason I’m rambling on this is recently, more and more people from high school that fall into this category keep contacting me. I’m not sure what it is– they felt no need, or little need, to talk to me, nor I to them, before this. Often what I discover on their end is that they have run through all the friends they had after high school due to one circumstance or the other; Either they have made a stupid ass decision and their friends left them to screw up their life after trying too hard to save them too many times, or they are in the same position I and others I know are: we realize our high school friends are still mentally in high school, even if they haven’t had an epic childish screw up to prove it. What matters is who is dating who, what’s on TV, what the hippest phone is. Some people never leave that stage and that’s fine, if that’s all you really want out of life. I think you should want more, but that’s just me. You want to stay there, fine, but don’t expect me to humor you.

Let me be frank: If I am friends with you, it is because you do not bore me and you’re not a pain in my ass. One can sugar coat the reasons they are friends with people all they want, but it comes down to two things most of the time: you are either useful or a pleasure to be around. That is why you have different “classes” of friends, they each have different things they are best for. The same person you cry to when your boyfriend/girlfriend dumps you is probably not the same person you go and discuss high philosophy with or go on spur of the moment trips to Canada with. If it is, you are damned lucky and I hope you realize just how rare such a thing is. Very often, there are certain things that are utterly off limits with some people for whatever reason (sexuality, gender, politics, religion, the list goes on), and if you want them to accept all of you, that’s often a problem. They may tolerate the fact that you’re Islamic and they’re Christian, but they’re probably less accepting it and more ignoring it exists so they can still use you for whatever end you suit. If you’re looking for “true friendship” that’s not it, even if that person bends over backwards for you on a daily basis.

In any case, I don’t like making people upset if they were once friends with me by telling them precisely why I have no desire to be friends with them anymore. I’m not going to tell them “Leave me alone, you’re bloody obnoxious, YOU are the reason your life is in the shitter because you refuse to keep a job because it’s ‘hard,’ and keep making the same pattern of mistakes because you refuse to believe the world isn’t your oyster.” Instead, I’ll just not answer some of the time, then most of the time, then almost all of the time, then never. It avoids all the melodrama. It’s a coward’s way out and I fully admit that, but again, if you were once a friend to me, I’d much rather avoid a melodramatic blow up and crying and carrying on. I’d rather keep up the pretense that we just naturally drifted apart because we’re both busy. Everyone’s happy, and it leaves the door open for contact to resume in the future, and maybe by then things will work out. I’m uncomfortable cutting people totally out of my life unless they do something to deserve it.

Unfortunately this approach’s upside is also a downside: it leaves the door open to resume contact, and often the dance begins all over again. Thus, I keep getting contacted by people whom I simply have nothing to say to. I feel awkward talking to them and the conversation frequently stalls. When we do speak, it usually becomes apparent quickly that there is little to talk about, yet they keep initiating conversation. I’d like to think that when I realize conversations with an individual are going nowhere, I give up and politely excuse myself. Sometimes, people just don’t have much in common and that’s really okay. Really. It is. Trying to force conversation repeatedly is not going to change our differences.

For some of these people, it may be that they are trying to get their high school days back and by forcing contact with people from those days. They felt safer and more in control then than they ever do now, and they mistakenly associate it with the people they spoke with during that time when really, it has nothing to do with that. It has everything to do with the fact that the way high school and childhood are set up now, with layer upon layer of protection from accountability and responsibility, the real world is a very nasty shock. The real world has a very different set of rules than in high school in the fact that even if it does have any, they’re certainly not static. No one is going to write out a rule book and hand it to you upon the end of high school, college, or whenever mom and dad cut you off. Even if they did, by the end of the day the rule book would be obsolete, so there would be no point. Who wouldn’t want the days of when you knew exactly what was expected of you and how to accomplish it back? I can’t exactly blame them. I don’t think it’s my place to tell them to wake the hell up and realize high school is not only not all it’s cracked up to be but also not coming back– the universe will do that for me, there’s no need for me to rub it in.

I’m not sure if all of this is really progress– perhaps it is just my becoming more selfish with my time and energy. I don’t necessarily believe this is a bad thing, but I could also be wrapped up in happy clouds of denial. Maybe I should be more grateful that someone wants to talk to me at all. But as it stands right now, I’m taking the position of Ditchwater Sal: “I don’t deal with time wasters.” Talking to someone that makes you uncomfortable, whatever the reason, is a waste of both your time, neither of you are getting what you want out of your company. Life is just too damn short for that kind of thing.

So, for those of you that wandered by for my post “You’re Going to What in My What?”, here’s an update/recap:

Biopsies from a colostomy and an endoscopy of my stomach came back a bit tetchy, with bile found in unusual amounts in my stomach, just kinda chillin’ out, serving no purpose. Meanwhile, biopsies were taken. Whee!

So, got the call thursday going, “Hey! The biopsies are normal! Ain’t that great? Guess what, your problem is that your stomach just doesn’t empty completely after meals the way other folks’ do. No treatment but some low fat food and eating lots of smaller meals!”

“Oh! Well, that’s all?”

“Yes! It’s called gastroparesis. If you’ve already been improving with smaller meals and lower fat food, you should be fine, just call us if anything gets worse, okay?”

“Sure!” I said. And we hung up. I made a mental note to eventually look up what this funny “gastroparesis” thing was later, because I like to be educated on what’s going on with my body.

I want to punch that nurse. It’s not her fault, she was probably trying to keep me calm, but I want to punch her. You want to know what gastroparesis is? It’s partial paralysis of the stomach. My stomach is a cripple. Yes, that’s not a PC word. FOCUS. Focus on the fact my stomach is, apparently, partially PARALYZED, and they just went “LOL, no worries!”

Of course, they can’t exactly be blamed. The cause is idiopathic, since I don’t have Type I diabetes, and they can’t say for absolute 1000% sure because it takes another, much more expensive test to confirm, but they’re pretty sure that’s what it is. And, furthermore, there’s no real treatment– some drugs that kinda work-ish, but mostly just diet/eating adjustment. So, hey, no point in panicking the little 22 year old. There ain’t shit she can do!

Well, guys, frankly, I feel a little betrayed. Mostly because I’m deathly afraid that this will get worse at some point, progressing from nausea to vomiting. Progressing from just being able to eat a sandwich to being able to eat a couple chips before feeling full and getting sick. And there’s no cure, according to the boys over at the Mayo Clinic.

FUCKING REREAD THAT. THERE’S NO. FUCKING. CURE.

There’s also things on that page that say “Well, you can cope with some diet adjustment, but it may not be enough. And all the drugs have shitty side effects. Sorry.”

Thus, you get the two titles for this post. One, FUCK the doctors for not telling me EXACTLY what this was and two, I’m panicking. Can you really blame me?

Let’s look at this. I’ve had problems with food all my life. No, not an eating disorder (thank god) but I’ve always been prone to food poisoning. My stomach reacts badly to stress and hurts. I hate throwing up more than any sensation in the world. And now I’m looking at my stomach being broken and possibly having a future of that if this gets worse?

I’ll be honest. For all my ranting and raving, I’m also sobbing. I’m sobbing and scared and I don’t know what to do. I’m scared I somehow did this to myself through too much stress, or that when I was concussed it possibly knocked my stomach wiring loose. Or that for all the times I thought I was fat, that I just wished I didn’t have to fucking eat because it was expensive, that I didn’t want to eat because it was time consuming, because it was not something that particularly got along with me, that my body went “LOL, KAY! See how you like not being able to eat, and guess what? YOU GOT YOUR WISH AND CAN’T REVERSE IT. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!”

I know that so many great people had so much shit wrong with them it was ridiculous, usually relating to either severe health problems or being mad as a march hare. It was part of what made them great for one reason or another: by being influenced by it or by battling against it.

I thought being crazy via depression and anxiety was enough. I thought being fucking HATED by people all the time for no apparent reason was enough. I thought having a crazy fucking asshole father was enough. I thought having a mind that will torture and torment me and make even the things I love seem horrible and distort my perception was enough. I thought having mild PTSD was enough. I thought ALL of it was enough to pay my debt, to say “Cursed or damned with ailments, I will keep working. I will keep fighting. I will keep running and trying, no matter how fucking hard it is. If the universe is throwing all this at me, I must be meant for something great.”

I thought all that was enough. Now my body is betraying me too, after years and years and years of my immune system being awful and always being sick and my coping with that, my stomach is trying to go half-ass on things too. I thought my debt was fucking paid, that I had to put up with and work through all this shit. NOW I have to sit here and encourage all the rumors I still hear in my head from kids whispering I was anorexic because I didn’t eat much, and sit here and have people look at me when I say I can’t have high fat foods and go “HMPH, sure you can’t. Look at her, thin as fuck and still dieting.” I have to mess with a special diet and a special way of eating. This was after having to adapt to a special way of thinking so my fucking brain doesn’t eat me, and every day it’s a fucking struggle not to let my brain skip off with my common sense anyway, which will leave me doing things like hitting myself in the head to so my thoughts will stop racing simply from the shock.

I’m pissed. I’m scared. I’m really, really upset, and I know I’m being melodramatic. This just hit me. This is reactionary, just like my blog post for Born This Way. This is off the cuff and I don’t know if it is even coherant. All I know is that this is the only way I know to process this– by writing, and by asking for help and advice from everyone, including the faceless sea of anons and femanons on the internet.

Is anyone else out there living with this? Did it get better? Worse?

Anything is better than staring at the letters emblazoned across the inside of my head:

“There is no cure for gastroparesis. Making changes to your diet may help you cope with gastroparesis signs and symptoms, but that’s not always enough. Gastroparesis medications may offer some relief, but some can cause serious side effects.”

I realize my blog posts keep veering steadily toward the insane lately. You know what? It’s my goddamn blog. You don’t like it, get out. I got good reason. Wanna know why?

I went to the doctor today, after two months of having so many problems with food I cannot eat, save in small doses maybe once or twice a day. It causes me physical pain. It makes me unable to focus, unable to walk, unable to do anything. I have to plan after attempting to eat something to feel as though there is a basketball wedged under my ribs and deal with the pain that pressure causes, like it or not, because I just had to break down and eat some crackers. The audacity I have, making my stomach serve its goddamn purpose. Horrifying.

No medications help. Heat doesn’t help. Rest doesn’t help. I finally got to the Gastrointestinal Specialist today. Here’s what I learned.

1. I lost ten pounds in the past two months without trying. The look on the nurse’s face when I told her that one was impressive. “Oh fuck” is generally not an expression you want on your medical provider’s face when you tell them something.
2. None of my symptoms, surprise surprise, are anything that the doc can go “A-HA!” and diagnose.
3. In the words of my doctor: “No twenty something should be losing weight from a gastrointestinal problem. You should have an iron gut like most kids your age, and be off drinking beer and eating pizza. Not this.”
4. There is some debate in the medical community if they should continue to have pagers or just use cellphones instead (hey, I saw he had a pager, I was amazed they still existed, and we talked a bit. It made the horrible pain and sick feeling go away for a minute, so he humored me.)
5. I get to go for a endoscopy and a colonoscopy on Tuesday of next week. Most people don’t have a colonoscopy until they are 50+ years old. I’m a wee bit concerned.

Actually, no. I’m not a wee bit concerned. I’m very concerned that they don’t know what’s wrong, and that they have to do expensive fuck tests to even try to have an idea of what’s wrong. And if there are any of you paranoid fucks out there going “THEY JUST WANTCHA MONEY! DON’T DO IT!” Fuck you. Fuck you in the face with a baseball bat with a sprinkling of go to hell. When a doctor I just met is visibly distressed at what is going on, telling me that while he’s doing bloodwork, even if he finds something there we’re still doing the tests to make sure there’s nothing really really bad going on, I FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM. I’m an arrogant little shit, but I don’t pretend to have a medical degree.

I get back from all this fun and games today with some new drugs to tide me over until Tuesday and maybe make my sad little life more bearable. Then guess what? I got hit with a migraine. I tried sleeping after taking some ibuprofen and lots of fluids, it got worse. I had to grope my way to the bathroom with one hand over my eyes because I was so light sensitive, and try a hot shower because the leftover narcotics I had resorted to taking because the pain wouldn’t stop didn’t work. I’m finally okay, but nauseous and still light sensitive after that.

And guess what. Come on, guess. 😀

I have a biology test tonight. I’ve already accepted I’m going to fail it because I can’t study for fear my migraine will come back and I won’t make it to the test at all, and as they say, 30% is still better than a zero.

So, yeah. I’m worried, I’m upset, I’m trying to find my way out of my dead-end job and need to fill out things for that, I’m having tests no twenty something should be going through, I’m scared I’m going to fail this bio class and have to take it again, adding another semester onto when I’m supposed to graduate, and on top of that, I know my parents and I are sitting here looking at the fucking bills my being sick keeps racking up and going “fuck.”

This blog is my only outlet for a lot of this because I don’t want a lot of the people that know me in meatspace (thank you, @patrickcentral) to know what is going on because I don’t want to deal with that. So I’m really sorry if it gets depressing for a while.

On the upside, at least all this miserable shit will probably be sprinkled with videogame references and morbid humor?

Or, you know, if you wanted the funny-ranty to come back, you could always try esunaga. I can’t find my white mage staff at the moment.

Okay, that was forced and sad.

I’m just going to stop now.

Thanks for reading, you guys. And whoever keeps searching “I, out of musical theory, have created order out of chaos” to find my blog? Leave a comment. I’m fascinated by your existence. No, seriously. I am. Please?

… I’ll stop for real this time, now. Bye, guys. I’ll keep you posted as I can.

STOP THE PRESSES. I have figured out why the fuck one of my housemates is so annoying. Wait for iiiiiit…

SHE THINKS NO ONE WOULD COMPLAIN ABOUT HER. EVER.

Now, you can bitch all you like “hurr durr, you shouldn’t talk behind people’s backs, it’s not nice!” but I know you do it anyway. It’s HEALTHY, people. Would it be better to just bottle all that negativity up and end up going into a sneaky hate spiral? No. No one should be screamed at over something as stupid as “YOU LEFT A CRUMB ON THE COUNTER,” or “YOU LEFT THE SPONGE IN THE SINK” when really what you’re so mad about is the fact that the curtains are gone, the paint’s peeling, the pot on the stove is boiling over and your apartment is NOT on fire. It’s not the crumb or sponge. It’s a number of things. But if you wig the fuck out because you’ve been “repressing everything in a deep dark twisted place until you snap and kill them” (thank you Christina) then they’ll just think you’re bonkers or a jackass that overreacts to insignificant stimuli. (And then most likely get worse…)

I found out about the flaws in this girl’s perception of reality thusly: She was standing there and bitching to me about our other housemate and then said “I feel bad for bitching about him now when I’m going to ask him to do something with me tonight.”

“Why?” I said. “Everyone complains about everyone. I’m sure you and he bitch about me, so why is it wrong to bitch about him? Repressing it does no one any good.”

This quickly launched into her looking acutely uncomfortable as soon as she realized that implicit in that statement meant I bitched about HER. Apparently, she could not wrap her little head around that one. She also quickly became cranky. No matter.

Here’s what’s so baffling to me: How can this be the case? Is this a larger trend? Am I to believe the media when they say my generation is a bunch of fucking entitled assholes that think they can do no wrong and offend no one? In response to this incident and a few others, I would say yes. That baffles the shit out of me.

Maybe it’s just the fact that I had PLENTY of opportunities to realize I’m a failure in some aspects of life, but I have trouble seeing how anyone can get to the age of 20 and honestly believe that no one would ever complain about them. That means to me they believe that no one should have any reason to be annoyed at anything they are doing. Suddenly, so much of her thoughtless behavior is explained– it is not that she thinks of no one else, it is that she hasn’t the idea in her head that she should think of anyone else, because in her world, no one should be bothered by anything she does! Ergo, she does not need to consider anyone else when she does something, because that implies that something she is doing might annoy or inconvenience someone.

My question to you all: How the fuck can anyone be this lost in self deception?

For her delusion up there to be true, she would have to live in a vacuum and have no one around to annoy. Something you do is going to irritate someone if you live with them long enough, even if it is something that is useful or positive. For example: I compulsively clean. And by clean I mean CLEAN. I mean, I will spend fifteen minutes cleaning spots off the mirror. An hour cleaning the shower. If that plate in the sink won’t come clean for anyone else, by Bahamut it will fucking come clean for me. Due to these fits of perfectionist mania I have, I have an insane standard of what clean is. Therefore, you can guess how well it works when someone else tries to clean for me as a nice surprise.

Now, think about this. Cleaning has to be done, so it’s good that I do it, yes? Yes. But it is annoying to clean something and have someone come right behind you and go “The spots, the SPOTS, they remain! OUT DAMN SPOT! OUT!” and start scrubbing furiously at whatever you just cleaned. It’s made even more annoying when they actually do quote Macbeth at you. Which I do. You may all now marvel at the fact I have not been shot yet, and please send your condolences to @DrHowl on twitter.

Okay, so, we’ve just established that something that can be positive can be quickly made annoying as fuck. You all know from life experience that more negative things can be annoying as fuck. I know for a fact she knows what it is to have someone do annoying things because she was complaining about what annoyed her about our other housemate. So how can she honestly believe that no one would complain about her, and then become upset when she realizes someone could and probably does? All while *she* is complaining about someone else?!

I have a theory. It has to do with the great evil of being politically correct. In being politically correct, one is to use euphemisms or otherwise hide whatever one actually means. If someone wraps up what they want to say in enough cotton candy, it won’t be so bad that they’re calling you a disgusting freak, apparently. Apparently it is much better to call you “a controversial individual of unique nature that is often in social conflict with peer behavior.” Yeah, because all of that doesn’t mean the same damned thing. Another great example of this type of lying can be found on resumes under job titles and duties. Suddenly a person that has a job cleaning pig styes is a “Animal Cleanliness Controller” and shoveling poo is “Waste management.” The point is, it is all LYING. If you have to conceal what you actually mean in any capacity, it is a type of deception. Worse, it is expected by society as the norm now.

People use this deception as a security blanket. They can say the most hateful things and pretend it’s not hateful. Suddenly it’s not “We don’t hire fags” it’s “we don’t hire anyone that makes risky lifestyle choices to ensure we have funding to help our employees when they are in need. Our apologies.” If you can take something that hateful and make it into something that is on the surface that benign, that even makes some logical sense (“Oh, well, they shouldn’t be extending health insurance to someone that is jumping off bridges or something for a hobby, it’d be expensive if they had to pay for them being hurt!” one might think, hearing that out of context and *not* directly after someone asks about your living arrangements and you have said “I live with my partner.”) then what limit is there to what you can do? What limit is there to what you can suddenly make inoffensive? Suddenly it is not that you leave your clothes lying all over the floor because you’re a lazy asshole, it is that your “creative mind has difficulty grasping inorganic systems of organization.” Oh, so it’s not your fault that you just take off your clothes and throw them on the floor, suddenly it’s because you have an organizational disability. Right.

I understand the PC bullshit that is supposed to be polite because HEY, chances are if you’ve put on some weight since high school (like everyone has) you know it. You don’t need someone coming up and going “Wow, you got fat.” No. You don’t comment on the fact their ass has grown by three sizes, you say “Oh, your hair looks lovely!” That implies some forethought about the other person’s feelings. You recognize that they probably know they’re bigger than they used to be. No one needs to tell them. It’s a form of deception in the fact you filtered what you said, but it is not the PC malarkey I listed above. If it was, what would have been said instead was “I see you don’t have to shop in the mediums anymore! You always used to complain everything was picked over. I bet you have your choice of anything you want, now! Awesome.”

Point is, people have tricked themselves into honestly believing that if they’re not outright calling someone a lard-ass or outright breaking your dishes purposely they’re not being offensive and no one has anything they can complain about. They’re always considerate– except when someone else should be considerate of their inability to grasp what a hamper is. It’s all about the diffusion of blame onto other people for not accepting your short comings. YOU can’t help what’s wrong with you– but everyone else just needs to learn to stop being so lazy and pick up their clothes. And the very idea that someone would complain about what you can’t change– my god. They’re such horrible people! You’re a victim, you’re coping with your organizational learning disability as best you can!

All this taken into consideration, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that my roommate cannot grasp why anyone would dislike her or complain about her. After all, I’m just a meanie-face for implying that she’s somehow not perfect just how she is. I really should just learn to accept the fact she is, in fact, just exceptionally gifted at alternative means of anger channeling and conflict management that can hold multiple differing opinions at the same time. It’s everyone else that’s a sulking, passive aggressive hypocrite.

Silly me.

____________________________________________________________

Small Note: The post published just prior to this has been moved to private visibility. It only provoked silence, which is really not what I’d like to have here. Apologies to anyone that wanted it kept up. I just didn’t see the point.

The Burning Giraffe

Once upon a time, there was a girl. “Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like I’ve been somehow torn out of a surrealist painting.”

Normal is relative, she knew. What is normal for one person is not for another– however, she concluded that we can all agree that there are some things that there is a sort of agreed upon definition of.

This girl feels she is taken from a surrealist painting because her perceptions, compared with others, are abnormal. This girl’s normal is made up of giraffes on fire.

What brought all this on for her was seemingly innocuous: her class was discussing birthdays as a child what they entailed culturally. She followed everything they said at first, knowing what “should” happen: There’s cake, a party, everyone gives you presents… but then she nearly laughed out loud at another condition that is supposed to be in place that seemed absurd to her mind.

“It’s almost impossible to get in trouble on your birthday, isn’t it?”

Everyone around her nodded and agreed. Her laughter quickly died, and she slid down in her chair.

This was not an isolated incident for the girl. Another one, brought up by a web comic one evening:

“Hey… your parents go through a few different names before they remember yours, right?”

The confused expression said it all. It was confirmed by the response of the girl’s new shrink.

“Occasionally my parents, who are in their 70s, will call me my brother’s name, but it’s always followed by ‘Oh! I’m sorry, Scott.'” He said.

“So it’s not normal to go through your mother’s name, your sister’s name, and whatever before they get to yours fairly regularly.”

“No.” Not in the way described.

“Okay, well… when you talk to me, you have to tell me that shit isn’t normal. I don’t know.”

The Burning Giraffe doesn’t stop there.

She watched a youtube video of a director throwing a fit on set, guided there by an article on the insanity of the film industry. Most people watched it and laughed at absurdity of the reaction: it’s a grown man throwing a temper tantrum like a five year old. She was amused and disappointed in humanity, just like every other viewer, at first. However, she also had the addition of a knee jerk reaction of sick terror at the point where the director comes back into the set, through a side door and seemingly out of nowhere to resume his tirade. She honestly and truly felt, for a split second, someone was coming through her bedroom door to do the same to her. And this was in her room, in her house a city away from where this could have happened. She had to wrestle that stupid fear to the ground with logic before the sickness would leave, and even then, a lesser form lingered.

That disturbed her. She didn’t mind being unusual, that was her common state. Perhaps her family is just a little strange. Auto-immunity on your birthday not existing and almost no physical contact can’t be that unusual. Not all families are huggy. Not all parents will let you get away with setting the couch on fire just because you happened to be born that day, expecting the same standard of behavior they always expect. That seemed reasonable.

What doesn’t seem reasonable is a grown woman, in her own house an hour away from her parents’ house, terrified her father is going to come through the door and start screaming, complete with exactly what the director said at the end of that youtube video.

“I DIDN’T FUCKING YELL AT YOU.”

… off runs the burning giraffe. It’s normal to the giraffe to be on fire, and it’s normal that it is running around a desolate setting with strange people without faces.

It’s normal for the giraffe to be on fire here. Most giraffes would be grazing or chilling at the waterhole. Now, what is truly normal: to be on fire, or to be going about life?

She never used to know it was abnormal to live in this world of zoo animals aflame. She used to say “Well, my home life sucks, but so does everyone’s.” Apparently it doesn’t. Apparently other people’s birthday memories don’t include hysterically sobbing on the couch while being screamed at as a teenager and not being allowed to move or leave until their older sister forcibly rescued them. Apparently other people don’t have the recollection of being spanked so hard as a kid a handprint stayed there for the rest of the day, possibly longer, they just can’t remember, and are terribly frustrated that interferes with the comforting lie that “Well, at least they never hit me.” Apparently other people don’t rationalize away that pesky, interfering fact and say to themselves, “everyone was spanked when they were little,” leaving out the fact that other people don’t have stories like that one (or have problems with anyone touching their ass with an open palm to this day.) Apparently other people never had to deal with their clothes being yanked on, or inappropriate comments about their body. Apparently most people don’t have the disturbing realization that some of the shit that has been said to them falls under the definition of sexual harassment. Apparently, none of this was normal, and no one bothered to tell her.

Normal people probably don’t worry about libel when talking about their lives, she knew. She knew names in true stories were often changed to protect the innocent, but that wasn’t what would occur should she tell someone. It would be to protect the guilty. Having a strong sense of what is just, that made her sick. Angry.

So, instead of writing it herself, she asked her friend if she would tell her story on her blog. Looking at the words there in print, identity hidden, she felt better. No one had to know, but the process of it being written down made her heart lighter, even if it did make her cry a couple times in the process. She asked her friend to add a last note as to why she wanted her story told.

“Some people don’t know what normal love is. Or what normal life is. Be patient with them.” She paused a moment in her dictation. “And don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not what I want. If anything seems weird in your friends’ or families lives, if they seem not to know what a normal family is, reach out to them. Adopt them into yours. Help them find someone to talk to that will help them realize that even after years and years of not normal, things can be okay.” She lost her voice for a moment, then continued: “Tell them they don’t deserve this.” She turned away and it took her a few moments before she could finally say the last, most important part of all her tale: “Please-” her chest jerked, forcing a pause, “please tell them it’s not their fault.”

And with that final statement, she wept.

****

Sort of a PSA, but not really, considering it’s true. If you know who the girl is, please don’t mention it in your comments or responses. She’d really rather not have her parents find this and sue her ass for libel, no matter how unlikely that scenario is. Leave responses or well wishes to her below if you want, but if you really wanna help, go talk to that person you know whose life sucks balls. They’ll appreciate it.

*ahem* Now, if this sounds like you, or someone you know, call 555-…

The Limits of Kindness

Okay, I know you’d never frigging guess it from some of the ranting I do here, but I do try to be nice and help people out when I can. I do. But damnit people, I do have limits.

All right. I helped out a friend with her journalism project once, doing an interview for her. APPARENTLY you cannot do interviews over the internet or, really, even the bloody phone. And then, even when the first damn interview is done, you get harassed again for a follow up interview. Each of these take about an hour. And have to be in person.

I work two jobs. I’m on spring break now, but I have work every single damn day and I have projects to do for school. I’m being bothered again for another project and another interview. I’m tired when I get home, and I have chores to do so that I can, you know, have clean clothes to wear and food to eat. Then I have projects I have to do for my own classes. My point is, while I could go and try to find the hour in the day, it is possible, I really don’t feel like being probed again. I need that time to hunt for another job for the summer (one of my two jobs only occurs while school is in session) or just to finally have some time to myself. I’ve been nursing some form of a cold or flu for the past damn week. I don’t want to have to get up and drag myself to campus or wherever she wants to meet and then play twenty questions.

I’m writing because I feel guilty, I suppose. I’m that person that actually answers the grad students that need surveys for their projects in the psych department e-mails. I know people don’t respond and it screws these grad students– and I know that no one wants to be interviewed, and that there is, of course, the possibility that I’m this friend’s last hope.

The thing is, there ARE other people she can interview. I’m not the only college student in existence. And furthermore, what the hell did she do before I gave her that first interview? She should go back to those sources. For the last interview I gave her, it was on how little time I have due to school and my jobs. She cannot exactly claim that she figured I “wasn’t doing anything.” And then, on top of that, the last time I was interviewed, the “follow up” questions hinted toward her writing taking a slant that I did not appreciate, even if her professor is the only person reading her work in this case. It also doesn’t help matters that this project is another one on the subject of my finances, and frankly I feel very uncomfortable discussing my finances in any more detail with her. She went into some very personal detail last time. Mayhap it is because she goes into such uncomfortable detail she’s having problem finding subjects, but that is not my problem.

It’s a relief to write that. It isn’t my problem. My projects, my work, my health, those are my problems, not saving her academic ass.

What does it say about the strange wiring of my brain that I had to reason through this this way to relieve my guilt for something that was never my problem in the first place?

P.S. If you want to interview someone about their pets, it helps if you bother to remember their pet’s name and sex correctly. It just seems like a common courtesy to me. Especially when my cat’s name is Ginger and you decided she is male and named Chester. Otherwise, I might just feel that you’re using me.

Musical Impact, Musings

I’m taking on music again!

Well, sort of. More like something occurred to me the other day, and, as usual, now I feel the need to inflict it upon you all. Blame Post A Week 2011. It’s one of those weird, introspective, “how the hell did I end up so weird?” posts.

So, here’s what I was thinking: What do the bands someone likes say about them, or maybe their life? Everyone has different musical tastes, but all those preferences have to stem from SOMEWHERE. Is there a certain type of person that listens to a certain band? I don’t know. But if you come along for the ride, maybe we’ll find out.

—-

All of my favorite bands are rather… odd. For the purposes of this post let’s take a look at my current main four, and furthermore, my main four as I was first exposed to them.

AFI, Panic! at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, and Blink-182.

“Oh god! THE EMO. THE EMO, GET IT AWAY!”

HEY. Stay with me here. You want EMO, I’ll get out Dashboard Confessional. You don’t want that, trust me.

It was pointed out to me recently that all my bands are rather theatrical, Panic and My Chemical Romance (MCR) being the most so. What do I mean by theatrical, you ask? And furthermore, who the fuck are these people? Well, here’s some videos to explain.

This is an AFI:

(My most beloved band. I heard this song in an AMV on YouTube and my life was changed forever.)

This is a Panic! at the Disco:

(This is their newest single, unlike the others on this list. Panic has pretty much always been this way, thus, I give you all my current addiction instead of the first song of theirs I heard.)

This is a My Chemical Romance:

(First song and video of theirs I ever heard/saw.)

And this monstrosity is a Blink-182:

(One of the last of their videos I discovered, but everyone knows this song, it seems.)

I lost a few of you with that last one, I’m guessing. That’s okay. You probably shouldn’t be reading this blog if you don’t expect some sort of similar insanity. Hell, I probably lost quite a few of you with the three lead singers in a row that wear eyeliner. Blink is probably the most normal of this lot.

So. What does these guys say about me, the kind of person that listens to them? Well, let’s start at the beginning and take this chronologically, as I discovered them.

BLINK-182

Little known fact: Blink-182 was the first “real” music I ever heard, real being something that wasn’t a formulated kid’s band like Spice Girls or B*Witched and stolen via a friend’s ripped CD. I very distinctly remember lying in bed listening to this and going “What the… what is this?” My tiny little (12?) year old mind was blown.

Then it went away. I found them again a while later, only then realizing what the brilliance upon that ripped CD was called and who made it.

Fast forward to the present. This song is being played the instant I turn 23:

That’s “What’s My Age Again?” It is exactly like the title sounds. I am not inclined to resign to maturity, folks. The idea of running through a town naked for a music video? Sounds brilliant to me. Wanna know what’s even better? Let’s take a whole FUCKLOAD of money meant for a music video, give it away, and FILM WHAT HAPPENS. I went to go see these guys in concert in recent years, and they are STILL this nuts. Completely. Totally. NUTS. This is the shit that keeps me from taking everything too seriously and jumping off a cliff.

Yes, acting like a lecherous, insane teenage boy with no sense of shame and a fucked up sense of humor is part of what keeps my ass alive. Try it sometime. Go do something stupid or just straight up weird. It’s the part of me that likes these guys, that don’t care about being artistic with what I say, that gives you the blunt sarcasm with a liberal sprinkling of swearing you’ve come to expect from this blog. And, judging by the people I saw at the Blink-182 concert, there’s a certain kind person that likes Blink-182: they like rampant silliness. And some of them like pot.

PANIC! AT THE DISCO

These guys and My Chemical Romance were discovered at about the same time. I have seen these brilliant, wonderful, weird guys in concert twice, and was it ever worth the cash. These guys just have a certain sound to them that sounds like the inside of my head. I realize that sounds bizarre, but it is true. These guys win for being strange, poetic, and giving my tiny teenage soul freedom to wear striped jackets and top hats. They were creative and strange without being screamy or coated in eyeliner (well, most of the time) and most importantly, when I bought their CDs, I was taken far the fuck away from where I was.

The mix at the concerts I’ve been to seems to span the weird kids, the “normal kids” and a lot of people in between, but I’d definitely say they lean more toward the strange, artsy crowd. The escapists. The ones that like stories in their songs and bizarre music videos. The ones that see things slightly differently. That certainly describes me.

Of course, these guys aren’t the ones for teenage angst at being different. No, that’s our next stop on the “how music describes the fucked up inside of Sam’s head” track.

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

Those of you that follow my twitter know a little something about me, and it connects to this song:

If you only watch part of one video on here, let it be this one. Please? Just up to the 30 second mark. Where he gets the sandwich thrown at him. Now, feel getting hit in the face with that sandwich. Feel the gross sponginess of the bread, the cold slap of the bologna. Feel the last of your favorite tea being spilled.

Now imagine going through your entire school career that way. And that feeling doesn’t exactly stop when you go home.

Yeah, MCR has a certain type of fan, and it’s the ones that understand this video. A lot of us have anger problems. I’d like to think that most of us disagree with the anti-bullying bullshit going on right now that just makes bullying a joke. You wanna stop bullying? Let bullied go beat the shit out of those bullying assholes on the lacrosse team with our fucking croquet mallets. We are the emo kids that hate everyone, and we feel we’re fucking justified in it. The cult of the freaks is a screwed up one, we aren’t always that sensible, but at least when we’re together we at least have some company when we’re being called fags, freaks, and fuck ups. This is one of the few bands that seems to have a very specific type of person that listens to them, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It just strongly indicates some things about you to other people if you like them. Besides, those people that react badly to that aren’t people MCR fans want to deal with anyway.

This band is the part of me that screams “FUCK NORMALICY. FUCK YOU. YOU WANNA STARE AT THE FREAK? OKAY! *Does a dance around the entire free space on campus, sporadically shouting “PENIS!”* THERE’S SOMETHING FOR YOU TO FUCKING STARE AT!”

… I never claimed I was sane, people. Or well adjusted. We MCR fans are just worse at hiding that fact than other people are.

AFI

“How can this be the most recent and the most important?! It’s just your current craze. That’s why it SEEMS important.”

Nope. All the other stuff I knew about in high school. AFI I discovered when I got out of the house. I discovered them by accident (seems to be a common theme with me, eh?) I’ve been out of the house for four years now at college. It’s not really that recent.

AFI is the music I live to. I am never without at least one album.

What does THAT say? Well, I’m strange. The weirdness seems to be a common theme. But what AFI has is something I can find in no other band: It has screaming rage, joy, romance, beauty and sorrow. It is no accident their fans are “The Despair Faction. ” There is no coincidence that at the concert we all screamed “Through our bleeding, we are one.” We AFI fans all seem to have a sadness, be it about us, within us, or in our pasts.

Here’s the thing, though. You got to an AFI concert, it’s not sad. Everyone is screaming and being crushed in the mosh pit, Davey (the lead singer) is jumping around the stage like a man possessed, Jade and Hunter are jamming (the guitarist and bassist) and Adam, hilariously, is the calmest of them, and he’s on the drums headbanging. Not everyone is wearing eyeliner and black, though some of us are. While we all may have something that makes us understand what it is to sing in sorrow, or understanding the feeling that “God Called In Sick Today” we’re not here crying about it. AFI is not music to weep to. It’s music to dance to. Angry dancing, maybe, but still dancing.

Yes, I’m describing AFI fans as lunatics that dance in misery.

I used to have a band that relished in its misery (Blue October, the Foiled Album and before) that I listened to all the time in high school. At concerts we were all pissed off at everything. We sometimes wept in rage.

AFI isn’t like that. AFI is my most important band because it shows how far I’ve come and is a big part of what has brought me this far (the only thing, I think, with more influence over my growth has been my partner, Jess). I listen to it when I’m down not to STAY down, but to fall into Davey’s voice and process. I’m not as sick as I used to be. My depression is slowly getting better. It’s because of my progress I could write the first post on this blog. Suicide isn’t a valid option anymore. I’m still pissy and sad and think badly, but hey, no one’s perfect.

I met Davey, Adam, and Hunter after I saw AFI in concert (Jade was collapsed somewhere in the bus). I got hugs from Adam and Hunter (they offered/were asked first, no crazy fangirl tackling here) and told Davey he saved my life more times than I can count.

The screwed up part is that I didn’t exactly know how or why AFI saved my life until I wrote this blog. I just have to write to process sometimes, I suppose. In any case, there you are. Personal growth and description of oneself through music. Or just me forcing you to listen to my stupid introspective bullshit. It’s really all up to your interpretation.

So, readers. What are your bands? What do they say about you? Fill up the comments section. I’m always curious about the folks that read this, even the ones I know outside the internet already, so get writing. 😀

On the Internet and Being Wrong

*Sorry about the late update, ladies, gentlemen, and those that prefer to remain undefined. It’s been a bit of a rough week, and this will probably only be a quick, dashed off post to boot. Sorry. I promise a better one will come soon, and furthermore, that this one will be edited a bit better eventually.*

This post comes from a search term someone used to trip across my blog: “(Actor’s Name) insane.” Just like that. I laughed my tits off for about ten minutes. Some of you know why, some of you don’t. The why doesn’t particularly matter, but today I’m going to ramble about something I have to remind MYSELF about on the internet: Being wrong.

Now, here’s the deal. In my perfect world, right before someone made their first public post, be it in a message board, a blog, a service like twitter, whatever, a warning would pop up and say thus:

“By posting this content you take full responsibility for the ideas therein. You accept that someone may believe you to be wrong, and may even prove you to be wrong. By clicking continue, you promise not to go batshit fucking crazy if this occurs. You are human and therefore not infallible. Continue?”

In short: Why do we go nuts if someone challenges our views on the internet? I mean, take my flame from a while back. If that had been slightly less rediculous sounding and actually had given good reasons as to why I’m wrong, I probably would have gotten angry instead of laughing at it. Why?

I think it has to do with the permanence of the thing. Nothing ever truly dies on the internet. You can delete posts, tweets, hell, even whole accounts, or you can make those accounts private, but someone somewhere can still find some remnant of what you said or did. It’s precisely why employers take to the internet to screen out applicants– a process I believe is unethical and none of their business, but it is effective (There’s a reason why everything on the web should be posted under a pseudonym.) Due to this permanence, if we are proven wrong on the internet, it’s always there.

That terrifies people.

That means there is permanent record that you are not perfect. Permanent record that- holy shit- you were wrong once. It could be on astrophysics or it could be on how many kids Britney Spears has, but you were wrong about SOMETHING. In this image obsessed society, that can seriously fuck you. If you present yourself as utterly infallible, if some kid living in hickville kicks your ass in an argument when you’re supposed to be an adult and far wiser than them, it takes all the wind out of those sails. You were brought down by someone supposedly lesser than you– therefore, you must be lesser than them. Suddenly, you’re a shadow of your former self and you want to rip that stupid kid’s head off.

Does this make sense? Yes and no. It does in a way because yes, you were brought down by someone supposedly “less” than you, that is, someone supposedly less enlightened/intelligent/informed, but what does that really say about you as a person? That’s an isolated event. An isolated event out of a LIFETIME of events. Events in which you succeeded, failed, improved yourself. What it really says is that this one point in time, you were proven wrong. It happens. And yet we live in fear of it, because in this age of the internet where everything is permanent and appearances matter more than ever, if someone can find just one little thing you were wrong about, they can hang you with it. “SEE! SEE! S/HE WAS WRONG ABOUT THAT, HOW CAN YOU SAY THEY’RE RIGHT NOW! THEY THOUGHT BRITNEY SPEARS HAD TWELVE KIDS, SO CLEARLY THEY KNOW NOTHING ABOUT HEALTH CARE REFORM!”

The example is intentionally ridiculous, of course. Why should it matter if someone talking about health care reform didn’t know how many kids Britney has? It doesn’t. It also doesn’t matter if a lawyer thought that babies come from storks, it doesn’t matter if a doctor thought that if you mix blue and green you get pink. They are unrelated. So long as that lawyer knows his law, that doctor knows doctoring, it shouldn’t matter if they suck at geography. So why is it so damn easy to suddenly knock someone down a few pegs if they happen to not be right all the time? The answer is a simple one: it depends on if their image depends on them being right 100% of the time.

To an extent, it’s the public’s fault. We want our leaders and role models to not have flaws. We want them to be perfect. So, to get us to like them, they pretend they ARE perfect, that they’re always right, that they NEVER inhaled and that they did not have sexual relations with that woman. The public expects a lie, so they lie. We know that no one is perfect– but we really REALLY want to believe that our leaders and role models are, because if they are and we follow them, nothing can go wrong. We’re safe. Nothing bad will ever happen again, and we can all sit and look smug because we can never be proven wrong by proxy. We know they are lying liars that lie and that their shit stinks just like everyone else’s, but if we can maintain that illusion, everything is great.

It leads to one of the great puzzles of humanity that I can never seem to unravel: If I know it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie, and he knows it’s a lie, then why lie? If everyone knows it’s a lie, what’s the point? Is it that we think that the truth is worse? What if it’s better? Why is it so terrible to know the truth? Is it because truth is unchanging?

Perhaps that’s it. It’s the fact that if you are proven wrong, that the truth is uncovered, that the truth will never change so you either have to continue to be wrong or change your view to recognize the truth. If that truth is a contradiction to a deeply held belief, one that you base a lot of things around, it can shatter what you thought was true, it makes the rest of those things you based on that idea wrong by extension. It means you as a person have to change, and people hate change with a passion, especially when it comes to changing what they think about something they deem important. Wars have been fought over people not wanting to be wrong, people have been killed and lives destroyed because they were proven wrong.

And here we are. On the internet. Where your wrongness will display for eternity.

However, I would like to offer a way out before I have to dart back off to class for the day:

What if we all start making no pretense that we’re perfect? What if we all start to have an open door policy of “come in and try to prove me wrong, and if you do, you get a cookie.” What if we changed when we found out the truth* instead of stubbornly clinging to what we thought?

…My, what a strange day on the internet that would be, if everyone had lively debates and no one tried to cover their ass to make certain they weren’t wrong because it didn’t matter. No one’s reputation hinged on it.

Is it sad that the closest I can get to this type of attitude, the attitude that it doesn’t matter if you’re proven wrong because time is still going to pass and life will still go on, is on 4chan…?

*When I’m talking about truth, I’m talking about scientific/hard facts. Philosophy, religion, whatever is in a different category. Hell, if you really want to say so, psychology and sociology are gray and fuzzy too. However, I believe that certain things are universally true in those categories, such as the idea (ideal, really) that everyone deserves respect as a human being and that mental abnormalities exist.

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